Life Altering Events by Jodi Decker
“What Are You Doing For the Rest of Your Life?” a Barbara Streisand song, haunts me for life. Describe the worst moment of your life. Is it a tragedy? A crisis? A permanent scar? A testimony? All of these? How do you explain it, incorporate it, and accept it? This takes a lifetime to know.
In November of 1976 I walked home from high school. I was seventeen. I would be the perfect victim. I was followed home. It was about 10 in the morning. Entering my house, I left the back door open. That was my first mistake. Then, as teenagers often do, I turned up the stereo, loud. That was my second mistake. The song I played was “What are you Doing for the Rest of Your Life?” by Barbra Streisand. I went into the bathroom. That was my third mistake. The lights went out. A power shortage? No. The door slammed shut and as I was gripped from behind, my arms pinned to my sides. “Stop it! Let go!” I cried, not boldly, but pure shock.
I was wrestled to the ground, shrieking uncontrollably. I was kicked repeatedly in my sides and back by hiking boots. I was confused and terrified. I thrashed violently, with the force of a trapped animal, suffering excruciating blows to my neck. I was jumped on, repeatedly. People say that in pre-death moments, your life flashes before your eyes. This did not happen. I visualized my parents finding my body. I didn’t think about the past; I didn’t think about the present; I thought about the future. I pictured myself as a crime scene victim. This wasn’t a pathetic resignation. It was a cold, realistic, rational thought. I knew I was going to die.
“I’ve got a knife,” he threatened. I had no way of knowing the validity of this statement. Credibility is no longer an issue. Survival is. I lay there. “Please don’t kill me,” I pleaded. Silence.
My pants were pulled down. I knew I was going to be raped. I had no self-defense training, I didn’t have the strength to fight off my attacker, and screaming was a useless option over the sound of the stereo. I didn’t know how long this ordeal would last. The details have lasted a lifetime. Finally, it was over. I rolled over to my side.
He stood up, instructing me not to follow him and not to call the police. As the door was flung open, I caught a fleeting glance of a back and jeans. I was terrified to move, but I was terrified of being left there unprotected. I got up and ran to the back door, shutting it. I went to the stereo and turned it off. The house was silent. I put my pants on. I was robotic. I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t call the police; I called my dad. I stood there, wailing into the phone, that I had been raped. That is all I remember. Alone, I fell apart.
I don’t remember the cops coming to the house or being interviewed. I do remember going to the emergency room. A nurse examined me and performed a rape test. I sobbed uncontrollably. I’ll never forget her words, “I’ll bet you just want to cut it off.”
I do remember a Center Against Sexual Assault volunteer coming to my house. She held me and stroked my hair and told me that she, too, had “survived” a sexual assault, that there was hope. I couldn’t see past this moment. She recommended a support group and counseling. I had to have a pregnancy test, later, and be tested for any sexually transmitted diseases.
Weeks later, I was invited to a police line-up. I had never seen my perpetrator’s face. I stood behind a glass partition and shook my head helplessly, as possible rapists, or not, stood before me.
I did go to therapy. I don’t remember it. I also went back to therapy many years later, as the issue was still not resolved. The “issue,” as if it were a controversy or problem. I blamed myself. I know I didn’t cause the assault, but I created an ideal environment for it to take place in. I’m glad that I fought; some experts say not to; some say it’s good. Some say whatever works. No one knows.
To this day, my neck is permanently damaged. The aftereffects of being sexually assaulted are manifold. I was terrified to be alone and to go out at night. I was terrified of men who approached me too closely. I was jumpy. I trusted no one. I was hostile, angry, depressed. I am still terrified of aggression and violence. My recovery has taken years. I always have a large dog. I have learned how to handle a handgun. I startle in elevators, closed spaces, or when I’m surprised from behind. The memories, prompted by news reports, my mind wandering, or other connections brings it readily to the surface, like a black and white rerun.
I’ve tried to derive meaning out of it. I have vowed to make my life mean something, to be significant, to be important, to make a difference. Today, I truly believe I’m a survivor and not a victim. It is a tragic way to become grateful for life. But I am. My survival means I have gone on, to marry, have children, be successful. It demonstrates that there is hope and recovery. Many have experienced far more devastating events than I have. I can be thankful that I was spared that day.
One can survive this experience. I have heard women say they’d rather die than be raped. That is stupid. Life is so much more than these tragedies. There are so many incredible gifts on this journey, and somehow, we must come to terms with those events that have permanently altered our view of life on earth and focus on finishing the course.
Jodi Decker, M.Ed, is
married and the mother of 3 children, 17, 15, and 10, considered her greatest
life's legacy. She is a college teacher, professional writer, and editor
of 5 published books, through her own editing company Professional Proofreading.
She has won 3 writing awards and recently completed her personal memoir that she
envisions publishing traditionally or online in the future. (James 4:14)
You may contact Jodi at jodidecker@msn.com.