K. Randis - Spilled Milk

“The majority of reported rapes are from women, although I’d be willing to bet it’s just as high for men.” When I saw a few of the men in the audience roll their eyes I explained.

“When people found out in high school that I was being sexually abused, they came to me with their own trauma. I think they thought I was the only one in the world who would understand them. One guy told me he had been raped by his father from the time he was six. Another guy told me he was being sexually harassed at work by his boss.

A cousin of mine was in a relationship where his girlfriend would scratch his back and throw things at him. I also found out that a family member of mine had fallen victim to my dad as well, but when he told no one believed him. I was small at the time, and had someone believed him I wouldn’t be standing here today telling you I am also a survivor of incestuous rape by my dad.” A woman in a gray suit gasped and another man scribbled things down on a pad in front of him.

“Just because men don’t report it, doesn’t mean it’s not there. Men carry more shame with their situations than women do because they think people will label them as gay, or that they weren’t manly enough to stand up and fight the perpetrator off. I’m here to tell you that I wish more of them would come forward so that they can get the help they need to not carry their hurt into their adult lives.”

Talking about male victims had captured their attention. “I’m also here to tell you that 8 out of 10 times, the victim knows their rapist. It’s not like TV where there’s a dark alley and someone waiting in the shadows. Yea, it happens, but not nearly as frequently as when the victim knows the perpetrator.”

“Why not?” someone called out.

“Thank you for asking. Who better to know your schedule? When you leave the house, when you come home. If you’re a small child who better to know what you like and don’t like. They know what candy you’ll do anything for, and what rooms in your house no one can hear them in. Children get groomed, won over, and that takes time and patience. They get the things they want, special privileges, and then touching body parts turns into a game that’s fun and expected. It only escalates from there.”

A woman raised her hand. “Why don’t they tell an adult, or someone about what’s being done to them?” Several people shook their head.

“You don’t know something is wrong if it’s all you know,” I explained. “If a child is groomed from the time they’re three until the time they’re twelve, they don’t know that home life is supposed to be any different. Then by the time they realize it’s wrong, they’re threatened or blackmailed into keeping quiet. While my brothers suffered physical violence from my dad in a way I could never fathom, I suffered through sexual violence to an extent I never want them to know.”

Dr. Russ laid a hand on my shoulder as I choked over my last words. “And don’t be fooled. I was on the honor roll in high school, I was a cheerleader. I held a job, had a boyfriend, friends, and I never in my life got detention. Yet my brother was in and out of juvy three times during the time I testified against my dad. When my dad was finally sentenced and sent away, he thought it would be a good idea to send my brother a birthday card. He became so emotionally distraught and re-traumatized, that he got doped up on every drug he could get his hands on and went wandering into neighbor’s homes looking for things to steal so he could buy more drugs. If he hadn’t been caught, he would have died of an overdose.”

“Not all children cope the same,” I continued. “Some channel their energy positively, like I did. I wanted to pretend that I had a normal family, so on the outside no one would suspect a thing. Some children channel their energy negatively, and they are rebellious and in trouble with the law. Make no mistake, that there is no example of what one child looks like or does when they’re being abused.”

A man in the back raised his hand. “So how do we get a child to tell us when they’re being abused if we can’t pick them out. How do we know?”

I smiled. “You can’t, and you don’t. Not until that child is ready to tell. And I mean one hundred percent fed up with their life ready to tell. You can’t make a child tell you anything, but what you can do is set them up in an environment where if they told, they would be taken care of.” I continued after a few confused looks.

“Social services came to my school and I could have told then. But I didn’t. My boyfriend’s mother suspected I was being abused because of the way my dad treated me and how he looked at me, but I didn’t tell her either. I didn’t tell my best friends, and I didn’t tell my boyfriend. You know who I told? My aunt and uncle. And do you know why?” The audience shook their head.

I held up my hands, holding an imaginary basketball. “Because of this.”

They stared at my hands with raised eyebrows and curious eyes. Some turned their heads to try and figure out if my hands were contorted into any given shape or letter. I smiled.

“It’s a bubble. A safe, peaceful, bubble. My uncle did this exact thing to me when I went to his house. He looked at me and he said Brooke, our family has a protective bubble over it. No one hurts anyone in it, and it’s safe in here. We have a plan to help anyone who is in trouble, and we wanted you to know you are part of this bubble .” I passed the pretend bubble to the woman sitting across from me and everyone laughed as she instinctively brought her hands up to catch it.

“I needed three things.” I held up my fingers. “I needed a safe place, my bubble. I needed someone to talk to, a mentor, and I had my boyfriend’s mom. And I needed my breaking point, a final straw.” I reached into the folder I brought and showed the audience a picture of Ethan when he was two. “I realized that if I left my house when I graduated high school, my little brother was going to have to face my dad alone. I was not about to let that happen, not while I knew what kind of torture and pain I had to go through.”

Heads nodded from all around the table. “Now, you’re all here because you deal directly or know someone who deals directly with the process of the court, correct?”

Nods again. “Okay everyone, write these things down please, because they’re very important. I’m going to go tell you what they don’t tell you in the textbooks.”

A few of the men smiled as I proceeded. “First of all social services.” I shook my head in dramatization and a few people laughed. “Please, do not ever, EVER tell a child that what they tell you will be in confidence if it is not. Don’t lie to us. If it is confidential, do not send a letter home to said child’s parents telling them that so-and-so said that they were being sexually abused, physically abused, whatever. Do you have any idea how dangerous it was for me when my dad opened up a letter from social services saying that I had talked to them?” One woman to my left covered her mouth.

“He could have killed me if I had actually told them what was going on. Also, when you do your follow ups, why would you ask a child how they’re doing right in front of the parent? If anything is new, they sure ain’t going to say something with the perpetrator right there. And even if they aren’t there, get them out of the house. Bring that child outside, or to your office. Their home is a constant reminder of the hell they’re living in, don’t make them talk about it in an unsafe place if you can help it.”

“Law enforcement, police. When I went in to do my interview I was mortified. I couldn’t look the guy in the face, there was nothing to help me cope with the weight of what I was saying out loud for the first time. People will be embarrassed, they’ll be scared and they will be blunt. They’ll say things like ‘He touched me’.