Sometimes the devil wins

“I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear, but the grand jury deliberated and returned with a ‘No Bill,’” the assistant district attorney said.

It had been nearly three years since the mental and physical abuse started at the hands of someone who claimed to love me.

It had been over a year since the aggravated sexual assault — since I took that horrible SANE exam. It’s been over a year since I had been extracted from the town I loved — since I became silent to my once-friends and left the home I had created and the job I enjoyed.

It had been nearly one year since I was at my lowest. During that time, I fought to free myself as a prisoner who had been intentionally isolated, groomed, and humiliated by Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

I realized my options were death by him or death by me.

He nearly won in killing me, but I survived.

I survived, only to become suicidal. Go figure.

I became suicidal over the mental and physical trauma at the hands of my assailant and the re-traumatization from the legal system.

It’s been nearly one year since I was admitted into a partial hospitalization program. Ironically, during that time, I had to quit my graduate studies program in clinical mental health due to being in hiding for nearly five months so my assailant couldn’t find me.

For what it’s worth, I was a straight-A student.

All the above went through my brain as the assistant district attorney waited for me to say something on the other end of the telephone line.

“Thank you for everything you did to try to help me,” I said, or at least I think I said. I don’t remember. I felt like someone had just pulled me off the ventilator of hope I’d been connected to for the last year.

“We racked our brains trying to figure out why the grand jury didn’t move the case forward,” the assistant district attorney said. “We had a solid case,” she added. “We’ll never know. We’re not told the reason why. We gave them all the evidence.”

She paused, speaking again to fill the silence: “It was a clean case.”

“Thank you for everything you did to try to help me,” I repeated.

I do not recall anything else she said. It didn’t matter.

I had been at the courthouse earlier that day, held in a separate room, in case the grand jury wanted to call me in to ask me any questions. I was never called.

Two Texas Rangers and two assistant district attorneys presented evidence to the grand jury for one hour. Afterward, I was told to go home. I was informed that the grand jury would hear a few more cases on the docket, break for lunch, and begin deliberations. I was told a district attorney would call me with the verdict.

My victim’s advocate arrived at the courthouse as I was leaving. As she went through security, I was walking out. The case had already been heard, so there was nothing left to advocate for, at least not on my behalf.

The victim’s advocate and I made small talk before we left the courthouse to return to our respective towns. She apologized for not being there for me. I don’t fault her.

I’ve learned that whatever the initial intent of most organizations, they eventually fail the very people they are called to serve. There is too much red tape, too many obstacles, low resources, and lean staff. As such, I cannot fault her. She is doing a job, hopefully to the best of her ability. I’m trying to stay safe, hopefully to the best of mine.

For what it’s worth, I’m more than a statistic.

I have no idea what evidence was presented to the grand jury on my behalf. I was never told. I had never spoken to the lead Texas Ranger who laid out my case before the grand jury. I was simply a name on a docket. I have no idea if what was said was even accurate. I never had an opportunity to speak.

Not having a voice has become way too familiar of a feeling.

Within minutes of sharing the grand jury’s verdict with a well-meaning loved one, I received this text: “I’m sure you were disappointed, as I am. But now it is behind you and you need to go forward. Love you.”

Note to those who have loved ones going through the hell of reliving their worst nightmare in the hope of holding someone accountable so they will never do this to another person: this response is AWFUL.

I reread the text multiple times: “But now it is behind me?”

As in, wash your hands, sit at the table, and shut up. Appreciate the meal before you. Be grateful. Don’t be a dramatic child. Pick up your fork and eat what’s before you. Don’t act like you’re starving for attention.

I must sit with this pain before I can move forward with any mental fitness. This hell has been the festering wound I've tried hiding for years. It will take longer than one afternoon to put it behind me.

In another ironic twist, I was told that my assailant got a new job in a new town, making more money.

He got a promotion. I got told to put it behind me.

Word of respectful advice to all those trying to help loved ones: trauma does not stay behind you.

Trauma is a lunatic in a straightjacket. No matter how hard you try to contain it, you can feel it wiggle as you drive by certain places and taunt you in specific conversations, songs, and clothes.

Trauma haunts your memories and scours your view of today, littering and loitering in every day that follows.

No matter how much you appreciate the gift of a new day, trauma cuts in line — already anxiously awaiting your presence into tomorrow.

My hope, through weekly counseling over the last year, is that the presence of trauma will fade into the background more and more. But never fool yourself that trauma 100% is behind you. Never put that expectation on someone who has been through hell. Please don’t.

That expectation of the survivor is received as just one more person who would rather you be silent to accommodate their comfort level and conscience.

I will end with this because I know some may wonder: No, my faith in God and His goodness has not waivered. My assailant mocked God, and I know regardless of the earthly justice system, God does not allow Himself to be mocked without consequence.

Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I sad? Yes. Does this open a wound I’ve been trying to heal? Yes. Did I get the verdict I fervently prayed for? No.

But I am a Believer, a child of the Most High. I am faithful in a world where sometimes the devil wins the battle. Yet, as cliché as it may sound, God wins the ultimate war.

GOD WINS.

Earthly victory is as fleeting as the grape upon the vine: it may appear delicious, but it will soon perish.

Victory in Christ is eternal: “‘I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples,’” John 15:5,8.

I am still ever-joyful, even in affliction. I am ever-thankful, even in despair. And I am ever-surrendered to His will. God has used my suffering to elevate me, and I believe He will continue to do so.

For what it’s worth, my tears may taste sweet upon the devil’s tongue, but my lips will forever praise Christ Jesus.