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  Who Will Love Me?

  A Holistic Approach to Building Meaningful Relationships After Sexual Assault

  By: Melissa Ann McDaniel

  Copyright © Melissa McDaniel, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author. Reviewers may quote brief passages in reviews.

  DISCLAIMER

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the author.

  The author has tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from her memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances she has changed the names of individuals and places, she may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

  Neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or contrary interpretations of the subject matter herein. Any perceived slight of any individual or organization is purely unintentional.

  The information, ideas, and recommendations contained in this book are not intended as a substitute for medical advice or treatment.

  Cover Design: florfi

  Editing: Bethany Davis

  Proofreading: Rebecca Denton

  Author’s photo courtesy of: Emily Wenzel Photography

  Dedication

  For my little (big) sister Chelsey.

  At nineteen years of age, you bravely held my hand while I tearfully read my impact statement to a full courtroom. Our relationship is beyond the definition of meaningful, and I am forever grateful to have you by my side.

  Love you mucho,

  Your big (little) sister

  Melissa Ann

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not be possible without the brave and powerful people who have come before me. I cannot fully express my admiration for those who have led the way in creating movements to support others to speak up and step out into the light after sexual assault. You inspire me daily.

  To the wonderful faculty and staff in Salve Regina University’s Master of Arts in Holistic Leadership program, thank you. Your wisdom and grace held the space for me to grow into the woman and leader I am today.

  Dr. Angela Lauria and the Author Incubator team, you made this woman’s dreams come true. Thank you for loving me unconditionally as I laughed, cried, and wrote my way to becoming the author and difference maker I was destined to be.

  To my country-bumpkin family, from the times we dressed our pigs up at the county fair to the occasions we baked pies at grandma school, you have taught me the importance of determination and perseverance. My work ethic and desire to pave new ways stem from you.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: Not Ready to Make Nice

  Chapter 2: Beautiful Box of Tools

  Chapter 3: Acknowledge With Love

  Chapter 4: Embrace Change

  Chapter 5: Brilliant Mind

  Chapter 6: Sweet Spirit

  Chapter 7: Rockin’ Body

  Chapter 8: Beautifully Whole

  Chapter 9: If the Magic Seems to Fade

  Chapter 10: Dance With Me

  About the Author

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  This is my love letter to you.

  Do you often feel anomalous? Do you find yourself wondering, “Who will love me?” Many times after being sexually assaulted, you can feel immense loneliness and isolation. You may find yourself wearing the face of perfection at work, only to come home and fall to pieces. There may be times you long for the ability to trust a new love interest but find yourself unsure of how to let somebody in again. Your family might occasionally say, “Why are you SO sensitive?” making you feel misunderstood and as if you don’t belong. If any of these statements sound like you, please know that you are not alone.

  So, who am I and what do I know about the affects sexual assault can have on building meaningful relationships?

  Well, simply put, I am you. The woman who consistently questioned, “Who will love me?” after being sexually assaulted; the woman who has fallen to the floor while doing the dishes because the painful weight after is too much to bear; the woman who has tried to hide her feelings from others and herself, which eventually has forced me to lead two separate lives.

  I often told the story of the overly educated, well-traveled millennial with the world at her fingertips because it made me feel significant. The real life I lived included all the above but also consisted of deep feelings of shame, self-hate, and disgust. I found phenomenal ways to divert conversations and build phony relationships because I was terrified about what friends, partners, and family would think if they truly knew who I was inside. I hated my body. If there was a way to purchase a new one, I would have been the first in line!

  Sick and tired, literally and figuratively, I made it my personal mission to explore different healing modalities from around the world. Meeting with a Tanzanian Spiritual healer was my first glimpse into new ways of thinking. Our meeting propelled me forward into believing healing and meaningful relationships are possible. After Tanzania, my next adventure landed me on the little island of Skopelos, Greece, where I learned self-love might not be bad. These cultural perspectives began to create a paradigm shift in my thinking and my life. I was not able to fully articulate how those adventures shaped me until I was called to attend the Holistic Leadership graduate program at Salve Regina University. It was there my newfound perspectives began to come to life.

  Now I find myself with a beautiful box of tools equipped with lovely affirmations, ways to catch myself before I fall to the kitchen floor, and a fierce love for my rockin’ body. All of these tools have supported me to build the meaningful relationships I so missed and desired after being sexually assaulted. They have helped myself and many others learn the answer to the question, “Who will love me?”

  This book has been written with my whole heart. It is intended to give you the space and love you need to move beyond loneliness and isolation and into a world of truly meaningful relationships.

  I hear you. I see you. I love you. I am you.

  With my whole heart,

  Melissa Ann

  [email protected]

  Chapter 1: Not Ready to Make Nice

  Is It Love?

  The rarely seen May sunshine sparkled on the beautiful bay outside my picture window. Hit with a terrible spring cold, I was confined to my second-hand futon with an oversized box of tissues marveling out at the beauty. Lonely and wanting company, I invited the handsome 6’3 man I had recently started seeing to come over and hang out.

  He replied, “Going to the gym and then I’m on my way.”

  Excitement swirled as I awaited his arrival. There is no better feeling than the butterflies of a new love interest. The handsome man arrived at my apartment with beautiful blue flowers from his garden, a guitar to accompany his love songs, and chicken noodle soup to heal my awful cold. What a dream!

  We spent the evening talking about life and our goals for the future. I was 20 and had the whole world ahead of me. I dreamt of traveling to countries only seen in National Geographic, while he aspired to be a famous chef. Although we only spent time together a handful of times, the conversations never seemed forced or awkward. Our words flowed naturally.

  When the gourmet chicken noodle soup “out of the can” was ready, he invited me to come to the table. I sat there grateful for my chicken noodle soup and for the man who had prepared it. Halfway into din
ner, overwhelming exhaustion took over my body. My head became too heavy for my neck to bear its weight. I gently laid my head in my hands. Confused and out of sorts, I chose to go to bed, leaving the handsome man in my living room to fend for himself.

  I awoke in the early morning hours to find him still awake in my living room. Strange! It was too early to send him home, so I invited him “just” to go to bed. Shortly after he came to bed, he raped me. I will not share all the graphic details except this… As I tried to push the 6’3 muscular man off of my 5’6 small frame, he explained why he was raping me, “...because I love you.” WTF!

  Slow Motion and Little Commotion

  The minutes after he raped me felt like a video playing in slow motion. Most might assume my apartment was filled with screams of terror and anger; instead, I quietly rose from bed and slowly made my way to the bathroom. The look on his face was of sheer satisfaction as he watched me wipe the tears from my cheeks. He just conquered the world while destroying mine. Not wanting to go back to the bed where the rapist sat, I meekly walked into the living room for some space to breathe. Trying to provide comfort and letting me know the rape was a form of love, the man followed right behind, leaving me no space for me to catch my breath or process what had happened.

  My next reaction is still a mystery. There was no energy left in my body to retaliate. I chose to leave the rapist in my living room and return to bed, shutting the door behind me for protection. How did such a strong vocal young woman react so nonchalantly? Your guess is as good as mine; there is plenty of room for interpretation about what may have been in my chicken noodle soup.

  The Morning After

  When I woke the next morning, the man was nowhere to be found. All that remained in my apartment was the wilted blue flowers, his damn guitar, and so much guilt. Immediately, I began to blame myself, only for 50 percent though. That seemed fair. My invitation for him to go to bed must have been too much for his male hormones to handle. My “no” and “stop” must have been too meek and appeared flirtatious. After all, I kissed him. Keeping my underwear on was no indication of not wanting him inside me. Clearly the appropriate thing for him to do in that situation was to pull my pink panties over and roughly shove it in.

  Out of sorts and feeling half dead, I sent the man an email. We knew each other well enough to exchange emails. Let that sink in. In my email, I said it was partially my fault because I let him into my bed. If I owned my part, it made it feel slightly less like the actual rape it was.

  To Report or Not to Report?

  The first person I told was my dear friend Aundra. She bravely held the space for me to talk about the parts I could and reassured me, “Hell no, this is not your fault.” Wanting the man’s stuff out of my apartment, Aundra and I got in her blue Suzuki and delivered his guitar. In blaming myself, I also felt the need to “do the right thing” by returning his belongings.

  In my heart, however, I knew the next step was to report the rape to the police, but I died a little inside each time I went to reach for the phone. For me, reporting the rape meant I had to own it actually happened. Things like this do not happen to women like me. Right?!

  At the time, I was attending University on a full-ride scholarship. Seeking help, I went to the first school counselor with an opening. Meekly walking into the office, I was greeted by a timid woman with brown hair. To the best of my ability, I told her my story with tears in my eyes and a tissue in hand.

  The advice the counselor gave to me went something like this: “Melissa, if you choose to report the rape, police typically don’t do anything. The experience is often worse for the victim if she does report. But, ultimately it is your choice.”

  All I wanted was for someone to tell me what to do: How do I handle this situation? Instead, the decision to report or not was left up to me. It was a decision that I did not feel I had the capacity to make.

  The timid brown-haired woman wrote a note for my math professor to excuse me from the missed classes and sent me on my way. The note included nothing about the sexual assault, just that I should be excused from the absences.

  Walking down the hall to meet with my math professor, all I could think about was my lack of ability to advocate for myself. How do I tell my male math professor something like this? It was also one more indicator to confirm in my heart that in fact, I had been raped.

  The math professor was a tall, slender, white male who wore little expression on his face. After reading the note, he looked at me and said, “Anyone can get a note from the school counselor for anything. You are not excused.”

  At these words, I started sobbing and asked him if I could share what happened. Nope! He told me he didn’t care and the absences were not excused. When I left his office, what had been left of my heart was shattered in a million pieces.

  Not sure where to turn, I called the timid brown-haired counselor and notified her of the interaction. Never again would I return to the math class. An “F” sounded better to me than ever seeing him again. I’m not sure how it was communicated via the school, but the professor must have received the message loud and clear to excuse me. I never went back to the class and still received a “C-” on my transcript.

  Report!

  According to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC), “Rape is the most under reported crime; 63% of sexual assaults are not reported to police.”

  And then the day came when I had to make the dreaded call. It was a handful of days after the rape, and one of my girlfriends saw the rapist creepily riding his bicycle on the university campus. He was peering through his sunglasses, looking around, and trying to locate me. Yes, he also had already met my friends prior to raping me. At the moment my friend notified me, I knew I had to call the police.

  My dear friend, Kathleen, and her gentle spirit sat beside me as I called 911. When the officer arrived, I felt conflicting senses of relief and terror. I was still not sure how to own this being my real life?! Unlike my interaction with the math professor, the male police officer was kind throughout his questioning, and made me feel safe. He took my statement and went on his way.

  Kathleen then gave me a big hug and also went on her way. Home alone with my despair, I attempted to get some sleep.

  I’ve Reported; Now What?

  A whirlwind happened after I reported the crime. I went home to tell my family I had been raped, but I did not say a word despite my intent. I literally spent a whole three days in their company with my lips sealed. Telling them would be another acknowledgement I actually had been raped. My heart could not handle anymore.

  After my secret-filled family weekend, I made the five-hour drive back to the city on the bay, berating myself the whole way. My head kept filling with the accusations that I assumed my family would make if I told them. Surely they, too, will say it is my fault? What was I thinking in asking a man to go to sleep in my bed, assuming he would not have his way with me?

  Upon my arrival, I was greeted by phone calls from detectives asking me to come to the station and identify mug shots. Holy hell… His photo was in the group of mug shots. It was a younger version but most definitely him. Next, the detectives asked me to show them where the man lived.

  It felt like a scene from the movies. Lying down in the back of the undercover detective car was an adventure in itself. I remember feeling foolish as I asked, “Do I need to wear my seatbelt correctly? I can’t wear it and lay down in the back of the car.” Ha! Clearly the detectives did not care. They were more concerned with keeping me hidden and safe as I directed them to the rapist’s house.

  Quickly, I learned this man was any female’s nightmare. Prior to raping me, he had already raped a minor in a different state and was on parole for the conviction. HE WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN WASHINGTON STATE. Everything he told me had been a lie, from his age to his profession. There was no ounce of truth to anything he had said. The only truthful thing he told me was his full name.

  Victim Blaming Is Real

  A
fter learning this information, I knew I had to tell my family. It was one of the most difficult phone calls I have had to make in my life. The family members I spoke to encouraged me to make the five-hour drive home to decide what to do next.

  Sitting in the small living room, a family meeting was called to order. I was asked to disclose what had happened. Terrified, convinced they were going to blame me, I shared as much of the rape as I could.

  Sadly, there were comments of blame, words like, “Why would you let him in your apartment?” and “You asked him to go to bed? That’s just asking for it.”

  My flight response was in high gear at these words, and I was ready to flee. The self-blame took on an all time high after this conversation. My family had to be right. Maybe I had been asking for it?

  Cutting my family out at this point would have been ideal, but I still needed the small amount of support they were able to offer. Some support was better than nothing at this point. One of my go-to sayings when trying to understand others is, “Hurt people, hurt people.” Being further removed from the situation, I am now able to see the effects of historical abuse and the ramifications it can have through generations if not addressed and healed. They hurt me because they too were hurting.