Proscrastination

A few days ago, I wore a dress that I hadn't worn in a long time. Any time I wear something old, I end up receiving a compliment, and that is exactly what happened. And just like 90% of nice middle-aged ladies, l can't just accept a compliment with a simple "thank you." I have to explain myself. I explained to the nice young Navy officer that I hadn't worn the dress for months because it had been missing two buttons, and I hate sewing buttons more than almost any other chore. And then I finally sewed the stupid buttons back on and wore the dress and received a compliment from the very first person I ran into. She laughed politely and went on her way. I thought, not for the first time, that it would be nice to have a uniform. But it's too late for me to join the Navy.  

*****

About a week or so ago, I received a letter from the Office of the Victim Advocate of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. I couldn't make myself open it, and so it sat in my desk drawer for the next ten days, give or take.

Finally, I opened and read the letter, which was, just as I expected, a notice that the man who raped me many years ago was approaching his parole eligibility date and that it I had any comments or concerns, I should content the Victim Advocate immediately. The word "immediately" was in bold type, because of course it was. And I didn't know what to do, so I put the letter back in the drawer and ignored it, thinking that I would just wait for it and the entire situation to go away. It’s just like that dress. Maybe I thought that the dress would repair itself, that the buttons would just magically reappear in their proper places. This approach always works very well for me, very well indeed. 

*****

The man has been in prison for a long time. If I could make myself call or write to the Victim Advocate, I think I would tell them that they should recommend him for parole. But I can't seem to make myself pick up the phone or even write an email. I can’t make myself even think about this. Yes, I’m writing about it, but I’m not thinking about it. I’m thinking about how not to think about it. I’m writing about not thinking about it. 

*****

The thing is, it's complicated. Everything is complicated. It’s been a long time, and I go for days, sometimes WEEKS at a time without thinking about the rape, and now it’s back, trying to get into my head again, and I don’t want it there. 

On the other hand, I know that the Office of the Victim Advocate means well. They’re doing their job. And on the face of it, the idea that a victim should have some say in decisions regarding the person who violated her is, I suppose, a good one. It’s empowering, right? Who doesn't want to feel empowered? 

Well, me, maybe. Maybe this is that one instance in which I do not want too much empowerment, because empowerment comes with responsibility, and I'd rather not be responsible for what happens to this man. I mean, the dude broke into my house at 3 in the morning and attacked me, and then I had to go to the hospital and suffer through the indignity of the rape examination, and then I had to tell the story over and over again to the police and the state’s attorney, and I had to go to fucking therapy and spend weeks and months and years healing and recovering and trying to get the memories out of my mind and body. Have I not been through enough? Have I not already contributed enough to this crime? I did the victim part, right? Should I also have to pass judgment? Should I also have to assess the penalty? Isn't the criminal justice system supposed to make these decisions? 

I mean, do I have to do EVERYTHING around here? 

JESUS. 

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Oh, and did I mention that he also stole my bike on his way out? How is that for adding insult to injury? I mean, really. REALLY. 

The bike theft was actually a good thing because that is how they caught him. My bike was pink. It was pink and it had a red basket attached to the handlebars. He wasn’t hard to spot, riding that ridiculous thing around the Main Line at 5 in the morning. They arrested him, arraigned him, assigned a public defender, and he confessed to the whole thing. I attended his sentencing hearing, but there wasn’t a trial. Later, the police offered to return the bike to me. I declined that offer. 

*****

I finally responded to the letter. My options included appearing in person (yeah right), videotaping a statement (lol), calling them on the phone, or sending a letter or email. So at least one decision was easy. 

This man has been in prison for a long time and trust me when I tell you that he belonged there, at least at first. But I don’t know what he is like now. I don’t know what he was like in prison. I don’t know if he’s sorry for what he did. He apologized to me at the end of the sentencing hearing, but I don’t know if he meant it. But I guess that he has probably suffered quite a bit. I don’t wish him any further suffering, and I asked the Victim Advocate to recommend him for parole assuming that he hasn’t been violent in prison and with the condition that he never try to contact me in any way. I don’t wish him any ill. But I don’t want to see him or hear from him or really even think about him ever again. 

It’s 12:30 in the afternoon on a beautiful sunny Saturday, and I feel like I need to go back to bed. That was exhausting. Any other clothing in need of repair is going to wait at least six months. I don't have the energy to go through that again.