TRIGGER WARNING: Topic of Sexual Assault Discussed in This Blog
Five: I see Wonder Woman, the keyboard, monitor, pen, sticky note. Four: I feel the chair, my arm, cell phone case, wooden desk. Three: I hear a wren outside, the whir of my space heater, music from the speakers. Two: I smell ginger tea, hand sanitizer. One: I taste a soft peppermint.
Since I started attending counseling, I’ve learned some grounding activities. My current go-to is an exercise that helps my mind return to the present moment by engaging my five senses. I acknowledge five things I see, four things I feel, three things I hear, two things I smell, and one thing I taste. If my count isn’t complete, I actively search for something that will make it so. If that means reaching for hand cream to smell or walking to the kitchen for a cup of water, I do it. I’d rather be in search of something to satisfy my senses than lingering on thoughts of the worst moment of my life.
A Long Cold Lonely Winter
I needed to use a backpack, so I grabbed the one nearest to me and reached into its compartments to ensure it was empty before I started cramming clothing and props into it for a work project. My fingertips met the soft texture of a tissue, and I immediately remembered the last time I used my black backpack. It accompanied me on the hours-long birding excursion around metro Atlanta that ended in me being raped. The box of tissues inside my backpack was from the hospital where I received a pelvic exam the week following the assault. The tissues sat in the backpack beside a field guide that Jason Ward gave me. On the day he gave me the guide, we were standing in the small, gravel parking lot of Rogers Bridge Trail about to leave for Morgan Falls Overlook Park. At one point he started sliding his hands into my pants. I stopped him with my hands and moved away. I didn’t realize it was a precursor to what would occur on November 27.
I also took the bag with me when I reported the rape to the Sandy Springs Police Department. I brought the clothing I wore the night Jason Ward sexually assaulted me to the police department to submit as evidence. Black leggings and a long-sleeved #BlackAFinSTEM shirt I bought to support the organization and add to my narrow lineup of long-sleeved t-shirts. He had expressed to me his dislike for the shirt hours before he raped me. On the day of the pelvic exam, I told the doctor what had occurred. He kindly talked me through the exam. It was painful and at one point I said “ouch,” thinking it would signal to him to stop. “Did he hear me?” It made me immediately think of the moment at the park after I told Jason “I don’t think we should,” in response to him telling me he was going to bend me over and f*** me. Didn’t he hear me? Why won’t he stop? I started to tear up as the doctor apologized for the pain and explained he was almost done collecting samples.
I had little knowledge of Jason’s sexual history. I was given medicine to ensure I wouldn’t become pregnant or contract sexually transmitted diseases. A nurse gave me apple juice to chase the medicine and a box of tissues because I was in tears. I was directed toward the television remote where I could settle on a station and distract myself with a show. The remote didn’t work, so she reached for the television and manually scanned channels until she landed on Friends. In the episode, Ross goes to Rachel’s sister’s place and the group is watching from the apartment window to see if anything happens between them. It felt unsettling considering what I had recently experienced and now the nurse had left the room. I tried to tune it out as best as I could. Apparently, it worked because I don’t remember how the episode ended.
After I was discharged, my friend picked me up from the hospital entrance and took me to get food. I requested French fries before sinking into the passenger seat and announcing that I thought I was going to throw up. We made it to a nearby restaurant and I spent a long time in the restroom stall nauseous and in pain. I felt terrible and I was angry. Why is it that I walked around with vaginal pain, had to recount my rape through a mask and plexiglass in the front lobby of the police station, take pills, and drink antibiotics to the point of nausea because of what someone else did?
I thought I could somehow force myself to forgive Jason and keep quiet as to not be a burden to anyone. But I had never experienced anything of that magnitude. I had no idea what was in store for me mentally, physically and emotionally. I could not keep it in and be okay. I couldn’t do nothing for fear he would use his position to prey on others.
If I Could Ever Help You I Would
In December, I got into my car and heard a special end-of-year episode of Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me! where they aired a compilation of past interviews. I entered the car at just the moment where a sound clip of Jason’s interview was on. I felt disgusted hearing his voice. I actually remember wondering if I could hear malice in his voice. Was there some sort of indicator I could have seen or heard? I turned the radio off but continued to think.
I have done what I can personally to prevent him from hurting anyone else. The immense online response from people in the science community to the blog I published played a huge part in spreading the word. I’m confident their actions helped prevent others from being assaulted. I was also able to obtain legal representation as a result of their actions. Now it’s up to the people who have the legal authority to save other people from being sexually assaulted to listen, admit to wrongdoing, and take action. The failure of the Sandy Springs Police Department and Fulton County District Attorney’s Office to act has the potential to place any woman who encounters Jason without prior knowledge of who he is or what he is capable of in danger.
My suspicions that I was not the only woman who had negative encounters with Jason was confirmed after I publicly shared my story. I experienced a mix of emotions that felt like relief that I was believed and supported but also horror that he had repeated similar actions with other people. I thought of the people who attended the birding event led by Jason at Piedmont Park on October 3 and how it consisted of a mix of men, women, and small kids. I don’t want anyone else to endure what I did.
I have no interest in reconnecting with Jason. I cannot think of a single positive that would come from that. My desire is that he would own up to his actions and stop changing narratives to make everyone else appear responsible for misdeeds rather than himself. He knows better. The very actions he took in forcing himself on women were the same kinds of things he previously condemned online.
Who Needs Action When You’ve Got Words
According to an email from the detective that was assigned to my case, he had contacted Jason and asked if he was willing to come in to talk. Jason agreed on a date and time. Hours later, Jason had his lawyer contact the detective. Some communication occurred between the lawyer and detective, and he sent screen shots of text messages Jason and I exchanged. I had already provided the detective with these messages and many more. When I gave my recorded statement, the detective asked if there was anything he should know. I anticipated Jason would try to twist the story to deny he pursued me or make it sound as if what occurred at Morgan Falls Overlook Park was consensual. So, I sent the detective many screen shots to show a timeline of our interactions. I even sent the text message Jason sent me the morning following the assault.
By the end of January, it had been made clear via a Friday afternoon email no other action was going to be taken regarding my case. I didn’t understand why. I knew what happened that night and I told the detective and advocate everything I could remember at the time I gave them my recorded statement. I called the detective to get clarity but he didn’t pick up. I spent my birthday in bed crying. My call was returned the following Monday while I was working. The detective gave me space to express my concerns. Then he started to summarize what happened that night. But I noticed details were wrong. I hadn’t seen my police report yet and had no idea he was quoting his own incorrect summary of what happened. I was getting increasingly disturbed because I was reliving the event all over again over the phone with the detective as I tried to keep my composure at my desk during my workday. I was shocked and hurt by things he said like questioning me when I said I was scared in the moment. He asked me what I meant. I reiterated that Jason grabbed me and threw me toward a tree.
Contacting the Sandy Springs Police Department seemed like the best available option I had at the time to prevent Jason from hurting me or anyone else in the future, but the experience caused even more trauma. Now I was not only fighting back tears and disturbing memories, I was fighting to have my voice heard and to be believed by the very people who should have been advocates.
The detective’s comments that I should have fought back and that this would make me a better person so that in future relationships I would learn to not put myself in this kind of situation did not help. The lies and misinformation he included in the police report and email to the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office also did not help.
Why Would You Believe You Could Control How You’re Perceived
I’m not a fan of stereotypes. They reduce living, breathing humans down to harmful caricatures. I am a Black woman who would never want to see an Afro-Latino man looked at as someone to be feared based on his race and any other ignorant perceptions placed upon him. I also never want to see a Black woman—or anyone for that matter—assaulted then discounted because people hate to accept someone who crafted an online persona that uplifts women actually thinks and speaks ill of them in real life, criticizes their talents, and dismisses them as “crazy.” He told me how he’d warned his sibling to “be careful” as he birded and dated women in the birding community and said he heard rumblings about another male birder acting inappropriately in the field. He also at some point mentioned that he had to be careful because young girls messaged him online. The people he mentioned were somehow made out to be the villains or instigators in his stories but in hindsight it seemed he was placing his own spin on the situations.
Jason’s race had no impact on his decision to rape me. Despite this, I felt hesitant about speaking up because this figure who had come across as a supportive, unapologetically “nerdy” Black man would possibly be seen as the victim and there was the potential I would be seen as throwing him under the bus or somehow being a traitor because of his contribution to visibility of Black people in areas of STEM.
I remember the words that would become my first blog coming to mind at random times. I’d jot down sentences and try my best to shut off the thoughts, but they flowed whenever they wanted. It was tough to deal with and I wanted some sort of solution. I eventually decided I would write about my experience and share it online. The idea of revealing this extremely intimate experience with people I know and with strangers all over the world made me panic internally.
I would pray and hear the words “Let your voice be heard,” come to mind. I whispered those words to myself as a reminder that this was a way of taking back my power. Jason didn’t listen to me, the Sandy Springs Police Department didn’t listen to me, but someone would.
Something Without Warning Love Bears Heavy on My Mind
Though I’m pursuing peace daily, I’ve been restless lately. I lie awake in bed sometimes trying so hard to give into sleep. Or I stare at my phone until my eyes are tired and its already early morning by the time I drift off. I wake up at random times of the morning and can’t get back to sleep. I give up and wait until it’s time to take my anxiety medicine. It’s a new routine I have had to adopt thanks to the PTSD I was left with following the trauma of November 27. It feels like an empty routine sometimes because my brain can push right past any attempts at a calm, steady start to the day in favor of diving headfirst into vivid flashbacks of that night at Morgan Falls Overlook Park.
There are moments when his words or actions reappear in my mind and make me feel uneasy. Routes that take me near the parks or paths we traveled can trigger memories of the assault. I had to visit a new gynecology office as a follow-up to my pelvic exam. When the person at the front desk asked what I was visiting for I softly said I had been raped. It was a rare time I had verbalized this and the reality of it left me in tears as a nurse tried gathering my information and weighing me. She was patient and kind, allowing me to take a moment in the restroom and finish completing my paperwork in the exam room. She assured me that the doctor I was seeing was kind and gentle. It was true and I was incredibly grateful.
I’ve been told by others with very good intentions that I look good or that I’m handling it well but I am intentional about crying when I’m alone. I cry into my pillow, in my car, or a restroom. Then I gather myself because though I wish desperately that I could press pause and spend time in solitude and calm, life goes on. The world doesn’t stop spinning. People forget or move on. I have amazing support systems, but at the end of the night it’s only me and my thoughts. It’s a daily battle. Triggers are like minefields. So much content exists that could serve as a trigger for survivors. It’s not a new concept. It’s just that now that I have become a survivor myself, it has changed my awareness of some things I consume. I loved suspenseful movies. Now I can’t tolerate them. I was convinced I would become a forensic toxicologist when I was younger and watched hours and hours of Court TV. Courtroom commentary now makes me feel awful. Seeing defense attorneys strategize ways to remove the elements of a victim’s humanity in efforts to prevent someone who committed a crime from serving time is particularly heartbreaking.
Yes I Believe You
An interesting sort of exchange occurs when you open up. People tend to reciprocate. I think it can be therapeutic to speak your truth to someone who gets it. There is an understanding there that doesn’t even have to be stated. I am forever grateful to so many compassionate people who opened up their hearts to me. They were giving of thoughtful words, time, effort, prayers, money, love, and kindness. It still feels very surreal. I received messages of support from so many people I don’t know and those I know and love. I opened a message from my cousin encouraging me to let my voice be heard. I couldn’t help but cry to see the words I had been whispering to myself appear in his message.
To anyone who is reading this and wonders to themselves why no one listened, why the person who hurt you was never held accountable for their actions, why you could never find the words to articulate the level of pain you’ve been through: you matter. Your story matters and everything else that you continue to do with your life is a testament to your resilience. I’ve tried to put my finger on what it is that makes me different from any other survivor. I’m not the only one who has been vulnerable and honest about their survivor experience. Why did I receive so much support from strangers that owe me absolutely nothing when there are many people out there who have endured pain? Their stories are valid and just as heartbreaking. Then I remember what my first counselor said to me when I was having trouble deciding whether I should step away from social media for my mental health or give updates so my story wouldn’t be forgotten. “It’s still true even if it’s not trending.”
Header References
- When You Try to Get Peace of Mind, I Gotta Find Peace of Mind by Lauryn Hill
- A Long Cold Lonely Winter, Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles
- If I Could Ever Help You I Would, I Will Be Your Friend by Sade
- Who Needs Action When You’ve Got Words, Plateau by Meat Puppets
- Why Would You Believe You Could Control How You’re Perceived, Sincerity is Scary by The 1975
- Something Without Warning Love Bears Heavy on My Mind, Lovely Day by Bill Withers
- Yes I Believe You, Made Up Love Song #43 by Guillemots