Content warning: this contains a brief mention of child abuse.
Before I moved to working exclusively in sex crimes last year, I was often stuck trying to confront who bore the brunt of domestic violence. Clearly, most of us would say it’s the victim—the individual, in most cases a woman, who’s married to, dating, or living with the abuser. During my spare time at work I’d sift through my mental rolodex of victims, separating them in my head into two distinct columns: left, stayed. Every time I tallied the numbers seemed to come out about even. In my head, I pictured many of the victims with their children that I’d met or interacted with and grouped them not as a family unit but the kids as an extension of the victim herself.
I wrongly and naively assumed that when I moved to sex crimes I’d be interacting with children less. In my mind, the paradigm of a rape victim was a college student or a young unmarried professional. Instead, I was forced to address who bears the burden of all violence: children.
Sexual assault and domestic violence go hand-in-hand. They often coexist and one can’t function without the other in many ways. It’s come to the point now that even when I do encounter those victims, the twenty-somethings or young partygoers, I still think of them as kids. Through the lens of violence there’s little difference to me between them and the children exploited by their parents, family members or caregivers.
In DV, I saw a strange phenomenon. Knowing what I know now about trauma-informed research, I know that at its fundamental level, it’s a method of self-preservation. Without fail, the victims I met would assure me that though there were kids in the house, they were mostly ignorant as to their father beating or strangling their mother, or destroying furniture or putting a gun to her head. I never had the heart to directly contradict them with the truth. One day, I even saw this in action, when a three-year-old with astonishing strength hurled a plastic firetruck and then a series of wooden preschool chairs directly at my face with a chillingly passive expression. To this day it’s still one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever encountered.
In both DV and sexual violence, I’ve come to the conclusion that the most dangerous person in a young child’s life is mom’s boyfriend. This is a truth I cling to like a life raft when I’m at a loss and I don’t have anything else to acknowledge in particularly horrible situations. When it comes to DV, mom herself has likely been abused or watched her mother or siblings be abused, thus influencing the traits she looks for in a partner. Her children, through watching the abuse of their own mother, then learn the same destructive behavior, whether to express their emotions through abuse or to choose husbands or wives with similar behaviors. In sexual violence, mom’s partner is a predator who takes advantage of her trust and uses that to his benefit, both to groom and abuse her children. This has overwhelmingly been the case in nearly every incident I’ve ever worked with children involved, in both fields.
For whatever reason, there’s a shocking lack of research as far as I can find on how prevalent abuse is at the hands of mom’s partner. We do know, however, that child abuse is 40% more likely when a divorced or single parent marries. We’re also forced to put the pieces of the puzzle together ourselves: 80% of single-parent households are led by single mothers. 95% of children are abused by someone they know, most frequently between the ages of 3 and 8, and 90% of child abuse offenders are men.
I always feel like these stories need to be shared but I don’t know that I’m the person to do it. Instead, I’ll share my own.
For a year or so in middle school, I was molested by a teacher. He was involved in the community and very well-liked by everyone, and I thought at the time if I spoke up that no one would believe me or think I was crazy. I know now that children rarely, if ever, lie. Though I’ve since told my husband, friends, and several therapists over the years, I have never told my parents, or undergone EMDR, a method of intense psychotherapy aimed at processing repressed memories. I view my repressed mental block about the situation as my mind and body protecting me. That biological dam that’s been constructed in my head is there for a reason, and I have no desire to disrupt or deconstruct it. I do have several trauma responses that have been ingrained in me that I can’t get rid of or ignore, however. I hate the smell of cigarettes, for one (as everyone should) and men standing in my peripheral vision or directly behind my shoulders makes me fidgety and uncomfortable.
I’m not sure if it’s because or despite this experience that I wound up in the career I’m in. It’s one thing to have someone else’s trauma told to you; it’s another to hear trauma that deeply resonates with your own day after day after day.
I choose to view this as a strength instead of a weakness. When I was undergoing training in forensic interviewing, we were encouraged to emphasize phrases like “I have no idea what you went through.” But I do. And despite the consequences of the abuse I underwent—including severely damaging my perceptions of sex and religion, to name a couple—I have a full and beautiful life.
The cherry on top has been my daughter whom I had last summer. When we found out we were having a girl, I was relieved, especially because we couldn’t agree on any boy names and the majority of baby boy clothing is atrocious. But when she arrived, that excitement turned to crippling fear.
From the day we brought her home to around the time she was eight weeks old, I went through a grueling period of postpartum insomnia. More than anything, I was angry. Even when she was sleeping, I couldn’t. I tossed and turned, tried sleeping in my bed, on the couch, on our floor, and I still wound up pacing up and down the living room, back and forth, for hours and hours. I remember one particular day when my in-laws came to stay so I could get some sleep. I left my girl, sleeping soundly, with my father-in-law and collapsed exhausted into bed. But I didn’t sleep at all. What if something happened to her? What if I couldn’t protect her when she needed me most? What if I failed to rescue her the way someone should’ve rescued me?
I’ve since realized that first and foremost, your brain on sleep-deprivation is about as logical and rational as a squirrel’s. I’ve also realized that while the large majority of this was what I now know is postpartum depression, intrusive thoughts aren’t representative of reality. My experiences are not her experiences and if I do the best that I can, they never will be.
I believe in the existence of evil both because I’m a religious person and because I’ve met it firsthand. If I had it my way, every predator and abuser I’ve seen would face unspeakable punishment, even though I know the judgment God assigns is better and more fitting than anything I could contrive. But my daughter is the antidote to my sickness. She’s the antithesis of it all. She’s pure and blameless and beautiful and while I won’t be able to protect her from everything forever, it’s my basic responsibility as a mother to ensure I do everything I can to see she has the happiest life possible. If I had to do it all again to make sure I’d still have her, that every pain would lead me to where I am now, I would in a heartbeat. She’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
If anything, having a baby has made me even more resolved in my work. Children are the best and most valuable part of us and they deserve our protection.
I thought once if I worked hard enough and was the best at my job I could possibly be, I could save every mom and every child. If sleepless nights have taught me anything it’s that if I help even one and teach my daughter to do the same, it’s enough.