It’s been radio silence on my end, I know.
Trickles of updates pass through Twitter updates here and there; the details are all lost in the interpersonal—the intimate conversations had in-person.
But here comes the emotional roller coaster that was the last seven days.
An email pushed to my phone Tuesday afternoon with an ask to phone the detective constable on my case. I quickly dialled his number, queasy of what the news might be to which his cryptic email alluded.
“I made an arrest today,” he tells me. In gist, the words that follow: “he’s been released on the premise that he promises to appear in court on April 21st. There will be a news release either tomorrow or the day after from our department to see if there are any more victims.” The immediate feelings are that of jubilation and relief. Those feelings are brief, because I subsequently wonder “what’s next?”
The news release is posted on the Toronto Police website on Thursday morning. And that’s when I see his face, aged seven years—he is exactly how I remember him. I freeze when I see his name. This is the man who sexually assaulted, who had been nameless after all these years and had told me his daughter taught at NYU. This is his name. Somehow, it is having a name associated with the face that makes it more real. And I’m left frozen in my chair, unable to process anything, let alone what I find next.
And then come the trolls.
The Toronto Sun left commenting on for this article. And as ignorant and subjective as the comments are, I can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt. There are even moments of self-doubt. Compiling the comments, I’ve been, in short, called: a man-hating, shrink-seeing, forgetful, attention-seeking, spoiled, reputation ruining, rotten, feminist kid.
It’s more so the fact that there are those who are there to shake away the truth from me, taking away my voice. This feeling of powerlessness that I’ve felt so long is there again, even if it’s in the form of commenters that have no idea what happened and make their own value-laden judgements. I suppose I didn’t expect opposition; instead of writing my thesis, I spent Thursday staring into nothingness, feeling as if I’ve been punched in the gut.
The icing on the proverbial cake arrives on Sunday when I am dumped. We were dating (or at least in my mind), but when it boiled down to feelings and reciprocity, he didn’t feel the same. I fully understand, but yet, the words still sting. After all, it has been a while since I last made myself vulnerable, opening myself up. That in itself, to make the leap from closed and distant to approachable and comfortable with someone is a personal investment for me.
So yes, it’s been a hard week; there have been worse, and there have been better. And somehow, we all make it through to the next, raising our glasses to “here’s hoping that next week” will be better, akin to watching the last set of episodes of “How I Met Your Mother.”
Photo credit: Sam Javanrouh (flickr)