by Holly Dunn
Then, during the outward adjustment phase, also known as the underground stage, survivors attempt to go back to living their daily lives. Some might cope by pretending nothing happened or ignoring the feelings associated with the trauma. Overall, survivors avoided negative feelings and anything that reminded them of the rape. My eyebrows raised reflexively as I read this. It all sounded quite familiar.
The next, longer-term phase was reorganization or integration, where a survivor attempts to resolve what happened and restore order to her world. She might feel that she’s going crazy because the anxiety, stress, and emotional problems are getting so bad. This phase tended to be when survivors were most apt to get help. Yep, that’s me, I thought. I had come to a place where I simply couldn’t keep running from all that still haunted me.
“Rape is much more profound than just unwanted sex,” the counselor continued. “It is a physical, emotional, and psychological assault comparable only to what combat soldiers experience in war. How long it takes to recover from such an assault will be unique to each of you. The goal is to ultimately move you from victim to survivor.”
The last phase, the one we all hoped to reach, was resolution and renewal. During that stage, she explained, we would begin to make sense of what happened and our sense of safety would improve. The panic and fear and disorientation would abate. We would never forget what had happened, but we could come to a place of acceptance and move forward with our lives. We could look forward to feeling in control again, even happy.
Each week, we discussed a particular topic related to the stages of recovery and how it aligned with what we each had experienced. We were also assigned homework outside of group discussions—like writing an essay about a certain phase of our recovery. I can’t say I worked too hard on it—I tended to get the assignments done the night before. After the first few meetings, I identified with a lot of what the group discussed, but part of me wondered if the program was really helping. I can’t say I fully believed in it at the time. Though I identified with that one girl, none of the other women had endured quite the same level of violence that I had. I felt alone even in this support group because my story was so unique. My ordeal felt so much bigger and more complex than what anyone else had been through.
At the same time, being among these women helped me realize that I wasn’t doing quite as poorly as I thought I was. I feel badly saying this, but many of these women were in terrible shape—some sobbed uncontrollably throughout the meetings; another monopolized the group’s time and focused only on her own recovery. The facilitator was good about steering certain people toward more one-on-one counseling when it was evidently necessary.
But I wasn’t okay, either—especially when the one-year anniversary of the attack finally arrived. The first anniversary of a death, a loss, a tragedy of any sort, is one of the hardest moments of the grieving process. The day’s hours and minutes are all pregnant with meaning, remembrance, and pain. If I wasn’t careful, I could end up reliving every moment—how I’d spent the day anticipating my time with Chris, getting ready for the party, the hours at the house on Suburban Court, the walk to the tracks, and all that came after it.
August 28, 1998 fell on a Friday. I wanted to get away, but Heather was pregnant and working a new teaching job and couldn’t go with me. One of my friends took me to Atlanta for the weekend, where we spent Saturday hiking Stone Mountain, this large, odd, quartz monzonite dome outside the city. I didn’t mark the time or the moments of what happened the year before—I just stayed distracted by the rock and the steep trail to the top, the flat summit atop the dome, the view of Atlanta’s skyline far off in the distance, blurred by hazy smog. The first anniversary came and went, but all of the trauma the original incident had inflicted would be with me indefinitely. When I looked out toward my own future, there was no end to that hazy, muted horizon for as far as I could imagine.
When I got home from Atlanta, there were numerous phone messages from people who reached out to me over the weekend. I appreciated the support, but I didn’t want to talk much about it. During my next support group meeting, however, I shared how fragile I’d been during the one-year anniversary and how I felt a sense of guilt and responsibility for what happened the night of the attack.
“I acted like a friend to my attacker in order to survive,” I said. “I was trying to gain his trust and befriend him in hopes he would stop.”
My compliance—the very things I’d done just to stay alive—left me with untold shame. And I was plagued with guilt that I hadn’t been able to save Chris: it bothered me deeply that I couldn’t untie his hands. I was grateful to the group and our facilitator for helping me realize that rape is never, ever a victim’s fault. My attacker was solely to blame for the fact that Chris died and that I was violated. The sessions helped me understand I could regain my sense of self and a healthy sexuality.
It’s especially hard to talk about sex, given that I was raised to be a good Catholic girl. But I’ll admit I was in a serious relationship as a young adult, so I wasn’t a virgin when I was raped. I was thankful that rape wasn’t my first sexual experience. The assault didn’t define my view of sex, but it damaged my sense of safety in intimacy. I started to regain my sexuality during my relationship with Jacob, but that was over, as far as I could tell at the time. Through the group therapy, I saw more clearly how my recovery would be a fight to regain that lost control.
I faithfully attended all eight weeks of the support group, and the program proved to be much more therapeutic than I initially thought. In fact, it was one of the best things that happened to me at the time. The group helped me realize I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t losing my mind—I was actually somewhat normal. The women in my group also helped me see that my tendency to use humor wasn’t always helpful. I had a regular habit of trying to make them laugh when they were crying or when group discussion got too serious or intense.
“You’re doing pretty well,” they said, “but you’re using humor as a defense mechanism.”
I needed to be willing to sit in the discomfort and pain when it arose; that was the path to the other side of it. At the close of the program, I wasn’t fully recovered from being raped but I was finally beginning the healing process in an intentional and beneficial way. In the years since the attack, I have been back and forth through those stages of recovery. Progress isn’t always linear, and I don’t know if there’s ever a full stop to any woman’s recovery from rape.
After the support group wrapped up, well into the fall semester, I realized what an incredible mistake I made in breaking up with Jacob. The space and distance hadn’t felt helpful at all. In fact, it hurt; I needed him now more than ever. After we split up, Jacob kept working at Phillip Gall’s for a while, and then went to work for one of the biggest house builders in Lexington. I called him to tell him I’d been wrong to end things. It was so good to hear his voice again after so much time. I was excited to rekindle our relationship and was certain he would feel the same.
“Well, I’m all right,” he said, “I don’t know if I want to get back involved with you. I’ve moved on.”
I was devastated. I hadn’t imagined he would be so detached and angry.
Despite his hesitation, Jacob invited me to a party at a rundown house west of campus into which he had moved with some guys from Phillip Gall’s. I went with a friend, feeling hopeful that being around me again might help him change his mind. But I was shocked to discover the house was only a few blocks from the train tracks. Had he done that on purpose? Wouldn’t he know how much that would bother me? Whether his move toward the tracks had been intentional or not (it wasn’t, I would later realize), he was rather cold and distant that evening.
I didn’t want to give up on us, though. I asked him if he’d come with me to a Kappa date party—one of several semiformal events during the school year. Though he agreed to be my date, neither of us had any fun. Throughout the evening, my attempts at playful banter were met with silence and a blan
k stare. Any connection we’d had was now evidently gone. The invitation had been my attempt to hold onto something I wished I still had, but I knew he wasn’t feeling it anymore. He chatted with my friends’ dates rather than with me, and he wasn’t affectionate like he used to be when we were together. His demeanor toward me was distant and forced. No more chivalry, no gentlemanly behavior. I could feel he was done with me.
We were over. Now it was my turn to be broken-hearted.
I didn’t think I would ever get him back. At the start of our relationship, he treated me like a queen, but after I broke up with him, he treated me like crap. His words to me were harsher, and his tone was cold. He was acting out of his hurt and disappointment, but the change in his behavior was downright punishing. He didn’t even seem open to staying friends. By Christmas of 1998, we were no longer speaking at all. Whenever I called him, he hung up on me. If I saw him out, he turned the other way and walked off.
What a huge mistake I made, I thought. He was such a great guy!
I had never been the kind of girl to dream about my future wedding or imagine how many kids I would have. Back in high school and college, I wasn’t opposed to getting married, but I was adamant I didn’t want children. My plan at the time was to get an MBA and take over my father’s hotel company. I wanted to focus on my career, and I didn’t see how you could do both well. But when I first dated Jacob, I was sure I wanted to marry him one day. He’d wanted to marry me too, but now I couldn’t even get him to acknowledge I existed.
I remember having a lengthy conversation with my dad at one point about how upset I was. How long would Jacob punish me for hurting him?
“Is it because I’m broken that he’s treating me like this? No one will ever want me now.”
I was emotionally wrecked by the assault, but I also felt like “damaged goods” because I’d been raped. Surely no one would want to marry me after all that.
“You’re in no way broken,” Dad said. “Someone will love you just the way you are.”
When I was growing up, if I ever argued with my dad he’d quip, “I’m always right.” Listening to his reassurances, I hoped with all my heart that it was true.
PART 2:
The Pursuit of Justice
CHAPTER 12.
A Suspect Is Named
A year and a half went by without much progress on naming even one probable suspect in our case. Detective Sorrell had done anything and everything he could think of—he followed every trail and chased every lead to states as far away as North Carolina and Louisiana, but to no avail. He succeeded only in eliminating hundreds of possible suspects without finding the one person we wanted.
He called me at least once a month to give me updates, and I went to the police station to visit him in person from time to time. The police bureau in downtown Lexington was housed in an old building that was once a department store. At first, I would wait in the lobby for Detective Sorrell to come down and escort me upstairs, but after a while the precinct staff got to know me.
“Holly!” the receptionist called out. “Come on in. Craig’s in his office. Go on up and see him.”
The homicide department was on the top floor of the four-story building. From the lobby, I was first buzzed through to the elevator, and then upstairs I was buzzed again through another door into the detectives’ bureau. Down a long open hall, groups of detectives from various departments—robbery and homicide, financial crimes, auto theft, burglary—worked at a hodgepodge of desks clumped in pods around the phone jacks throughout the office. There were probably eighty to a hundred detectives working that floor, yelling back and forth. The scene reminded me of cop shows on TV. Gray and brown walls. Boxes and stacks of paper everywhere. Typewriters at standalone stations. Fluorescent lights hanging overhead. Not a single window. Off to the side were isolated rooms where they interviewed suspects and persons of interest.
After a briefing on his latest activities, we often went to lunch, and he always paid. He teased me to no end—“You’re the rich girl, and yet I keep buying lunch!” Detective Sorrell and I got along right from the start. Our personalities meshed well and despite the seriousness of my case, we always had a friendly banter. I knew it mattered to him deeply that he put our case to rest—not just for me, but also for Chris and his family.
In January of 1999, Detective Sorrell made a trip to Washington, DC, to meet with FBI agents in the Behavioral Analysis Unit who could help put together a psychological and behavioral profile of the man who had attacked us. As part of the process, he asked me to complete the FBI’s sexual assault questionnaire. The questionnaire asked very specific questions about how the offender had approached us, his methods of control, whether he carried out his threats, the level of force, how much I resisted, and even the specific sexual acts committed against me and in what order.
At the time I thought this questionnaire was ridiculous and insensitive. What they were asking me didn’t make any sense, and so much of it didn’t seem to apply to my situation. As Detective Sorrell coached me through the investigation, I came to understand that those invasive questions were meant to help categorize what type of violent offender this person was. A more accurate profile might help investigators better connect our case to others with similar details.
The meeting with the FBI profilers didn’t turn out to be particularly useful, but Detective Sorrell wasn’t giving up. He remained steadfast, for which I will be forever grateful. Although I was frustrated and at times fearful that my attacker was still at large, I never believed for a moment that my case would remain unsolved. I felt God had given me everlasting assurance that he would be caught. It was just a matter of waiting for the right timing.
At the end of the spring semester, I moved out of the Kappa house and into my own apartment on Fontaine Road a couple of miles east of campus. The 1930s house was a big, red brick fourplex with brick columns and a wide cement front porch shaded by large, leafy trees. The bedroom was in dire need of new wallpaper, and all the trim was handmade and tacked haphazardly. The kitchen was an exceptionally green little room—lime and dark green laminate flooring, green wallpaper, a green sink. I even bought a lime green tea kettle to match the dated décor. But this was my first ever apartment on my own, and I loved it.
I had plans to travel to Lancaster, England, later that summer for a month-long study abroad program, but I still had about two months before my trip to enjoy living by myself. I wanted to be strong and feel secure, but deep down I was still really scared. Alone late at night in this ground-floor apartment, I slept with the biggest knife from my kitchen on a nightstand next to my bed. I had no way of knowing where my attacker was, or if he knew I was alive, and if he did, whether he might be looking for me.
To keep my mind off the hunt for our attacker, I hosted friends at my place quite frequently, and my dad came to visit from Evansville and took me to lunch or dinner. I also continued to grieve Chris in community with his closest friends. One of our most memorable times together was when I went with Brian, Reed, Adrienne, Andrew, Mike W., Donovan and a few others on a pilgrimage to the Red River Gorge, a setting permeated with Chris’s presence. Since I’d missed Chris’s funeral, I was glad this intimate ceremony would give me a chance to celebrate his life and say one last goodbye.
In springtime and early summer, the river that meanders through the Red River Gorge in the Daniel Boone National Forest swells more fully from the rain and melting snow. Among the bright green foliage, hundreds of wildflowers burst into bloom—geraniums, lilies, irises, lady’s slippers, red trilliums, and violets. About an hour’s drive east of Lexington, the Red River Gorge is famous for its rock formations, sheer sandstone cliffs, natural stone arches and bridges, and myriad hiking trails. The preserve was one of Chris’s favorite places, and he escaped to it often, bringing along friends who shared his affinity for nature. I would have liked to go with him, but our time together was just too short.
At the Gorge, we hiked to a spot high up on a cliff
and stood in a semicircle overlooking the canyon. Below us and all around us for miles were mountains lush with rolling expanses of trees. The air felt still and peaceful. My heart was heavy. We were each offered the opportunity to say something in memory of Chris, but I was too overcome to form any words. I listened instead to Chris’s fraternity brother Brian, his roommate Adrienne, and his high school friend Reed, the rest of us punctuating each other’s tribute with quiet sobs, deep sighs, the sounds of grief. Brian could always hold it together in the most emotional times and still say eloquent words. He spoke of Chris not with sadness but with appreciation for his life and how fully he lived it. Chris loved life. He found joy in the simplest of things—rain puddles, the veins of a leaf. He loved making his friends happy and he brightened any room the moment he walked in. I couldn’t believe the world had lost one of its most wonderful men. I have no way of knowing if Chris and I would have remained a couple, but I know I would have always wanted to be his friend. And like Elizabeth had written in her card to me, I was bound to him, his family, and this group of friends forever.
After his funeral, Chris’s ashes were buried in the North Canton Cemetery behind his parents’ house, but his parents set some aside to give to his friends to spread in places that were meaningful to him. Adrienne received a huge beer growler full of his ashes, and she and I spread some around a giant oak tree near their old apartment on Latrobe Court. While we were at the Gorge, we scattered more of his ashes along the edge of the cliff. We stayed silent as we watched some settle into the earth, others float on the wind into the canyon. Though our ritual had been emotional, I felt light and warm and at peace surrounded by our friends.
