One would think that inclement weather might provide an opportunity to focus on a project. I mean, driving is far from optimal, so staying in is a must, but I've been distracted by a number of things. Too distracted to do more than write a handful of paragraphs.
Number one distraction? You guessed it, social media — Facebook in particular. Posts, quizzes, SB#50 articles, and, of course, memories. One memory, in particular, brought a smile to my face and had me wondering what has changed since that time.
Roughly once a year I get an email from the man who stopped and picked me up on the side of the road the night I was raped. During the trial process, he was a constant. I still remember seeing him for the first time in over fourteen years. He was reserved, respectful, and understandably uncomfortable around me. At the end of the first trial, things had eased a bit. By the time the third trial rolled around, we were more like old friends getting together than co-witnesses in a rape trial.
A traumatic experience like rape stays with those who are directly touched by it. A person, whether the survivor or a responder, can either be haunted by the nightmare for the rest of their lives or they can find a purpose and peace beyond the trauma. Part of the reason I chose the latter is because of this man. I felt so awful that he was beside himself with apprehension and still so affected by that night. I realized at some point during that first trial that I had to find a way to live a happier life with the permanent knowledge that I will forever be a rape survivor. How could I expect this man, who had no idea how his night would turn out when he left home and encountered me stepping in front of his truck on the road, to see me as anything other than the victim I was that night if I couldn't stop seeing myself that way?
It's been a number of years since I've seen him, but his emails are always a welcomed surprise. I don't think that I will ever be able to aptly describe the connection we have although events like that night make lasting impressions. Just knowing that he is well, that he is happy and doing what he loves brings me peace like nothing else. He didn't have to stop that night; a number of people didn't. He didn't have to testify so willingly in three separate trials, disrupting his life further over a four-year period. He didn't have to take a chance and get to know the person I had become when it was so difficult for him to look even at me and not remember that night. He didn't have to do any of those things, but he did.
None of us involved in that nightmare asked to find ourselves in such a hell, but I cannot imagine how different my life would be had those that responded not done so, and in such a good-intentioned, outpouring of compassion. That I am able to have genuine moments of thankfulness when I remember that night, as I often do, is nothing short of amazing.
More than just being grateful that he was the man who stopped showed up and saw beyond the memory, I will always feel a distinct connection to him. Wherever he is tonight, I suspect the Cowboy (as he was affectionately dubbed) may get an inkling that I was thinking about him. Even if we never meet face-to-face again, he is never far from my heart.
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