My case has been referred to a Judge in another county. The complication being that the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) didn’t proceed previously. I only found out yesterday morning. It was a hurdle I hadn’t anticipated. I knew the CPS could step in at any time and drop the case, despite the private prosecution – it’s outrageous but I’m tied by the laws as they stand in the UK. But this Judge suddenly coming in before anything else happening was a surprise I hadn’t expected. That’s another set of eyes reading my story – my private intimate details. Making decisions about me, my life, the crime, the defendants guilt.
All I want is a fair trial. My voice heard. A trial carried out before a viewing of my peers. I want it fair. I want to be heard. I could live with the not guilty verdict, although it would crush me, I could hold my head high and know I spoke out loud, that I really did everything. Threw myself at the mercy of the courts. Bled before the people. Exposed my soul. Ripped open my painful, raw wounds. Perhaps that would be my starting point to heal. Where people go to church to pray and find solace and comfort, I would grieve and unburden in a court room. Purge my mind and soul of all the ugly inside of me.
Now once again I have lost control. My voice, my mind, my wishes, my objective, my soul, like my body have been taken. I don’t matter to the system. My story is a piece of paper. It has no meaning only legalese. My suffering is a context with no emotion or depth or reality or quantitive measurement. I am not a person but a Manila folder. A sticky label. Someone’s data entry.
I am a nothing.
I was treated like a piece of meat. I wasn’t a person to him. I wasn’t a girl. I wasn’t a daughter, a sister. I wasn’t human. I was a sex toy. I was dehumanised. I was there for his pleasure, his rage, his control.
Finally, FINALLY, I have found courage to say I AM WORTH MORE THAN THAT. WORTH MORE THAN A SHODDY POLICE INVESTIGATION, WORTH TIME AND RESOURCES – PLEASE LET ME GET PART OF MYSELF BACK. LET ME BELIEVE THERE CAN BE JUSTICE. LET ME BELIEVE I CAN RISE ABOVE THAT NIGHT. THAT MY ENTIRE LIFE WONT BE RULED BY BEING RAPED BY AN ANGRY MAN WHO DIDNT SEE ME.
And what happens? I chase my lawyer to get informed my case is referred to someone random in a random place for a random amount of time.
I am back to square one.
The things he said and did have been viewed time over, discussed. Analysed. I have no privacy. No confidentiality. No faith and no trust.
I am a Manila folder, passed around. Touched, damaged in parts, faded, old, worn, left and forgotten. Not fought for. Barely bothered with. A Manila folder that’s story is uninteresting, doesn’t matter, too much effort. Simply, a piece of trash to be scribbled over.