Today, I Reported My Rapist

E. Jean Carroll inspired me to act

A hand underneath a vine of bougainvillea. Photo: Miranda G. Triay

Today, I reported my rapist.

My rape happened almost seven years ago. I was 22. My rapist was younger than me. He played football with my younger brother. Before my rape, we had spoken once the night before.

Today, I reported my rapist.

It was October. My parents were out of town. My older brother invited a few friends over, and my rapist was a friend of a friend. I had graduated from college several months beforehand. I was bored, without many friends to keep me occupied. So, I talked to these friends. The friends of friends. I thought I was being polite. Fun.

Today, I reported my rapist.

When I went to bed that night, I closed my door. I didn’t lock it. I knew my brother’s friends. I trusted their friends. I was the sister. I was safe in my own home.

Today, I reported my rapist.

On June 21st, 2019, I watched E. Jean Carroll discuss her rape at the hands of Donald Trump. How he opened her mouth wide. Wedged his fingers between her stockings and tore into her. She was awake when this happened. She fought and escaped.

In October 2012, I woke to a tongue crammed down my throat and several fingers shoved inside of me. I thought I was dreaming. My mind buzzed and my blood rattled. I felt his cock on my thigh and could not move. I did not fight. I did not try to escape. I was in my bed. I was safe in my own home.

On June 24th, 2019, I reported my rapist.

My rapist was drunk. He could not get erect. With his fingers still inside me, he pinned me to my bed frame and fell asleep. The metal pinched my back and his dead weight felt impossible to move. I did not fight or scream or kick. Instead, I unlatched his arms and crawled beneath him, careful not to wake him up. I was polite. I did not want to anger him.

Today, I reported my rapist.

I sat in my brother’s room and stared at the floor. After 10 minutes ticked by, I stood and shook him awake. My chest was both heavy and empty and my arms were incredibly sore. I could not feel my legs.

When I told my brother, he did not ask if I was okay. He wanted to kill my rapist. He wanted to beat him with his fists, bludgeon him with a baseball bat. I would not let him. I did not want my brother to go to jail.

Instead, my brother’s friend dragged my rapist out of my bed and turned to me as he exited the house, his voice sheepish and low, “He’s usually not like this.”

Today, I reported my rapist.

E. Jean Carroll’s rapist denies the incident. I am positive my rapist will deny it, too.

Critics accuse E. Jean Carroll of falsehoods. That she wants to sell books. I want to write books, but I have no books to sell. Only a memory, a nightmare that blinks in and out of my life.

E. Jean Carroll lived with this secret for 23 years. I lived with mine for seven. She does not want to press charges. She did not have witnesses. I did and I do.

E. Jean Carroll fought. I did not.

Today, I reported my rapist.

When my father found out the following evening, he did not ask me if I was okay. He did not hug me or whisper he was sorry. He only asked why I hadn’t locked the door.

Today, when I reported my rapist, the police officer asked the same thing.

Writer. Reader. 90s Magical Girl. MA in philosophy, but don’t call me a philosopher. Tweet @mirandagtriay | pronouns: they/them, she/her

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