Public Post: I'm the girl in the picture
I have been shocked, honored, awed, overwhelmed... and a thousand more subtle adjectives I can't think of right now, by the aftermath of my photo and accompanying post at the intense and tough-to-read but incredibly survivor-empowering Project Unbreakable. I said this in an earlier comment to a friend, but it bears repeating: The second I saw my picture, so beautifully shot by Grace Brown (truly a powerhouse of a budding young photographer!), it was like this black ugly heavy thing just shot out of my chest and vanished into the ether forever. And to have my photo and a bit of my story spread all over Tumblr with the velocity and intensity it did... I mean, just, wow. I am blown away. I am simultaneously so humbled that as of right now, nearly 1,000 people have liked or reblogged the post featuring me on Tumblr, and also so proud of what I consider perhaps the greatest act of my life so far, showing my face and telling my story.
My name is Meredith Robbins, and this is me:
If you click the picture, it's a link to "my" post over at Project Unbreakable. It just felt strange to me to have SO many people know my face, and a bit about my story, but not something as simple as my name. So there you have it. I'm Meredith Robbins, and after I survived physical rape at the hands of a criminal, I survived psychic rape, if you'll pardon the phrase, at the hands of the people I had trusted implicitly to protect and help me. They let me down, BEYOND let me down: Humiliated and mocked me on a public street, flatly refused take my complaint (which is literally their job as precinct cops, taking my complaint and referring it to city detectives for further investigation, not deciding if I'm lying or slutty or anything else about me or my circumstance), denied me a trip to the ER or even directions to the precinct to file a criminal complaint, lied to me about speaking to my rapist when in fact he never came to the door, incidentally leaving what was then a potential crime scene unsecured with the accused for hours... All because they didn't like me, or my honesty, or the things I had done and choices I had made. And they told me all this right to my face, loudly, as passersby stopped to gawk.
But at that moment it became, without any conscious thought on my part: You wanna gawk, New York? I'll give you something to gawk at. Gawk at this incredible injustice happening right in front of your eyes. I was so angry, so desperate, so deeply betrayed by this casual dismissal and the contempt that came with it, that when they started to get in their squad cars and drive away, I just up and lost it. Full-on screaming, wailing, keening like a banshee right there on Central Park West - I couldn't keep the archetypal "madwoman in the attic" back anymore, because she was my only chance of being heard. When, after who knows how much screeching, one cop told me they had finally called an ambulance to take me to the ER (if, I was told, I "calmed down"), I'd never been so grateful to have publicly mortified myself in my life. The ER doctors and nurses were amazing, and the detectives from SVU who came to the hospital to interview me in-depth couldn't have been kinder or more respectful and warm, and I wish them a thousand thanks for doing what they could to salvage my night of horror. The Manhattan DA's office also deserves a ton of credit for their months of dedication to my case, although our political environment around obtaining convictions for sex crimes makes their job difficult to the point of impossible, as I found out.
The thing is, this issue goes way beyond me. Like, WAY beyond me - and speaking just about my own case, my treatment by the NYPD did a huge part in leading to over a year of chronic post-traumatic stress disorder from which I'm still trying to reclaim the shattered pieces of my life. See, a little thing called CompStat has given police Good Guys a very rational incentive to become very Bad Guys indeed. There's a huge amount of pressure from the top down to keep CompStat numbers low on the "Big 7" crimes (of which mine would be one), to create the appearance of an even safer city than we already have in New York. Here are some links, covering a couple of years of investigative reporting, that explain the issue better than I ever could:
I'm Meredith Robbins, and I'm proud of who I am, prouder even now than I was before my rape, because I'm so much stronger - maybe not "unbreakable," exactly, but definitely tempered by fire. I've screamed on that sidewalk, and I've held up that poster with my face out there for the world, and now you know a little of who I am and how what happened to me may affect you. Thank you all so much for your incredible good wishes and outpouring of love and support, and please continue to fight for the rights of all victims, of all crimes, everywhere.
My name is Meredith Robbins, and this is me:
If you click the picture, it's a link to "my" post over at Project Unbreakable. It just felt strange to me to have SO many people know my face, and a bit about my story, but not something as simple as my name. So there you have it. I'm Meredith Robbins, and after I survived physical rape at the hands of a criminal, I survived psychic rape, if you'll pardon the phrase, at the hands of the people I had trusted implicitly to protect and help me. They let me down, BEYOND let me down: Humiliated and mocked me on a public street, flatly refused take my complaint (which is literally their job as precinct cops, taking my complaint and referring it to city detectives for further investigation, not deciding if I'm lying or slutty or anything else about me or my circumstance), denied me a trip to the ER or even directions to the precinct to file a criminal complaint, lied to me about speaking to my rapist when in fact he never came to the door, incidentally leaving what was then a potential crime scene unsecured with the accused for hours... All because they didn't like me, or my honesty, or the things I had done and choices I had made. And they told me all this right to my face, loudly, as passersby stopped to gawk.
But at that moment it became, without any conscious thought on my part: You wanna gawk, New York? I'll give you something to gawk at. Gawk at this incredible injustice happening right in front of your eyes. I was so angry, so desperate, so deeply betrayed by this casual dismissal and the contempt that came with it, that when they started to get in their squad cars and drive away, I just up and lost it. Full-on screaming, wailing, keening like a banshee right there on Central Park West - I couldn't keep the archetypal "madwoman in the attic" back anymore, because she was my only chance of being heard. When, after who knows how much screeching, one cop told me they had finally called an ambulance to take me to the ER (if, I was told, I "calmed down"), I'd never been so grateful to have publicly mortified myself in my life. The ER doctors and nurses were amazing, and the detectives from SVU who came to the hospital to interview me in-depth couldn't have been kinder or more respectful and warm, and I wish them a thousand thanks for doing what they could to salvage my night of horror. The Manhattan DA's office also deserves a ton of credit for their months of dedication to my case, although our political environment around obtaining convictions for sex crimes makes their job difficult to the point of impossible, as I found out.
The thing is, this issue goes way beyond me. Like, WAY beyond me - and speaking just about my own case, my treatment by the NYPD did a huge part in leading to over a year of chronic post-traumatic stress disorder from which I'm still trying to reclaim the shattered pieces of my life. See, a little thing called CompStat has given police Good Guys a very rational incentive to become very Bad Guys indeed. There's a huge amount of pressure from the top down to keep CompStat numbers low on the "Big 7" crimes (of which mine would be one), to create the appearance of an even safer city than we already have in New York. Here are some links, covering a couple of years of investigative reporting, that explain the issue better than I ever could:
- Police Tactics: Keeping Crimes Off the Books / NYPD Leaves Crimes Unreported to Keep Crime Rates Down (NY Times, 12/30/11)
- The NYPD Tapes: Inside Bed-Stuy's 81st Precinct (Village Voice, 5/4/10)
- Panel Seeks More Police Training on Sex Crimes / More Training on Sex Crimes Sought for NYPD (NY Times, 6/2/10)
- And the one that's meant the most to me personally... 4 Victims of Sex Assault Tell of Treatment by Police (NY Times, 6/2/10)
I'm Meredith Robbins, and I'm proud of who I am, prouder even now than I was before my rape, because I'm so much stronger - maybe not "unbreakable," exactly, but definitely tempered by fire. I've screamed on that sidewalk, and I've held up that poster with my face out there for the world, and now you know a little of who I am and how what happened to me may affect you. Thank you all so much for your incredible good wishes and outpouring of love and support, and please continue to fight for the rights of all victims, of all crimes, everywhere.