What makes us who we are?
Is it nature or nurture?
Is the basis of who we are coded into our genes?
Is it beyond our control, like the color of our eyes, or hair? Or is something that we command, by the choices we make, by what we chose to care about? Or do our experiences constantly mold who, and what, we are, changing and shaping us by the things that happen to us; the things we cannot control; the horrors foisted on us; and the joys we welcome...
On good days I consider myself "strong"...like my colleagues, my friends, assure me I am.
It always feels like the word "tenacious" works...whether it is positive or not, that, I'm not sure...It's a word first used to "politely" describe a very willful younger version of me, in a school report, by a slightly exasperated teacher. I remember curiously looking it up, scowling at the explanation, and vowing to exact some sort of revenge on the woman who dared paint me as such. But I've long ago latched onto its truth, claiming the once barely veiled insult, as a personal truth: I'm stubborn and persistent, dogged in always pushing forward...no matter what life throws at me.
But on nights like this...when the past, my past, lies heavy on me, the only word that feels faithful to who I am is "broken"...
I feel like a fraud, a hypocrite, who spends her days promising hurt men and women that one thing doesn't change who they are...that they are not permanently damaged and broken...that things will get better...
Thumping the pillow angrily, I once again, try to find a position that is comfortable enough to finally get some sleep.
Although after a quick glance at the taunting clock, I find it is hardly worth the effort at this point! It is so close to morning, to the alarm dragging me up, that I can see the beginnings of daylight creeping in through the curtains.
I want to cry at how exhausted I am...but still there is no escape. Not even a brief snooze to soothe the demands of my mind and body.
My eyes itch, the lids lightly burning from tiredness, but despite a very comfortable bed, a brand new, fluffy, cloudlike, pillow under my head, and carefully abiding by all the suggestions that guarantee "a better night's sleep", I'm still looking at the ceiling in teary frustration.
"Well, not quite all the suggestions for peaceful slumber!", I remind myself quickly, glancing at the small LED lamp clipped onto the headboard of my bed. The soft, yellow pool of light on the white ceiling above me seemed a better solution than the flickering light from the TV that was my constant bed mate for so long.
Although I'm pretty sure that by now, I've completely disproved the theory that electronic "blue-light" causes sleep disturbance! For so long it was what finally lulled me to sleep...
I chew my lip in frustration, angry at myself, and ashamed, that I still need a "night light" of sorts to sleep... I should be over it by now!
Night Terrors...
Nightmares...
Such innocuous words...
Terms all too often applied to childish sleep disturbances fuelled by monsters and imagined beasties hiding under the bed, or in the closet...It hardly seems right to use them in reference to a grown woman.
I'm not sure if it can even be called a nightmare when sleep hasn't claimed me, before the "terrors" begin.
As the fledgling light of a new day steals around the blinds, I can only stare at my bedroom door, swallowing the panic that grips me every time I consider my beautiful baby...
How do I protect her from all the horrors out there?
When I can't even protect myself...When I can't even recognize the danger a simple task such as "work" can bring...
The reminder that my instincts have failed me time and time again...is debilitating.
The instant, involuntary, knowledge – because there was never any doubt in me, that William Lewis was a true monster, brought me great guilt in the immediate aftermath of his horrific attack against Liv; I was the one who "just knew" there was something... "wrong". If I had never insisted we work a case that wasn't ours; if I had swallowed down that bitter gut feeling, I could have prevented the meeting that would ignite the obsession that nearly killed my friend...
But even as I battled my guilt, there was a tiny spark of relief.
I saw the monster!
I was not fooled...not again...I had learned my lesson...
Patton's true nature, had somehow remained hidden behind a veil of my denial, even after I had fled Atlanta; even when the sound of his voice jarred forward memories that made me tremble in a room full of cops, I couldn't truly understand his monstrousness...I still saw his actions as partly my fault. I still believed that I put myself in a bad position...that he merely took advantage of my bad decision...I was worried for myself....it never really seemed possible he would hurt anyone else...How wrong I was!
Am I only ever going to be someone's victim...
Was it coded into my DNA that I would allow myself to fall prey to him?
But then, I managed to convince myself that woman wasn't the 'new Amanda'! That was the 'old Amanda'...the woman who didn't recognize the predator who wore a uniform of respectability...he was part of my past, it was my past self that my fear called forward...The woman I had become, was much more worldly, much less naïve...I could now recognize a predator in a matter of moments!
But I can't.
None of us can...because we had another monster hiding in plain sight...
He was one of us.
We didn't like him. I'm not even sure we really respected him. He was the Deputy Commissioner; an obstacle; a typical "suit" with little understanding of anything other than the politics of a situation...but that?! Never!
I still feel sick when I think back on the whole situation!
He was right under our noses.
The thought of those two kids; his two kids...how could a man with kids?...I don't think I will ever be able to forget...
The moment when I saw Hank Abraham, the Deputy Police Commissioner, guiltily switching out of his browser on that laptop, in the middle of a child porn sting, when we burst in...I knew. I knew in that moment what he was...it was all so clear...how had none of us seen any hint of the monster?
But I'm a trained cop; an SVU cop; and I've not only fallen victim to my predatory boss, but also missed the pedophilic monstrosity that was in front of me; how can I begin to believe I will be able protect my baby...?
I can't trust my judgment.
Was Hank Abraham always the monster he finally showed? Was it somehow an unavoidable part of who he was?
I roll over again, allowing the tears to be soaked into my pillow.
I know, all too well, as an SVU cop; that a survivor's healing journey often involves times when it feels like all the hard won progress is undone by some tiny stumble... a nightmare; a face in a crowd that, for a moment, is the "him" who brought us this pain; a sound or a smell, that brings it all crashing down again.
But I don't feel like I've ever gotten past it...not really.
Liv was right, she told me I had "pushed it down" that I was "stuck" before it all came back to bite me, in my new life. After I was forced to confront him and my situation, I started to heal...the people around me were more supportive than I could ever have hoped for. My colleagues, my friends, were truly incredible. Everyone was so understanding, so sympathetic, and so empathetic. They treated me as an equal but yet made sure I knew how upset they were, and how angry they were, at him. They never questioned me, or my account...they believed me. They tried to tell me that he was the one who bore all responsibility, that I was in no way at fault...
I can now say the words...Patton raped me. They don't come easily but I recognize their truth. It is what happened.
I understand now, that a man, who is not a predator, does not try to use his position as Patton did; a man who is not a rapist does not force a woman into sex; a 'good' man doesn't use any force; emotional, or physical, to obtain sex. I now understand that Patton is a manipulative, violent, rapist.
I can see the huge strides forward I have made, with so much help...but my pregnancy was hard, and working SVU with a young baby is exhausting. Maybe its all the hormones, the heightened emotions...but I'm struggling.
I feel so weak! Like I took the help and support my friends offered...but it was all wasted.
There's no reason for all this to be so... so..."current", "strong", "debilitating"...again...
A myriad of words spring forward but I can't find the one I seek to finish that sentence...the word that doesn't weaken me even further, the term that explains why my hurt, that should be long healed, is almost as raw as it first was...
"Jeez Amanda...get it together! For once don't be weak..."
I offer the words up like a prayer ...and admit defeat, dragging my exhausted body out of bed.
A long, hot, shower helps a little. I feel slightly more human. I take the extra time I have this morning, to try and feed myself better than I usually would, oatmeal with berries...a fresh, homemade smoothie...coffee. Only the nutrients I force myself to consume will fuel me through the day.
With the pressure of already running late, lifted from me, I enjoy my morning routine with Jesse. Luxuriating in every bite, every coo, and every look my little girl shares.
I feel that familiar tug at my heart when I drop her off at crèche...am I doing the right thing? Should I be entrusting my baby girl's formative years to anyone but myself? Is she safe? But if I were to stay home with her, could we live? How would I pay bills? Would I be bored?
I swallow down the guilt at that.
What kind of mother is bored with her own infant?
I paste a smile on my face when I reach the precinct, refusing to allow my weakness to show.
"Morning!" my partner offers, with a look that seems to crash through my carefully constructed façade.
"Morning Fin. Coffee?"
He gratefully accepts the coffee, taking the opportunity to bemoan how bad the squad room coffee is, but how it has taken a turn for the better since Munch retired...
"How was it possible to make coffee that bad?" he chuckles.
It's a regular discussion...even after all this time, we both still miss the old man...and his appalling coffee is an easy way to remember him, without ever having to pretend his loss is keenly felt.
"Jesse have a bad night?' Fin asks leaning back in his chair.
I try to just shrug my shoulders, hoping he leaves it alone.
He watches carefully as I studiously flick through the reports on my desk. I hear a soft sigh before he starts to speak softly...
"Manda, we spend too many hours a day together..."
I swallow back the lump in my throat, and nod, pushing the almost unseen reports back.
He stops talking. I'm not sure if he is waiting for me to fill in the silence...I wish I could. He has been so good to me. Always willing to start the hard conversations... but my mouth just opens and closes a couple of times in lieu of the words he is trying to prompt...
"...I don't have to be the great detective I clearly am..." he pauses with a broad smile, trying to lighten whatever is to follow... "...to recognize how hard the current headlines must be for you..."
I struggle not to let my surprise show! Dammit, the man has to be a mind reader, how did he know I am struggling...?
"I'm not trying to get all up in your business...'Manda. Hell, you're more than capable of looking after yourself...I just wanted to let you know...I'm here..."
I force my best smile onto my reluctant face, knowing it looks halfhearted at best...
"Thanks Fin!" I mutter, never quite able to stifle the southern manners that were almost beaten into me as a child, when under pressure...
He just nods his head and goes back to work, allowing me the privacy to process his offer without the pressure of expectation.
It's not hard to make the leap...Hank Abrahams...Patton...even William Lewis... they are haunting me so much at the moment because of a "hashtag", a social media campaign, started by a celebrity scandal...a tiny gesture of solidarity and support that has become a global avalanche...
#MeToo
It's written in bold, permanent ink on my soul...but is it still too much of a secret? Should I be standing up too, like so many brave women?
Have I contributed to the deafening silence that has, up to now, helped create this problem?
How had I not realized the correlation between my sleepless nights, the resurgence of vivid nightmares, struggles I thought were long behind me, and hourly news broadcasts detailing the evolution of a mogul's downfall? Even between the hourly updates it is impossible to avoid the famous faces admitting to their own experiences with harassment, assault and abuse screaming from every electronic device and publication.
It is a huge advancement...a discussion that has needed to be opened for too long...but it also has a cost...
The solidarity of the avalanche of stories posted under the hashtag, were at once a relief...maybe shame would finally be banished if the silence is truly broken...and an agony...how could so many women continue to suffer such horrors?
And after all my years as an SVU detective, and my team's work, past and present, how is this horror still such a pervasive part of life?