Sunday, May 20, 2012


Please help support Susan Hunter and RAINN. Susan Hunter is facing some turbulent times due to standing up for rape kit processing, including her own. Her go fund me account for financial contributions is at - Thank you for your donations. They mean a lot.

If you or someone you know is the victim of a sexual assault, please reach out and contact RAINN. They believe you. They can help you.

JOIN PHOTOGRAPHER SUSAN HUNTER as she SUPPORTS RAINN (Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network) 

The Nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization:

Please feel free to call elected senators and congressmen and ask for mandatory 13 year sentences in all states for rapists. 
Or, since it is an election year, just wait for them to call you :)"

SILENCE IS NOT AN OPTION... (Until we SEE RAPE for what it is) "I WILL NOT SHUT UP!!! 


Order UP! JUSTICE BEING SERVED. Paid for by "OUR" Tax dollars.

Friday, May 18, 2012



It’s hard to know where to start with something like this. There are so many levels of just plain crazy, that if I wasn’t in the middle of it, I probably wouldn’t believe it myself. I have told a few people, and I am honestly scared at losing their support as this situation only seems to get worse. I can’t tell many people because of the barrage of questions is so frustrating. I feel in some way I have to protect the man that did this to me because I can’t risk not putting him on the stand, or losing my day in court, over one heated moment. Not like I haven’t weighed the pros and cons of getting this piece of shit off the streets and protecting other women out there since the service from the LAPD has been less than overwhelming.

I like to think I am a good person. I like animals and children, have bought food for homeless on the street asking for money, fought to make my neighborhood a better and safer place. I work hard and want to make sure clients actually have an enjoyable experience at the studio. I pay my taxes. I guess I can start at the beginning. That one precious moment when the drugs had started to wear off and I came to. When I didn’t know yet what happened or just how screwed up my life was going to become. That one precious moment when everything was as I thought it should be and I was still safe. I’ll never have that moment again. I came to on my bed. I was naked and my legs were spread apart. I was aware of a bad taste in my mouth. I thought, this is strange; we are still at the bar so how can I be here? I was so convinced that everyone else must still be at the bar that I got up to put my clothes on and go back. It was literally like closing your eyes for five seconds after dozing off and then opening your eyes and being someplace else. Like you do when you have a desk job and it’s after lunch. Imagine when you start to shut your eyes waiting for a big attachment to download onto your desktop and you didn’t even realize your eyes had shut for five seconds. Except, when you open your eyes, you’re not at work. You could be in your own bed, in an alley next to a dumpster, in the back of a car. And the worst part is you’re naked.

I got up, not aware of the deep hurried scratches in my back where he had dug his nails into me trying to get my clothes off. I really did think if I went back to the bar, they would be there having a beer saying “Hey Sus, where have you been?” I remembered I had to open the studio at 7am. I checked the clock, it was 3 am. I decided that even though the guys were waiting for me, it was too late. I should just go to bed and wake up for work in a few hours. I checked my phone and found the disgusting texts from Ed about sex. I decided I didn’t want to go back to the bar anyway. I went into the bathroom and started to brush my teeth to get the bad taste out of my mouth. I went to take out my contacts. I opened the holder and realized they were already in there basking in saline solution. The two unexplained blue dots looking back at me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. If I had just come back from the bar and passed out, I wouldn’t have taken my contacts out. I didn’t remember taking them out. I looked around the bathroom like the answer would be written on the wall or something. That was when it slowly started to dawn on me. I didn’t remember taking out my contacts, I didn’t remember walking home from the bar, I didn’t remember being at the bar. What did I remember?

I remembered 5 PM. I remembered it because that was when I got my call sheet for the next day. I remembered two beers and one shot, and ordering another round. I remembered Naylor, and Ed and three other guys that came in for a beer and left. They played AC/DC’s “For those about to rock”, and I exchanged emails with one of them who owned a limo company. I remembered that Naylor didn’t like them. That was all I remembered. What the hell happened to me? I felt the scratch from the dug in nail on my shoulder and felt horror sinking in. I put in my contacts. I drove myself to the hospital. It hurt to sit down. That pain would get worse throughout my ordeal of the next 12 hours. I got to the hospital at 3:30. I was crying uncontrollably. The nurse behind the window asked me to explain what happened. It’s hard to explain when you’re not even sure, especially thru nine little holes in Plexiglas. There just to allow enough communication and no contact. “I was drugged and raped” I tell her. My last memory was ten hours ago. “Do you want to press charges?” she asks. I do. She wants more details. I see the sign that says my patients’ rights are to discuss in private what I feel to be a private situation. This would seem like that time to me. I don’t want to have to talk any louder into those nine holes so the whole waiting room can know what happened to me. I’m taken back to triage by a sweet nurse. I can barely make out her face thru the tears that won’t stop flowing now. She says she will get me a private room and not a curtained one.

That would happen five hours later. I had to sit in that waiting room with crazies and homeless looking for a warm place to sleep for five hours. The precious evidence of the drugs used on me is slowly dissipating. The bottle of water I came in with is taken away from me because it could wash away evidence as the now increasing dry heaves are kicking in even stronger. I would also notice the allergies or head cold I had would return with fervor. It had subsided during my blackout and I could feel the difference between it and the never ending supply of tears from horror and humiliation. Five hours is a long time. Even longer for a “non- acute” rape victim. I was not allowed to eat, drink, piss, or defecate in case I washed away evidence of the rape. My body is feeling worse. By seven am, I have now been interviewed by four police officers. I have been texting Ed who I had gone to the bar with. I told him I had been raped, had no memory of the bar, and I needed answers.

He called back. Finally I thought the answers I have been looking for. “No, your mistaken”, he says. “You weren’t raped, it was consensual”. My stomach fell. The dry heaving intensified. How could he say that? “No”, I say. “Ed, I have no memory, this wasn’t consensual”. Looking back on it now, I should have realized he would never use words like that normally. Consensual wasn’t in his vocabulary. I woke up to his appalling texts referencing sexual acts. I will never forgive him for that. The word consensual appeared nowhere in them. I have told every nurse, doctor, and police officer the same thing. Got home from work, went and had a big lunch with Ed, he bought me a Claritin from the store next door, we went to his place, smoked weed and went to the bar around 4 pm. Ed had gotten into a fight with our slumlord landlord. He was pissed off and wanted to have some beers to blow off some steam. I fought thru my head cold/ allergies and said ok. We went to the bar. I still love that place even after all of this and I really do hope I can get back there someday without the fear of running into Naylor. It was the first bar I ever went to in Hollywood. Its façade beckoned me in. I was part of the family. I miss that bar and the people who go there. We had a beer and a shot and we were halfway thru the second beer when Naylor got there. It was before 5 pm. He sat awkwardly at the other end of the bar by himself. Ed saw me looking at him. Yes, I admitted, I had slept with Naylor about a month or two prior. I hadn’t been to the bar much and hadn’t seen him since. “He probably thinks you’re on a date”, says Ed. “Should I invite him to come sit with us so it’s not so awkward?” he offers. “Yes” I said. He flip flopped over and invited him back. Naylor looked somewhat relieved I wasn’t with another guy on a date. He sat to my right, Ed to my left. I told Naylor I had a head cold or allergies, I’m not sure which in response to his question if he will get to see more of me tonight. I don’t want to get you sick. He doesn’t care. I do. A snot nose isn’t exactly sexy. He is free to sit and hang out with us, but that’s all that’s going to happen I inform him. I guess he didn’t like that answer. Three loud guys enter the bar. They play AC/DC and Ed poses with them as I snap pictures never leaving my bar stool or my beer. Things started to get a little dreamy. A little far away. Naylor doesn’t like the guys and plays Nirvana thinking it will shut them up. It doesn’t. “Just have fun and who cares what they do” I say to him. Not aware of how much dreamier things were getting. I remember exchanging emails with one of the guys about his limo company. I would love to use one in a photograph. The next shot is ordered with ED and Naylor. I remember putting the shot glass to my lips. Then it’s all gone. Until I come too ten hours later. Naked on my bed with my legs spread apart.



The first set of police officers were not Hollywood division. It was a cop and a rookie. The cop was more engrossed in trying to not kill the rookie. The rookie tells me I need to be more careful in how many beers I drink. The tears start up again. “Well, you definitely didn’t deserve this”, trying to recover. “You seem like a hard working girl”. So are prostitutes, I think to myself. If everyone had the work ethic of a hooker, things would be pretty different in this country. Do they deserve this? Does anyone? No one does. The second round of cops has to take my statement again. The same words pass my lips. It’s not any easier. The one cop could care less. It’s too close to the end of his shift. His partner is a sweet guy. He tries to make me laugh. He tries to alleviate some of the terribleness. I realized I hadn’t checked to see if there were any other text messages on my phone. There were. Texts, face book, photographs I took. I had done all this and not remembered a thing. I was shocked and showed it to the nice cop.

“It’s just like the movie ‘the Hangover’, it’s just a black void” he says, not shocked at all. I step outside and call my boss. I know it’s early, but I don’t think I’m making it into work today. “Do what you have to do, take a week off, and contact me when you want to. You know we are all here for you.” He swears he won’t tell anyone. I go back inside. One of the homeless women in the waiting room is there so often, she knows all the employees by name. She keeps trying to talk to the cop. He jokes with her including me. It does help to know someone cares. “Another set of cops will be coming; you should really have a female with you”. Says could-care-less cop A. The sweet guy looks on empathetically. He knows they are dumping me, but it’s probably for the best to have a female cop anyway. I have been close to calling the whole thing off. I am about ready to say I can’t take any more of the waiting room now that a crazy homeless man has decided to pull his pants up and down and claim they stole his wallet. I don’t know if he will go really nuts and start throwing chairs around. I have watched the sun come up as the windows in the waiting room glow with a false hope. It is now 7:30 am. Half an hour later I am walking back to the room promised to me earlier.

 “We can’t do a rape kit here. You will be cleared for transport and taken to Santa Monica to the rape clinic there. They are really good”. Even the last guy I dated, a cop, says so. I texted him what was going on just so there wouldn’t be any surprises. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. You’re going to have a rough day he promises me. A doctor came in the room, listened to my heart which still was beating, and cleared me for transport. He then left. I laid there on the gurney. The other cops had shown up and Sparks (the female) was talking to the doctor. The male cop, Jenks was in the room with me. He was eyeballing the row of purple medical gloves in all sizes affixed to the wall. The temptation became too great. He snagged a pair of larges. “You’re going to make me report you, aren’t you?” I asked, a faint smile finally appearing on my face. He shrugs a little sheepishly realizing I was awake and had caught him. “They don’t give us supplies, so we have to get them where we can” he explains. The nurse comes in. “Didn’t they tell you to get dressed?” I had laid there another half hour. “I have to pee and I can’t hold it anymore” I finally declared. I was allowed to pee, but not wipe. I had to take the sample with me. I was dry heaving all the way to the rape center.

For the privilege of spending five hours in the waiting room to be told they couldn’t even do a rape kit, and just to have a doctor make sure my heart was beating, $250.00. Insurance will cover $150. The pricks. We had one stop before the rape center; My apartment. They had to search it and collect as much evidence as they could. They took the underwear I had been wearing and told me to bring another pair as the two pair would be taken permanently for evidence. I would be notified before they were destroyed if I wanted them back for any reason. Not really I thought to myself. First the rape, now strange people just looking at the underwear I wore before and after the rape. The underwear I sat in for five hours in a waiting room. It had pears on them. I never wanted to see them again or acknowledge they ever existed. Sparks says they have to take my sheets, pillow cushions, and comforter. I stared crying and grabbing garbage bags. I can’t afford another comforter. What am I going to sleep on? A stripped down bed? Like I can walk into bed bath and beyond and ask if they have a rape discount so I can buy new bedding and be able to sleep tonight. It’s too much. I begged that they don’t take my comforter. Sparks looks around some more. “We don’t need the bedding” she says. She found the used condoms in my bathroom garbage. One is full. The other is empty. I think back to the bad taste in my mouth when I came to. I’m starting to breathe again knowing my trip to bed bath and beyond is postponed until I can deal with it. Sparks asks for Ziploc bags to put the condoms in. I hand some to Jenks. “Do you need gloves?” he asks Sparks. “Because if you do, he lifted some from the hospital” I rat him out. His eyes got huge, his mouth fell open at the fact I rated him out to his partner. She tries to cover for him and I laugh like I haven’t laughed in hours at the look of shock on his face. “After all we have been thru” he says. I’m still laughing, shaking for once from that and not humiliation. Thank God for his kindness and letting me laugh at him. I will never forget that moment. He cracked a big grin too.

The back seat of a cop car is hard molded plastic shaped like the favorite couch of an obese aunt. It’s designed like a roller coaster seat for those lucky enough to ride and pee or puke everywhere. It’s easier to clean than upholstery, I imagine. Just open the back doors and hose it down. It’s also the most uncomfortable ride for a rape victim. There is no padding. It’s a 45 minute drive to the rape center and the sun is in full blast. The seat is black and my head is spinning, my stomach churning with dry heaving. I wish someone would shoot me and end all this misery. Tears keep flowing down my face. People in other cars stare a hole in my head. Sparks talks about a red headed tyranny in the area keeping cops on their toes. I told them about the photos I don’t remember taking. “Is there a picture of the rapist” they ask. There is. ... A bunch with him and Ed. They genuinely want to see them, to study his face and learn his features. It’s the only time anyone in the LAPD will make me feel like there is any concern. We actually drove a little past the street with the entrance to the rape center. Jenks just puts the squad car in reverse and drives down the middle of the road. “Of course”, I said, “first theft, now driving like a madman”.

I imagine he’s actually the funny guy at the bar. We get out of the car and my dry heaving goes into overdrive. I know they are concerned that if I puke, it could wash away evidence. “I don’t know why I keep doing that” is all I can say between takes. The inside of the clinic is warm, and kinda dim. The second we walk in there, I’m bathed in heated blanket and kindness. They swab my mouth so I can drink water and take something to stop the dry heaving. Oh thank God. It’s from the drugs used to dose me, they inform me. Sparks takes my report and I go into much more detail than the hospital. She says if I remember anything later on to let her know so she can add it to the report. You won’t, says the counselor at the clinic. The drugs didn’t allow the memories to form at all, so they will never resurface later. I will never have a memory of my rape. Good or bad for what it is. I’m not sure which. I have to go thru the physical examination. I have to strip naked as they look at my body all over. They find the bruises and deep scratches in my back. I didn’t know about all of them. I see them in a mirror and start crying again. I’m trying so hard to be strong and yet disconnect from all of this. It’s impossible to do either. They have to photograph the bruising and swelling of my vagina from the penetration. Up close photographs are taken of all my injuries. They are so nice to me thru the whole terrifying ordeal. Even the cut on the inside of my mouth, I still have a scar there. , and one on my back too. They will always be there. They photograph a weird mark on my inside wrist drawn in with ink. I didn’t recognize it then, it was so misshapen and I was still drugged. I drew it there. I hadn’t in a long time. It’s a symbol for protection. I only draw it when I feel I’m really in danger. It didn’t click then.

After the painful examination, I’m allowed to shower and eat as they black light my clothes and take my two pair of underwear. ... Then the counseling session. I like my counselor. She knows what she is talking about. “I don’t understand, why waste the drugs if I have had sex with him before”. It’s not about the drugs or the sex, she says. It’s about the control. He knows ten hours of your life you will never get back. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. She’s right. She also tells me the best advice I will hear to help me deal with this and everything else that will happen in the near future. “What if he took pictures or video of me?” I cried again. “Just hang on to the truths, don’t fill in the blanks with what you don’t know. Only deal with what you know to be true”. She would help save my sanity with that one. I’m slowly eating the minestrone soup and toast. There is a basket of cookies and snacks. They want me to eat, a lot. I don’t really want to eat anything. She tells me of the process and the victims fund that I can apply for. The only thing I want is sleep. I’m given two handfuls of pills to take in three days. Jenks and Sparks take me back to the hospital where my car is parked from driving myself in so many hours earlier. I don’t know what time it is. It doesn’t really matter anymore anyway. I had snagged some chips and cookies for them from the basket. It thought Jenks would appreciate the thieving gesture. I could tell the basket had been gone over anyway. He was probably already there. Outside of the cookies and chips for them, and explaining the dry heaving was from the drugs, the rest of the ride is in silence. I get home and strip the sheets off my bed and put down new ones. I think about those sheets as I dose off to sleep. My sheets... He raped me in my bed on my sheets. My clean sheets; I wouldn’t let him have them. They are mine. I will clean them until they are mine again. I don’t have to go back to work for a week. All of my coworkers will think I’m out sick with the flu. February 22 is a day I will never forget.



 “Good new Ms. Hunter, we didn’t find any drugs in your system so you weren’t drugged and you weren’t raped. You’re just mistaken”. I’m in shock again. This can’t be happening. “That’s not true”, I argue back, “How do you explain me not having any memory for ten hours? That’s not normal, has that ever happened to you?” I ask Detective T. “I wouldn’t know Ms. Hunter; I don’t drink the way you do”. I am now in shock twice. “You drink to a blackout, and this guy is lucky enough to take you home and you want me to put him away for that?” Shock to infinity... I kick the white fence I’m standing next to. “How am I supposed to do a background check on him, I only have a first name and a photograph”. Did the photograph make the pre text phone call? You have his phone number, I think to myself. “You’re full of horse shit” I tell him. I want a new detective. He stutters his bosses’ phone number. I don’t care if he is mad. He’s not listening to me. Someone will. I’m tired of this guy. How is he a detective? Does his mother know he talks to rape victims like this? He had already upset me a lot during the pre-text phone call.

About a week after my rape, February 28th, I went into the police station to call my rapist while the police listened in. It’s called a pre text phone call. The detective led me into a small room with sound proofing. There is a tape recorder on the desk. He locked the door behind us. I didn’t like that. I had to get Naylor’s phone number for him. I didn’t have it before the rape even though I had hooked up with him once before. “Then you will have to go back to the bar and get it” Det. T told me. I had told Ed I was going to have to go back and get it. Ed had Naylor’s number from that night. The hair raised slightly on the back of my neck. He never had a phone number of any guy I dated or was in a relationship with. One time of hanging out with Naylor and he had his phone number. “I don’t know Jeezy, he seems like a really cool guy to me. I didn’t see anything that wasn’t consensual. We were all really drunk”. I didn’t think more of it. Of course Ed was on my side. He was like family to me. Like a brother. We had been friends for 8 years. I can hear the pencil scrapping across the yellow legal pad from Det. T’s heavy hand. It reverberates back into my phone that is wired to the tape recorder. I try to motion to him to write lighter. He ignores me. Whatever... I have never done anything like this before. I need all the help I can get. How little did I know how little help I really had?

Speaking to the man who raped me on the phone was probably the most surreal moment of my life. He can’t know something is up. He does. “You wait six days to call me” he says. Who counts days like that? (A fourteen year old girl maybe.) “You already had your top off when I came out of the bathroom”. I think of the scratches buried into my back. “I had to get your pants off of you”. “I only left because you started screaming at me to get out”. I’m in shock again. I have never screamed at a man to get out after sex. ; Drunk or not. He tells me about how someone ruffied him once. Nothing happened. He just woke up on the same couch he had passed out on. I see Det. T’s eyes get big at some points. That has to be a good sign. He tells me other things that involves Ed that Ed failed to mention. It’s an ongoing investigation and I can’t say what they are. Naylor wants to know when he will get to see me again. My head turns hard to the right at the thought of it. I can only picture his naked body on top off my unconscious one. It makes me ball up my fists. I hate this man so much. I finally get off the phone. “I don’t hear a rape” Says Det. T as soon as the tape recorder is off. I’m in shock. I’m starting to hate this feeling, but it’s the only one I will know for a while. 

“What do you mean? The part about the pants and me screaming?” I am fixated on the table. The tears starting again. “Well, he says all of you were drunk. In the state of California, if a man and woman are both intoxicated, it can’t be rape”. “But I was drugged” I whimper trying to defend myself. “We will see what the toxicology says, but I don’t think this case will be strong enough to present to the DA”. The tears are full stream. I want out of the room. He has to unlock the door. I am practically running out in shame. “If the DA is even interested, would you be willing to do an interview with them?” He yells out behind me. I sort of nod my head. I’m shaking as I walk briskly out of the station. The next two nights I walked in my sleep. I have a deep gouge in my right leg from running into something. I’m not sure what, but it didn’t wake me up. I was turning an overhead fan off, and messing with other lights. I hang a bell on my doorknob in case I wander out. I peed my bed one night. Every morning after that I had to pinch my arm to make sure I was awake and not peeing my bed again. I think back to the lights and how I found them when I came to. The overhead fan light wasn’t on. It’s the main light in the room. Just a bed side lamp and the bathroom light were on. It was dark in here when Naylor left. He couldn’t figure out how to turn on the overhead light. It was strange lighting to me when I woke up, not at all like I normally have it. It seemed darker than usual. I keep hanging on the thought that they will find drugs in my system at some point in time, that this rapist can’t be allowed to walk. That I won’t let them shut down my case.

Are they giving me an “out” of I’m mistaken because I’m white, or because I work in the industry, or do they do this to every woman who walks thru the door? A coworker snuck up on me at work. Not on purpose. He didn’t know about what had happened. I freaked out hard, just knowing that someone was behind me in a dark room and there he was. I almost hit him with a heavy object, and then I realized who he was. I flew out of there like a wet cat; More concerned with the fact that I almost took someone out. I had a two week follow up at the rape center. I tried to not cry but I did, the whole way out there. I was twenty minutes late. I wanted to leave before I even walked in there. They want me to give a urine sample. I just want out. I give them my blood sample and go. I can’t even sit thru the therapy session. They pegged me as a goner. The therapist tells me it’s ok. Most women don’t make it back. That stuck a cord with me. I can’t be like most women. The second visit was after the phone call from Det. T that there were no drugs in my system. Shock was a constant state I was in. I had already made up in my mind that when I was strong enough, I would call back and schedule the appointment for the one month with the rape center. They were the only ones who seemed to care and want to help. So many things in my life are a jumbled haze right now.



 I receive a phone call from a Detective M. He wants me to come into the Mid-Wilshire station. He is Det. T’s boss. Or so I think. He will look at the facts and determine if Det. T is doing his job or not, and if I should be assigned a new detective. I go in March 20th. I’m already not liking the station. Both times I walk in there; the uniformed officer at the front desk is watching daytime TV on a cart parked in the middle of the reception area. “I don’t know who that is, you will have to call them” each time I try to check in. The front desk officers have no idea who works there or where. I always have to call for them. “He is one of my best, he had been doing this for twenty years” Det. M tells me in a conference room. Strange, Det. T told me he had been doing this for ten years. My file is spread across the desk. A copy of my driver’s license sits on top of my blood alcohol report. I grab that and look. It reads 0.0000. That’s a lot of zeros for someone who was supposedly in a drunken blackout and tested less than 12 hours later. “Well, it’s normal to have a small reading as there is normally some alcohol constantly in the blood stream”. “But I have all zeros. Does this mean the test is wrong or something?”

He moves on. I continue to press him. Where is the THC? I smoked weed the day I was drugged. The toxicology is wrong if it didn’t find the THC and the drugs. In my mind they are linked, find one and you will find the other. Find none, and your test is damn wrong. We will do a retest he tells me. Let’s see what it says. If drugs turn up, then we can issue an arrest warrant right away, if not, then this case isn’t strong enough to go before the DA. I agree and walk out of the station. I am hopeful because once they get the new results in; they will see that I’m telling the truth. He says he will listen to the pre text phone call tape after I have left. He will call me and let me know what he thinks. He does. “Ms. Hunter, I don’t hear a rape here. Both of you were drunk. You weren’t drugged, you weren’t raped, and there just isn’t a rape here. You’re mistaken”.

Hello shock, my old friend. April 9th I start emailing him. It’s been two weeks since we met up. I am waiting for the retest of my toxicology. Two weeks since the phone call where I have to defend myself yet again. No, you are mistaken. I’m hanging onto the truth. I know how I came to that morning. I am sick of all of these men telling me I’m wrong. I’m not fucking wrong. I’m not going to listen to the rapist, or the person who used to be a friend that wants to side with the rapist, or the two detectives who want to listen to these two men over a victim. These lab results will prove everything. My advocate is concerned that I am fixated on these test results. ; That I can’t allow myself to move forward with healing because of it. I tell her I don’t know which way to heal. If he walks and nothing ever happens to Naylor, I have to process that. If I have to go to court and sit in a room full of strangers and tell intimate details of what happened to me to help put his ass away, then that’s a whole different process I have to go thru. I’m in limbo until I know what the results are. I don’t know which way to focus my brain. The detective still doesn’t respond.

Finally on the 13th Det. M emails me back.
 Apr 13 to me I have been off, I will get back to you by Monday or Tuesday. --------------, Detective-III. OWB-SAD
4849 West Venice
Los Angeles, CA 90019
Stop 920 Direct ---------- Main ----------

I’m going insane. A barrage of psychotic emails comes from me including getting a lawyer. The back and forth continues. On the 17th, after a sobbing call to the rape center, he finally gets back to me.
Apr 17 to me
The second report came in this morning, nothing other than the drug Desloratadine (Clarinex) was located, this test was conducted by the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office. We are actively working your case and will let you know when the case is presented to the District Attorneys office.
----------, Detective-III. OWB-SAD
4849 West Venice
Los Angeles, CA 90019
Stop 920 Direct ---------- Main ---------- >>>> 4/17/2012 7:02 AM >>>

Why hello again shock. It is raining and the gate at work gets stuck. I’m furious and now I have to deal with this. The pouring rain is at least hiding my tears that keep running down my face. An event is loading in and I could give a shit less about someone’s party. I go home early. So what does any insane girl do when no one will listen to her? The next day I call the LA coroner. Why is the coroner working on a drug test anyway? Last time I checked, I had a heartbeat. That’s even what the doctor at the hospital said after he cleared me for transport after the rape. The coroner is a really nice guy. He says he has to make some phone calls and will get back to me. He does. The LAPD tells him only the detectives should be dealing with me. He doesn’t agree with not calling me back. He does tell me he is not authorized to tell me the details of what he found. Only the detective is authorized to do that. I understand and we talk.

“Ms. Hunter, this was by no means a re-test. This test was requested March 7th. The results were turned back into the LAPD crime lab March 26th”. I met with Det. M about getting a new detective and him ordering the “re-test” March 20th. He probably already had the results and then sat on them for three weeks. Guess who is back again. Yup, shock. How many times can the human body go into shock before something major happens? Can I get stuck in a constant state of this? Like someone smacking the back of your head if you make an ugly face? “He said they didn’t find any drugs except Claritin in my system, I’ve told everyone I smoked weed. The THC should be in there” I tell Mr. A. “What?!? Ms. Hunter, I only tested what I was asked to look for. If you feel that these detectives are not being honest with you or doing their job correctly, you have every right to pursue this and get help. Get someone to listen to you. The squeaky wheel gets the grease”.

Was he not asked to look for THC? Shock finally starts dissipating into fighting again. A willingness to fight. I haven’t felt that in a long time. My awesome friend A tells me I can get a sample tested on my own at a lab. I call my doctor. Who else can I call and say I’m fighting with the LAPD, can you recommend any labs? “We don’t handle that” says the office manager. She can’t get off the phone fast enough with me. I understand, but I need her to give me as much info as I can get. “I’m not in the medical field” I tell her. There has to be someplace. Labcorp she replies. Thank you. My friend S who has recently come back in my life calls and gets the info for me. It’s a process I just can’t deal with right now. “Its $65 to do a urine test for weed, $385 to check blood. But here’s the thing, if you don’t smoke all the time and maintain a certain level, it won’t read. It’s the same thing for any other drug. If you don’t do it all the time to a certain level, it won’t show up.” This is why they couldn’t find the THC or the date rape drugs. They didn’t turn the volume all the way up on the stereo. It’s not that it’s not there; they just aren’t looking hard enough to find it. That’s how it works. We won’t really look, but we will be quick to tell you that you weren’t drugged. Why? You can’t be bothered to collect all the evidence properly? Apr 17 to me
Usually you would need to present me with a court order, however in this case I will take it under consideration. For chain of custody reasons we would need the information on the lab that would be picking it up. Our Criminalists have the procedure, we are an investigative unit not criminalists. We must follow approved scientific protocols for this as is evidence.
---------, Detective-III. OWB-SAD
4849 West Venice
Los Angeles, CA 90019
Stop 920 Direct ---------- Main ----------

My friend M tells me over lunch, “Yeah, you can have an outside lab test for it, and they will probably find it, but it’s not admissible in court. If it’s not thru the LAPD, it won’t be allowed in”. “So even if I find it, the only thing its good for is to prove the LAPD levels of looking for date rape drugs aren’t high enough”. “Yup” she says, taking another sip off of her homemade juice. I can fall into this pit of never ending money spending to prove what I already know and have it go nowhere, or I can scream bloody murder until they find it themselves. M has been a steadfast friend thru all of this. She can only comment on the penis size of the detectives involved, but her phone calls have gotten thru to enough people to keep the case open. It’s more than what I could have done on my own, even if her style is somewhat more “the government is out to screw us” then mine. I love her fiery attitude and it has done a lot to keep this case open. She will find out more info on the people involved in my case and get me as high up the ladder as she can. She also can’t allow this rapist to walk knowing what she knows.



It’s less than two months after the rape. April 16th. I’m asleep in bed. It’s around 2 in the morning. I hear Ed and his on again/ off again girlfriend come in the front door of the building. We hadn’t talked since the rape. I told him we couldn’t talk because of the investigation. I was mad at him for a lot of things and I was debating on letting him back into my life. Was it a series of bad judgment calls on his part that was just plain stupidity? Could he have really helped the rapist get me back to the apartment building with no idea of what was going on? If he was really my friend, how could he have said I was wrong when I told him about the rape? He told me to my face he was the one who invited Naylor back to the building “to check him out”. He never once said anything about what Naylor told me in the pre text phone call, and why he had Naylor’s phone number. The disgusting texts I had to read when I came to after the rape. My gut was suspicious about how all of this was panning out. Why was he holding back the truth?

According to Ed, he had told me I wasn’t capable of standing up when all three of us were back at the building. That Naylor was the one who had to unlock my door. Naylor said he had to pee and went into my place to use my toilet. Ed tried to tell him to use his place because I was saying I didn’t want to sleep with him, that I just wanted to pass out, and then I would say I do want to have sex with him. That seemed odd to me. If a friend was hooking up with someone, I wouldn’t tell the person they were going to have sex with to use my bathroom. Ed said I got up and went into my place. He says he asked me if I was sure. I laughed and slammed the door. He said I had flipped flopped about wanting to sleep with Naylor the whole night. None of this sits right with me. I don’t flip flop. I do or I don’t. Ed was supposed to have my back. He should have told Naylor he wasn’t allowed back at the first sign of doubt that Ed had. He didn’t. He says he egged us on about making out. Two beers and a shot are not going to put me into a blackout. I had never acted like this before. Ed either was more concerned about getting back to his place, or knew more about what was going on than he led on. Naylor didn’t have a job that I was aware of. If he had access to date rape drugs, I’m going to guess he has access to other drugs too. That’s probably what Ed was interested in.

Ed had been doing more and harder drugs in the last couple of years. I figured it was a phase he would get over. He had just started a new job. The front door of the building slams. Ed comes in with on again off again girlfriend. “I didn’t rape you” they yell playfully at each other. They stomp up the stairs, outside my door, “Fuck you”, they yell at each other, and to me, thru my door. They walk down the hall giggling at each other. I am mortified. I lay in my bed unable to believe what just happened. How could he do that to me? How could he tell her what happened to me? I have never really liked his on again off again girlfriend. They would get into fights at 7 in the morning and she would end up standing outside my door screaming back down the hall at him. I asked him multiple times to not do that. Keep the fighting inside your place, or outside. She thinks the only way to communicate is loudly. She is obnoxious and immature at best. I wouldn’t put it past the both of them to do this. It’s been decided for me. Ed is out of my life.

A weight is lifted off of me. He texted me the next day. I responded that I was angry, angry with him inviting Naylor back, angry with the text messages I had to wake up to after the rape, angry that he and his girlfriend thought they had a right to do this outside my door when what I need is comfort and support and healing. I can’t say anything about the pre text phone call. Ed doesn’t know I know about it, and that he wasn’t telling me or probably the detectives the whole truth. A texting fight ensued and the friendship was ended. I thought. A few days later a barrage of text messages started up. One hour on the 23rd and one hour on the 24th. 40 text messages in total he sent me. They were horrible. I call the police. Come to the Hollywood police station and we will get a restraining order put in place. I was so exhausted when I called I told them a guy who used to be a friend that helped the guy who raped me to get me home won’t stop texting me. I sound crazy. I know I do. How do I explain all of this to anyone in a timely and calm manner and have them understand.

The dispatcher was horrified. I get dressed and walk to the Hollywood police station. It’s only a few blocks away. The uniformed officer behind the desks hears my sobbing story. I’m finally starting to calm down. He comes back out with the report paperwork and says he is trying to get a special restraining order for trying to persuade or intimidate a witness. He could be in jail today. Then the SCU detective at their station calls me into the back room. I should have seen it coming. My advocate tells me anytime I have to go to a station to call her first. It’s early and I’m there for a restraining order. I didn’t think to call her first. She probably isn’t awake yet.

“Ms. Hunter, they didn’t find any drugs in your system. You weren’t drugged, you weren’t raped, and you’re mistaken”. Hi shock, how have you been? It’s been what, a week? Yes, much too long. I’m sobbing again. He is so mean when he says it. “I’m not lying”, I tell him. “I never said the word lie, I said you were mistaken. You have sex with this guy and now you want us to go after him?” “These are all lies”. I’m getting hysterical at the thought of another man telling me I’m wrong again and not believing me. I’m slamming my fists into the desk. “The first time was consensual, the second time wasn’t”. “You need to calm down Ms. Hunter, your yelling and being hysterical”. Of course I am. The name of the cop I used to date is posted on some paperwork on the wall. He has been promoted to detective. He is probably in this office somewhere hearing me be hysterical. If he is, he does nothing to help me. “The test is wrong, it didn’t find the THC so it can’t be trusted” I inform him thru tears. “Well, I’m not a scientist, but the test says there are no drugs in your system”. “Then you’re not a scientist and you can’t just believe what parts of the test you want to, the test is wrong, there should be THC there too.” “Well, it doesn’t matter about the drug test anyway; you gave us a bogus number for the rapist. It’s a cold case; there is nothing we can do to find him” He tells me angrily.

“These are all lies, you can find him, you just don’t want to”. I’m somewhere between anger and hysterical. “What if the tables were turned Ms. Hunter, what if he drank to a blackout and tried to say you raped him?” I replied” Well, if you were the cops looking into it then I wouldn’t be worried because I would know I would get away with it. What I should be doing is buying drugs and murdering or robbing people because I would get away with it, I guess working a real job is pointless”. I storm out. They trashed my report. Det. M is emailing me. He wants a fresh start. I email him back. If you want me to trust you, help me get a restraining order. Nothing he can do about that, but he did call the rape center to see what they could do. The piece of shit worthless asshole. Your legal, not them I replied. All of these detectives can go fuck themselves. I know fourteen year old girls with better empathy and detective skills than the crap I have had to put up with from the LAPD. I have to go downtown to the courthouse and get a restraining order on my own. My friend S had recently resurfaced in my life. She had been thru a lot and was doing really good. I was glad to have her back in my life. I am so distraught. She tells me how to block Ed's number so he can’t text me. Block him on face book too she says. I do. Thank God that the barrage is over. He still lives in the building up the hall from me. I have seen him escalate in a fight and slam a woman into a wall before. I don’t want that to happen to me. S goes with me. She picks me up from work the next day and takes me downtown. She had been thru so much, she pulls into a parking lot and the attendant knows her. She doesn’t have to pay. It is a three hour ordeal. At one point S is chanting,”Be aggressive, be be aggressive”. She keeps a grin on my face.

At one courtroom we have to run in to get in line. The system is so screwed up. To make people race like that. The paperwork is overwhelming. It has to be submitted to the judge on the 7th floor before 3:15. We get in there at 3. The bailiff looks over my paperwork. It needs more detail he says. I start sobbing. The last three days have been Hell again. His eyes get big. He tells S to help me. It’s been four rooms, three lines, and two people telling me there is nothing I can do to fight the system. You can’t take on the hive that is the LAPD. Even to stop a rapist. The court approves the restraining order. It’s a temporary one until the court date. Both of us have to appear and stand before the judge and I have to explain why the court order should stand. I have until five days before the court date to serve the notice, and then turn in a copy of the order with a proof of service to any police station. S gladly tells the bailiff she will serve him. We get back to my place. I grab a bag and pack it to stay with S for a few days after the serve. She stands outside his door. He talks to her but won’t open the door. We call the Sheriffs who say to hire a service. We leave and go to S’s place. She finds someone and gives him her address. He shows up that night. I hand him the paperwork and $50 in cash. He emails me a receipt right away. It is raining again. Big raindrops. He knows this service stems from a rape. My rape. “God bless you" he says as he walks away in the big rain drops. It’s done, I think to myself. I’m not sure what to feel.

My friend S rescues dogs now. “Pick one”, she says. All kinds are here in a place much better than where they came from. Some are waiting to fly out in the next week to other states. Some are sick or special needs. One has a missing eye. He and the pit bull mix are my living blankets. They sweetly lick the tears off my face. I’m back at home thinking everything is ok. My life feels like it’s starting to get back to normal. One down and three to go, I tell myself. One person who thought they could wrong me is out of my life. Now I just have two detectives and a rapist to focus on. The last thing I hear from the detectives is they have an outside service they are using to get to Naylor’s background. It’s not a cold case. It will take at least a month. The next day that I’m at work is a good one. I’m happy. I haven’t been happy like this in a while. Then S texts me. She found the defendants copy of the notice in her house. I call the server and email him. Nothing. I start panicking. I call the sheriffs, nothing they can do. I call the courthouse. I get directed to someone. Nothing they can do. “Please” I beg “please tell me what I can do to fix this”. I have three days including today to get him served. I can feel the court clerks eyes roll over the phone. “You have extra copies, right? They gave you one for your home, one for your car and one to keep on you at all times. Just print out a new proof of service form, give him one of your copies, and give the police another one. You only really need one for yourself. The proof of service is the most important part”. I thank him for the information.

How could the processor do this to me? I had a receipt, his website looked legit, and he knew the terminology. How could he take my $50 and never serve Ed. I looked at the address on the receipt and went there. It was raining again. What was up with the rain and the really bad days? It was an apartment building. I was outside the gate scanning the numbers for the call box. A David D was listed for the number. Another tenant went in and I snuck in behind him. I got to the door and there was no doorknob. I wasn’t the only angry person that had been here. The light was shining thru the peephole. That means no one lives there. No window treatments. My friend S calls. She has been calling him. She got thru as he told her there were computer problems and hung up on her. He did the same to me and responded to David when he answered the phone. I sent him a text. What else could I do? I have a rape I still haven’t dealt with let alone fighting with two detectives in the LAPD hive that wanted to let the rapist walk. I’m trying to serve someone that used to be a friend that did nothing to stop my being raped and now is on the rapist side. What am I really going to do about this guy and my $50? Nothing.

One of the guys I work with says he will serve Ed. He knows some of what is going on. Z knew something was up after the rape and pressed me about it one more time out of concern. I told him the jumbled basics thru tears. I print out the necessary paperwork and Z served him the next day. I was so grateful it was done. I was shaking. Z will forever be a personal hero to me. So for right now, here’s where I am at. I have a court date against someone that used to be a friend who took the side of a rapist. I have overcome so much already, but I have prepared myself for the worst. The most likely outcome is this guy walks and there is nothing I can do about it. I have fought every part of this that I can. I know who my amazing friends are that have stuck with me thru this craziness. I have a hard time in crowds, especially with a lot of strange men standing around me. It’s scary for me. I also have a hard time understanding what people mean when they say things. It’s hard to explain, but I take things the wrong way at first and I have to ask more questions to see what they really mean. I constantly look behind me terrified that one of these days I will turn around and Naylor will be behind me. But the only thing I can do is fight.



Court is tomorrow. Today I have a meeting with my advocate and hopefully she will be able to talk to the centers lawyer to help me prepare for battle tomorrow. Ed is not aware that I know about what Naylor said in the pre text phone call, so I can’t bring it up in court, or the fact that I think he is saying what he did about there not being a rape in order to protect himself. It’s leaving me to feel pretty vulnerable about keeping this restraining order in place. I can’t risk him going to Naylor and telling him anything about the investigation. I can only stick with what had been suggested at the police station about trying to intimidate and persuade a witness. There is no doubt with telling me I drank myself to a blackout and that I should move is persuading. I have seen his threats of violence and trying to get into fights on the street increase in the last two years, and I can hopefully use that even if there is no hard proof. I don’t like feeling this unprepared. I had gone out a little bit feeling somewhat safe with the temporary restraining order. I went with my friend T to get dinner and a few drinks. He knows the whole story. We joke about it. “If I do a favor for you, I mean, do my job for you, then I would have to do it for everyone. Do you know how many rapists are out there?” His best impersonation of the detective.

Cinco de Mayo I went out. On my own. I have to get used to being who I am again, and I have never had a problem going to a bar or restaurant on my own. It’s how you try out new places, or meet new people. The place I go to, I have been plenty of times, but I know Naylor doesn’t stray this far down the Boulevard. I feel a relative safety. I ran into a woman at the bar. She tells me she knows where I live because she hung out twice with a guy who lives in my building. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I tell her I have a restraining order against Ed. She informs me of inappropriate conduct when she was drunk and passed out. Border line rape she calls it. She will consider telling the police. I don’t blame her for not wanting to after all the lovely treatment I have received from them. I also find out someone else was drugged by Naylor. A guy. I had never thought Naylor was drugging whoever he wants. It had honestly never occurred to me. I wake up the next morning relieved and enraged. This guy is drugging whoever he wants. I can’t be the only person that has ever come forward about this.

----- ------- May 6 (3 days ago) to ------ -----
I can't believe what I was told last night but I know it's true. ------ has been at the ----- ---- every night since he raped me. Not only that, but he has drugged other people. The guy I ran into last night was also drugged by -----. ----- does this to whoever he wants to at the ------ -----. He is there every night between 4 and 5 pm. I was told by the Hollywood detective after being mercilessly called a liar again that the phone number you have for ------ is no good. Here's a fucking idea. Why don't you just sit an officer on plain clothes at the ------- ------ between 4 and 5 and see what ----- does. He will probably dose your officer too. I can't believe he has done this to so many people because you two didn't want to fucking believe a rape victim over a rapist and a guy who-------------------------------. I will never forgive either of you for the bullshit treatment you have put me thru. That fuck head thinks that cops are too stupid or lazy to catch him and the worst part is, you have made him right. He probably drugged some one last night. I just pray she or he wasn't raped either because you two didn't want to get off your condescending asses and do something about a guy who thinks he has the right to drug whoever he wants to. Jesus Christ. How's about you do your job for once and just send someone in there? Fuck off forever.

Yeah, I’m pissed. But now that a guy was drugged, and not raped, I’m sure they will send in the armed forces to stop this guy. Even if they don’t, I am finally consoled by the fact that if Naylor is drugging the kind of guys that go to that bar, he will be in a body bag soon enough. There are plenty of guys that go up there that you just don’t do this to.



 Today was the court date. Ed testified that he was sending all of these text messages out of genuine concern. The lawyers in the courtroom waiting for other cases laughed at that one. “I promise you he sounded like a fool”, says my friend A. She has come with me today. Ed also testifies that my detective called him and told him there was a restraining order in place because he was harassing me. Now the detective is helping Ed? Giving him a heads up? What’s next, going to take the stand and testify for him too? It’s too much for me to take. The detective cocked blocked me from getting a restraining order thru the police and now that I do all the work, you fucking call him? “Ms. Hunter, you should be working with your detectives in order to get a restraining order in place. There are no threats of murder and no physical violence, so the order is dissolved.” I’m not even in shock anymore. I have fought all I can fight. "A" tries to console me outside the courtroom. I flip out and tell her I just want out of the building. The bailiff comes out and tells me if anything happens to come right back to the same courtroom. He will remember who I am.

We get to the car and I apologize for being angry with A. We start bawling on each other’s shoulders. I get home and A is still crying. I’m tired of crying. I lie and tell "A" I want to go home and decompress. , and that I will go to the rape center and talk to them. After I get home I call my advocate. I’m crying because I already know how the final chapter will end in this whole fucked up story. I left a message to cancel all future appointments with the center. They will all win and there isn’t shit I can do about it. I don’t want to be in this world anymore. I don’t want to be in a world where rapists walk and victims are bullied for it. I know friends have read this story, and told me how proud they are. That I am so brave. I don’t feel brave. I feel like this is auto pilot, and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of fighting. Nothing will ever happen to any of them. I quit.

I know that what I am about to do is the most cowardly thing possible, but why the hell not? I don’t want to be in this fucked up world anymore. To my friends I truly apologize for letting you all down. I know the judge would say the determination isn’t personal. Well, neither is my suicide. I am writing this knowing that a few minutes after I write the end, I will go to my bathroom, and open every container of pain killers I had intended on taking back to the pharmacy to be destroyed instead of just flushing them down the toilet. I will also open a bottle of wine. I will then take all the pills and drink all the wine and walk out of this life. This hard life that just isn’t worth fighting anymore. I thought life was supposed to have a lot of enjoyable moments along the way too.

Strange thoughts will cross my mind. Should I clean a little first? Just so when they find my body, they won’t be discussing how I should have vacuumed more often? The bottle of wine is already open. Do I want a final meal of some sort? Or is that just more work for the coroner? Will Mr. A be my coroner? Will he know who I am? What would he think if he did? I would say I have a pretty good mixture. A handful of hydrocodone, Tylenol with codeine, Percocet, Carisoprodol, Alprazolam, and one that I’m not sure what it is. At this point it’s not like it matters. I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the hero you wanted me to be. This is no one else’s fault. There was nothing A could have done to stop this and I don’t want her to blame herself in any way for this. This is the fault of a rapist, a friend who sold me out, and two detectives who wouldn’t do anything to believe me. I doubt this will change their minds. I’m sorry I just wasn’t as strong as I should have been. I hope for any future woman to never have to go thru what I have had to go thru. I sincerely wish that the system will change. That more is done to stop rapists. Just because they don’t drag you into an alley and you know who they are doesn’t mean it isn’t rape. And for what it’s worth, I believe you. I know you are telling the truth. I know you have lain in bed sobbing and shaking and wondering why God would allow this to happen. When I get up there, I will ask. But just know, I believe you.

The end.



I was intubated, and given chest compressions. I stopped breathing on the table... Three close friends watched this happen and were told to leave the room. I did this to people who I love and care about, that care about me. I have no memory of any of this. A small flash of throwing up the black liquid. My friend A tells me I turned combative at one point, and that I wasn’t like myself at all. I was swinging and cursing and trying to leave. I was restrained and given a catheter. I came to when it was dark outside. I’m in a private room begging for ice chips. My mouth was so dehydrated. My chest and throat will hurt for days. So will my whole body. Taking a handful of muscle relaxers apparently does the opposite. I’m glad I don’t have any memory of the ER. I ask the registered nurse who comes to see me to please tell everyone at the ER how sorry I am for what I have done. That was a really dark place.

I read the handwritten notes I had attached to my journal about how easy it really is once the first pill is down. Four was nothing. I’m not really sure how many I took, if any, after the four. Welcome to the basement level of crazy, I wrote. The 7th level of hell... Yup, the elevator dings, and here I am. I started flip flopping. I didn’t want to die, but to think the detective would call Ed and that the restraining order was dissolved was too much. I couldn’t believe he had called him. He was fucking served, he knew there was a restraining order in place. Det. T barred me from getting one thru the police station. What, I manage to get a temporary and now it’s worth sticking your fucking nose in it to see how Ed feels about this? Fuck him. I had sent my friend T the final chapter, or what I thought it was, followed by a text message that I couldn’t go thru with it. Then I decided I could. T called the police, my friend A and M, and the rape center. I remember him coming into my apartment. He tries to take the bottle of wine out of my hand. I won’t give it up. Things go to a blackout after that.

Apparently it took four cops to get the bottle of wine out of my hand. What can I say, I’m southern. We don’t relinquish our alcohol easily. The hospital tells my friends I will be held for three days and made to rest. My friends are asked to come up with a plan and rotate hanging out with me and staying in contact with me. They end up releasing me after a day. They have determined I am no longer a threat to myself and I wonder if insurance doesn’t have more to do with it. The nurse takes my IV port out of my arm and tapes the cotton ball into place. I am talking to him and still dealing with the feeling that all of this is happening kinda fast. I feel warmth on my arm and side. My gown is covered with my blood. I bled thru the cotton ball. The woman assigned to baby sit me has stopped texting. Her mouth is just as big as her eyes at the sight of all the blood. I clean myself up and now I just want to leave. The pills I tried to kill myself with are locked up in a safe with security. Twice they ask me if I want them back. No, please destroy them I say. I get my inventory of everything I came in with. I get home before I realize the cash is missing out of my wallet. It was noted on the inventory, along with my debit card. It was supposed to be in my purse. I call my case worker and tell her. I will have to call Monday to find out about getting it mailed to me. I can’t deal with this again. I can’t deal with doing other peoples jobs.

I know my friends have called my boss and manager. That they said take as much time as you need. I email my boss the whole journal. I tell him it has been a lot and I am trying to not let it affect my job, but I know he has seen me not happy and asked me if I am ok. I tell him if he feels I am not capable of doing my job, I understand if he wants to fire me. T takes me out for dinner. Whatever you want to eat he tells me. We go for Mexican. He starts to cross a major street, not wanting to walk down to the crosswalk. I pull him back and ask him what he’s doing. “Oh now you care?” We start cracking up on the streets. He does a “no sympathy” dance for me about my chest and throat hurting. His eyes water up when he tells me he starting getting misty eyed at the hospital eating a scone at the thought of never seeing me again. I get into my bed and sleep for twelve hours.

My friend P calls the next morning. She has been enraged with all of this from the start. She is an activist for women’s rights and well-being. She is big on starting campaigns and workshops to build girls’ self-esteem. She blogs about inspiration and beautiful things in life. She is a beautiful spirit. She calls me on the phone and we talk. Angry doesn’t begin to describe it. My phone starts clicking and making weird noises. I tell her I wouldn’t be surprised if they are tapping my phone. It’s probably the one month of outside services the detectives were talking about for tracking Naylor down. That they will spend time and money tracking me and tapping my phone, but they won’t stop Naylor from drugging whoever he wants. My friend P is pissed. Not only that, but if my phone is tapped, they are now forced to listen to her. I would almost have to feel bad for the person that will have to review this conversation and the venom that comes from her mouth. “I don’t want to hear about you have other cases to deal with, what do your other cases have to do with me? I’m not asking you to be my friend; I just want you to do your job mother fucker. You agreed to do a service and all that comes with it when you accepted this position. You’re not a volunteer working out of your home, you are a civil servant being paid to do a service and you have routinely failed in this service.” This goes on for almost half an hour before I have to accept a call from M.

I have already decided to call P back later and just set the phone down. There is something deeply comforting about an angry and strong woman on my side and her having a voice to fight them with. She’s on fire and doesn’t want to get off the phone, but begrudgingly does. M and I go out for breakfast. It was a damn good breakfast. I tell her I need to get to a psychologist at the rape center on Monday and start coming up with a plan for how to live with all of this. My attempt, the rape, the police... I still haven’t processed the rape yet. I have to come up with a plan for living and accepting when everyone walks with no accountability. I will wait and see what they come up with the “background” check. It’s a sinking feeling every time I think they aren’t doing one at all. Just monitoring me. When they come back in a week or so telling me how they have found nothing and they feel there isn’t enough evidence to present to the DA, I will let this story be published. I am not the only woman going thru this. I am not the only woman who has attempted suicide because of this. I’m sure there are those who were successful. They didn’t need to die because of a rape. They shouldn’t have been raped in the first place. I have friends who have tried to get an appointment with the DA on my behalf. It’s like trying to see the wonderful wizard of OZ. I ask her to come to the hospital with me to collect my money. Another sinking feeling...

We get there and find our way thru the maze to the security room. We don’t have any cash, but we have a bag of pills, did you want those? I snap. I’m snapping hard. No, I tell the security guard, those were the pills I tried to kill myself with because of a rape two and a half months ago, what I want is for them to be destroyed and handed my money. Well, you will have to come back on Monday. I am snapping harder. Yeah, I feel bad that this guy didn’t wake up and get out of bed and say to himself, “Hey, let’s fuck with a rape victim today”. But guess what, now you get to deal with a crazy rape victim who is losing her mind. It’s not about the money. It’s about one more person stealing from me. Taking from me. Why don’t I just buy one of those number dispensers that you see at the deli and just let people take what they want from me? Just walk up and steal from my purse, or have sex with my body while I just lay there and take it and then I can fill out a form afterwards for no one to do shit about. Fuck your forms. Find my fucking money. He leads me and M to the emergency room to check the safe there. I am already starting to lose it. No, not again. He comes out thru the door and leads us outside. I already know what this means. “You will have to come back on Monday”.

I scream loud. I am sobbing and screaming. It’s not good enough, it’s the same bullshit, this is not good enough, and I want my fucking money. “Do you want me to call my supervisor?” he asks. Ya think? M goes in to get me tissue. I sit by the fountain crying and shaking. The security guard comes out with a social worker or psychologist, or someone who can help. She tries to tell me to come back Monday, that they just aren’t equipped to help me until then. Well, I’m not equipped to hang onto my mind so you can have an enjoyable weekend by the pool with the kiddies. M pulls her aside and they talk. They say they are going to check one more place. I am sitting by the fountain shaking. I can’t even cry anymore. I’m not leaving this place without my $66. I have to have one win, one small win. It’s not about the value amount. It’s about hanging onto my mind. The social worker and M come out. The social worker has an envelope in her hand. She says it was in the other social workers desk. The one I talked to after I got home yesterday. She asks me to open it and check to make sure it’s all there. I don’t know if M pulled the money out to help save my mind, or if it really was in the lady’s desk, but there is $66 dollars looking back at me. I don’t know how I feel at first. Embarrassed, relieved, vindicated, grateful for one battle I won’t have to fight behind paperwork. Relieved... That’s what I feel. Relieved...

The social worker tells me if I am having a hard time coping to feel free to come back to the hospital, or to go to the rape center. For a minute, I was scared they were going to admit me again. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but I don’t want to go back in. I don’t want to be a burden on my friends and if they need a break, so be it. I really don’t want to go back though. I just feel like I need a break for a while and some peace and quiet. That I will get better and I want the chance to prove that. I just need a break. I have strength in me somewhere. It will come back again. M reminds me I have been thru A LOT in a small amount of time. She tells the social worker she will drive me home. She still just has a temporary license. Hers hasn’t arrived in the mail yet. She says my dodge caliber has a big dashboard and she’s having a hard time seeing over the steering wheel. I start laughing. God bless her for wanting to drive, but after almost going in an out only lane, and almost running over a family before we even get out of the parking garage, I take back over driving. As "T" would say, oh now you care? I hope the next few days will get my strength back again. Like a wounded warrior having to lie up and wait for everything to heal. Then onto training. Then onto the battle again. I already envision my meeting with the DA, if I get one, to be the same. Work with your detective they will tell me. But for now, I heal and recover. I will get to that battle when I am ready.



There are a lot of reasons to not kill yourself. Family, friends, the painful process of passing charcoal which sounds as fun as it is. I know now that the judge did what she did because of what the law defines as a threat. The fact that there is not something else in place to defend people from harassment is a failure of our system. To me it’s just bending the rules on free speech. Did the judge and bailiff do for me all they could by putting Ed in the hot seat with an understanding to never contact me again? Yes. Did I feel like it was defeat and take it completely the wrong way with almost really bad consequences? Yes. I have had time to think about just how screwed up our whole system is. To most people no means no. The bad guys get put away.

If a person is drunk or unconscious, it is considered rape.
If they are unable to consent, it is rape.
If they are handicapped or old or unable to defend themselves even from someone they know, it is rape. 

Rape as defined by our justice system….

If you are White, Black, Latino, Asian, Pacific Islander, Middle Eastern, Inuit, Native American, or other; it is not rape.
If you have ever had consensual sex, sexted, flirted with or looked at the person who raped you, it is not rape.
If you know the name of the person who raped you, it is not rape.
If you don’t know the name of the person who raped you, what do you expect me to do about it?
If you were unable to consent it is not rape, you put yourself in this position, what do you expect me to do about it?
If you were wearing clothing, no matter how much or how little, it is not rape.
If you were drugged, you were probably having a good time and it is not rape.
If you were dancing or moving about in any way, it is not rape.
If you were breathing it is not rape.
If you are a woman it is not rape.
If you are a man, you can’t be raped so what do you want me to do about it?

Can I have my paycheck now since I just solved all these rapes? 80% of rapists are serial rapists. This number is probably higher. 10% of rape cases are found to be untrue. Really? Like how these detectives are saying mine is? I have to wonder if this percentage should be smaller. Out of 100 rapes, only one rapist will spend any time in jail. And that might even be limited to only one day. Murder is considered the highest violent committed crime in our country, with rape a close second. Most murders are committed by someone who the victim knew. If 80% of murderers were serial killers, there would be militias forming all over our country. But rape?

Well, let’s treat 80% of the cases like the minority 10% that will be unfounded or thought to be a fabrication. Let’s face it; we are a rape friendly country. We help rapists. That’s the bottom line. We do. But because the men of our country won’t or can’t help us, we are left to be raped and carry on. If more men felt the humiliation of warm blood and cum dripping down your thigh and a cop said you’re mistaken, more men might be willing to help us women put these serial rapists away. They prey on ones they have made contact with. That’s how they operate. Of course we know them. That’s their plan. Yet, we are held responsible for their plan. I’m not the one who walked out of my house with date rape drugs in my pocket. Naylor was. But I am blamed for not knowing what he was carrying.



It’s Monday after my attempt. It wasn’t even 9 am when my phone rings. It’s the psychologist from the rape treatment center. She doesn’t think in light of my recent attempt that she should start with me since it is a limited amount of visits. She knows of other wonderful resources that might be available to me. Like I haven’t tried to find a psychologist on my own. I haven’t heard back from the victims fund and my insurance won’t budge on my co pay. I can’t afford $400 in therapy on my own in the first month alone and no one can help me to change that. Every time someone talks to me about therapy, the first thing they talk about is the fucking cost.

The money... That’s all they want is the money. Now this person is going to throw me back into the same broken system. She says she knows therapists that will hold off on charging until victims fund goes thru. Oh yeah, well if the fucktard detective has anything to do with providing information to the victims fund, then I will be denied, then what? I’m stuck with all the back pay. I’m not sure if you have heard, but I tried to kill myself recently. If you have ever heard of a thing called suicide it usually stems from a thing called not being able to cope/ deal with shit. Now this... A free counseling session that’s pulled out from under me the day of. Fuck you!

Why, because you weren’t getting compensated either? Are you going to do all the leg work lady? Are you going to call my insurance, and these other psychologists, and get me an appointment today? Are you going to get it for free no matter what with no promise of pay later in case the victim’s fund doesn’t go thru? Because that was your job. Free counseling until my victim’s fund came in. 6 fucking sessions you just blew me off on. Something to be able to talk to a professional to help me come up with a plan to cope. But you’re not going to do any of that, and at the end of the day you go home and open your bottle of wine and give yourself a pat on the back for helping these poor defenseless rape victims. I am damn sick of this place giving me false hope.

I never got that legal advice, the lawyer was out of town. I never got a counseling session before court, the psychologist was sick, why? Is there only one psychologist working there and there is no one who can take her place when she is sick? Was my advocate sitting next to me in court the day of even when I asked her to? No. Even after all the times she has said, I’m your advocate; call me for dealing with the detectives or court. Did she even mention it when she called me back with the disappointing news? No legal advice, no therapy, no advocate. Guess what. I’m not asking you to be my friend, I’m asking you to do what you say you will. Stop giving me false hope, because honestly, I can tell you right now it’s doing a lot worse damage than if you just shut up and fucked off. Why does everyone involved in this think there is no accountability. That I’m supposed to do everyone else’s fucking job for them? Why, because you have other cases? What the fuck do your other cases have to do with me? You told me to trust you. I did. For what? To blow me off when things really got tough because you couldn’t deal? Well where in hell are you leaving me at? I will take the drive out there, and drop off this whole journal. Because the one thing I have to hold onto, the one truth of this, is no other woman should have to go thru what I am going thru.

This place, this rape treatment center, they failed me too. I’m sure they won’t see it that way. I know they won’t. They will have a million excuses, but not a damn good reason. Just don’t give any other women any false hope like you did me. I drive out there with this journal. This journal is the only form of sanity I have anymore. It is what has kept me from really falling apart. I leave it at the little window and tell them it’s for my advocate and psychologist. Page 24 is dedicated to them. I have tunnel vision the whole way out there and back. I even have tunnel vision when I go in to buy a double cheeseburger and fried zucchini combo. Tunnel vision when I park my car and come back to typing my journal. A woman from the center has already called me back. I am debating on calling them back. Why bother? To tell me how there is nothing you can do? She tells me that she is sorry. That they mishandled things and that is not my problem or fault. , to please trust them again. She will see me tomorrow morning to help me come up with a coping plan.

Lord I am exhausted. This was supposed to be a time of recouping and being calm. When is that allowed? When do I get to just rest and heal? My boss sends me an email. He doesn’t know what’s going on, just wants to make sure I am ok, and to let him know if I need anything. I email him back. Trying to sound not crazy, but….. In less than three months, I have almost died twice (I know what the taste was in my mouth when I came to after being drugged. I know the sick fuck left me to choke on a wad of cum and vomit).

Been drugged and raped, been robbed twice, been blocked by insurance from getting psychiatric help, been hauled into rooms by detectives trying to tell me I am a liar and had facts of my rape thrown into my face until I am in tears, been lied to about test results, and had my brain continually put thru a meat grinder. Yes, it’s a lot of drama. Today, I just want to focus on being able to get long term psychiatric help. It’s one day at a time. I ask for a week off. If I was them, I’m sure I would consider letting me go too. I don’t know if that is what they will do, but it’s a high stress job. My PTSD is so high right now; I can’t even stand loud noises.

Then the hospital calls me. I think it’s an actual psych follow up. I didn’t realize it was a survey. Yeah, don’t steal money out of my wallet. How’s about that for starters? I can hear her cringe at that one. How’s about a better bridge between being hospitalized and outpatient after care? I can’t deal with insurance. Any suicide attempter can’t deal with insurance. How’s about you’re the hospital and you start telling insurance what’s up instead of the other way around? Instead of them saying, we won’t pay for three days, you the hospital sticks up for us the patient, and tell them they will. You the hospital are the system failing us, not just insurance. So you, the hospital discharge me after just one day because insurance doesn’t want to pay (wild guess of course), and now it’s also on me to find my follow up care? There should be at least ten outpatient visits thru the hospital with no co pay and I don’t even have to see a bill that should be directly paid by my insurance. You know why? Cause if I’m dead, I can’t pay for insurance you stupid fucks. That’s one less person paying you. In two years, you will make your money back, but you won’t if I’m dead. You know what else I am sick and tired of hearing? Well that’s just the way the system is.

How’s about not anymore. I pay for that system. I’m not paying for insurance for some CEO to buy a boat. I’m paying for insurance to be a safety net. How’s about nobody pays for insurance until this crap stops. Until you start shelling out better health care at a reasonable price. Until you realize the hospital tells you what is best for the patient? How’s about we all just cancel our health insurance policies? You know how much money you will pull in then? $0.00. The same amount of zeroes on my blood alcohol test. So now I am just focusing on my mind and trying to hang onto it. I came home with the intent of editing this journal to be published. I have to let this journal go. It’s becoming bigger than me. I am well aware that people who know me, will now everything I have been thru in the past three months. That I was drugged, and raped. Betrayed by a friend. Brutalized by the detectives. Tried to kill myself. Yeah, there will be people who won’t believe me. There will be people who will judge me. But you know who else is out there. The people who can help me change this messed up system. I’m not the only woman put thru this hell. The sad truth of it is, what I have experienced is the rule, not the exception. If your daughter is raped, she will go thru the exact same process. If your mother is raped, she will be told she is mistaken. If your girlfriend or wife is raped, it will be “what do you want me to do about it”? I thought this would never happen to me. That because I had consensual sex with this guy once before, I was in some relative safety.

Why shit where you eat attitude. This was his motive from the start. Yes, I had originally wanted to wait until the detectives came back with the final blow, that there will not be enough evidence to present to the DA. I want a fair shake. I want to have as much of a chance at justice as the sick piece of crap that did this to me. If publishing this journal is the only way of strong arming the detectives in this case to do their job, then so be it. Read my journal. Share it with anyone who it will help to know they are not alone in this fight. It’s not enough to have to fight a rapist, its fighting a system too. The system will never change if we don’t make it. The bottom line is the system didn’t fail us. We failed ourselves. Humans make up the system. We thought, it will never happen to me, so I’m sure everything is fine. Why be involved? Because if it doesn’t happen to you, if you yourself never have to deal with the system, someone you love will. It is on us to change it. I am changing it by not silencing myself anymore. Why do they the favor of holding this journal in? I’m sure there will be updates. My journal has become its own entity. I am putting it in the safe hand of my friend P. She will know where to post it for everyone to see. Is that a terrifying thing? To know I am putting the most intimate details of my life out there for everyone to know? HELL YEAH!!! Will things change for better or worse if I don’t? Nope. So here it goes…



So I have had just over a week off. It was intended to be a time for soothing and healing. I got to go hiking and be around horses with A. We hiked to a place that has waterfalls and went swimming in one. It was freezing and soul cleansing all at the same time. I have hung out with friends and had dinner, or drinks, or caught a movie. I had a small close friends gathering at a local bar (way out of Naylor and Ed’s territory), for my birthday. I’m 35 tomorrow and almost didn’t live to see it. I’m glad I did. The free birthday shots alone make it worth seeing. I went out to a lake and went lake swimming with my friend and neighbor N. We were in the water a good five minutes before he realized his phone was still in his pocket. He has been a real rock for me thru all of this. He has been here since the beginning. His was one of the first shoulders I cried on. He just grabbed me and let me sob on his shoulder when I was still trying to process the rape. It must be hard for an ex-marine to deal with all this emotion, but whenever things got rough, I could show up crying on his doorstep and he would put a beer in my hand. If anyone knows PTSD, and the anger associated with it, it would be an ex-marine. He declared I needed to hit something and took me out to the batting cages. He helped me a lot in identifying what I felt to be anger outbursts or if I was standing up for myself. His phone lived. It actually lived. It dried out and he charged it up and it started working. Even an ex-marine phone has to suck it up. N has promised me a thirty second head start if we ever run into Naylor. Thirty blissful seconds before he pulls me off and stops me. Now that’s a friend. 

There was one fight mixed in with all of this lovely down time. It was with the witness victim’s assistance program. It is the state run agency responsible for helping to pay my therapy costs and any other reimbursements as a direct result of my rape. I had originally been given the phone number of a woman that was supposed to help me from the rape clinic. She never returned my call, except one time to ask for a case or incident number. I gave her the two numbers I had. She left me another voice mail. The original incident report was thru the Hollywood station, try calling them and see if someone there can help you with the application. Click. I had to fill out the paper work on my own. Compared to the courthouse paperwork, this seemed like a breeze, except for the lawyer stuff. Just fill it out and send it in so we can get you in the system, says some lady in Sacramento. Since I have insurance, I will have to use that as the main form of payment, but they will cover my co pay. I sent in my application with a frantic letter. I haven’t looked at it since, but I know it was crazed. A lot of “Can I just get some help getting some fucking therapy?” That kind of crazy. 

I’m on my break, but I am still sending emails and trying to call the DA aka Wizard of Oz who can apparently wave a magic wand and fix these detectives once and for all. Good luck getting to them though. I receive an email response from a lady in the DAs office. I think I am finally being heard. I call her on the phone. “Well, have you gone up the chain of command?” If one more person asks me that, I am going to put them on hold, get into my car, drive to downtown, park my car in a parking garage, walk to their office, take the elevator to the appropriate floor, walk to their office, punch them squarely in the face, validate my own parking, and drive home. I have an entire rape center trying to work their way up the chain of command. They train the LAPD, and doors are being shut in their face. I am asked by them to write certain people outlining the behavior and attitude of the detectives involved for the center to be able to follow up on. It’s so whoever it is I am writing, knows I am advocating for myself too in case mythical rape victims become all to prevalent. Yes, I am working my way up the fucking chain of command. “Well, there really isn’t anything I can do for you anyway. I’m with victim’s assistance. We only handle the financial reimbursement and help with therapy.” Wonderful...Thanks for the waste of my time. And they pay you for this, right? “I don’t have your application on file, it was probably lost. Call Sacramento, and see if it’s lost, then call me back.”
Is it really any wonder I went crazy?  
“I am so tired of this fucking system”. I’m starting to cry again. I hang up the phone on her. Then I think no, every time I hang up the phone, they just get off the hook. I am tired of letting people float merrily on down the river while I’m stuck in so much red tape; it’s probably removed a couple of layers of skin, like a really bad sunburn. No more letting them have a happy little day when I have all this to deal with. My day gets to be screwed up, well let me share the wealth. I call her back. She answers.

“Exactly why do you think I should be calling Sacramento, and not you, if you work in this system and know all the lingo?”, “Well, you filled out and submitted your own application, so you will have to call and check the status of it, then call me back.” I had to because the first lady dumped me. She doesn’t know who I am talking about, so she would have no way of tracking her down. Well, it’s a good thing I hang onto all this information. She still doesn’t see any reason to call the ladies supervisor about case dumping. “So even though you know this lady is dumping cases, you won’t do anything to stop it?” “No. The most important thing is that you call Sacramento, and then call me back so I can help on your application”. “I don’t want your help” I tell her. “You don’t help, you only make things worse and make me do the leg work. I want someone else to help me who is actually going to do their job”. She gets in a huff and gives me a number to call to find a local office. It’s finally the triumphant hang up on her that I originally wanted. Yes, I have finally managed to screw up someone else’s day for once. No merrily down the river for you. That’s right, no successful pat of your own back. You don’t help. I will ask my therapist at the rape center. She has taken on a lot with me as I have obviously become the difficult case. She is advocate and therapist now. I have six precious visits with her. These are not to be wasted as I wait for her to help me with a new chain of command. The victims fund. She will call someone to see if she can get me an advocate in a real office. Unfortunately, most of these people are located in police stations. I’m not walking into a police station any time soon. It’s like being shocked with a cattle prod every time I have walked into one and the thought of someone asking me into a small room or thru a door already brings tears to my eyes. I start shaking. No way in hell am I walking into a police station. And the bottom line is, even after all of this, victims fund can still deny my application.

I did manage to get to a secretary at the DAs office. “We can’t help you, you don’t have a case number”.
You remember earlier when I said what happens if you keep going into shock? Well, the answer is you go numb. You really do. I think it’s so you stop feeling shock so you can just slide more easily into angry. It also means its slowly melting away at your processor, but I’ll get into that in a minute. “But I have two detectives sandbagging my case” I try to explain to her. She transfers me to an investigator, and I get hung up on.

I have found out a couple of facts from this phone call and two precious therapy sessions. I am still listed as an incident number. An incident is what happens when someone keys your car, or bashes in your mailbox and you call the cops. They give you an incident report. That’s all I am. I’m not even a real case number yet. But, every girl has to have dreams, right? Maybe someday two blissful letters will precede all those numbers and then I can be a real case! Oh joy! 

Oh yeah, that and the detective of the case, err incident, gets to determine the level of importance for testing 
my rape kit. If it is at the lowest level, then it just has to be tested sometime before the statute of limitations is up. Five years. Yup, my rape kit might not even get looked at for four years.
Remember what I said about not feeling shock anymore. Welcome to it.
I also made a not so healthy but relative to everything else going on, who really cares decision. I bought a twenty pound bag of gummy bears. I have almost finished off the bag in less than a week. I am convinced if I grab the fat around my thigh I will see the outline of all those gummy bears. As though they have their own little tenement in my thighs. That’s right. I have built an internal defensive wall of high fructose corn syrupy bears to help defend me.

I think this helped to spawn the two awesome dreams I had. The first night I dreamt Naylor showed up at my work. We have these 80s tall looking lamps at work. The kind with two metal rods and the white bulb holders that rotate up and down. Yeah, those... Well, Naylor decides to walk into my work and try to talk to me. I grab a lamp and start swinging. The first hit nails him square across his head and nocks him down. The splatter of blood arches in the air. I keep going. I don’t stop until his face is unrecognizable. For all he has done and put me thru, I make sure it will have to be a cremation. His skull is concave instead of convex. And no mortician in the world will be able to put him back together. Oh well, I think. He’s finally dead. Nothing else to have to worry about. Then I slowly wake up. I would have thought I would have woken up in a panic at the thought of losing the one chance of putting him in prison, and now knowing that would be my fate instead. Nope. Slow and relaxed and feeling peaceful. I am realizing it was a dream, but a sweet one none the less.

The next night, I dream I had been drugged again. That Ed was trying to break into my place as I was coming to because he is angry about the journal. He is literally trying to bash my door in. I am groggy from the drugs and think, “Oh God, not again, don’t let me have been drugged again”. Ed is almost thru the door as I open a desk drawer next to my bed. In it is the German Luger my Grandfather brought back from WWII. Just as Ed gets thru the door, I shoot a bullet straight between his eyes. The blood gracefully splatters on the wall and the guy behind him who takes off in pure fear and in slow motion. No need to go after him, I think to myself. Ed was breaking in, and all the evidence and all the law is on my side. Now get his dead body off my floor before he bleeds everywhere. God bless the little gummy bears and the sugar filled dreams of redemption.

Now, what I said earlier about the broken processor. I can’t process things right. I really need people to understand, it’s not about you, it’s about my broken processor. I watch a kid’s movie and watch a mouse get sad and I want to punch a kid in the face for making a mouse sad. I don’t react well to thinking something or someone who can’t defend themselves is being hurt. I also have a hard time when people, even people I love are trying to tell me what I should be doing, or how I should be handling things. I know it is done out of genuine concern or love, but what seems like a simple solution to you, is a long hallway of phone calls, paperwork, insurance and having to tell my experience over again and all the feelings it drudges up to me. I am in numb mode still, but I do get emotional if I feel another fight coming on. The bottom line is, the bad guy did something bad, and the good guys didn’t do their job in doing something about it. No matter what you say or do, nothing but the people above them is going to change that. That’s right, it’s scary to know the safety bubble of what you think the world should be and how things should be is not. It’s a scary thing to do, but telling me what I should be doing about it is more work than what my broken processor can handle and not even for a sure bet that it will help. Making the bosses of these two detectives listen is the sure bet. That is why I have asked that you, the reader, call the numbers listed at the top of the blog and try to help me. It is the reason why there is a small group of friends that form a safety bubble around me and help me get the word out, but won’t let other people in. The bottom line is, I’m not trying to be a jerk if I don’t accept your friend request or acknowledge you on twitter. It’s just my processor can’t handle all the information. People want to help, and I need that help, but only in a form that I can handle. Support and words of encouragement is it, unless you are the few, and the proud that are knee deep with me in this.

It is also concerning that people want to take the law into their own hands. Friends hint at it and honestly all it does is stress me out. You would make me waste everything that I have been thru so you can feel some sort of satisfaction that you have now robbed me of. What I want is Naylor in prison. If he meets a tragic end at his own doing, then that’s his own doing. If you are my friend or a supporter, you will not take it upon yourself to do the cops jobs for them. I will not notify the bar this happened to me at, or post photos of Naylor on the street declaring him to be a rapist. I will not endanger my own sliver of hope at a real investigation, and if you have any respect for me and all that I have been thru, you won’t either. Don’t make all that I have suffered thru obsolete. Please just don’t. Honestly, the stress of the thought of it just melts my already broken processor. Please stop digging around for hints or trying to solve the mystery. When the time is right and it’s allowed, it will come to the light. Writing has become difficult as I can’t spell a word right, and then when I go to fix it, I spell it wrong the same way again. I don’t like that the stress of having to explain this makes the one thing I have control over difficult, so please just let things be as they are supposed to be, and know that you listening and hearing me is the support I need right now. 

And I don’t want to sue the LAPD. That is not even an option for me for many reasons. Trying to take on a lawsuit with a broken processor on top of everything else isn’t going to help my mental health at all. Also, even if I was to sue and win and drain the city coiffeurs, who would it really hurt? The Mayor? No, Sparks and Jenks. That’s who. Remember them? The really good cops who went above and beyond their jobs? That is one thing I know we have in common. The detectives have hurt them to. By being so fucked up, all the hard work that all the good uniform cops have done in this to help, is made obsolete by the detectives. Every uniform cop in this whole messed up situation has done exactly what they are supposed to. Some, like I said, above and beyond. It is these untouchables that are the problem. My therapist says I am in fight mode, which is good compared to flee or freeze mode. Which is also odd because most women choose freeze. I was told about one woman who had such a bad time with the LAPD after her rape, she actually packed up and moved away. I can sympathize with that. But I am in fight. The problem is that fight is usually fueled by anger. By rage. I can’t let myself get stuck in fight mode and I can’t let anger alienate the people I need. I need the help of the LAPD to put away the bad guys. I cannot allow anger to push all of them away. I have written letters as asked by my therapist in a matter of fact and non-emotional way. Such as “I am not attacking you or any member of the LAPD, except for the aforementioned, and screw them in a non-emotional and matter of fact way because all they do is help rapists”. I would say that is pretty devoid of emotion. Well, the best I can do anyway.

So I think that is all that I am able to process and share in this round. I know that my therapist has told me to start thinking about the fact I will have to pull back all the layers of crap I have had to deal with and stir the pot to get to the rape. That it is buried deep inside of me, but I will have to face it and flush it out. I don’t know yet if that is a part of the journey that I am willing to share, but I don’t see why not. I have invited you in for all of this, for better or worse. I will think about it when my processor comes back on line. I am going back to work tomorrow and I look forward to it. It will be good to get into a physical environment, and haul gear around, and be around clients. I can usually compartmentalize at work, and it is a good distraction from all of this fighting. Not that there isn’t fighting at work, it’s just fighting in an arena that I can process. Tomorrow is also my birthday. It will be a good day.