On Thursday, I went to court to get the restraining order against my rapist renewed.
This time, he showed up.
I figured he would; he and his lawyer were aggressive during discussions re: the lawsuit about getting me to drop the restraining order. Which my lawyer told him I would not do. And since, he's been RSVPing to every publicly-viewable local Facebook event that I'm RSVPed to starting the day after the order was set to expire. Which sends a message.
So I went to court. He entered after me and, in an almost-empty courthouse, sat behind me. Directly behind me.
They eventually called our docket number, and we rose.
And I had to stand next to my rapist. Shaking, dry-mouthed. And the judge had me start from the beginning: what happened?
Your honor, he raped me. Two days later, he violently assaulted me. The police arrived at the end of that assault and took us to the courthouse, where he confessed, in detail, and that's when the restraining order against him was first put in place.
I'm tired of telling this story. Standing next to my unrepentant rapist while I told it was a new twist, certainly. But dear gods, I am tired of telling this story. Of saying it again and again to judges, to lawyers, to people who ask about it.
It's been two years. I have other stories now. Better stories. Stories that have nothing to do with him.
But while he continues to be unrepentant and vicious, to stalk and harass, I have to keep telling this story. And yeah. It's a way he gets to keep revictimizing me.
(He told the judge he was tired of looking over his shoulder. He's tired. Oh.)
My restraining order is renewed for another year.
Comments are closed on this post because I have nothing else to say about it. And I am going to immediately write a post about a story I like to tell. One without him in it.