S U R V I VA L
A S S AU LT
CHRISTINA MINNISH
ADJUSTING TO A NEW NORMAL
HAS MEANT CARRYING THE MEMORY
OF BEING RAPED IN THE DIRTY
STAIRWELL OF A DANCE CLUB WITH
HER, REPLAYING THE VISIONS IN HER
MIND WITH EVERY TRIGGER. AND
THE TRIGGERS WERE EVERYWHERE.
THE BIRTH OF HER CHILDREN.
HOMECOMING. THE MONTH OF
OCTOBER. EACH MENTION OF RAPE
OR SEXUAL ASSAULT ON THE EVENING
NEWS. SHE WAS CAUTIOUS ABOUT
SHARING HER STORY, IN PART OUT
OF SHAME AND IN PART OUT OF FEAR.
FEAR OF THE REACTION. FEAR OF THE
UNKNOWN. THIS IS THAT STORY.
I
REWIND
BY CHRISTINA MINNISH H PHOTO BY JEFFERY MINNISH
CHRISTINA MINNISH HAS SPENT 15
YEARS DEALING WITH THE AFTER-
MATH OF HER OWN SEXUAL ASSAULT.
NOW SHE’S READY TO END HER SI-
LENCE, USING HER VOICE TO HELP
OTHERS WHO CAN'T USE THEIRS.
72
S OUT H M AGA ZI NE.C OM
It was a warm May afternoon. The kids were seated
behind me in our family van. I was flipping through the radio
stations while driving home from the carpool line at their
elementary school.
My third-grade daughter’s voice disrupts the normalcy.
"Mommy, what is r-a-p-e?"
In an instant, I am back in time, reliving a nightmare that
doesn’t go away when I wake up.
I was a spectator to my rape.
My body was exposed. I knew that.
There was unbearable pain. I knew that, too.
It was as if I was there experiencing it all, but also as if I
was watching from above.That’s how I survived. I think.
How far did he go? Too far.
Those details are foggy. I was a virgin.
How long did it last? I’ll never know for sure, but a
friend has said I was missing for hours. I was in and out of
consciousness. Flashes of lucid horror, one after another. I
remember the songs changing, and then the music stopped.
The club was closed. We were the only ones left.
Three things remain clear:
His hands pinning my motionless body to the dirty stair-
well floor,
The feel of the cold, hard concrete pressed uncomfortably
against the small of my back,
And his face.
The rapist is anonymous to me. We could have passed on
the street. Strangers. Yet, he forced us to share the most in-
timate of acts. Except it wasn’t intimate at all. A few dances,
too many drinks, and without warning, there is the feeling of
the concrete pressing against my back and his hand pinning
my arms over my head. No recollection of the in between,
just him on top of me groping me and raping me in the dirty,
empty stairwell.
Salty tears stream down my face. I hear myself whisper,
“Please stop.” But, there is no stopping. He is in control. I
must find a way to survive.
People think they know how they would react in this sit-
uation. I was one of those people once, but that night I was