I Believe Her

After working for twenty years in the field of mental health I often consider whether it remains the right job for me. Each day, each week, each month hardly varies from the mean average of the longitudinal effects of such specific stress but the effects are cumulative. To spend more waking time with the dispossessed, the vulnerable, the victims and survivors than I do with my own family takes a toll I thought I had ameliorated through years of practice. But the toll is almost imperceptibly gradual, too slow for recognisable increments, until an uncomfortably honest and necessary reflection jolts me into admission. I have seen myself, year after year, being tough and flexible, dependable, calm under pressure. But only now, after the death of Ruby, am I looking at who and how I am with a clarity I never had before. Only now, through a new lens and framed within a new setting, am I beginning to notice the subjective effects of two decades in the company of distraught and damaged people who, like me, are trying their best to live, maybe to thrive or maybe just managing to tread water for a while.
The effects are broad and deeply affecting. The effects are stratified through who I am, like lode combing down my timeline. The effects are veined between my new and old skeletons and are intertwined with the framework of who I was and of who I want to become.
I can feel weighed down, tethered by the shared ownership of others' suffering.
But then there are times when I think I save a life. or reduce harm or just make things  a bit better for someone. There are times I can see my value, when there is obvious pragmatic change for the better, when someone leaves a meeting with me and we both know they are likely to make it for at least one more day, maybe a little less afraid or a little less alone. At times like that I have to reconsider my position as a support worker and revaluate the breadth of my shoulders.
I get more fragile and more sensitive and I am more affected by the needs of others as I age but also the older I get the finer the balancing act between providing solace for others and defence for myself.
Compassion fatigue is indefensible- anyone who gets near that point should have left their profession many patients ago- but tiredness of the heart is an intermittent and temporary litutle death that can remind me of my compassion and the necessary commitment to love and to empathy. Adversity can let me know how much is at stake and how much it is all worth.

And then sometimes an event happens of such magnitude that it feels like I've been kicked by a stranger, an event that clarifies my position as a potential helper to those in need.
Yesterday was the result of a nine-week long court case here in Belfast of a young woman sexually assaulted by four men. I had been following the case closely as the victim was hauled over the coals by the solicitors involved who evoked the age-old techniques of victim-blaming and of discrediting her with patriarchal, bossy, misogynist nonsense. There were flaws in the police presentation, flaws in the media reporting and extraordinary pressure on her over eight days of questioning. The jury was ordered to vote unanimously, with "beyond reasonable doubt" at the front of their mind and taking into account the "character" of the assailants.
The rapists walked free from court with a "not guilty" verdict. And I am furious. I am not surprised but I am furious.

It should go without saying that many more women will now not report their experiences of sexual assault and will be feel less hopeful about the justice system.
What is less likely to be recognised is the strength and courage that many people, me included, can take from her experiences.
I know how awful grief can be, I have experienced a horrifying sense of loss. I am on first name terms with courage but, even with my experiences in mind, I constantly revere the valour women possess in the face of sexual violence. This survivor of such awfulness, and many women like her, possess an extraordinary strength that I admire and can learn from. She, and other women with similar experiences, have taught me so much.


She has taught me to always speak up about gender inequality. Always.
She has taught me to confront bullies. Always.
She has taught me that, even when confronted with a legal wall, an authority designed to hold me back, there is always a right thing to do. Always.
She has taught me to hold fast through adversity. That there is an end, a goal, and to always aim for it.
She has taught me that, even if my ultimate goal is not achieved, there are positives to be taken from any endeavour.
She has taught me that some laws and rules are plain wrong and need to be directly challenged.
She has taught me that the capacity for human flexibility, stamina and bravery is almost limitless.
She has taught me that life goes on and that the key is not to relinquish to fate but instead to learn to navigate.
She has taught me that truth can be absolute and is always worth defending.
She has taught me that it is a natural human trait if, in the search for truth and justice, my voice cracks.
She has taught me to use my privilege constructively. To not do so would be a waste of my time alive.
She has taught me the importance of using feminism and humanism as the ultimate frameworks for daily living.
She has taught me the weight of bodily autonomy.
She has taught me the power of solidarity.

I believe her and I believe the millions of other women who know how she feels.

#ibelieveher
#repealthe8th