My Happy Ending: How I Helped a Friend in an Abusive Situation

I write this for the person who still believes in happily-ever-after endings. I write this for the person who is tirelessly hopeful. I write this for the person who will never stop believing in the good in people, regardless of how horrifically he or she is treated. I write this not to shatter your hope or to disillusion you, but to remind you that the term "a happy ending" is very subjective and can mean many things.

As a senior in a small private school, I was exactly that type of person. I was the girl who was always smiling, always laughing, and who always believed that deep down, people had good intentions. People took advantage of my niceness, but it didn't bother me; all I cared about was being able to help them and if that meant letting them take advantage of me, that was fine.

Since I went to such a miniscule school, I knew nearly everyone there. There were only twelve students in our senior class and I had an intimate bond with each one. That was especially true of a girl I'll call Julie, although that isn't her real name.

Julie was a petite girl a few months older than I was. She had large, winsome hazel eyes under lightly arched brows, a delicately pointed chin, and a bright smile that could light up a room. She wasn't particularly pretty, but she had an innocent and doe-eyed face that emitted friendliness and generosity. We became friends in the 6th or 7th grade, but during our senior year of high school, we were especially close.

It was during that time that I noticed something didn't seem to be quite right about Julie - or her home life. Although her parents were supposed to be upstanding members of the community, Julie occasionally came to school with mysterious bruises. She wasn't allowed to wear makeup, so she would borrow mine or a mutual friend's to cover them before class started. Her father had a strong presence on the school campus and continually checked up on her throughout the day to ensure she was "behaving" herself. Many times, Julie would continue to wear her school uniform even when we were not in class. She later confided in me that as punishment, her clothing had been taken away and it was either wear the school uniform or nothing at all. Even bras and underwear were confiscated.

The more time I spent with Julie, the more I realized how odd it was for parents to punish their child in such odd and humiliating ways. Even as a seventeen year old, if Julie "misbehaved" she could be punished in a variety of ways. These punishments included losing shower privileges (or only being allowed to take ice cold showers), having food withheld from her, not being allowed to shave her underarms or legs, not being allowed to use combs or brushes, etc. If Julie was at all "rebellious" or if her father suspected she was acting too flirtatiously with boys, she could expect serious ramifications. I did my best to help her. One time I brought some makeup and deodorant solely for her use because she was so humiliated by appearing (and oftentimes smelling) so unclean.

Then one day, on an early September morning, we were working in her grandmother's garden. I still remember the feel of the warm sun on my neck and the fresh scent of dirt in the air. I haven't thought about that day in a long time, so it surprises me how clear I remember it. We were hoeing the thick and moist dirt and digging out the weeds. Our hands, elbows, and knees were gray and chalky feeling from kneeling in the dirt. Then, out of the blue, Julie said, "You know my dad tried to rape me, right?"

I stopped hoeing. "No, you never told me that."

"Yeah, he did."

I tried to stay calm and absently crumbled a ball of compressed dirt against the palm of my hand. "When was that?" I asked.

"I don't know. A while ago," was all she said.

"So what happened?" I asked, a large lump forming in my throat.
"My mom left and we were alone. He called me into their bedroom and pushed me onto the bed. He was trying to take off my clothes and tickle me at the same time."

"Oh, you never told me that," I replied, forcing myself to remain composed.

"Yeah, and I remember just praying, 'Dear God, save me. Help me through this,' and then right after I prayed, he heard our garage opening and my mom coming up, so I ran out. God really saved me that day."

"Yes, He did," I replied. I wondered how she could sound so cavalier about it, how she could say such horrific words in such a casual way, and yet she did. There were no tears, no cries of the humiliation, nothing.

And I knew what that sort of humiliation felt like. At fourteen, I had been assaulted. He was a young boy, certainly not a man by any measure, but he was much bigger than I was. He had struggled to strip me and had forced his hand down my shirt - and in front of his friends - before I managed to kick him in the groin and escape from his clammy grasp. I had never told anyone and knew what that misery and sickness could feel like; I wondered how Julie could be so cold when describing it, but I chalked it up to the response of a girl hardened by long and frequent abuse.

From that point on, I was Julie's greatest ally. Her parents liked and trusted me. I was the type of girl they wanted Julie to be. I was a straight A student, an athlete, a musician, and assistant editor of the yearbook staff. Most importantly, I was the type of girl who was obedient and who didn't cause any trouble. Because of this, they had no problem with our relationship and even encouraged it.

A discreet police investigation ensued. Since detectives feared for the safety of Julie and me should we be discovered, they proceeded with caution. To help further the investigation, Julie decided to dictate to me a detailed letter of all the abusive incidents that had occurred.

I wrote as quickly as I could. One time her father forced her to do chores while in the nude. Another time she was tied to her bed to ensure she would not runaway during the night. I wrote down countless events, but I knew one was missing.

"Julie," I said softly, "you haven't included the time your father tried to rape you."

"Oh," she declared, somewhat startled, "I don't want to include that."

I was puzzled. "But…why not? That's a key thing of evidence. That's the strongest evidence you have."

"I-I don't want to put it in," she stammered, strangely giggly.

"The detectives need to know that, though," I persisted, confused as to why Julie would not want this included.

"It's embarrassing."

"I know it is and I'm sorry. Would you rather not tell it to me again and prefer I just write down what you've already told me?"

"Yeah, let's do that."

The letter was finished and I delivered it to a family - whom I will call the Does - who knew Julie and who were helping us work with detectives. They in turn delivered it to the main detective working the case.

Shortly after Julie turned eighteen, she decided she needed to leave. She didn't feel safe at home anymore and wanted out. I wasn't convinced she was that at risk, but I certainly wasn't going to take a chance. I had seen too much to tell her she was on her own and offered to help her in any way I could.

So on one frosty December night, I drove to her house with my father and brother and we loaded up her possessions. The rest of her family was at a school basketball game just down the road, so we had to act quickly and quietly. We didn't even dare turn on any lights in the house lest we be caught, and instead opened the front door and used only the gauzy light from the street lamp posts to guide our way. My heart thudded the entire time. As we loaded up the last of her belongings and I stepped out of the house, I remember thinking that this was the last time I would ever step foot in that house again.

We drove to my house and from there, her belongings were taken to the Does, the family she would be living with.

The next time I set foot on my high school campus, I felt a huge weight on my shoulders. Being so close knit, news traveled quickly. A friend of Julie's who had known she was leaving had admitted to her parents that I was the one who had helped her move out. I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes following my every move. Wherever I went, they stuck to me like glue.

Most people seemed to believe that Julie's father was being framed and treated me as her accomplice. I was called into the school office and interrogated by a member of the board who informed me that I should stop spreading rumors (something I had not done) and that they were fully supporting Julie's parents. I listened to his self-righteous tirade for half an hour, saying nothing. When he was finally done, I said, "OK, thanks," and left.

Things only worsened for me. At one point, I even received a nasty death threat from someone apparently very disappointed that I was still alive. I still remember the almost childlike, spidery scrawls that had written in large, capital letters, "D-I-E!"
In spite of this, I did not regret my actions. My parents pleaded with me to consider changing schools, but I was adamant in staying. I knew I had done what I believed was right and was not about to run away. I was ready to stay and face whatever anyone had to say about or do to me. Besides, I thought it would be almost more difficult to change schools in the last semester of my senior year and unwise considering I had a scholarship to my dream university at stake.

I graduated Salutatorian in my class, a shaky and divided class split evenly between those who supported Julie and those who supported her father. I remember after graduating, feeling weightless and feeling something else that I had not felt in a long time: free.

Then one day, I called the Does and asked to speak to Julie. Mrs. Doe sounded surprised and exclaimed, "You didn't hear? She doesn't live here anymore."

I had just spoken with Julie a few days prior and she had said nothing about moving out, so I asked why she was no longer living with them. Mrs. Doe sadly explained that in the duration of the continuing investigation, it had been discovered by detectives that Julie had fabricated the claims of rape in order to ensure a guilty verdict for her father. Detectives had requested Julie submit to a lie detector test through a voice-stress test analysis, which is 99.99% accurate. They submitted her father to the same test. When asked about the rape allegations, Julie failed and her father passed.

In a way, I wasn't surprised. It made so much sense now that she had been uncomfortable with including the attempted rape incident in the letter we had written to detectives. It explained her casual description of what would have been a terrible assault.

Even worse, when Julie was confronted by the detective and realized her lie had been discovered, she became angry and extremely volatile. The detective feared for the Doe's safety and suggested they take out a restraining order, which they did.

I decided I had to speak with Julie. Maybe she would admit lying and beg forgiveness. Maybe she would cry and tell me she was sorry, but that she only did it because she was so frightened that her abusive father would get away with the awful things he had done. I hoped for almost any excuse.

When I arrived to speak with her, Julie seemed unchanged. Nothing seemed any differently. Then I asked her why she was no longer living with the Does.

"Oh, I just decided to move out," she explained, obviously vague.

"So it wasn't because you took a lie detector test and failed it?" I asked softly and slowly, although my mind was going a thousand miles an hour.

Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me with a coldness I had never seen in her before. "I wouldn't have taken a lie detector test if I didn't think I could pass it."

I inwardly noted her choice in words. I suspected an honest person would have said, "I wouldn't have taken a lie detector if I wasn't telling the truth." Instead she had said, "I wouldn't have taken a lie detector test if I didn't think I could pass it."

"Yes," I thought to myself, "you did think you could pass it. You believed so because you're a good liar and you learned from the best."

I didn't say that aloud, though. Instead, I asked, "So you have never lied to me, then?"

She looked me in the eye. "Never."

There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her that the truth was enough; she didn't need to add erroneous charges. There had been enough eye witness testimony to lock her father up for years, but she had destroyed all her credibility by adding a phony attempted rape charge. I wanted to tell her that I was her friend and as long as she told the truth to me, I didn't care about anything else. But I didn't. Julie had hardened her heart towards me and a wall of her icy anger now stood between us.

Instead, I got up. "Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'd better be going now."

Julie walked me to the door, "OK, cool. We have to hang out again soon. We should go see a movie."

"Definitely, just give me a call," I replied, knowing it would never happen. I stood in the doorway for a moment and then added, "Well, I love you and I'll see you later."

"Yeah, I love you, too," she replied as the closed the door between us.

I knew she didn't mean it; she had never known love from her parents, so how could she ever know the true meaning?

At that point, our relationship essentially dissolved. Several months later, she did call me, but our conversation was brief and felt unnatural. Most of the conversation was of her talk of her new life that was being spent partying, drinking, and having supposedly very good sex. She again suggested we go out to dinner or to a movie, but I remained noncommittal. I didn't tell her, but one of the detectives had warned me that Julie was very unstable and it was unwise of me to continue a relationship with her.

I don't see Julie anymore, but we have mutual acquaintances, so I hear of her from time to time. She is a mother and has been in several romantic - albeit short lived - relationships. I guess she hasn't found her Mr. Right yet. Last I heard, she was supporting herself and her son.

I know by this time you must be thinking, "Is this your happy ending? What kind of nut are you!?!" I warned you, though, the term "happy ending" is very subjective. This is a happy ending because I learned not to regret. This is a happy ending because Julie is safe and has a lovely baby boy. This is a happy ending because this experience inspired me to apply to grad school so that I can become a therapist who counsels abuse victims. So whatever you might otherwise believe, I consider this to be a very happy ending.