Today, Jake Thompson is walking out of jail after serving just three months for sexually assaulting an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. His father, Mike Thompson, described his son’s shockingly light sentence as “a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action,” offering up other equally troubling justifications in his court statement, which you can read here.
After reading his dad’s remarks, my hands shook uncontrollably for hours. Twenty minutes of action. Twenty minutes of action. Twenty minutes of action.
I struggle to articulate the profound disgust I feel for this phrase. Yet it’s essential to explain what “20 minutes of action” has meant in my life.
Here’s what “20 minutes of action” looks like:
I haven’t taken a bath in years, opting for showers instead. I avoid pools at all costs. Why? Because my abuser used to ejaculate in my hair after “20 minutes of action,” then would place me in the pool or bathtub to wash away the evidence of his vile acts. If someone saw a seemingly caring male relative with me in the water, they were mistaken. He was erasing his tracks, fully aware that if my small body resisted, he could easily drown me, as he attempted to during one of my desperate attempts to fight back.
Does this make you uneasy? It should. But I refuse to stay silent. I will continue to speak out about abuse, because the only ones deserving shame are my abusers and those who stood by and did nothing.
My children, like most kids, love swimming. It takes every ounce of emotional strength for me to join them, watching their joy while I feel like I’m drowning, despite being above water. Those memories weigh heavily on me, as if I breathe them in every time I step into a pool.
“Twenty minutes of action” has stolen precious moments from my life. It has taken away the twenty minutes I spend each day grappling with my lifelong battle with anorexia. It has cost me twenty minutes of joy with my kids, as I constantly worry about their safety and the intentions of those around them.
This phrase has robbed me of the twenty minutes it takes to use a catheter due to complications from the abuse and weakened bladder muscles from my struggles with anorexia. It has forced me to spend twenty hours a year at doctor’s appointments, addressing the physical consequences of those actions.
Every day, I wonder if I’m too broken for my husband to love me. I worry if I can parent without depriving my children of their simple joys.
I am utterly exhausted by a society that prioritizes the futures of abusers over the well-being of victims. If this resonates with you, it’s time to reevaluate your stance. You are inadvertently enabling future abusers and complicit in their actions.
This isn’t merely a drinking culture—it’s a world where rapists know they can face minimal consequences, and many people will prioritize their comfort over that of their victims.
To the incredibly brave survivor who spoke out, whose victim statement deserves to be widely read (check it out here), I stand with you. Keep speaking up. Keep resisting. Keep fighting.
This article was originally published on Sep. 3, 2016.