Get over it. It was only 20 minutes. (June 7, 2016)

My alarm clock had red numbers, but I still remember the time on it just the same.

Twenty minutes of action is one period of hockey. Twenty minutes of action is a quick walk around the block. Twenty minutes of action is an elementary school’s lunch recess.

Twenty minutes of action is not how you define the rape of an unconscious young woman. Yet, those are the exact words used by the father of a 20-year-old former Stanford University golden boy convicted this week in the sexual assault of a 22-year-old girl after a night of drinking at a frat party.

Brock Turner, a student with a dream to compete in Olympic swimming, came across the victim, unconscious and vulnerable, beside a dumpster after he left a frat party. He was drunk. She was passed out. The obvious decision, for an elite student such as Turner, would have been to make sure the girl was okay.

But, he did not call 911 to get this girl help. He did not look after her until someone could arrive and assist her home. He stripped her of her clothes and raped her with a foreign object. He was caught “thrusting” over her by graduate students (also men). They, however, did the right thing, and Turner was apprehended by police and pleaded not guilty to three felony charges of sexual assault.

Turner’s trial concluded last week, and instead of facing the maximum sentence of fourteen years, he will only do six months in county jail and have three year’s probation. And, the deplorable truth is, based on whether he behaves himself or not, he will likely be walking out those prison doors after serving only three months.

But, when you belong to the elite crowd, and are accustomed to privilege, six months is simply scandalous. I mean, the poor boy has suffered enough, says his father, Dan Turner, in a letter to the courts prior to sentencing. Daddy insisted that Turner has had his life ruined, and any jail term would be excessive.

And, his father does make a convincing case.  Apparently Turner’s “every waking moment is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear and depression.” The poor kid has lost his passion for cooking, and he can’t even enjoy a good rib-eye steak any more. Oh, the horror.

Daddy Turner states, “his life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 years of life.”

Turner is only a kid. He was drunk. He acted impulsively. He feels depressed and faces a future full of difficulties, so why should he be punished with a jail term?

Oh, I know. Because he raped an unconscious girl.

 He could have chosen to be the outstanding young man his father believes him to be, and protected this young woman and gotten her some help. But he chose to disgrace her. He chose to violate her. And, by making that choice, he shattered his dreams of a promising future himself.

Rapist Brock Turner was sentenced to only six months in county jail after violently raping an unconscious young woman.

Six months is undeniably a long time for a father to face without his son. I am an empathetic person, and I probably give more credence than I should to alternate perspectives of any situation; whether it is in my own personal life, or something I hear about. I truly believe there are two sides to a story.

I look at the mugshot released this week of Turner after his arrest and I see a dishevelled, yet handsome and young college kid. Are his eyes red because he was crying prior to his arrest because he felt horrible for his actions, or are his eyes still bloodshot from partying too hard the night before? Did he realize the enormity of what he had done, or was he freaking out because he got caught?

His reputation and career is ruined. Possibly. But, given the slap on the wrist Turner was given, I don’t think he will suffer that long. When you travel in society’s circle of elitism, privilege outranks atonement. Yep, I’m sure Turner will have to endure a few years of whispers and embarrassment for being in jail for six months; but too soon the story will die down, and it will just become a juicy tidbit for late night gossip.

But, here is a little perspective for you, Brock Turner.

When your six months is up, that young girl will still be suffering. Five years from now, when you might be proposing to the cute girl you work with, that young girl will still be suffering. Twenty years from now, when you might be dropping your own child off at his college fraternity, that young girl will still be suffering.

How do I know this? Because it has been 20 years since I was raped and I am still suffering.

I was just fifteen years old, and he was 24. I invited a friend over, and she invited some people I didn’t know. My dad and brother were away camping and my mom was working until midnight in town. I remember wanting everyone to just go home, because I have always been painfully shy and social gatherings were like torture. But, I didn’t want to be teased. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in and hang out with the cool kids.

The friend left, and the strangers were still in my home.  There were three of them in my living room drinking. I went in the kitchen, and I remember looking at the phone and wanting to pick it up and call my mom at work.  He followed me and gave me a beer.  I didn’t want it, but he certainly didn’t force it on me. It was all part of the scene. You drank or you did not fit in. l did not talk to him.  I sat in the kitchen silently pleading for them to leave. I am not exaggerating when I say that I suffered from social anxiety. It was stressful to be around people, but lonely to be alone.

Finally, about 11:30, I felt a bit relieved because I was in the home stretch. My mom got off work soon and would be pulling into our driveway within the hour. I finished the beer and walked into my living room to tell the others that it was time to go because my mom would be home shortly, and I didn’t want to get in trouble with them in the house.

The others got up quickly, helped clean up, and started getting ready to leave. I said my good-byes and hopped up the stairs to my room. I closed my door, turned off the lights and collapsed onto my bed. My brain was spinning so bad that I thought it was going to explode.

I heard someone walking up the stairs, and assumed one of my unknown guests had to use the washroom.

But, the steps continued to my room. He opened the door and closed it behind him. I didn’t breathe. I did not move. I kept my eyes clenched shut and repeated, “Let him think I am sleeping. Let him think I am sleeping,” over and over in my mind.

Whether he thought I was sleeping, or whether he thought I was passed out, makes no difference. It was 11:46 when he started raping me. I know, because I focused on the bright red LED light on my alarm clock. I thought if I didn’t respond he would stop. Maybe I had given him some sort of signal that this is what I wanted. Maybe, when he realized I was not into it, he’d stop. But he didn’t.

I remember gathering courage and telling him to stop. I reminded him my mom would be home soon. I tried pushing him off of me, but he must have taken that as a sign of interest, because he just flipped me over and continued raping me.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at my door, and one of the others quietly asked for him. They had to go. They didn’t want to get caught and get me in trouble. He kept going. I wanted to scream for help, but I was too embarrassed. This was my fault.

He finished and left the room without a word. I could see their car lights through my window, and heard him slam the front door of my house as he laughed. I was in pain and I had to pee. But, my curtains were open, and I was petrified. What if I got up, and he saw me through the window? What if he thought I wanted him to come back? I couldn’t hold it in anymore and I soiled myself and my bed. A few seconds later I heard them pull away. It was 12:08. I had just been through twenty-two minutes “of action.”

I stared at the clock a few minutes longer. I didn’t move. I irrationally thought they might see me, even though they would have been long gone.

I finally got up and stumbled to the bathroom to scrub myself raw with the hottest water I could handle, and then sat in the tub and let the water crush over me. It seemed like it was hours, but in reality, it had only been a few minutes.

I cleaned up the mess in my room. I put on my pajamas and then crawled into my mom’s bed and waited for her. I remember panicking at first when I heard her open the door. Did they come back? But, after she began rummaging around in the kitchen, I knew I was safe. My mommy was home. When she came up to bed, I pretended I was asleep. I remember her tucking the covers up around my neck, and wanting to cry and tell her everything and get her to make it alright, but I couldn’t.

That one moment in time has affected all areas of my life since. I struggled with my self-esteem and self-worth, which led to many, many poor choices along the road.  I am certain I was judged, but my harshest critic was myself. Even now, as an adult, I still experience intense triggers which can set off an outburst of fear or anger. Sometimes the feelings can last for weeks.

 I have not shared this experience with many people. I have felt ashamed. I didn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable. I am feeling apprehensive about sharing my story, and will likely hesitate over the submit button before clicking it. This is simply not something we are suppose to talk about.

But, when a sexual assault is dismissed by someone and called “twenty minutes of action”, there is something wrong in our world.

When a sentence of only six months is given for a violent act of rape, there is something wrong in our world.

And, having the perpetrator insisting six months is too long of a sentence is truly a what the fuck moment.

Yep. Six months is a long time. But, sometimes, twenty minutes is longer.