Rape victim tells her story to give a voice to other victims

By Alex Branch

abranch@star-telegram.com

Christi Cameron walked purposefully toward the lectern and faced the silent audience.

She said good morning, and then took a long moment to compose herself.

She was, in her own words, a nervous wreck.

Cameron had told the story she was about to share many times in one-on-one settings. But until last week at the Women's Center of Tarrant County, she had never spoken publicly to a large group about the night a stranger beat and raped her.

The Stephenville native and Southern Methodist University graduate was there to help promote a new legal phone line for rape victims. She also volunteers for the center to comfort victims at the hospital, answer their questions or just hold their hand while they cry.

She wanted to speak about her own experience to give a voice to women who suffered the same.

Dignitaries and media members were in the crowd. At the back of the room, the center's crisis counselors sat in chairs lined against the wall. They see shattered lives every day. They knew how hard this was.

Cameron took a breath and began to speak.

The big city

She grew up on her father's ranch in Stephenville, an outdoorsy girl who got involved at school -- cheerleading, student council, yearbook and more. Despite her country roots, Cameron had long dreamed of living in the big city.

After high school, she attended SMU in Dallas, earning a degree in broadcast journalism in 1996 with a minor in political science.

She decided to try to make it in the biggest of cities: New York. After less than a year there, she landed a freelance job as a sports producer at a local affiliate. She had an apartment in Manhattan.

"I thought I had made it," Cameron said. "I thought my life couldn't get any better."

On Dec. 21, 1999, she left work after midnight and began the four-block walk home up Sixth Avenue. She didn't worry about her safety -- she made the same walk every night and, four days before Christmas, tourists usually milled around.

As she headed uptown, her purse slipped off her shoulder, so she paused and glanced down to readjust. That's when she saw his shoes.

The man behind her wrapped his arm tightly around her and told her he had a gun and not to scream. He jabbed a sharp object against her back.

As they walked, he stressed that he would not hesitate to kill her if she caused a scene.

Near 53rd Street, he forced her down a muddy stairwell. He attacked her there -- beating and raping her. During the attack, she felt inside his pockets for the gun, thinking maybe she could shoot him. She couldn't find it.

She screamed for someone to help her, but her attacker punched her, grabbed her neck and threatened to break it.

"At that point, I shut down and tuned out until he finished," she said. "But also know that I had the desire to live. I was not going to let my family or friends see pictures of me dead at the bottom of that stairwell."

After the attack, the rapist told her to get dressed, led her to an ATM and ordered her to withdraw cash. She was shaking too badly to insert her card or remember her password.

What's wrong with you? he demanded.

Cameron looked her attacker directly in his eyes

"You just raped me. What the hell do you think is wrong?" she shot back.

He took her watch and umbrella and walked into the night.

"I put my head down, and I knew the attack was finally over," Cameron said. "And I had lived."

The road back

She vividly remembers the aftermath: a flood of police officers, an ambulance, the rape kit at the hospital, staring at mug shots in the special victims unit.

Police identified her rapist a year and half later through a DNA test. He will be in prison for a long time, Cameron said.

While the law enforcement process unfolded fairly quickly, her personal healing did not.

That required baby steps, she said. Just leaving her apartment alone for the first time was a giant one. She made it down the block to the corner, threw up in a trash can and turned back home.

For a time, she stopped walking and only felt safe driving her car, not an easy way to get around in New York City.

She underwent therapy and counseling and eventually started walking again. Her deepest wounds, however, were still there.

"It takes a lot of time to realize how to be proud to be a woman again," she said.

"And that it's not your fault. And once you accept that, it's a huge hurdle."

A few years ago, Cameron left New York and moved to Fort Worth. She still does freelance broadcast work, but she also wanted to help other victims. She went through 40 hours of classroom training required by the Women's Center to become a victim services volunteer advocate.

The center has 48 active volunteers and always needs more, said Susan Fine, a center spokeswoman.

Cameron's bravery in not just publicly recounting her assault but also comforting other rape victims is remarkable, advocates for assault victims say.

"Christi gives her time to help those also thrown into the unknown world of what it is to be a sexual assault survivor," said Torie Camp, deputy director of the Texas Association Against Sexual Assault.

Cameron is on call once a week to handle hotline calls or meet sexual-assault victims at John Peter Smith Hospital. But she doesn't volunteer the details of her own rape when she is with a new victim.

"If they ask me if I have ever been through this, I say 'Yes,'" she said. "But I say, 'This is not about me. This is about you and how I can help you.'"

A plea for services

At the Women's Center, as she recounted the attack, Cameron's voice cracked with emotion, tears stung her eyes, but she never stopped. She closed with a plea for more services for rape victims.

Living through a sexual assault opened her eyes to programs already available but also to what's lacking, she said. The new legal line helps sexual-assault victims with free representation for problems that arise with housing, employment or other areas.

It is a step in the right direction, she said.

"When it comes to dealing with the aftermath of being a sexual-assault survivor, you need all the help you can get," she told the audience.

With that, she turned and left the lectern. At the back of the room, the counselors broke into applause.

Alex Branch, 817-390-7689

Twitter: @albranch1

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