Today I had pancakes for breakfast. They were better than regular pancakes because my mum made them for me. While I was having my breakfast (a delightfully late breakfast, after a sleep-in) the post woman arrived, and put a big stack of letters in the letter box (as she does). Mum brought the mail up and handed me the only letter addressed to me, by this time I was thoroughly mid-pancake. I was instantly alarmed when I saw the Queensland government logo at the top of the envelope. Those people can’t want anything good.
I opened the letter and started to read. They’d refered to me as ‘Ms’, which I absolutely hate, as I’m not married, nor am I a bumblebee. The letter goes thusly:
“The Queensland Police Service (QPS) is currently evaluating services provided by the police to victims of crime to identify potential areas of improvement.
To do this, the Office of Government Statistician has been engaged by QPS to survey a random sample of people who reported an offence between (date) and (date)”
There’s the second problem, the main problem, the part that fully ruined my pancakes. I have said in previous posts that it took me a long time to stop thinking of myself as a victim of sexual assault, or a rape victim or any of those other horrible things that I guess I technically kind of am, and here they’ve called me a victim of crime. Thank you, Queensland Government. I really needed that… wait, no, I’m thinking of another thing. Like a spare hole in my head. You want to ask me about areas you can improve? How about actually telling me what my options are? How about actually telling me I could have filed an informal report? How about actually getting me a tissue or a drink of water or a FEMALE OFFICER while I was crying my eyes out in your interview room, alone with two men I didn’t know, telling the most difficult true story I’ve ever told? How about any of that?
Can someone tell me why I was in a room with the door closed telling two male police officers about a rape? Am I supposed to trust them because they’re police? The man who did this to me was my employer, I was supposed to be able to trust him, too. Is it standard procedure to let a crying, borderline-hysterical woman wipe her nose on her sleeve instead of actually getting her a tissue? How about some water, because by this time I’ve cried so much I may not even be able to pee for a week. These are areas in which I think you could improve, you stupid soulless bastards.
I was raised to not say anything at all if I could not say something nice, so I would like to thank the QPS for referring me to the Gold Coast Centre Against Sexual Violence, where my counsellor probably saved my life during my very darkest times.
Signed with love, and signed with hope,
The Pretty Kitty.