I have read brilliant barings-of-the-soul from the Stanford victim and from too many other women; seen spot-on sound-bite memes that use gallows humor to give us a feeble smile through our tears; and viewed scathing rebuttals to the judge, to the father, to the young man, and to his friend, all of whom twist themselves into contortionist knots to defend his “action.” I have seen petitions to oust the judge, read the words of the Swedes who stopped the assault and seen the newscaster who broke into tears reading the victim’s letter.

Every time I check social media, I brace myself for and feel paradoxically comforted by the outrage of a nation that has had enough of a blatantly sexist pandering, condoning, and justification of a poor little rich boy who happened to have had one teensy-tiny first-offense intoxicated-error-of-judgment called “rape.”

This bombardment of posts and news reports has taken its toll with “triggers” that are all too real for me and for so many women I know.

As in, “Trigger Warning! This post is about rape! Details! Justifications for ‘20 minutes of action!’ A comparative study of ‘impact!’ A flawed patriarchal legal system! A complacent (and complicit) male judge! A (complicit) father whose words speak volumes about how the son learned that it’s OK to rape a woman! And by the way, you’ll read the word ‘rape’ about a thousand times today on your media pages!”

That kind of trigger.

I am a professional who has worked with countless young people across every age, into college and beyond, who have been deeply scarred by sexual assaults of every (un)imaginable kind of horror. I am a parent who has felt the grip of suffocation as I dealt with my children’s confrontation of injustice in ways I won’t name here.

And I am also a survivor.

Of rape.

To be precise, since I’m becoming one of those bare-the-soul women I mentioned in the second paragraph, I survived 10 years of rape, starting at the age of seven.

Dang, Anita, don’t hold back!

Well, what the hell. I’m 53 and I still am not allowed to say that I am a rape survivor? How many years does it take to understand that people still can’t/don’t/won’t wrap their heads around how phenomenally easy it is to be a victim to more-powerful perpetrators with little recourse in the legal system?

When I finally came out with the truth in my early 20s, we ended up moving. On moving day, we scurried around dumping drawers into giant boxes. Do you know what I said to my perpetrator? I said, “Sorry.” Yes, I apologized for telling on him. He looked so hurt, so forlorn. So left-behind. Sorry. Do you know what I said to every person present on that day? Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I am so sorry.

A few days later, I went to the courthouse to meet with lawyers, a meeting set up by others and that I agreed to attend. At that meeting, for which I was woefully underprepared, the perpetrator had a good (male) lawyer who presented me with a paper to sign. Due to circumstances I can’t explain here, I felt compelled to do what I was told to do.

So I did sign. I was proving what a “good girl” I could be, with all my sorry sorry sorry-ness for what I’d done. I was immobilized by shock and trauma. I would have jumped to the moon or off a bridge or in front of a moving bus if it would have somehow relieved my guilt.

It was not until 10 years later that I became curious about what I had signed as a trauma-stricken 21-year-old. I went to Augusta and located the records. I found the exact paper I had signed.

Are you ready for what the lawyer had me sign?

It was a statement that I would never pursue any charges, criminal or civil, against my perpetrator … in exchange for $1.00.

Yes, that’s right. My 10 years of beyond-the-ability-to-describe assault during my childhood was worth a grand total of $1.00.

Don’t spend it all in one place, Anita.

That day at the Augusta courthouse, I stared at that paper for a long time. I wondered what sort of blooming idiot would ever sign something like that. Oh yeah, that’s right, me.

It didn’t take me long to find a lawyer to talk to about that crappy scrap of paper. Alas — it seemed I had no recourse. And not just because of the stupid form I had signed, but because more than seven years had passed since the abuse. So let’s see, I would have been three years beyond the signing of that form when I would have needed to possess some new-found gumption, some entire rewiring of my psyche, to pursue legal recourse.

Yeah, that didn’t happen, folks.

Moral of the story? I learned early on that our legal system can be misogynistic and unjust. That bad people can get away with doing bad things. That good people can have bad things happen and the world just keeps on spinning merrily.

But I have also learned other lessons — that many individuals do fight for what is right and good. That slowly, slowly tides can change and those in power can step to the front of the fight for those who need them. That most people don’t want to hurt others and many will spend their lives battling injustices. That people who suffer great trauma can grow into peaceful, loving adults.

Like me.

In some twisted, backward way, I learned one of the most valuable lessons of my life: That my peace and well-being — that recovery from unspeakable trauma — that the ability to live an extraordinary and blessed life — is not dependent on a publicly-accountable, mostly-male establishment; it is not dependent on a perpetrator’s settlement of money or time spent in prison; it is not dependent on a piece of paper or lack thereof.

Freed from the expectation that justice might somehow validate my existence, my spirit soared.

I didn’t need a courthouse of lawyers and judges to see me for who I was or to help me become who I am today.

Still, I think it might have been nice.

Anita Charles lives in Auburn.