By Survivor JJ
**The following is written by a survivor of domestic violence and abuse. Names have been changed to protect all involved.**
I recently retired after 23 years in law enforcement. I retired as a Sergeant of a patrol squad and Detectives Bureau, and spent most my career in investigations. Then I worked on a sexual predator enforcement team, FBI, terrorism task force, multiple major crimes task force teams. I am a hostage negotiator, and a lead homicide detective.
The last place a seasoned police detective expects to get shot is at home, by the hands of someone they love.
The Intimate Partner Violence I Experienced
My story talks about the resilience it took to overcome the physical and emotional trauma of intimate partner gun violence (IPV) and the abandonment by the same criminal justice system I served.
Though my experiences are told through a hard and unique lens, within and against our criminal justice system. My story stares straight into the shortcomings of our justice system in its failure to recognize same-sex intimate partner violence.
In part due to the stereotypical notions that “toxic masculinity” is governed merely by gender and heterosexuality.
Being On the Force
As police officers, we need to be aware of the family dynamic differences and non-traditional roles of same-sex partners to properly identify IPV in the communities we serve. When the victimology and marginalities of same-sex IPV is understood, this cultural shift can begin.
Intimate Partner Violence- From “Protector” to “Unprotected”
January 2010, here in Chicago, wasn’t the coldest or the worst winter on record, but it was the darkest winter of my entire life.
It was a frigid day in mid-January. After a long shift, I finally reached my driveway. As I pull in I see her car, a purple Chevy Monte Carlo.
When I say “her” car I am speaking of a woman I loved and had a prior intimate relationship with. We had dated on and off for quite some time but at this particular time, it was already a relationship far into its ending. When I walked in and there she was in my kitchen, relaxed, like she lived there.
I had nothing more to say, “Leave, just leave!”
“I turned and walked away.”
Seconds later, my hearing went out. Everything was slow, numb and there was blood. A lot of blood.
Red painted the sleeve of my white sweatshirt and coated my hands, my arm suspended, paralyzed, unable to move.
I had been shot!!!
I don’t remember the bullet piercing through my skin. All in all, I just remember the amplification of ——silence——- temporary deafness. The taste of gunpowder particles in my mouth.
Image is Powerful
But as much as it is powerful, it can also be superficial. Many seen the shiny badge pinned to my chest, pressed and pleated polyesters, my duty weapon at my side. A layer beneath, a physique of muscularity and ink. I looked nothing like a “victim” and maybe that was why I wasn’t perceived as one.
Women can be violent and victimized by other women. We know this, but we are bound by social stigmas regarding men as aggressors, and women as vulnerable, and fragile.
We minimize accountability, and hostility, and downplay criminal behaviors because of the stigma that women are viewed as the softer, gentler gender. Not filled with violence.
There were more than little red flags, there were full-blown warning sirens, and having grown up in a DV household, with substance abuse. I knew better. I wanted better.
Not Seeing the Flags
I was too focused on my career, my own drinking at the time, to notice, or I didn’t want to see it. Possibly, my exposure to trauma personally and professionally had skewed my boundaries.
By the time I got home from the hospital most of the blood had been cleaned up from the kitchen, but somehow still I was still able to find its trace.
In between the crevices of the hardwood flooring, the decorative patterns of the cabinet knobs, hidden in the scratches of the stainless-steel sink and embedded in the porous granite stone countertops.
Blood was all around me and if you’ve been exposed to large amounts of blood, you can smell it. That iron copper penny scent.
There Was Nothing More I Could Do
Staring into the stainless-steel fridge where the Glock had left its scar. The big hole, right there in plain view. There was no wiping that off.
I didn’t hear much at all from my agency, I had simply been forgotten, but it wasn’t long before the incident hit the media. The local paper read “Lesbian Cop shot by her Lover”, “Lesbian Love Triangle ends with Cop Shot”.
I can’t begin to tell you how fucked up the incident had sounded when the media got a hold of it. Was I embarrassed? Absolutely. It was obvious the word Lesbian was used to target an audience and exploit my sexuality. And even worse, to make the seriousness of the shooting sound like some circus act.
“There was no transparency.”
Instead, an internal investigation ensued into allegations against me for “not living an exemplary lifestyle” and “bringing ill-repute” to the police department. I was hurt, both physically and emotionally. I didn’t want to believe that society still didn’t view same-sex violence, partner violence as serious as heterosexual domestic violence.
But, It appeared so.
Reading The Police Report
Months later while reading the police reports, I learned she admitted to loading the gun while standing in my driveway, then shoving it in her waistband.
She told officers three inconsistent stories as to how the gun went off. “She was showing me how to clean my gun”, “I was just trying to scare her,” “She shot herself on accident”.
The investigating officers and the local state attorney’s office did not view the crime as domestic violence, as there was no proof of a relationship. They said they couldn’t prove she had the ‘intent to commit a crime” and according to her, it was an accident.
But we know, Guns don’t shoot people, people shoot people! Carrying a gun, loading a gun, pointing a gun, and pulling a trigger is no accident.. maybe a mistake but not an accident.
“I knew they were blowing it off entirely.”
How was it our criminal justice system completely disregarded such violence? Because she was a woman? We were both women? She didn’t look masculine or butch enough?
Or, because she was a middle-aged white woman with a professional career, and didn’t have a criminal history?
The final decision by the court was Reckless Discharge of a Firearm. The complaint didn’t say I had been shot.
“This lack of justice was absolutely devastating.”
I carried deep anger, a feeling of discrimination and betrayal for the same system I considered myself a part of.
And betrayal is one of the most damaging emotions we can feel.
I spent months and months in recovery, now teaching myself to use my left arm defensively and tactic- fully. I forced myself to keep shooting, most of the time with tears, and hurt in my eyes, numbing myself entirely to that familiar sound of the firing pin, and the memory.
Eventually, against all odds, after seeing specialist after specialist, I was medically released from my doctor. Their doctor cleared me to return to full duty, but still I had to continue fighting their resistance and fighting for my career.
It would have been easier to turn against the police and the CJ system, and everything it stood for. The anger, resentment, betrayal and rage I felt did have me thinking about it more often than I care to admit.
“But I knew I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t walk away and allow that to be okay.”
I rebuilt my career and myself so I could come back and be a part of change. The last 14 years of my career, when I stepped into that range for monthly qualifications, it is with instinct that I rely on my non-dominant side. The smell of burnt cordite, and that rapid displacement of air reminds me how close I could have come.
Being Fearless is being honest and so I speak this truth from a HARD perspective; a lens of “within” and “against” our criminal justice system.
Through scars I wear, and the scars I will NEVER forget.
I still remind myself I am lucky.
Lucky to be alive, to be here, and able to share my story to hopefully impact and help others share theirs.
If I can help in any way by sharing my story or public speaking, please let me know. I speak at local conferences and seminars and I share my story annually during domestic violence awareness month. I would love to speak to you further about any opportunities you may seem align with my mission.
Check These Resources:
- Complete Guide to Mindful Meditation, and Emotional Healing.
- The Hidden Impact of Teen Dating Violence
- Find Support with BTSADV
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