Underdog by Sue-Ann Levy Read Free Book Online

nurse’s residence at another hospital. The residence had twenty-four-hour security, and that, at least, was a comfort. I finished my degree requirements, started my new job in Toronto a month later than originally planned, and graduated in November of that year. I suppose I also graduated from the school of hard knocks, so to speak.
    When I returned to Ottawa to work in the job for newly elected Prime Minister Joe Clark’s government a year later, I never followed up with the police to check on the status ofthe case. Eleven years later, when I started my journalism career at the
Toronto Sun,
I quickly came to realize that the Ottawa police, considered not the most efficient or effective at their crime-solving abilities, probably didn’t go out of their way to solve the crime or even conduct a proper investigation. That said, I could hardly point fingers since I, too, had put the attack behind me.
    That was my first mistake. I wish I could say the trauma dissipated, but when anyone is attacked so violently and left for dead, life can never be the same without counselling, or at the very least deep and long introspection. As a result, I spent the next two decades in denial, quick to erupt in anger when I felt overwhelmed, treated unfairly, or when even the smallest things didn’t go my way.
    As the
Sun
’s editor Lorrie Goldstein told me, the anger found its way into my writing. I’d never allowed myself the indulgence of looking within myself, preferring to engage in my drug of choice: workaholism. Already an obsessive-compulsive personality – meaning in my case that I needed to strive for perfection and fill every waking minute with activity – I was a perfect journalist, forever working long hours and going beyond the call of duty to get the story. The exclusive focus on work wreaked havoc on my personal life, keeping the spotlight off my closeted homosexuality.
    In comparison to the first assault, the second attack was minor. But to my shock, it triggered memories of the first, resulting in a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Within days of the second assault, I fell apart emotionally and sank into a deep depression. For weeks afterward, I would wake up in the middle of the night, panicking and in a sweat. I came to call my Fridays off “Black Fridays” because, with less tokeep my mind preoccupied, I would spend much of the day crying. When I could see that, after the first week, the trauma wasn’t subsiding, a kind counsellor at the Toronto Police Victim Services unit proposed I contact the Barbra Schlifer Commemorative Clinic – for women who have experienced violence – to make an appointment.
    Unfortunately, I was told it would take at least a month for a spot to free up. I thought I could wait, but when my grandfather suddenly passed away, the combined stress and sadness proved insurmountable. A kind social worker friend of my ex, Ellie Levine, seeing that I was in chaos and knowing I didn’t know where to turn, got me right in to see Dr. Abrams.
    Over the weeks and months that followed, I was blessed to get support from the most unexpected places, in addition to that very generous social worker friend who hooked me up with Dr. Abrams. A few days after the second assault, and still in shock, I had coffee with the city’s now retired auditor general, Jeff Griffiths. I tried to put on a brave face as I relayed to him what had happened. After all, my automatic go-to response – based on how I dealt with and was encouraged to deal with my first assault – was to try to make light of it and go on with my life. Mr. Griffiths was in the midst of a follow-up audit on the handling by Toronto police of sexual assault cases. His original review in 1999 had produced a scathing report with dozens of recommendations. After he heard what had transpired with the police response to my assault, he said it sounded to him like the cops had broken every rule of a protocol that had been put in place by then police