Eden Boudreau’s affecting memoir ‘Crying Wolf’: read a sneak peek of her story of sexual violence and road to recovery

There are many reasons women don’t report sexual assault. Georgina, Ontario writer Eden Boudreau considered reporting hers, but kept silent. Keeping silent drove her to despair, which led to addiction and attempted suicide. In her new memoir “Crying Wolf,” she shares why she didn’t report, and how she found a way back to recovery. In this excerpt, Boudreau is having a conversation with a police officer in an effort to determine how she should proceed after being raped. The conversation is devastating.

“What happened to you, Ms. Boudreau was horrific, and should never have happened.”

“Mrs.” I corrected, unsure why it mattered. But it mattered.

Pausing to process the momentary interruption and deem it unimportant, she calmly, and with little emotion, continued. “From what you’ve told me, I gather the man who attacked you knew exactly what he was doing. He had planned it out, and nothing you could have done would have changed the trajectory of that night.”

I could feel the bitter coffee in my stomach attempting to make its way back up.

“Which makes me think he has probably done this before, and won’t hesitate to do it again.” She leaned in closer, just a hint of strain in the corners of her eyes. “You really should consider reporting, Mrs. Boudreau.”

I wasn’t some naive college co-ed who thought “boys will be boys” was a reasonable excuse for the routine sexual violence that women around the world were subjected to. I watched the news, read the books and The New York Times articles, followed the hashtags. But the reality of a seasoned detective, one who had likely seen the worst of the worst, confirming fears I hadn’t even realized yet — that he had done this to other women, and that not reporting might allow him to do it to someone else — slammed against my chest like a sledgehammer.

“But I want you to know exactly what you are getting yourself into if you do.” Detective McKinnon tapped on the desk with one subtly manicured finger. “If you choose to report, you can’t just walk into any station. You’ll have to figure out which is in the boundaries of where the assault occurred.”

A bubble of stomach acid rose to the back of my throat, forcing an audible gulping as I struggled to steady my breath.

“Once you’ve arrived at the correct station, you will have to be prepared that you could get stuck with an officer who is just getting off a long shift.” Detective McKinnon punctuated her words by tapping even harder on the desktop. “One who is tired and cranky and has no patience for filling out paperwork. They won’t make it easy. They’re not there to hold your hand or give you a shoulder to cry on. They want the facts and only the facts.”

I shifted my weight and tried to plant my feet firmly on the floor. The room was starting to tilt.

“After they take your report, they will decide whether or not there is enough evidence to even press charges.” She paused to consider that. “Since you did the rape kit and the medical file would have your statement of the assault documented, there would likely be enough.”

Squeezing the paper cup in my hand, I tried to focus on the sound of it crumbling in my palm. Her words were landing like punches to the gut, and I wasn’t sure how many more I could take.

“Although to press charges, they have to find him. You said you have a first name and a phone number?” I thought about all the unknown numbers in my call list. “Yes, but I’m not sure if the number he gave me was really his.”

Detective McKinnon sat back, propping her ankle up on her knee, “That could be an issue.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Well, let’s just assume they can manage to trace him via the number, locate him and press charges. It would then be up to the courts to decide whether or not it should even go to trial. If they do, it could be anywhere from two to five years before you see the inside of a courtroom, and in that time, his defence team would be building their case. Which would entail scrutinizing every aspect of your story and” — she paused — “lifestyle.”

The room titled a little further. I’d always known this would be a sticking point. When Joe and I first chose to explore an open marriage, we’d kept it private, for the most part. Only our closest friends knew about the arrangement, and even they thought we were out of our minds. Most people would rather dig their heels into a bad marriage than consider anything other than divorce to mend what was broken.

Yes, it wasn’t a traditional relationship, but did that invalidate my right to basic safety? Consent? Human decency?

“If you do go to court” — she leaned forward and placed her hands on the table — “and this is the part I hate telling people, but it’s important to know, there is only a four percent chance you would get a conviction.” Pausing, Detective McKinnon searched my face as if she was trying to determine if that statistic was truly sinking in. When I didn’t flinch or reply or even breath, she repeated. “Four percent.”

It took several seconds longer than it should have to register in my mind. Farrah would later say it was shock, but I think my brain simply shutdown like a computer infected with a nasty virus. When it came back online, my first reaction was one even I couldn’t have predicted. I laughed. I laughed so hard I had to hold my sides. When I managed to regain my composure, Detective McKinnon’s curious stare had not budged. Guess she’d seen this before.

“So what you’re really saying is there is only a four percent chance they will believe me?” Now I leaned across the table, letting my arms rest just a hair from hers. “If, and only if I can jump through every flaming hoop they hold up for me, change their minds on why ‘non-monogamy’ does not equal ‘sex worker with no right to consent,’ and put myself and my family through hell for up to five years — then maybe there is a four percent chance I will get justice?”

For the first time since Detective McKinnon had entered the room, I saw something other than intensity cloud her features. Pity.

I’m not sure if it was that look or the grim play-by-play that had preceded it, but in that moment something inside me broke. Not shattered or splintered, but snapped clean in half. As if the very last fragment of my former self that had been holding me together had finally been severed.

“It may seem that way, but it’s not hopeless. You should still consider reporting.”

Numb, I nodded.

We both knew I wouldn’t.

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