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What “Twenty Minutes of Action” Means to an Abuse Survivor
Today, Jamie Roberts is stepping out of jail after serving just three months for the horrific act of assaulting an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. His father, Mark Roberts, described the leniency of his son’s sentence as “a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action,” offering more appalling justifications in his court statement, which you can read here.
As I read Mark’s words, my hands were trembling for hours. The phrase “twenty minutes of action” echoed in my mind. I can’t even begin to express the disgust it stirs within me. But I do know where to start when it comes to describing how “20 minutes of action” has bulldozed its way into my life.
Here’s what “20 minutes of action” looks like for me:
I’ve long abandoned baths and prefer showers instead. I dread getting into pools. Why? Because my abuser used to ejaculate in my hair after “20 minutes of action” and then would toss me into the pool or bathtub to wash away the evidence. If anyone saw us together, they would think it was a loving family moment. But he knew that if I fought back, he could easily drown me—he tried that once.
Does this make you squirm? It should. And I won’t be silent about it. I’ll continue to speak out about abuse because the real shame lies with my abusers and those who turned a blind eye.
As a parent, I watch my kids, like many children, delight in swimming. It takes every ounce of my emotional strength to join them, while my mind spirals back to those memories. In those joyful moments, I often feel like I’m drowning, even with my head above water. Every splash feels like a reminder, and I can hardly breathe under the weight of those recollections.
“Twenty minutes of action” has robbed me of twenty minutes each day spent weighing myself, grappling with my lifelong battle with anorexia. It has stolen twenty minutes of genuine enjoyment with my kids because I’m constantly worried about their safety and suspicious of those around them.
It steals twenty minutes daily as I cope with using a catheter due to scar tissue from the abuse and weakened bladder muscles from my eating disorder. Not to mention, it results in countless hours at the doctor’s office addressing the physical aftermath of those actions.
Every day, I wonder if I’m too broken for my husband to truly love me. I question if I’m damaged beyond repair as a parent, potentially depriving my children of the simple joys of childhood.
I’m exhausted by the lack of concern for victims, while there’s so much focus on the futures of abusers. If you’re one of those who prioritize the abuser’s plight over the victim’s pain—take a seat. You’re part of the problem and enabling future offenders.
This isn’t just a drinking culture; it’s one where rapists know they’ll face minimal consequences and that many will sympathize with them over their victims.
To the brave survivor who shared her victim statement, which everyone should read (find it here), I stand with you. Keep speaking out. Keep resisting. Keep fighting.