trauma

Why now? Why now?

Every time a woman comes forward with her story of sexual assault, this is the first question she faces. OK, maybe the second — after some variation of “Are you a lying slut?”

At least we are consistent. But on behalf of all survivors everywhere, of any gender, identity or age, let me give you some blanket answers to “Why now?”

Survivors come forward now, whenever now is, because they have reached the point in their recovery when facing the inevitable “lying slut” accusation is less terrible than watching their abuser strut around as if that person is not a dangerous, cruel predator who is almost certainly going to hurt someone else if they are not stopped.

Whether it’s in Congress, on a movie set, in the halls of their school — wherever that predator is just living their life without consequence — there is a survivor who has been cowering in the shadows of her own life, in pain, wanting to scream to the world that this person is not what they seem.

But the price of that honesty has always been steep. Too steep. Even after #MeToo.

Ask Cassie Ventura. Ask Jennifer Siebel Newsom. Ask E. Jean Carroll. Dolores Huerta. Simone Biles.

Even powerful women can’t escape the blowback, the fear. Even powerful women are steamrolled over and over again by the overwhelming presumption that they are lying, and there is an ulterior motive for coming forward at this particular moment.

Imagine just being an average person holding that secret. Who are any of us to stand up alone against a rich and powerful man whose very freedom will depend on crushing our credibility?

P. Diddy. Harvey Weinstein. Donald Trump. Cesar Chavez. Larry Nassar. Eric Swalwell.

Those men know power, and know how to use it.

“He thought he was untouchable. He acted with total impunity. He never thought that the consequences of his actions would follow him,” Ally Sammarco, one of the women who has spoken out about Swalwell (who has previously denied allegations of misconduct), told CBS.

It’s why the women of the Epstein files stayed silent for so long. It’s why there are thousands of rape survivors out there right now who have never said a word about what they endured, and maybe never will.

“Why now?” is just a more palatable version of “lying slut,” a question based on ignorance about how trauma — and society — works. A question meant not to elicit fact, but to feed the Jezebel frenzy men always use in their attempt to escape justice.

Here’s the truth about sexual assault: There is no right way to respond to it, no right time. There is no one reaction that proves it happened or that creates the perfect scenario that will protect the survivor’s reputation while delivering justice upon the predator. In fact, there is really no way at all to respond to a sexual assault that won’t bring secondary trauma.

Wait years and face disdain — that it didn’t happen, wasn’t serious, is only coming out now for some agenda, like politics or money.

Report it immediately and be prepared for every move, every smile, every sip of a drink, to be examined for signs that this was, if not consensual, somehow deserved — a gray area of shared responsibility.

Imagine, at a moment of crushing vulnerability, when your body has been violated and your mind is reeling trying to find safe ground, being bludgeoned by these accusations, stated or implied, that you brought this on yourself.

“Why now?” becomes “Why would you?”

Even when the scenario is one in which there can be no defense — such as the UCLA gynecologist, James Heaps, who on Tuesday pleaded guilty to sexually abusing five of his patients during exams — the cost of reporting is terrible. That case has wound on for years, leaving each of the victims to constantly relive their worst moments, constantly fear that all of their courage would come to nothing.

Which is why survivors don’t always come forward. Maybe they need time to put themselves back together, even just a little bit. Maybe the fear of all that societal scrutiny is just too much. Maybe they fear they won’t be believed, and their attacker will be free to harm them again.

Maybe they just want it to all go away. Maybe they do blame themselves, and are paralyzed by an unfounded shame.

There are so many reasons why survivors stay silent — and none of them are because it didn’t happen, or because they are lying.

Lonna Drewes, the Beverly Hills model who came forward Tuesday with an accusation that Swalwell drugged and raped her in 2018, summed up the experience of many, many survivors.

“I did not want to live anymore,” she said of how she felt after the attack. “I cried all the time for years.”

So here’s the real answer to “Why now?” from a victim’s statement that one of Heap’s survivors read in court.

“What you intended to break, you did not,” she said.

That is the answer to “Why now?” Because the bravery and courage at the heart of the survivor was bruised but not defeated.

Because she doesn’t want it to happen to anyone else.

Because she deserves to be free of his secrets: Ones she has been forced to keep out of fear of him, but also of us.

After his October 2015 overdose at a Nevada brothel, Lamar Odom says, he had “12 strokes and six heart attacks. All my doctors say, like, I’m a walking miracle.”

Now, more than a decade later, the Love Ranch brothel has been demolished, but Odom is still around.

The former Laker and onetime husband of Khloé Kardashian is telling his story for “The Death and Life of Lamar Odom,” the newest episode of Netflix’s documentary series “Untold,” along with Kardashian, former coach Phil Jackson and others who were around during his Oct. 13, 2015, health emergency. The episode premiered Tuesday.

“You know what’s funny?” the 46-year-old former player told Sports Illustrated in an interview published Monday. “I haven’t even watched it yet. You know why? Because I lived it.”

Odom, who just got out of another month of rehab in February, insists that the 2015 episode was not a mere overdose but a “hit,” an attempt on his life.

“Right when I signed the divorce papers, I was like, ‘I’m gonna get it in.’ The Bunny Ranch I used to always see on TV, but I don’t have any coke to take,” he says in the documentary. “ … It’s crazy when you think about [how] one decision, so big or so minor, could be so pivotal to you and to people that you really love.”

The late Dennis Hof, owner of the Bunny Ranch, where HBO’s “Cathouse: The Series” was shot, owned other Nevada brothels. Odom set off that October for Hof’s Love Ranch in Crystal, about 80 miles outside of Las Vegas.

“It was pretty rare that a celebrity — certainly anybody above the D-list — would be actively trying to come out to one of the brothels,” former Love Ranch manager Richard Hunter says in the “Untold” episode. “This was kind of a myth. This was something Dennis perpetuated.”

But, Hunter said, “Lamar Odom actually began contacting several of the girls from the Love Ranch on Instagram. … Being a professional athlete, there’s a lot of easier ways to do this than to drive an hour outside of the city into the desert, walk into a brothel, such as it was, and want to live there for a few days.

“As the days progressed, I remember that him or one of his handlers … actually contacted the brothel and wanted a car to pick him up. So it definitely became real when he gave us the address of where he was at.” The driver called the Love Ranch and let them know his passenger really was Odom. They put him in a house behind the brothel, Hunter said, where they put folks who were “spending enough money.”

Odom told USA Today in an interview published Monday that what transpired at the Love Ranch — which was demolished in November 2024, after Hof’s 2018 death — “was like a hit. Obviously they missed. I don’t know if they want to finish the job.”

Hit or not, Odom infamously wound up overdosing on alcohol and various drugs including over-the-counter erectile-dysfunction supplements. He says no cocaine was involved.

Kardashian explains in the episode that her divorce from Odom came as a result of an ultimatum she was told to deliver during a planned intervention: a three-month rehab stint or a split. Odom surprised them, she said, when he said that all he wanted was his passport — and the divorce.

“I was like, looking around like, ‘Wait. Wait. I — I don’t want the divorce,’” she said. “‘You guys [who assembled for the intervention] told me I have to say this.’”

Odom and Kardashian had signed their papers before the OD, but a judge hadn’t yet signed off on the dissolution, which allowed her to keep him insured and, as his wife and next of kin, to make decisions regarding his health. Kobe Bryant, Odom’s Lakers teammate and Kardashian’s close friend, flew to Nevada to help her decide whether to proceed with surgery to fix Odom’s lung that had collapsed. She said yes, even though there was only “like a 10% chance” that it would work and that he would survive the procedure.

Odom made it through, recovering at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Bryant died in a helicopter crash less than five years later.

After the OD, Kardashian never left the hospital. She put their divorce — finalized in 2016 — on hold. When Odom awakened from his coma, he couldn’t control his bowels and needed six hours a day of dialysis, according to the documentary. “So you can understand the humility … I’ve won two championships. I’m Lamar Odom. I can’t walk, can’t talk. And they come in to check my diaper.”

He was 35 at the time. The next summer, he was removed from a flight at LAX before takeoff while drunk and vomiting, having been seen earlier slamming beer and whiskey in the Delta Airlines lounge.

So what would Odom tell his younger self, if he could, after suffering a dozen strokes and six heart attacks after that visit to the Love Ranch?

“Stay away from your weakness. And my weakness, obviously, was drugs because I’m a drug addict,” he told SI. “It could have been passed down to me from my father. But I’m not blaming anybody. Makes no sense to blame anybody. On or off the court, you have to work with what you’ve got. And I had an incredible stat line in terms of skills and how to play the game.

“And just work on being the best player that you can be. Anybody who offers you that s—, drugs, whether it be coke, pot, alcohol, they probably ain’t your friend. And to choose my friends wisely, because they could affect you on or off the court.”

Odom also wasn’t sure why Netflix had tapped him at this moment, but hopes that by telling his story he might help other people who are trying to get out of addiction.

“I was telling my girlfriend on the way here, it’s like swimming in a cesspool of trauma,” he told USA Today, mentioning a partner who has not been identified. “And I’m trying to get out of it, but the story reels me back into that pool every time. But I just know I’m bigger than the situation, and I hope to help a lot of people by giving my testimony. Not just with the story, but just in life, that we can all overcome addiction.”

That and, well, “Netflix had a good paycheck, bro,” he told SI with a laugh. “No, but it’s a time and place for everything. I don’t know what made me relevant now.”