Uncertainty Awaits at the Other End of the Hotline

Content Warning: This article references sexual violence and crisis response, and is intended for mature audiences.

It’s 3 a.m. on a Saturday.

A shrill sound jolts me from my sleep, slicing through the silence – it’s the rape crisis center hotline. I scramble to turn on my lamp and grab my glasses from the nightstand.

Experience has taught me to move quickly in these moments, remembering that time is vital and each call carries with it a possibility of heartache.

Startled, my husband is now awake too, but he is familiar with the ringtone he’s now heard it many times.

I go into my office and close the door for privacy – pen, paper, and laptop in front of me.

Beside me sits my big, red hospital go-bag and a folded outfit ready to throw on in case I need to rush out of the house.

My dog curls up at my feet, ready to provide emotional support – sort of like me. At this point, I’m ready for anything.

It could be the Shannon Emergency Clinic, calling to request an advocate’s presence after an assault was reported.

Or it could be a survivor in need of safety planning, a troubled teenager seeking someone to believe them, the loved one of someone who was recently assaulted, or even someone who feels suicidal and needs immediate help.

Sometimes, the caller just needs someone to talk to – a reminder that they’re not alone.

You never know what’s on the other side of that call. Each ring is a story waiting to be told, and an opportunity to help someone heal.

Once you’re connected with that caller, the real work begins.

But what happens once the phone is answered?

Each phone call paints a different picture. Some last five minutes; others stretch past an hour. Each one depends on the needs of the caller – and that’s exactly why this work matters.

Who Calls and Why It Matters

The work of victim advocacy reminds us that sexual violence does not discriminate – despite what popular media might suggest.

Sometimes, society paints an image of what rape supposedly looks like: a young woman jogs through the park alone, and a man wearing black jumps out of the bushes.

But that image, while common in TV and movies, casts a shadow over the reality for many survivors – including myself.

Stranger rape does indeed occur.

It is undeniably horrific, and it deserves our attention. But the truth is the vast majority of sexual assaults are committed by someone the victim knows.

And rapists don’t only target young women. Sexual violence touches all genders, ages, faiths, and professions.

It lives in the shadows of every community, including those here in the Concho Valley.

A waitress harassed by her boss.

A highschooler experiencing cyber stalking.

A wife. A pastor. A teenager who’s never had a safe place to talk.

These are the voices on the other end of the line, and we are advocates for them.

No matter where they’re from, when someone is scared, hurt, or lonely, hotline workers are there to listen without judgment, provide emotional support, and create a sense of safety in a dark place.

And the job of supporting survivors doesn’t end at a phone call. It goes much further than that.

The Advocate’s Perspective

During the call, advocates often do more than just listen.

Beyond empathy, crisis work requires focus, fast thinking, knowledge of local resources, and creative problem solving.

While we can never predict what someone might need, there are important steps we try to take with each call.

First, we assess for safety. Is the caller in a position to have this conversation safely? Are they currently in a room with their abuser? Are they actively suicidal? Are they physically in a safe place?

All these things are important to address immediately because the safety of the caller matters first and foremost.

Secondly, we determine their needs. We need to find out why they called. Are they in need of resource referrals? Do they want to schedule an appointment with an advocate, or perhaps with a counselor to further address their trauma?

Were they recently triggered, and in need of someone to help then return to homeostasis?

Maybe the caller is in an abusive relationship, and needs to craft a safety plan so they can leave.

As advocates, we are prepared to meet the needs of the caller – wherever they are. Not where we expect them to be.

Next, we provide support. Here is where we take action, whether that’s guiding the caller through grounding or breathing exercises until they’ve calmed, making calls on their behalf to get them shelter for the night, providing phone numbers to other resources, safety planning, or simply listening while they vent.

Then we can go over plan. A hotline worker is not a leader, and a caller is not a follower. They are a team, so we work together with each caller, figuring out how to best support them.

At the end of each call, we go over any plans we made together, schedule a follow-up, and invite them to call back any time they need help.

We don’t direct, and we don’t make decisions for people.

We walk alongside them, offering support, encouragement, and insight.

An advocate’s job is to make sure a survivor has everything they need to make the decision that’s best for them – after all, they are the experts in their own lives.

And sometimes they just need someone they can share their truth with.

The thing about working on the hotline is that it all sticks with you – the good, bad, and the ugly.

On either side of the phone sits a human, waiting to be heard, waiting to hear.

It’s a strange sort of intimacy; one that allows for moments of true human connection on both ends.

In my experience, every single call matters, but some calls stick around longer.

No matter how much training and experience you get, nothing makes hearing a child’s voice on the other end of the line any less jarring.

Certain things, I’m sure, will stay with me forever. But the tougher the call, the more I’m reminded of why this work matters. And why hotlines serve as lifelines for many people – especially in rural areas like ours, where trauma-informed care is needed now more than ever.

Survivors in rural areas face unique barriers, such as transportation, increased stigma, and strong family/community ties – where oftentimes the survivor relies on the perpetrator socially or financially.

What keeps me going in this work is more than a passion – it’s purpose.

A mission to use my lived experience to help others. To be that person on the other end of the line that says, “You’re not alone. I believe you. What can I do to help?”

With my dog at my feet, my phone in my hand, and the hope for healing in my heart, I am ready to face the call.

— Chrysanthemum Crenshaw Cohen covers a wide variety of topics for The Concho Observer, and has an extensive background working to improve social services and animal welfare.