The frontlines of a different pandemic, Utah sees a rise in domestic violence cases

Everything Liz Sollis does at work is painted with the darkness of domestic violence.

Often, she gets phone calls from people she knows personally. Some of them are in life-threatening circumstances and have no idea what to do about it.

“People need another resource and are afraid to tell their friends and family; they are ashamed,” Sollis said. “I turn into the support to guide them through that process.”

She returns home to a family facing its own struggles during a pandemic. And then, the next day, she wakes up and does it all again.

Sollis, the communications consultant for the Utah Domestic Violence Coalition, has been working in various positions in this field for the past 21 years. The work never stops.

But it does wax and wane.  

Cache Valley has seen a 110% increase in calls to the hotline Citizens Against Physical and Sexual Abuse, also known as CAPSA, and workers are doing all they can to provide resources for survivors of abuse during the pandemic, but increasing the effort feels overwhelming.  

CAPSA also provides safe shelters for those fleeing from abusive situations. According to Jill Anderson, the organization’s executive director, shelter numbers are up more than 60 percent. 

“Abuse rates tend to go up during times of crisis, so we knew we would see an increase,” Anderson said. “But we did not anticipate the extent we are seeing.”

Housing has been increasingly hard to find due to the rise of domestic abuse incidents, and because the shelter is following social distancing rules. 

$65,000 has been spent by the organization this year providing hotel rooms and other off-site shelters. CAPSA is in the middle of two large expansions of new housing and an additional housing neighborhood.

Anderson says it is tough to meet the high demands brought on by work, but those who are working to help survivors are passionate about what they do. 

“Our staff are experts at helping them become safe and start to heal,” she said. “They let the survivor know that they believe in them, that they are sorry that it happened to them and they want to help in any way they can.”

But it’s taking a toll. 

Danielle Lawrence is 24 years old and on-call 24 hours a day to meet survivors of sexual assault at the hospital to support them as they undergo a rape kit. She works as a caseworker at CAPSA and, like Sollis, her days are spent helping those in abusive situations. 

She says the rise in domestic violence has not been easy on anyone, including the workers at CAPSA. 

“There are times when I have to take a minute and talk to my co-workers and just say, ‘listen to this shit’,” she said. 

Lawrence spent last Tuesday filing protective orders and helping a woman come to terms with realizing she was sexually assaulted by her grandpa as a young girl. While doing so, her phone had seven other voicemails from women dealing with similar situations. 

This is not out of the ordinary. 

“We are all very exhausted,” Lawrence says of herself and those she works with. 

“When I’m at work I have my work hat on and I need to be professional,” she said. “But it would be a very different reaction from me if I were being told these stories by my friends and family.” 

Lawrence has been spending even more time than usual in the office to fulfill the demands of the rising rate of domestic abuse. 

“Right now,” she said, “I have over 100 people under my name who I am helping through the process of abuse.” 

During the pandemic, many businesses and organizations needed a chance to breathe and get back on their feet. Anderson said organizations like CAPSA and the Utah Domestic Violence Coalition didn’t get that chance. 

Since the pandemic began, Anderson says CAPSA has been getting more calls from women in grocery stores and doctors’ appointments. These, she said, are the only time they are able to get out of the house and away from their abusers, who are often furloughed or working from home. 

The team needs to constantly be on guard and ready to speak to the survivors. 

“I think advocates of domestic violence are a forgotten group of essential workers who are at the front lines of this pandemic,” Anderson said. 

For workers like Sollis and Lawrence who are meeting high demands to help victims of abuse during this time, it gets tricky. 

Sollis says it helps to connect with those she loves, whether it is on the phone or online. When work is hectic it helps to remember she still has a support system even if she is not able to see them every day. 

“Paying attention to what you eat, how much you sleep, what exercises you’re doing, that helps,” she said. 

When she’s asked about her own life, Sollis can’t go long without talking about what survivors of domestic violence are going through.

She talks about herself for a minute. And them for three.

“In most of these cases,” she said, “your perpetrator is someone who you care about and you love and you know intimately.” 

Sollis says working on the frontlines of domestic violence has allowed her to truly understand survivors’ pain. She thinks regardless of any circumstance, it is always worth her time and energy to help someone get out of an abusive situation. 

“It’s really comforting and rewarding for me to see that happen in survivors,” Sollis said. “You can see them start to believe in themselves again and that’s incredibly powerful.” 

Of course, this is not just a problem in Utah.

Sandy Curtis is a professor at Concordia University in Canada who studies domestic violence. She says there has been a worldwide trend of domestic violence rates rising because of the pandemic.

“We’re telling people to stay home and stay safe,” Curtis said. “But when you’re in an abusive relationship, when you’re at home you are not safe.”

Sollis knows this. Anderson and Lawrence, too. The work is never ending.

But neither is their motivation to help. 

For more resources regarding domestic violence please visit CAPSA.org.