on being jane doe
%% this post references sexual violence and its effects extensively. %%
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a lot of men seem to perceive rape, and the threat of it, like getting punched in the face. just as every woman i know has a story of sexual violence being done to her, every man i know has a story about a fist fight with a bully or a stepfather or a stranger in a bar. and i think they see these things as comparable: a gendered rite of passage that, while memorably terrible, is rarely deadly, and, well, there are plenty of things you can say or do to instigate a fight – you might even go looking for one. as if it is a momentary discomfort, a learning experience, a consequence, possibly catharsis.
their lives don’t turn upside down from a little fisticuffs, so why should yours after being forced into something you usually enjoy anyway?
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generally in cases of rape, there is a physical entering of someone’s body.
people are shot dead for entering a house without the occupants’ permission. whether they are successful in their pursuit of harm or not, everyone understands sovereignty and consent in those contexts. victims are not mocked and belittled for having been intoxicated, leaving a door unlocked, having the gall to act however they please within their own dwelling. they not only expect the justice system to reinforce their liberty over their domain, they can expect their communities to share in their fear, anger, and disgust toward the perpetrators. offenders’ disregard for the safety and freedom of others is generally recognized as a shared threat without the need for perpetual justification from or interrogation of the person harmed.
but when it is a human’s physical person – particularly when that person is female or feminine – there’s a feigned ignorance, this sense that we are thought of as communal property. short of permanent visible damage, sexual violence is regarded as an unpleasant burden of having some coveted real estate rather than as an oppressive brutality.
it’s like there is an air of inevitability to these conversations when they happen. which is always interesting to me – how rape and assault are often accepted as sad facts of life for women, but are supposed to say nothing about the lives of men.
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i wish i could better articulate the actual violence. and not just of the event itself; the effects spread like a cancer from the epicenter, seeping into your images of before and staining them, bleeding into all of your after. it devours your sense of personhood.
during your next shower, while you sit beneath the hot, stinging water, you notice your skin for the first time and feel that it is not yours anymore. you feel a scratch or a cut or a bruise and wonder how it got there, what happened, what did you do, where did these come from. your thoughts float around like a dream. what has happened to this body, you wonder, and where is mine?
you dress this new body, but do not understand why or how you are willing the arms to thread themselves through the shirt, the legs through the pants. you feed the body but feel no satiation. you and the body sit as strangers in strained silence. you are disappointed in the body for becoming overpowered; the body feels abandoned.
it takes days or months or years to begin reconciling even the most basic facts. you spend a lot of time thinking that you or they must have misunderstood the situation, or perhaps you consented without realizing; otherwise it is impossible to accept the image of a grunting, erect man on top of you while you are incapacitated or crying, screaming or kicking.
at some point – hopefully within the first 72 hours – you will remember that pregnancy is a possible side effect of rape. you will tremble on the way to the pharmacy, and the woman behind the counter will scoff at you and start a lecture about responsible sex until you scream at her that it wasn’t exactly your choice so just give me the fucking box. she will lower her voice and urge you to go to a hospital: HIV and genital warts are also possible side effects of rape.
when you arrive, the jaded ER clerk will sigh and hand you a clipboard of rape-specific forms. it will occur to you that this happens frequently enough that there is templatized paperwork. the nurses will explain that you’ve done everything wrong so far – sorry, it’s my first time – but that the next six hours of extended violation will be worth it if it helps get you justice, whatever that means. they will swab and photograph you quietly.
then they might bring in a cop, who is probably a man. you will be surprised by his empathy and attention as you tell him the story. he’s been doing this a long time, he’ll say, and put a lot of these bastards behind bars. finally, finally it feels like someone has said that this is not okay, that it’s so fucked up actually, and you will double over sobbing and not be able to stop because only then does it click that holy shit they really fucking did that to you, what the fuck.
next year, this cop might refer to you as an unreliable witness.
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if you are lucky enough to make it as far as an arrest, you get the added benefit of becoming a jane doe. your local news might publish lurid details about your assault in the name of awareness, and their social media comments will host debates about whether you wanted it, how much you liked it, which parts you got off on most. men you have never met will posit unironically that you only went to the police – which led to the publication of the story they are referencing – because you were embarrassed after a consensual hookup.
your rapist(s) might be crying in the mugshot(s) shared in the article. you might read lies about yourself from their defense attorney, who you might later discover has sexual misconduct allegations of his own.
in the coming weeks and months, you may have a chunk of your hair removed by an impatient detective for further evidence processing; the hair will not grow back for years. you may be asked to explain why your underwear was found in their apartment. you may be asked to explain why a video of you drinking a shot of vodka was posted online nine months ago. you may learn that it can take years for a rape kit to be processed. you may be asked if you like rough sex.
and after that entire debasing song and dance – during which you are still trying to process the initial trauma – you may randomly visit the county clerk’s website to see that the charges have been unceremoniously dropped without a single phone call from any of those nice, official men who kept handing you business cards.
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many of us agree that the worst part of all, though, is the slow realization of just how common it is. if you are in a group of women and one of them discloses a trauma she has endured, every single other woman present will be able to share in her grief. not all of them will have been raped – and some who have won’t call it that – but in my experience 100% of them will have a story of sexual brutality or intimidation regardless of her background, status, age, demeanor, or sexual proclivities. i have learned of two new traumas since monday.
it is a collective well from which our rage springs. and you swell with the rage as it only ever grows and grows. you carry it into every room, every interaction. in some moments it’s drowned out by joy or love, but the increasing hum never truly wanes.
in some ways, this helps you come to terms with the new strange body you inhabit: your old one could not have held this immeasurable sadness and violent, frenzied anger.
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