I Am a False Rape Allegation Statistic

This was originally a comment left on a post by Jason over at Lousy Canuck (Jason's post is great, by the way, really a must-read in the ongoing, endless discussion about rape allegations, false accusations, etc.).  Stephanie Zvan at Almost Diamonds then graciously hosted the comment as a guest post. I decided to post it here, as well.  

PS & OT: I apologize for going so long without posting. Rather than list a bunch of reasons--which would just be excuses and rationalizations, in all honesty--I'm just going to try and get right into posting more regularly. 

Trigger Warning: Graphic descriptions of rape & the aftermath, police abuse, victim-blaming

 
I was raped three years ago. Almost exactly: the beginning of August 2010. It was a violent, stranger rape, as I was walking home from work. I honestly had no fear about calling the police. My dad’s a cop. I was in shock, mostly, but certainly not thinking that making a report was going to be worse than what had just happened to me. Plus, there was so much physical evidence–deep tissue bruising on my arms, burns on my labia, tearing that went from my vagina to my anus–it never crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be believed.

Two male detectives arrived at my house. I stammered out a request for a female detective; it was denied. (I learned later that they violated procedure by not accommodating the request.) They made me go through what happened. I was in excruciating pain and dripping blood but they didn’t want to take me to the hospital just then, and said the hospital “wasn’t ready” anyway. So I described the rape. Then they asked if I was taking any drugs. Well, just my medication. I thought it was strange that they literally spent more time asking about my mental health history and the types of medication I took, instead of the rape, but at the time, again, I was in shock, and not thinking much.

Long story short: I submitted to an invasive physical exam, described the rape more times than I can count. They didn’t wait for my rape counselor, that I requested, another thing I found was actually against the law. (But when she arrived, she kicked major ass. And really helped me through the process; I don’t know what I would have done without her. A rape kit is extremely invasive, and I was already in terrible pain, but she was able to get me through it.) The black light (to look for fluid/blood/etc) was broken, so I tried to approximate where he had kissed me, licked me, so the nurse giving the exam could swab those areas.

Oh, aside: the hospital wouldn’t provide Emergency Contraception, although I did get a few pills to keep from getting STDs. (Not AIDS, however–I was told the procedure was to only provide AIDS prevention if you already know the rapist has AIDS, which seems a little hinky, as it’s not exactly a question I could ask during the rape). The detective, who drove me to the hospital, refused to stop at a pharmacy on the way home, so I could get Plan B for myself. He said he “didn’t feel comfortable” with that and I should “wait for my parents” even though I was 24 and alone at home. Guess 24 is too young to make the decision to try and prevent becoming pregnant with my rapist’s baby!

Over the next few months, I submitted to multiple, horrific “interviews” that really felt like “interrogations” as time went on. I was also dealing with a serious medical condition at the time (I almost died; my intestines ruptured, but that was almost certainly not a result of the rape, just bad timing). But I still believed in the system. I still didn’t want the man who raped me on the streets. I did everything they requested, answered every invasive question (the were really focused on my mental health history!), even got on the ground and acted out the rape for them, with the head detective on top of me acting out the part of the rapist. Not only was I absolutely hysterical by the time we were done, I’m positive that aggravated my PTSD for a long time after.

And after all that, I was called in for an “interview” to discuss “a new lead in your case”. They didn’t let my rape counselor in the room–again, against the law, I found out later! For about an hour (I think; my sense of time was not that great) they were no longer even pretending to be supportive. They accused me over and over of making it up. They had very flimsy “evidence” (which I won’t go into because it’s both complicated and ridiculous) but mostly it was their “instinct”.

Because I have a mental illness. Because I was hospitalized after attempting suicide. Because I “claimed” I had been sexually assaulted in the past. (They asked if I had ever been raped in the past, and I volunteered that I had been molested when I was nine. I found out later this was another mark against me, that having previous sexual assaults--not previous false allegations, mind, just previous attacks--counts against your credibility, for some reason.  Like I'm supposed to tell the rapist: "Oh, hey, sorry, you'll have to find someone else; I'm over my limit.)  

But mostly, it was because I was crazy.  The lead detective was sure that I was just looking for attention.  My family had gone camping; obviously, I was angry at being left behind! (Even though I wasn't "left behind" but had instead declined the invitation, because I couldn't miss work, and also I would crawl across broken glass before I'd go camping.)  He had a bipolar ex-wife, you see, and she made his life a living hell. He told me how he understood mentally ill women, and how we need to create drama. How we’re liars, and we crave attention.

And over and over they accused me of lying. Alone in this tiny room with two large, angry men, I was doing everything I could to keep from having a panic attack. I couldn’t respond to what they were saying; again, I think I was in shock. And they threatened me with jail time, with a felony on my record, destroying my family, public humiliation (he threatened to call the papers–something he did anyway, because, quote, “the community needs to know there was no threat to public safety”). They said I would be charged with a false report, with terrorizing the public (there was a public awareness campaign initially after my attack, though I didn’t have anything to do with it. After the rape, I did everything I could to maintain anonymity, and only told two people–beyond my family and the cops–hat I was attacked. But…I did it for attention, which was why I didn’t tell anyone? I’m just sneaky like that, I guess!). Accusations, threats, anger, pounding the table, over and over and over.

The detective looked at me. His whole demeanor changed; he tried to seem kind, avuncular. “Tell me you made the whole thing up. This whole thing will disappear. Nothing will happen to you. You can leave, if you just tell me you made it up. Tell me you made it up and you’re sorry for lying, and I’ll let you leave.” I tried to hold out–but I didn’t last long. Honestly, at that point, all I wanted in the entire world was just to get out of that room. There are very few things I wouldn’t have done, if I could only leave. So I looked at him and lied. I said, “I made the whole thing up. I’m sorry.”

To his credit, the detective was true to his word. (I now realize he could have been lying, and since I wasn’t under arrest or being interrogated–technically, I could have left any time, even though I didn’t know that–my words could have been used in court.*) That was all. He let me leave. Well. He made me give him a hug before leaving, but I was allowed to go.

So understand: I am a “false rape allegation” statistic. When the detectives wrote their reports, sent the numbers off to the justice department to compile the information, I am down as a liar, a false allegation, even though no charges were ever filed against me. (Don’t know if that’s because they didn’t think they could make a case against me, or because they didn’t want to put a cop’s daughter on trial.) And you know what? I am not the only person. It's horrifying, the number of women that I've met in support groups and activist meetups who've experienced very similar things. They too, are false allegation statistics. We were all raped.

So just keep that in mind, when you quote the 6-8% “false allegation” statistic. I know we have to rely on the only information we have, and I use the statistic in conversations, as well. But I always remember that number is certainly not an accurate representation. (Maybe it should always come with an asterisk?)

Please, remember my story when you see “false rape” statistics. Remember my friend, who admitted to a false report charge in order to keep her veteran benefits after being discharged (her rapist’s good friend and direct superior handled the case; a discharge was inevitable.) Remember the middle-aged woman I met, still traumatized, who, as a teenager, recanted her story when her rapist (and stepfather) threatened to kill her family. And the many, many others, all unknown, all forgotten–even in the bare statistics, which are often the only testament to our experiences. And we’re denied even that. Instead, our stories, our traumas, are used to stigmatize and further traumatize new victims. It makes me sick to know MRAs can take our numbers and use them to justify their “bitches be lying” stance. I can’t put into words how devastating that is.

Are there false allegations? Of course. Jason, in opening up about such a difficult topic, has explained exactly that. And no one hates truly false allegations like a rape survivor. But we should balance that with the knowledge that the “official” numbers are not an accurate representation of the truth.

  
* This is why you never talk to any police officer under any circumstances without a lawyer. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been arrested, charged, or read your rights. I could have put myself in jail with that lie.

What? "Shut up...bitch?"

Quick post just to clarify something.

Why is my blog called Shut Up, Bitch?

Simple.  I got told "Shut up, bitch!" just one too many times.  In fact, in response to a comment left on another blog, before I had even transfered to blogspot and left my (fandom-oriented) blog on livejournal behind, someone left a comment that was just a link.  This link went to a particular rap song on youtube which, at one point, was the #1 hit for "shut up bitch" (I won't link to it; if you really want, it's easy to find). 

And so I figured it was as good a blog name as any.

I know that some people have a real problem with reclaiming slurs, and a problem with "bitch" specifically.  That's fine.  I would never force someone to claim a label they weren't comfortable with, or call someone something that offends them.  But me? I like "bitch".  I want to me more of a bitch.  Hell, I'm conciously working hard (thanks to books like Nice Girls Finish Fat and The Nice Girl Syndrome, both of which are awesome) to stop being such a nice girl and start being a bitch.  (And, personally, I think a lot of women would be much healthier--not to mention happier and more effective--if they picked up one or both of those books.  As much as I appriciated the help I got from Codependent No More, it's nice to read a self-help book for codependents that isn't filled with fluffy "just trust your higher power" nonsense.)

So.  That's why the name.  If it's not your cup o' tea, great.  It works for me, though.

And with the more recent harassment I've recieved* from people who just want me to shut up...I don't think I'm going to be changing the name any time soon.


*Funny thing...almost all the harassment I've recieved has come from comments I've left on other blogs.  In fact, the only really awful comments I've had here, the ones I've had to delete, came as a result of a certain youtube video made to mock me...for a comment I left on another blog!  So I'm not sure anyone really cares what I say here!  Regardless.  I'm not shutting up, here or anywhere else. 

#barefacedbeauty

Trigger Warning: Body-Hatred

So Melissa Harris-Perry (who I love) issued a challenge on her show, during a larger segment about body image and eating disorders, for fans of her show (those of us in "nerdland") to take a pic of ourselves sans makeup and share it on twitter, all to show that we (want to) love and accept our bodies as they are.  I thought this was a pretty neat idea, so I participated as well.

I knew full well, however, that I was being ridiculous.  I'm not much of a makeup person in my everyday life.  Oh, I have every shade of lipstick and nail polish and I usually slather some on before leaving the house, but that's about the extent of my makeup routine, and it's a lot less about hiding anything or feeling ashamed about my natural body and more about, y'know, liking color. 

That doesn't mean I don't hide my real body.  That doesn't mean I love or accept my body. Not even close. 

I've decided to combine a couple goals in today's post.  One, I've wanted to explain for a while now why it's taken me so long to update my blog...and, ironically enough, those very reasons have been keeping me from updating and explaining my reasons.  Two, I've been feeling a little guilty about my #barefacedbeauty picture.  It felt like a lie.  So I've decided to post my real picture here. 

(*cue minor panic attack*)

Note: I'm putting this picture under the cut.  It's not really nudity--I'm less exposed than most bathing suit ads--but it might be NSFW depending on where you are.  And it's definitely not...attractive? Is that the right word?  It's a picture of a stomach, a stomach that has gone through 15 abdominal surgeries, countless procedures, multiple tubes and drains, and 200 lbs of weight loss.  And it looks like it.  Each event left a mark that only very expensive--and, therefore, very out of reach--plastic surgery could fix.  So view at your own risk, is what I'm saying, I guess.

Oh, and if you couldn't already tell? This post is really self-involved and self-indulgent.  So feel free to just skip; I wouldn't blame you a bit.

Also, my post on fuckability might be good background reading before going further.