All of this has hit me rather hard. The talk, the stories, the posts it's all really big and close to home. Everyone is sharing their views, but many of them feel very cold and distant. For them it's words, but for so many, it's personal. They talk about the seven men; they talk so little about the woman assaulted. But me, I think of her. I think of how she is two years later. I think about how I am almost 40 years later. I hope she has gotten support; I hope someone has cared for her heart. I hope that she feels the love and support that people like me have for her. To the women who post, I am Jane Doe; to the women who cry the tears for her story; to the women who thank her for refusing to give up.
When things like this break, there is this public side, everyone wanting their views heard and seen. All this commotion and attention for that big story. Then, when the next headline appears, it's all forgotten. Those 7 boys will move on; if we get lucky, they will spend much of the rest of their lives in prison. But those who know and understand know the likelihood of that happening is slim to none. Too often, people forget the personal side of this story before the last headlines are published. That is why this story is so hard to bear.
Because I am Jane Doe, I was a victim of a gang rape that changed my life forever. 5 men took turns, over and over, for hours on end, and I was left alone to try to rearrange the pieces of what that made of me and who I have become.
Today, it has been close to 39 years since that day, and to say it is over for me would be far from the truth. Some days it isn't so prominent. Other days, my body still aches, and I want to curl up in a ball. There are still days that I want someone to come and save me and tell me that I am ok and that what happened wasn't my fault.
I still feel their hands, sometimes just one, sometimes all of them, sometimes a few, as others take a break. I feel like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, parts of me over there and over there, and pulling over there. Holding me down as if I was going to go anywhere, after completely leaving my body. I feel the sun through the sliding glass doors, too weak to even open them to escape. I feel the cold shower wall, the hot water stinging with each drop, as if the heat should make me forget what is happening. I feel everything from that day, and yet nothing at all. Some moments I am far away, watching in real time; then, without warning, I am right in the middle, feeling every unkind touch. Almost like a time warp: you feel things, you want to die, and then, all of a sudden, just black. The coldness of the gun, heavy on my skin; they could end it all. All there is is a blackness, and as fast as I get there, I am back under the 5 of them. The softness of the one who wiped my face, the way he stood up for me more than once and told the others to stop; those hands were kind.
I can hear them laughing. I hear them comment to each other about me, my body, and what they're doing. I hear everything like some kind of megaphone that lost its volume button. Moments when certain voices stand out, when their tone hits a note, and you realize it isn't going to be good for you. Hearing the phone ring and thinking how, in the world, you could get everything cleaned up before they came home. Hearing the phone ring and thinking about how I am going to fix the fringe on the kitchen rug. If I heard their voices today, I would know it was them. Sometimes, even in a group of people laughing, panic sets in, and I try to find that dangerous laugh and make a quick exit. I hear cars on the street and think about what I would tell them if they walked in. I hear myself screaming, screaming so loud, and yet it's like I never made a sound at all. I hear the knocking: one leaves, another enters, and they knock?? Out of politeness? I don't understand.
I see the room, the rug, the fan spinning in circles so fast that, turn after turn, they hurt me. I just keep repeating their names, a way for me to focus on something else. I see the big Curtis Mathis TV, things that used to be so comforting, now seeming like another world. I see them all staring at me on the bed. The scene in the hall, the one time I tried to get away but just wasn't fast enough. I see my daybed, the knock on the door; another one has come to take his turn, as they pet each other on the way out. I see my bruised body, that isn't even mine anymore. I see the tears falling off my face and pooling on the floor. They get blurry as the day moves on; where did my glasses go? Maybe left in the bathroom?
So you see, you can't forget something like this. After everyone else has moved on and our stories are forgotten, we are still affected. Not a single inch of my body went untouched that day. So much to remember, everything I can't forget, and then the blackness, the shock of what was happening. I don't want to see all that the blackness holds; I just wish that it wasn't so scary. It doesn't matter whether my eyes are open or closed; that day repeats. I don't have all the words to describe each part of that day. Seconds felt like years, and hours never ended. It began with the sunrise and ended after sundown. That last turn, last disrespect, last act of cruelty as they walked out of my house. I was so ashamed and had no idea what I was going to tell people if they asked about me. When they left, I wanted to die. Maybe all I really wanted was to stop hurting. Maybe all I really wanted was someone to care that it had happened to me.
There are days it's hard to believe I have survived. I still often ask myself: if it was really that bad, would I still be standing? If it was that bad, someone would have seen that I wasn't ok. I sit here trying to find the words that need to be said; my hands are cold, and there is this great ache in my chest. To live with this, survive with this, and try to heal is often an overwhelming task. I want so much to heal and find it so hard. Sometimes I think I am just wasting Mark's time; some days I want to scream, others I just need the silence. Sometimes it's almost like the words have daggers, and I fear what letting them out would do. Sometimes the heaviness of that day, and the fear of some kind of internal combustion, feels like too much. No one should have to bear witness to that kind of thing. I think about how far that 13-year-old part of me has come; she's arrived in a place I never thought she would get to, and still I want more. I want there to be some kind of peace, some kind of memorial for what was suffered, but also a celebration of who we are today. I think that I have come to the place where I have a realization that nothing I can do can change anything about being gang raped. I can not take the pain away; I can not pretend that I wasn't affected. But I no longer want to feel afraid. I think sometimes I am looking for the answers, any answers that might bring a little peace. Someone smarter than me to say, "Yes, it will always hurt." Someone who is smarter than me to maybe give me permission to stop fighting. After all this time, I still want some kind of justice for me, for her, for who we are becoming. Maybe that is it. I have fought my entire fucking life, people always taking what they wanted, never considering me or my feelings. I am tired, and maybe, just maybe, I need to be told it's okay to just stop fighting. So many years ago and for such intense feelings that exhaust me. Someday, I will have peace; someday the lump in my throat will become small enough to speak clearly. Someday, this will take up a lot less space because the world is out there and we still have things to do.
I am Jane Doe, and millions of other women are out there. This is one public case, but this is just the one we know about. For all of us, for you and me. We have made it through so much, one foot in front of the other, at a pace that feels safe.
I heart your heart.
