December 5

December 5

Despite occasional bursts of sound and fury about Weinstein, Epstein, Ayles, Kavanaugh, Clarence Thomas, Andrew Cuomo, Armie Hammer, Sean Combs, R Kelly, Bill O’Riley, etc., ad nauseum, it’s official: We don’t care.

Not only do we give zero shits about men continuing to assault us with impunity, we’ve even rewarded a known serial rapist and abuser by electing him to The Golden Toilet in Washington: our highest position of authority in the country (arguably the world). This says, finally, men are simply dangerous and we have to get used to it. Some still pretend to be shocked, hurt, or annoyed to learn that most of us will take our chances being alone in the woods with a bear rather than with a man. But no one is surprised. Spin the wheel, get whatcha get. Now they can also force us into motherhood, so our bodies are essentially public property. We need to get right with the idea that we’re on our own.

So before I go buy a bunch of EpiPens, load them up with drain cleaner and distribute them to every woman I know, I’ve decided to tell my story so there’s no question of how such a delightful woman went crazy and ran afoul of the law.

I was sexually assaulted at 18. It was violent enough to tear a hole in my body. Can you imagine what kind of force is needed to tear a hole through someone’s flesh WITH YOUR DICK? Not just any flesh, but a tract of such strength and flexibility it can push out a 10 lb bowling ball without suffering any real damage. I still can’t imagine it and I was there. The resulting scar tissue made it unlikely that I’d ever get pregnant, let alone carry a child to term, but that was the least of my problems as I’m bleeding out in the ER and they’re jamming 3 pounds of gauze into my cooch. The DOCTOR pops up over my besheeted knees and asks in an almost accusatory tone, ‘weren’t you ready??’ Despite being only semi-conscious from pain and blood loss, I surprised myself by light-sabering his head clean off his body. But he came back a few hours later so I obviously missed. No, doc. I was definitely not ready. I was roofied. But I guess this inch long tear in my vagina is MY fault: I couldn’t tell him to wait because his hand was clamped over my mouth to stop my screaming, oh great Doctor of Doochebaggery, and Sworn Protector of the Patriarchy.

Healthcare professionals: Zero help.

Okay, let’s back up.

I’m a freshman at Portland State. Shiny, eager but trying to be a little punky/cool, and completely under the spell of “I’m In College” and all the independence and the first-time-in-my-life insatiable brain hunger and discovering the bowling alley under Cramer & Smith Hall while staking out good study spots, and towering in my own agency. After 12 relentless years of “Julie has a lot of potential if she would just apply herself,” Julie was applying herself. With a passion. And that’s where ALL of my passion was going. I’ve never been a good flirt. The handful of guys I’d had crushes on had no idea. (I know because I laughingly asked a few of them later on.) I’ve always spent a lot of time in the friend zone, and I’m perfectly fine with it. Particularly now because there’s so much I need to do.

The rapist — HIS NAME WAS CORY WIDENER, 28 at the time and would be 72 now — was in my Critique of Capitalism class. We were getting ready for finals, and he’d missed a couple of days and the professor asked if I’d be willing to share my enviable notes. Me: Sure! We met later that afternoon to talk through them, I clarified some of the points, etc. When we were done, the rapist asked if I wanted to grab some food. He was smart, easy to talk to, it had been a nice afternoon. Me: Sure! We walked around downtown for hours, talking about school, politics, family, music, ya know, all the normal stuff you talk about. I eventually realized it’s after 8:00 and I’d missed the last express bus. Now one of my folks would have to drive 4-5 miles to pick me up and that always annoyed them. My rapist said let’s catch one to my place in Lake Oswego, and I’ll drive you home. “Gosh, that’s nice. Thank you!”

It was a beautiful home and a deeply swanky part of town. He told me there was a bunch of crap in the car, so he made me a cocktail and I watched whatever was on TV while he cleared stuff out. Very suddenly, I turned into a few loosely-connected bags of lead shavings.

Let me be clear: I wasn’t a hard partier, but I’d been drunk enough times to know my limits and what it felt like. That was not this. What I remember of the violence is foggy. I definitely recall shouting ‘No’ and ‘Please’ a lot, followed by an angry whisper to “shut up, my parents will hear you.” He clamped down hard on my mouth and gave my head a snappy shove down into the mattress for emphasis. I was dimly aware that my teeth had cut into my lip and there was blood in my mouth. Then there was some blissfully blank space for a while before waking up on a cold bathroom floor, my back against the tub. The door opened and some towels and a few old lady period pads flew in. His annoyed voice on the other side telling me he had to wash his sheets; he was waiting for them to get out of the dryer. I looked at the floor and saw a large pool of murder under me.

Somehow I’m mostly dressed and in the car. Still very groggy from the drugs and now lapsing in and out of conciousness due to the blood loss. I can feel I’m sitting on a few towels, but pretty sure the upholstery will have difficult stories to tell about this night. I’m apparently able to give him directions, because now I’m home and pinballing back to the small bathroom off the kitchen hoping not to wake up my folks. But Mom’s a light sleeper; she finds me half dead on the toilet, gets me to stand up and sees that I’m hemorrhaging badly. Meanwhile, my rapist’s car seems to have died, and my dad’s out there helping him with no idea of the carnage the guy has wrought on his kid. Much fuzzy chaos ensues, and I eventually make it to the hospital.

Between the 20 minute drive home and my terror-stricken parents’ 10-15 minute drive to the hospital, I nearly bled out. I vaguely hear the not-headless doctor tell my parents that one extra stoplight would’ve probably cost me my life.

Some context: It’s 1980. The term ‘date rape’ wouldn’t exist for another 10 years. The kits and routine DNA tests wouldn’t happen for another 10-15 years after that. For all intents and purposes, no better than the Victorian era as far as victim’s rights are concerned.

When the female police officer/rape counselor came to the hospital the next day, I was scared but absolutely determined to press charges. I told her what happened. She took notes. At the end of it, she closed her book. She said we could charge him with 3rd degree – which is CARELESS OR UNINTENTIONAL HARM – in conducting an otherwise normal activity. Because I knew his name, because I’d willingly gone somewhere with him, and because I TESTED POSITIVE for DRUGS, my testimony wouldn’t be seen as ‘credible’ enough to get a conviction. It was strictly my word against his. Even if the DA did take the case and we successfully convicted him on the 3rd degree assault, it would be slightly more inconvenient than a parking ticket for my rapist.

Support from real life Law & Order: Zero.

The officer told me that I had the option of a civil case. She could put me in touch with an attorney who handled these, but she strongly advised me against it, saying “you might be awarded a small settlement for the physical injury. But I’ve seen what lawyers do to women in this situation, and I don’t want that to happen to you.” She went on to explain the digging into every high school party I attended, anyone I’ve dated, friends, former friends, teachers, anyone who’s seen me drunk at a party or making out with someone on the after-school activity bus, any type of normal teenage behavior. Anything that may further undermine my credibility. “And if you lose,” she admitted, “he can counter-sue you for defamation and try to recoup court costs… They win more often than they should.”

Support from Law & Order: Special Victims Unit? Yep, another zero.

The rape was nightmare. But the thing that truly broke off a piece of my soul was being utterly disregarded by multiple medical and law enforcement professionals who had sworn an oath to protect me.

No news is shit news.

This was 40 years ago and nothing has changed: THE ENTIRE SYSTEM IS HARDWIRED TO PROTECT THESE ANIMALS, putting an unattainable burden of proof on the victim. Every aspect of that system says you should know know better: Men are animals, and you engaged in dangerous behavior with one. Unless you have recordings and a bucket of witnesses of the actual event, you’re not taken seriously. And if you DO present recordings or witnesses, it can be considered entrapment!

The broader social construct believes it’s more likely that I’m trying to use him for my own nefarious purposes. I’m a woman scorned, or trying to get retribution because he wasn’t interested in pursuing the relationship any further. ‘You’re just butt-hurt because he doesn’t want you after all.’

If you’re lucky, your rapist only fucks you once. But then law enforcement and justice get sloppy seconds, fucking you in every other conceivable way – ways that do far more meaningful damage to your trust and confidence in our way of life.