I Got Raped, Then My Problems Started
Above: One of my cartoons that, apparently, make me a less credible witness to my own rape.
According to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, one out of six American women have been the victims of rape or attempted rape. I am one of those women. I don’t think my story is particularly rare or special. It happens all the time—again according to RAINN, a rape occurs in the US every two minutes in this country—and just like 97 percent of rapists, my attacker walked free. I would like to share my personal account of what it is like to file a rape accusation though, so if you haven’t gone through the process you can learn about all the fun that comes with it. (I’m sure a lot of people, unfortunately, already have a pretty good idea of what it’s like.)
I’ll start at the very beginning: In early October of 2010, I went to meet my friends at a bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It was around 10 PM. There was a guy hanging out in my little cluster of people who I wrongly assumed was a friend of my friends. He was socializing pretty well with the group, as if he knew a few of us, and I didn’t give it a second thought. I was drunk. There was some cocaine use going on. While I was outside smoking a cigarette, the guy came out for a smoke too, so we talked. I didn’t flirt with him—I don’t really know how to flirt, and anyway, I wasn’t attracted to this guy in the slightest. He was about five-foot-nine with a thin yet muscular build and looked like he might be of Hispanic or Italian descent. Later, I’d describe him to the cops that way.
There was a disconnected look in his eyes, and at first I figured he was just shy and trying to connect desperately to others through drugs, as many people do. He didn’t flirt with me either, nor did he show any romantic or sexual interest in me. He did ask me if I wanted to do a bump of coke in his car, rather than waiting in line for the bathroom inside. His car was right in front of us, and even though I was nervous, I climbed in. As soon as the doors were shut, he locked the doors and started the car. I demanded to be let out, and as he started driving I told him to turn back and that my friends were waiting for me. He said, “Don’t worry. I’m turning back,” with a stoic expression carved into his face. He didn’t turn back. I kept asking where he was taking me, and soon he stopped responding.
He brought me into his spotlessly clean and creepy apartment where porn was already playing on multiple monitors placed around the room. I told him repeatedly that I didn’t want to have sex with him and that I wanted to go back to my friends. There was no ambiguity about the situation at all. I spent a lot of time pushing him off me. He threatened to kill me. He punched me. He pulled my hair when I tried to get away. Every time I told him to stop he slapped me in the face. He repeatedly called me a bitch and a whore. He ordered me to shut the fuck up. I ended up begging for my life. I even offered him money if he would just please not hurt me. The worst part of the ordeal was having to look at the massive “666” tattoo on his lower abdomen. I ran away as soon as I felt I had the opportunity to do so. He chased after me.
I didn’t really know what to do about the whole thing. I was scared to go to the police because it’s common knowledge that rape victims are often treated like shit, especially if they aren’t as virtuous as the Virgin Mary. I knew I’d be made to feel guilty about my intoxication, I knew I’d be asked about my misguided decision to willingly get into the car, and I already felt guilty and stupid about those things. A friend of mine convinced me that reporting it would be the right thing to do anyway. Her advice was to look “as broken as possible. Don’t wear black eye makeup and dress stylish like you usually do.”
Now, I think I look like I’m about 12 years old without makeup, and it makes me feel naked, but I went to the police station looking sad and makeup-less about 24 hours later. The cops were nice and cool about the whole thing as I filed a report, then I went to the hospital and got a rape kit. Afterward, I was interviewed by a detective who kept asking me about what I was wearing at the time and who told me that this case would probably never make it anywhere because I was intoxicated. Instead of focusing on what was done to me, most of his questions focused on why I didn’t fight back harder and run away sooner. The answer to both was because I was afraid and operating on a kind of autopilot—I never imagined anyone would accuse me of failing to get away.
Continue

I Got Raped, Then My Problems Started

Above: One of my cartoons that, apparently, make me a less credible witness to my own rape.

According to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, one out of six American women have been the victims of rape or attempted rape. I am one of those women. I don’t think my story is particularly rare or special. It happens all the time—again according to RAINN, a rape occurs in the US every two minutes in this country—and just like 97 percent of rapists, my attacker walked free. I would like to share my personal account of what it is like to file a rape accusation though, so if you haven’t gone through the process you can learn about all the fun that comes with it. (I’m sure a lot of people, unfortunately, already have a pretty good idea of what it’s like.)

I’ll start at the very beginning: In early October of 2010, I went to meet my friends at a bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn. It was around 10 PM. There was a guy hanging out in my little cluster of people who I wrongly assumed was a friend of my friends. He was socializing pretty well with the group, as if he knew a few of us, and I didn’t give it a second thought. I was drunk. There was some cocaine use going on. While I was outside smoking a cigarette, the guy came out for a smoke too, so we talked. I didn’t flirt with him—I don’t really know how to flirt, and anyway, I wasn’t attracted to this guy in the slightest. He was about five-foot-nine with a thin yet muscular build and looked like he might be of Hispanic or Italian descent. Later, I’d describe him to the cops that way.

There was a disconnected look in his eyes, and at first I figured he was just shy and trying to connect desperately to others through drugs, as many people do. He didn’t flirt with me either, nor did he show any romantic or sexual interest in me. He did ask me if I wanted to do a bump of coke in his car, rather than waiting in line for the bathroom inside. His car was right in front of us, and even though I was nervous, I climbed in. As soon as the doors were shut, he locked the doors and started the car. I demanded to be let out, and as he started driving I told him to turn back and that my friends were waiting for me. He said, “Don’t worry. I’m turning back,” with a stoic expression carved into his face. He didn’t turn back. I kept asking where he was taking me, and soon he stopped responding.

He brought me into his spotlessly clean and creepy apartment where porn was already playing on multiple monitors placed around the room. I told him repeatedly that I didn’t want to have sex with him and that I wanted to go back to my friends. There was no ambiguity about the situation at all. I spent a lot of time pushing him off me. He threatened to kill me. He punched me. He pulled my hair when I tried to get away. Every time I told him to stop he slapped me in the face. He repeatedly called me a bitch and a whore. He ordered me to shut the fuck up. I ended up begging for my life. I even offered him money if he would just please not hurt me. The worst part of the ordeal was having to look at the massive “666” tattoo on his lower abdomen. I ran away as soon as I felt I had the opportunity to do so. He chased after me.

I didn’t really know what to do about the whole thing. I was scared to go to the police because it’s common knowledge that rape victims are often treated like shit, especially if they aren’t as virtuous as the Virgin Mary. I knew I’d be made to feel guilty about my intoxication, I knew I’d be asked about my misguided decision to willingly get into the car, and I already felt guilty and stupid about those things. A friend of mine convinced me that reporting it would be the right thing to do anyway. Her advice was to look “as broken as possible. Don’t wear black eye makeup and dress stylish like you usually do.”

Now, I think I look like I’m about 12 years old without makeup, and it makes me feel naked, but I went to the police station looking sad and makeup-less about 24 hours later. The cops were nice and cool about the whole thing as I filed a report, then I went to the hospital and got a rape kit. Afterward, I was interviewed by a detective who kept asking me about what I was wearing at the time and who told me that this case would probably never make it anywhere because I was intoxicated. Instead of focusing on what was done to me, most of his questions focused on why I didn’t fight back harder and run away sooner. The answer to both was because I was afraid and operating on a kind of autopilot—I never imagined anyone would accuse me of failing to get away.

Continue

It’s All Going to Be All Right
About two months after writing this article, on the 26th of December, Nicola lost the uneven battle against cancer, which he describes below in the most humane and open account we have seen. His aim was to take your mind away from the sanitized brochures of hospitals and fake True Hollywood Story specials dedicated to celebrity cancer survivors. The people who edited and published this text had the honor of meeting him and, some, of being his friends. Rest in Peace, Coco! You’ll always be an inspiration to us.
I’m sitting in the hospital crapper, laptop on my knees, writing this, while a full-on orgy is taking place to my right. Six pigeons are fucking on the windowsill about a foot away from me, while ten more bombard the tin roof with bird shit. I guess I’m just going to have to look for inspiration in the 12-foot high heap of rotting trash that’s been piling up in the hospital yard. I look toward the outskirts of Sofia, Bulgaria, where Vitosha mountain lies and realize it’s all ablaze with forest fires—that just makes my heart sink. At that very moment my chemo constipation turns into chemo diarrhea, accompanied by a profuse nosebleed, lively convulsions, and muscle spasms, and the inspiration is gone before it has even arrived.I’ve told myself the title of this article has to be Everything’s Going to Be All Right. It’s a promise that makes me feel better—much better, actually. Then again, I can’t stop wondering how many miles I still have to swim against the current with my mouth open, in a river full of shit. Having faith in the bright days of your future does nothing to make up for when fate’s boner finally rubs against your back, cutting your skin in the most inappropriate places. Then nothing is really all right any more.I’m basically old in every way but my age. In the space of just a few months, I have suffered from every illness and ailment known to man. At one point, breathing while lying down became impossible so I had to sleep in an armchair, sitting down with my arms crossed against my chest. Finally, I was attacked by a vicious cough, which I decided to cure with vodka, wine, and bad folk music at a two-day-long party somewhere in the Bulgarian countryside. Pneumonia, I thought. You wish I were pneumonia, thought the tumor. The pulmonologist was baffled: “I’m not gonna lie, dude, it’s huge. This tumor weighs about 4.5 pounds. It’s almost as big as your head. Go get a CAT scan and keep your fingers crossed—there’s a chance it might be benign.”
Continue

It’s All Going to Be All Right

About two months after writing this article, on the 26th of December, Nicola lost the uneven battle against cancer, which he describes below in the most humane and open account we have seen. His aim was to take your mind away from the sanitized brochures of hospitals and fake True Hollywood Story specials dedicated to celebrity cancer survivors. The people who edited and published this text had the honor of meeting him and, some, of being his friends. Rest in Peace, Coco! You’ll always be an inspiration to us.

I’m sitting in the hospital crapper, laptop on my knees, writing this, while a full-on orgy is taking place to my right. Six pigeons are fucking on the windowsill about a foot away from me, while ten more bombard the tin roof with bird shit. I guess I’m just going to have to look for inspiration in the 12-foot high heap of rotting trash that’s been piling up in the hospital yard. I look toward the outskirts of Sofia, Bulgaria, where Vitosha mountain lies and realize it’s all ablaze with forest fires—that just makes my heart sink. At that very moment my chemo constipation turns into chemo diarrhea, accompanied by a profuse nosebleed, lively convulsions, and muscle spasms, and the inspiration is gone before it has even arrived.

I’ve told myself the title of this article has to be Everything’s Going to Be All Right. It’s a promise that makes me feel better—much better, actually. Then again, I can’t stop wondering how many miles I still have to swim against the current with my mouth open, in a river full of shit. Having faith in the bright days of your future does nothing to make up for when fate’s boner finally rubs against your back, cutting your skin in the most inappropriate places. Then nothing is really all right any more.

I’m basically old in every way but my age. In the space of just a few months, I have suffered from every illness and ailment known to man. At one point, breathing while lying down became impossible so I had to sleep in an armchair, sitting down with my arms crossed against my chest. Finally, I was attacked by a vicious cough, which I decided to cure with vodka, wine, and bad folk music at a two-day-long party somewhere in the Bulgarian countryside. Pneumonia, I thought. You wish I were pneumonia, thought the tumor. The pulmonologist was baffled: “I’m not gonna lie, dude, it’s huge. This tumor weighs about 4.5 pounds. It’s almost as big as your head. Go get a CAT scan and keep your fingers crossed—there’s a chance it might be benign.”

Continue