A ranty, funny, dead-serious intersectional feminist blog.

Letter from Another Jane Doe

Guest post by Lenora Davis

things-that-cause-rape-600x400[Note: Trigger warning for rape.]  

I can’t remember what was worse: the denial or the guilt. For months I walked around numb, refusing to acknowledge what had happened, refusing to give it a name, to refer to it, because once I said it, it would become real.

The day that he raped me was the worst day of my life. He dehumanized me, he made me feel little and helpless and vulnerable.

For years, I carried that burden with me. I felt it above me, lingering, knowing that in all possibility it could fall and crush me beneath its weight. It could break me and render me incapable and lifeless. And some days that was exactly how I felt. I felt as if a part of me was taken, and I couldn’t pinpoint what it was or where it had been taken from, but I knew that I was missing it. Some nights I awoke in a cold sweat with my heart pounding because he’d penetrated my dreams; the one place I had found solitude had been invaded. I knew I had to do something to reclaim my mind, body, and soul.

Seven years later, I see the road I have traveled since that day that has led me to where I am now. It has not been a straight path. There have been twists, turns, dead ends, and horizons. It has been a long journey. Some days I felt alone, others I felt as though I was with a procession. I look at the woman I have become, the woman that the journey has turned me into, and I realize that the greatest strength has come from within me. Yes, some days I fought to put my feet to the floor and leave my bed. Some days I spent minutes crying before leaving the house. Some days I felt as though I was on the brink of absolute annihilation and that I was only a shell, incapacitated by my memories. At first, those days were frequent. I often wondered if they would ever stop, if I would ever begin to feel human again. Then one day I would wake up and feel the sunlight on my face and the coffee would taste sweeter. I would laugh. I would put on lipstick and not worry about being seen. I would make myself known.

posters1

This intermittence continued for years. Finally, the good days began to outnumber the bad. I began to love myself again. After years of blaming myself and hating myself for what I now realize was no fault of my own, I began to understand. We live in a rape culture. And although the media and society would have wanted me to believe that I deserved blame and disgrace, I slowly began to comprehend that those feelings were unjustified and unwarranted.

I began feeling the blood course through my veins again. I became able to shape the person I wanted to be. I began to feel both alive and infinite.

He took something from me – that is true. But what I have built, reclaimed, and created is bigger and more vibrant. It makes me want to live, love, and hope beyond my wildest imagination. If I ever have a daughter, I will teach her to love relentlessly and infinitely, without fear. I will teach her that yes, there are bad people in the world, but there are also good people who will listen to you, nurture you, and just be there some days when you need to cry, or laugh, or be still. I am eternally grateful to those people in my life who have, over the last seven years, watched me heal and offered themselves to help in the process. I will teach her that you are always stronger than you appear, and that nobody has the right to make you feel small without your permission.

POSTER1[5]

To reclaim what I lost and to truly heal, I began writing a letter. I began writing without an addressee. I just began writing.

So to whoever is reading this, be you a survivor, a friend of a survivor, or another beautiful soul, I hope I have given you something. I hope you have read this and felt a little more at peace with yourself, or that you feel the strength to begin your own journey. I hope you find anything you may be searching for, and that you possess the love and optimism to carry on and know when you have reached your destination.


Lenora Davis is the pseudonym of a young woman who approached me via the MMAS Facebook page and wanted to tell her story. To anyone reading: please know that you can tell your story here anonymously. Feel free to add it to the comments or let me know if you’d like me to publish it in a post. ~Rosie


Related:

On MMAS:

A Brief History (the Bad Parts version)
I Am Jane Doe
Bree’s Story

From the blogosphere:

She Was Asking For It
Respectful discussion is welcome and encouraged. When in doubt, see the Comment Policy.

4 responses

  1. Beautiful, Beautiful BEAUTIFUL, powerful story <3 So strong of you to post this!

    March 31, 2013 at 5:52 pm

  2. Pingback: Part 11: Hope | Comfortably Numb

  3. ubiknation

    Stunning. Touching, but empowering. Leonora, you go girl.

    March 22, 2013 at 11:19 pm

  4. “I felt as though I was on the brink of absolute annihilation and that I was only a shell, incapacitated by my memories” – ok, that one hit home. Thank you for writing this. Rosie, thank you for providing this forum and for speaking out. I can’t put it into words.

    March 22, 2013 at 1:53 pm

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