The Accused, revisited: mixed, mixed, mixed feelings…

Just today I saw The Accused again, with Jodie Foster (and yes she was riveting). It was hard to watch. Really hard. The film was supposed to be empowering, showing that no matter how women dress or act they don’t deserve to be gang raped in a bar, it was depressing because it highlighted the fact that 1) you need witnesses and 2) it all has to happen in public with lots of guys before anyone takes you seriously.
I’m not sure if anyone agrees. But the film triggered serious anxiety memories for me because as a teen, I was raped several times and never reported it. Like 99 per cent of women who were “date raped.”

The first I remember, at age 17, happened at the El Mocambo in Toronto. I was there to see a concert of someone I admired. While I sat (alone, foolishly, not knowing I was prey), one guy plied me with alcohol. I was so drunk I hardly knew what happened when he took me home to his place, raped me and stole my wallet. I woke the next morning to a 75-year-old raping me. I was so ashamed and so convinced the police would blame me for drinking underaged that I stumbled out without telling a soul. Also, I didn’t want to see myself as a victim. I acted like nothing happened.
The next incident was not long after. I’d gotten a job and one of my colleagues invited me to a bachelorette party. With male strippers. Part of me felt like this was some kind of payback and the other part of me felt I should be cool and go. I went. At the end of the night no one wanted to give me a ride home and the buses didn’t run anymore and I didn’t have cab fare. I had wandered over to the other side of the bar, and I was drunk again. I asked different guys to dance with me. Most said no but one I hadn’t asked chased me around so much I twisted my ankle. He offered to drive me to the emergency room for X-rays. I believed he was sorry for causing my twisted ankle and got in the car with him. He drove me to his apartment and took me up there, threw me on the bed, and raped me, while his girlfriend yelled at me for being a slut. I was terrified and shaking. In a moment he was away, I managed to rummage through his jeans, find a $50 bill and crawl out of there, call a cab and hide whimpering behind the phone booth until the cab got there.
These are just *two* of the horrible incidents that happened to me between the ages of 16 and 29.
So: while I applaud The Accused for its groundbreaking courage, I have very, very mixed feelings about the message. It seems to say: well, you have to be in public and have witnesses who saw you being abused. Everyone knows that this is rarely the case.
I know this will upset people but I feel the only way to send a real message out there to men to stop raping us is to maim, injure, torture or kill them. If they know it’s because of rape, they might think twice about doing it. Otherwise they are getting away with what they do every single day.