Instead of an analysis of the case and the facts, the trial felt more like an excuse for people to tell me over and over again that I'm a drunken whore. And as I learned firsthand, if you're told something long enough, eventually you start to believe it.
Pretty Much Anything Proves That You're a Slut
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Since the prosecution seemed convinced that I hop on boners like Mario hops on Goombas, they must've had some pretty compelling evidence, right? Nope! By their logic, any personality trait beyond "praying" and "violently hating my own vagina" proved that I was some sort of massive black hole, so dense that no dick can escape.
I'm a friendly and outgoing person by nature. I can't exactly remember meeting R at the party (did I mention he was the only person there that I didn't know?), but my understanding is that when he stuck his hand out in greeting, I gave my standard response: "I don't believe in shaking hands. Only hugs." This is how I meet people, like a fucking Care Bear -- but in the trial, that became flirting. Their evidence for that blowjob shaming earlier? Facebook posts like this one:
"Your honor, what teenager would ever joke about sex?"
Another time on Facebook, one of my best friends jokingly said something about me giving oral sex, and I sarcastically replied, "oh yes (friend). You know how much I love giving bjs". Naturally, they only screencapped the second sentence, which proved that I'm practically the spokesperson for dicks in mouths. Fortunately it was deemed inadmissible in a pretrial hearing, but fuck, man.
But the worst things to be used against me were my own efforts to get over what happened. I was raped on a Friday night, but I worked a double shift as a server at a local restaurant that Saturday. I honestly don't know for sure (my memory of the event and the surrounding days is fuzzy, due to the whole trauma thing), but I was probably desperate to pretend like it hadn't happened and that things were "normal." Either way, the defense lawyer made a big deal about me having gone to work "like nothing happened," which therefore meant that nothing happened. Because the only way people deal with trauma is to scream in the rain while an orchestra swells for the next 36 hours -- any deviation from that is proof of falsehood.
"Plus, we hear she served a club sandwich with a pickle, the most slutty of all dishes."