I survived being cancelled

On the cancellation of accusers

I just read that #metoo is dead. That’s interesting. Because it’s not.

I also read that there’s a famous author whose new book, out later this month was pulled by its publisher. The show based on another book is still preceding, so the signs point to him being alright. There’s a case in Canada against another accused writer brought against four women he’s suing for defamation for tweeting about the accusation against him. Maybe #metoo is dead because one of the most famous convictions that came out of it - that against Harvey Weinstein - was overturned in New York? There’s a retrial that’s supposed to happen, and he’s still in prison because the criminal conviction against him still stand in Los Angeles.

About six weeks ago, Giséle Pelicot’s trials wrapped up. Giséle Pelicot’s husband and several of her rapists were convicted in France. She became a heroine to many, including me. "The shame is theirs", she said, referring to the men accused of raping her."I'm lucky to have the evidence. I have the proof, which is very rare. So, I have to go through [all this] to stand for all the victims," she said of the videos. When described as brave, she said: "I say it's not bravery, it's will and determination to change society."¹ And over a decade earlier, a girl who shares my (first) name was raped and murdered in India. Years before Pelicot, Nirbhaya’s mother famously also said “"My daughter was Jyoti Singh and I am not ashamed to name her."²

Pelicot acknowledges something: that she has evidence and proof, and that’s rare. Indeed. Her story is also unique in that we as a society talk about her instead the men convicted as we usually do. Her “will and determination to change society” is an inspiration. Eight years ago, I was raped. At the time, when I spoke up, I said that I knew it would be hard and people might hate me, but I wanted to speak up anyway. The person who raped me got a wind of that, and preemptively posted on social media, acknowledging the lack of consent. Two women told me that he raped them before, and a year later, the woman he dated after my assault, the one who called me crazy and “abusive”, messaged me to say she was sorry for not believing me because he had raped her too.

This story isn’t about him, it’s about me. I’ve struggled to tell it. What matters most for me isn’t the circumstances and what happened during the actual incident. Most of us have heard horrific stories of rape like the ones against “famous author” and Giséle Pelicot, and mine isn’t going to convince you that rape is a moral and empirical wrong if you aren’t already convinced. What you know less about is how survivors are treated in the aftermath of coming forward, and that’s what I want to tell you about.

It’s the message that’s less well-known and one that resonates with a lot of survivors. What survivors tell me the way people reacted to their rape was more harmful than the rape itself. It’s psychological; victim-blaming, gaslighting, gossip, and ruining reputations. This something that I’ve heard from survivors I have worked and from survivors in passing³; it’s a phenomenon my mentors have found through their work as well. Most survivors say most of the emotional and mental distress they’ve felt came from reactions to their rape rather than the incident itself, which is why it’s crucial to educate and inform on the dynamics of rape as well as to prevent rape.

To put it simply, when I spoke up about my rape, I was cancelled. How so? A New York Times “public shaming of those deemed moral transgressors⁴” The article also says being cancelled is to “hounded, verbally flogged and effectively expelled from the community”. Yes, all of that happened to me.

Indeed, the person who assaulted me wrote on social media that he didn’t have my consent. However, for speaking up about it, I was repeatedly called “vindictive, manipulative, destructive”, often in direct texts or to my face. I’ve found those descriptors interesting. I couldn’t imagine someone ever calling a man vindictive. Nor did I imagine people would use the word in the twenty-first century. The person to whom I said I imagine people would hate me too? After two months, he stopped speaking to me. I have no doubt it’s tied to this situation, and a year later he posted a piece saying that that he knew the person I accused was a rapist…but he never spoke to me again. A small group of people dragged me into something that was supposed to be a “restorative justice circle”. Well, except I was told the day before that it was happening and I had to be there. I went, because I wanted to defend myself. However, during this circle, the accused/rapist spoke, and I was told that I couldn’t speak because they’d heard enough. Ironic, that word: restorative. The next day, the woman who put the circle together texted me to kill myself. Or, more correctly, she said I was a “piece of meat” and I should.

Once upon a time, friends used to joke around that I knew “everyone”. I went out every night, had dozens of invites, used to host a weekly dinner to which invites were coveted. After the rape and cancellation, I lost nearly every friend I had. Mostly, they stopped speaking to me and I never knew exactly why. Sometimes, it was that I was too depressed and sad. One person said that being around me felt “heavy”. Another friend sent me a screenshot from the girl who texted me to kill myself. It said that I was not mentally stable and that I was so vindictive, manipulative, and a liar, all of which made me a danger to myself and others. Another person I didn’t know messaged me to ask why a different woman was saying that I was vindictive, manipulative, and destructive. Another acquaintance who heard my story told me that he was initially baffled about why my rapist wanted to be his friend when they had nothing in common. He said it was so that [the acquaintance] would unfriend me. It strikes me that the language that all of these folks used: vindictive, manipulative, destructive, and/or liar, it was always the same. I was branded a liar despite with a public confession.

The consequences went beyond the social. Immediately after the assault, I lost work and my apartment. I ended up working small contracts for the next year and half, until I finally managed to find a job. My family said they wouldn’t support me - at the time, my parents chose to retire and they wanted to travel. They didn’t want me to speak of it. Unlike the other Jyoti, my parents misplaced their shame and the only thing they’ve ever said about it is that I must ensure that their family not find out. It was the beginning of the end of my relationship with family.

It’s strange to me to hear (in real life) and see (on the internet) people speaking of how men’s lives are destroyed by accusations. It’s strange that those people call survivors/accusers hysterical and crazy when they use words like vindictive and destroyed. Words that indict strong emotion, and are in and of themselves fairly hysterical. And how so? That “famous author” has a t.v. series premiering shortly. The current American president was found liable for sexual abuse prior to his election into the highest office the land.

When I was branded a liar, I didn’t retract my story. I left the bay area - slept on couches, then a friend got me a contract gig at a startup, and I went to Berlin. It was (is) cheaper by far than San Francisco, but more importantly, I left behind the people who kept messaging, kept insisting I answer questions, kept insisting that my written story wasn’t enough, that I had to tell it to them in person, kept pushing me to another restorative justice process despite an enormous lack of understanding of the fundamentals of such a process. I stuck to my story. I refused future process. I wanted my pain and the tatters of my life to be a living example of what happens to when women who are raped. My life hasn’t fully recovered. Trusting people enough for deep friendships or a romantic relationship is a struggle, when it hadn’t been before. Explaining how a girl who worked two jobs to put herself through college and then through law school could barely be employed still makes me feel shame.

So, here again, I share my story with you, so that you can understand that when a woman is raped, it’s her life that is destroyed, far more than than the life of the man she accuses. And, as long as that continues, we must keep the #metoo movement alive.

---

I should end it there. It would be graceful, fitting, and drive my point. But that’s not the end of my life. I don’t want any woman to go through what I did, and I’ll do everything in my power so that she doesn’t. And yet - if I hadn’t had my experience, all of it, including the cancellation, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing today. The fewer friends I have now feel closer than the ones before. I’m building a career of helping others. I wouldn’t have helped as many women as I have helped. I struggled with depression most of my life; climbing out of that experience changed me, made me more grateful just to be alive.

1. Willsher, Kim. "After Pelicot: how one woman's courage has pushed France to a turning point". The Guardian. October 26, 2024. & Chrisafis, Angelique "Cheers, chants and hope for change: supporters thank Gisèle Pelicot for her bravery as rape trial ends". The Guardian. December 20, 2024. Accessed February 6, 2025.

2. Ghosh, Deepshikha. “My Daughter's Name is Jyoti Singh': Nirbhaya's Mother 3 Years After Delhi Gang-Rape.” NDTV. December 16, 2015.

3. If we lived in a world in which all rape was prevented, we couldn’t need to educate on the dynamics. However, we don’t, and we’re a very long ways from that, which means rape is likely to continue…and so education and information around how to handle rape after the fact, and how to support survivor is and will remain critical.

4. Mishan, Ligaya. The Long and Tortured History of Cancel Culture. The New York Times. December 2, 2020. Accessed February 6, 2025.