I am a 53 year old man who got divorced in 2000, and I still consider myself luckier than most men who went through what I did.
But there’s one critical issue I need to hammer home to younger men, and I can’t get it to them fast enough, false rape allegations are real, and they will ruin your life.
I came from what people call a “broken home.” My father walked out, leaving my mother with two kids, my sister who was five, and me, just four years old. That’s when the abuse started. Looking back, I understand why he left. My mother didn’t just manipulate men, she crushed them. When my father was gone, we were obstacles to her survival, so she took it out on us. At five years old, she broke a broomstick over my back.
Side note: Whenever I tell this to women, they all respond the same way. “You must have been a bad kid.” Really? What could a five year old child possibly do that justifies breaking a broomstick over their spine? The female collective defends that without hesitation.
By age seven, I remember a news segment warning about a local rapist. My mother turned to me and slapped me hard across the face. “If you ever rape a woman, I will disown you,” she said. She then told my sister, “If you’re ever in trouble with a man, scream ‘rape.’”
At seven years old, I didn’t even know what the word meant. Yet I was already being programmed to fear an accusation more than anything else. That kind of poison is hard to wash out.
One day we sat down to watch our favorite show, Star Trek, the original 1968 version. It was the “Shore Leave” episode. A female crew member is assaulted, and it’s revealed the planet fulfills fantasies. I asked why the woman was beaten while others were given pleasure. My mother giggled and said, “She wanted to be raped by Don Juan.” That was the moment I realized I was growing up in madness.
Some time later, maybe a year or two, my mother was selected for jury duty. The case involved a prostitute claiming she was raped. I overheard my mother on the phone laughing and telling her friends that the story didn’t make sense. “She said he ripped her jeans. Jeans aren’t easy to rip.” That was the standard of proof, fabric strength.
By the time I was 16 or 17, I had a serious argument with my mother. I was winning it with logic, and I could see her unraveling. Then, out of nowhere, she screamed “Rape, Rape, Rape,” from the living room of our project apartment. I ran out and didn’t come back for days. I spent the night in Central Park to avoid getting arrested.
When I was 19, a friend called me and told me that a girl we both knew was telling people I had broken into her apartment and raped her. She spread that lie freely, and it worked. My female friends, who didn’t even know where I lived, immediately turned on me. No investigation. No questions. Just anger and judgment. I walked away from that entire group and never looked back.
In my early 20s, I was dating casually, meeting women and enjoying my youth. One night I went home with a woman. It was fully consensual. The next morning, I woke up to her staring at me in shock. “You raped me,” she said. I was stunned. I told no one where I lived, and I kept it that way. That policy might have saved my life.
Over the years, I dated many women who told me they had been raped or molested. I remember at least five who said their stepfather had molested them for years. What shocked me wasn’t just the number, it was how casually they said it. Like it was just a chapter in a book. None of them called the police. None reported it. Yet these same women, who gave actual rapists a pass, would explode with rage if you said something they didn’t like.
I eventually got married in my mid 30s. After three years, my wife dropped a bomb. Out of nowhere, she told me that the first time we had sex, I raped her. I was stunned. We were married. We had a life. “What the hell is this?” I thought. A week later, she served me divorce papers. She had been planning the exit for months while acting like everything was fine.
False rape allegations are real. They destroy lives. I narrowly escaped two, and lived through several others.
By the way, seven years ago, I reunited with my father. He’s now 80. We enjoy each other’s company and text regularly. Turns out the man who “walked out” wasn’t a villain. He was escaping the same madness I lived through.
P.S. I showed this letter to a friend. At first, he said he had never encountered anything like it. Then he remembered something. Years ago, he was driving his brand new sports car through NYC when a woman opened the door, sat down, and said, “If you don’t give me money, I’ll scream rape.”
That jogged his memory again. He remembered his sister once told a boy on the phone, “If you don’t stop calling me, I’ll call the police and say you raped me.”
This is what men live with. And nobody wants to talk about it.
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