JD Faith, Junkyard Lambs, and #MeToo
TW: Sexual assault and abuse
I have decided to share my experiences with JD Faith anonymously for several reasons. I believe it is a moral imperative to make abusive men known in their communities, and this is especially true in industries like comics that rely primarily on freelance labor—women in creative fields don't have the safety net of a human resources department to turn to, and men in creative fields often exploit the lack of accountability and structure their work entails. While I believe wholeheartedly in forgiveness, I also believe in the responsibility we all have to hold abusive men accountable for their actions. This has become even more pertinent given the publication of Joshua’s work Junkyard Lambs—a work that draws directly from my own life experiences, without my consent.
From 2014 to 2016, I lived in Portland, Oregon with Joshua aka JD Faith. When we met in 2014, we had both just moved to the city, lived down the street from each other, and didn't really know anybody. We met at a bar and hit it off—so much so that we quickly became each other's best friends. The friendship built when he'd come over and work on Virgil—I modeled for some of the action shots, and we bonded over favorite music and movies. The friendship turned into a relationship—albeit a flawed one—but the problems seemed small enough that we could work through them.
Of course, what I considered to be minor problems should have been major red flags. After romantic potential became clear, but before we started dating, Josh told me that he "didn't want to settle" for me. When we went out, he would compare me to other girls and tell me I'd be more attractive if I looked like them. He had a tendency to snap and get angry at me for nothing, too—but he always apologized and promised to be better. One day he was so angry that he balled his fist and hurled it at me, stopping just short of my face. He was shaking and grimacing as he melodramatically pulled his fist back but left it hovering a few inches away from my chin. I flinched away and promised that we would be done if he ever did it again.
Despite this incident and the other warning signs, things progressed. For the first year of our relationship, these problems faded, or I ignored them, and we were mostly happy. Things changed when Josh stopped working and couldn't pay his rent. We'd been together for a year and already spent every day together, so he moved into my tiny Portland apartment and promised to split my $600 share of rent once he started getting comic work again.
Portland was already more expensive than I could afford, and with the responsibility of supporting Josh, the financial pressure eroded my mental and physical health. He never regained his income, and I learned that this was not an unlucky break as he'd consistently presented it. In fact, he was actively turning down jobs and income as I worked two full time jobs, plus part-time freelancing and donating plasma, in order to pay our rent, buy our groceries, and cover our bills. He stayed at home and played video games while I worked 16-hour days, but when I tried to explain how unsustainable this was, he told me I was cruel for making him feel like a burden.
It was around this time that sex changed and became more violent. If I ever made a request for my own physical safety and comfort, he ignored it or deliberately did the opposite. At one point, in the midst of consensual sex, he initiated a different painful sex act by asking "are you ready?" I was confused and asked "ready for what?" Without warning, I was in agony, begging him to stop. "It'll only take a minute," he said, and kept going.
Joshua habitually demanded sex at times when I couldn't accommodate. When I was freelancing with a tight deadline and requested that he not bother me, he would interrupt and tell me I had to provide sex "or else"—though these threats were made playfully, when I didn't comply, the joke was over and he became violent and angry. For a long time, it felt normal when he told me "you have to." It felt normal when he couldn't have sex without a violent or nonconsensual pretense. It felt normal when he did things to my body that I explicitly asked him not to. It felt normal that we only had sex when I didn't want to.
Another time he initiated sex, I told him no, used the safe word, told him no again. He got on top of me and proceeded anyways. I cried afterwards and he asked me to be quiet so he could sleep. I tried to talk to him about it the following evening when I got home from work. Explaining why it felt so terrible was difficult when I couldn’t fathom using the word rape to describe the act—still, I told him: I didn’t want to have sex last night. He said I’d indicated otherwise. He told me my no’s didn’t sound serious. I was insistent until he finally wore me down and I accepted that it’d all been a big miscommunication.
He turned it into a joke and said that I should spread false rape accusations to get him publicity and boost his career. He joked that a rape accusation would at least make him known in the comics industry, so it might be a smart move. Still unable to accept the events as rape, I agreed with the ridiculousness of these suggestions, and somehow that night’s events faded into a joke.
His abuse permeated every part of my life. He encouraged me not to eat, and I lost 60 pounds. I talked about going to grad school, and he told me I "should probably just stick to an office job." He once threw a PS4 controller at my face, and I still flinch in fear at objects in my periphery. If ever I questioned his behavior or objected to the way he treated me, he knew exactly what to say. He cried and turned on a façade of timidity—the only side friends and acquaintances ever see. "I don't know why you want to make me feel like a monster," he'd say. "I don't understand why you love fighting so much." "You know I didn't mean to make you upset, so why are you making me feel bad?" "It just feels like you don't love me anymore."
On June 7th 2016, he threw a punch that stopped just short of my face. This time, I bought him a train ticket home and told him to move out. For the better part of a year, he'd made me believe that he would be homeless if I didn't support him, and I was selfish for asking him to contribute financially. He made me feel like I was cruel for asking that he treat me better. Worst of all, he convinced me that I truly had no other options—that living with and supporting him was my only choice in life.
Joshua continues to violate my consent to this day—his comic Junkyard Lambs features a protagonist working two jobs in addition to donating plasma. In one of the opening scenes, she is turned away from donating because her blood pressure is too high. This is, in fact, an event lifted directly from my experiences. I might not be so violated by Joshua's inclusion of this were it not for the context. I was donating plasma and working two jobs to support both of us while he refused to work.
Contrary to the way Josh has characterized me, I am not evil or crazy or vengeful. It has been over two years since we broke up, and I have no motive to share these experiences beyond a sincere hope that holding one man accountable can contribute to making creative spaces like comics a safer environment for women. This can only be accomplished when men who harm women are named and their abuse is exposed.
