#MeToo

Why would a woman ever bother telling her #MeToo story in public? What would be the point? Why relive things that were painful, confusing, or embarrassing? Why air dirty laundry or rehash old mistakes? Why risk being disbelieved, looked down upon, or (for many women) retaliated against? There's nothing to gain. The woman telling her story never (ever) wins, because the memory is always there.

This is why it's so important to listen closely when women are brave enough to say, "To hell with it," and tell their stories. Because if someone is willing to go out on that limb, that ridiculously fragile limb with an angry mob underneath it, there must be something at stake. In our current world, what's at stake is the continuing message that men who sexually assault women can get as high as the presidency with no repercussions. What's at stake is the country continuing to advance people who behave badly, hurt others, and show no signs of remorse, humility, or the intent to atone for what they've done. And then put these people in positions of justice.

People who put themselves at the forefront of any battle for change do so sacrificially. They get battered, doubted, questioned, blamed, and attacked, so that maybe, in some distant future, people will have learned from their stories and do better. When they "win," it means the perpetrator goes to jail, or gets removed from office, or doesn't win an election. But nothing can reverse what has happened to them; nothing will ever replace the part of them that was taken away. In many ways, the wound only gets worse after being poked and prodded, the bandage torn off and passed around for public discussion. These women have nothing to gain--what they win, they win for the rest of us, for their daughters and granddaughters and future generations to come.

*

I am incredibly lucky. I have not endured many of the things that many women have. I know the stories of women close to me. I know why they never told anyone what happened. I cried almost uncontrollably when I saw the movie Eighth Grade, because on the one hand you want to believe, "Ok, nothing happened," and yet you know that everything happened because being a girl or woman at any age means facing the reality that at some point, a man will make you feel vulnerable and scared, and it's going to feel awful, and you'll carry it with you always.

This is partly why I've never brought up my own experiences. Because when you read them you might think, "Nothing happened." But it did.

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I was in 7th or 8th grade. I was young, sheltered, and insecure. I was also good friends with several guys, one of whom had a girlfriend and was the object of every other girl's affection. I happened to be friends with him because we were both athletes, and because we lived near each other. I don't remember how or why, but for a short period of time we talked on the phone regularly. What we talked about for most of the time, I have no idea. But always, at some point, he would start describing some situation (for lack of a better word, a fantasy) in which we were alone. He'd start describing some action, like taking off his shirt or kissing me, and I'd frequently interject, "And then [his girlfriend's name] walks in and gets mad and then I leave!"

I'd say that constantly, and he'd laugh it off and keep going, and while I sensed it was wrong, I also never hung up because in a weird way I was getting his attention, and I was also too confused about what was happening to know what to do. Each time I'd hang up I'd feel ashamed and dirty, and that I'd done something terribly wrong, and that even though I was a straight-A student who played sports and did student council and went to church every Sunday, somehow now I was a really bad kid.

I honestly can't remember the details of what he'd describe, because I truly forgot about this entirely until the #MeToo movement came out and I remembered that yes, as a young girl, I'd had an experience that didn't quite feel like assault, but also didn't feel quite right, and was something I hadn't wanted or tried to make happen.

I didn't tell anyone. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. I also felt like somehow it was probably my fault. We stayed friends through high school, never bringing it up, but when I see his face pop up in my LinkedIn feed it always comes back.

*

I was 21 years old, studying abroad in Italy.

My sister came to visit me, and one evening we went out for drinks with two Italian men we'd met. One man's name I don't remember. The other's I'll never forget: Mateo. After a glass or two of wine, it was time to part ways. My sister was headed back to her hotel, and I stood to walk back to my apartment. Mateo offered to walk me home. When we got to my building, he tried to kiss me. I pulled back; he looked confused and annoyed. In his broken English he tried to explain that he had walked me home, and this was clearly the point. I said no, thanked him for walking me home, and tried to move past him. He pushed me against the wall of the building and forcibly kissed me until I wriggled free and tried to get in the front door of the building. I opened the door and he tried to follow me in, as I continued to tell him no. I was terrified, envisioning what was about to happen to me. Thankfully, another person in the building had come down the stairs to leave, and witnessed what was happening. Mateo instantly pulled away and left, and I ran up the stairs, shaken. The man who'd been ready to leave asked a few times in Italian if I was ok, and I shouted "Si" and kept running.

I didn't tell anyone, and I figured that was it. However, that night and for the next two weeks, Mateo stalked me, mostly by phone. This was 2004, and texting was bigger in Italy than in the U.S. He texted constantly, asking to see me. At first, I would reply no, but then I stopped replying, hoping he'd get the point and stop. Then, one Saturday morning, I looked out the window to see Mateo standing on the corner across from the apartment. I froze. Of course he knew where I lived--how had I not realized that as a threat? Since our windows were tall and street-facing, it was clear he could see me. I dropped to the floor and spent the entire day below the level of the windows, which meant either in bed or crawling from room to room. Finally, he gave up and left. I didn't hear from him again, but every time I approached my apartment building I scanned the area, panicked I might see him waiting for me.

I didn't tell anyone. I was scared. I was embarrassed. And of course, I blamed myself.

*

This summer, I took my first official nursing school class. It was about promoting health through the profession of nursing, covering topics such as the definition of health, individual vs. community responsibility for health, and ways to promote healthy behaviors among various populations. Our final project was to identify a health concern on our campus, and propose an intervention to address it.

Our group chose sexual assault, which we started referring to as unwanted sexual experiences after much of our research indicated that many survivors never report or seek help because they either a) think what happened to them wasn't technically assault, or b) they don't want to be associated with the implied violence of the phrase sexual assault survivor--it's a club nobody wants to belong to. People who've had an unwanted sexual experience also fear both underreaction (not being taken seriously) and overreaction (being forced into legal situations they're not ready for). And, of course, many people surveyed claim they didn't want to get anyone in trouble, and they feared that maybe they were actually to blame for what happened.

*

I don't have a compelling reason to share my experiences. There's no legal course to take. Neither of the men in these stories is in the public spotlight, up for a position that carries moral and legal weight. I've not been traumatized to a point that I haven't been able to move on. I don't go to sleep in fear that my perpetrator is out there. Yet this is the reality for so many women, even women who have told their stories to the media and brought their stories to the police. So, so many women suffer so, so much and yet, so so little happens as a result. I am a lucky one.

But those squirmy dark feelings are always there. The realization that I was vulnerable, that somehow I was easy enough to take advantage of and maybe still am. The self-doubt that maybe I was to blame, that somehow I was asking for it, that I brought it on myself. The desperate wish that my brain would just toss these memories into a big black void to make room for happier, more self-edifying memories.

*

Believing me should be no easier than believing any woman who tells her story so that some change might come about. She does not win by telling her story. She doesn't gain anything by getting harassed by reporters, stalked at work, and trying to explain to her family why this is happening to all of them. She does not win because no matter the outcome, the memory stays.

But if the stakes were high enough, I'd want to be brave enough to tell a painful story.

And I'd want people to listen.

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Want to share your story but don't have an outlet? Share it here, in this totally anonymous survey. You can include your name if you want, but you don't have to, and I have no way of knowing who submits. If enough people share, I'll be happy to write another #MeToo post to give voice to your stories.