I feel so much rage right now. Honestly, I don’t know where to put it. This is partly because my own #metoo story has been rekindled little by little since last fall and is now in a full-blown blaze of anxiety and hurt. After it happened, I packed it away because I didn’t know what to do about it 32 years ago. The thought of telling anyone – family, friend or trusted adult – was never of consideration. How could I point a finger at a beloved classmate, all-around sportsman, a boy who had suffered a devastating loss in the recent past of that time? I couldn’t do it. I can’t even do it now.
I think about all the brave women sharing their stories and I try to put myself in their shoes. How could I be that brave? Why not at least tell my husband? Does what happened to me really matter anymore? I’ve gotten past it, right? Dates are hazy, although I could pinpoint it easily enough as it happened on prom night of my senior year. I remember the setting (a car) but not where it was parked or why the two of us were alone in his car when we were going with other couples. Did I shun him for the rest of the evening? I honestly cannot remember. The words he said to me and the act itself are seared in my brain like so many others who have been sexually assaulted. He did not rape me so I told myself it was OK. It wasn’t.