Me, Too.

“But I remember, everything.”

Hurt, Johnny Cash

When the hashtag, #metoo, began trending a couple of months ago, my first thought is not one that I am proud of. It was something to the affect of “come on, put your big girl panties on and deal with it.” 

I still remember the first time I experienced sexual harassment in the workplace. I was 15. It was the end of my shift, and I was cleaning out a sweet tea machine, and to do so, you had to climb up in an awkward manner to wipe out the bottom. One of the owners, the husband, a MUCH older man than me at the time, had never made me feel uncomfortable. Sure, he was touchy, but I live in the south. We’re a touchy kind of people. This one particular day though, as I was climbing down, he came up behind me, too close for my liking, and I felt his breath on my neck as he whispered “I bet you f**k like a rabbit.” I remember my eyes growing wide; I didn't know how to react. I turned to him, and he looked… different. There was a look in his eyes; not passion, not longing… it was power. He had stolen my power and was reflecting it back at me. My breath hitched in my throat as I laughed as I always do when I am uncomfortable and excused myself as quickly as possible. I went home, and told my mom about it. I don’t blame her for her response, she was born in ’44 - she was raised in a time where you did as she told me to do. “Men will be men,” “Its part of being a woman,” “Get used to it,” and my personal favorite, “Ignore it.”

So, ignore it I did. As a teen, when I was touched inappropriately, I just kept my mouth shut and let it happen. Once, I did open up about one such event when I was 17 to someone whom I trusted, and was told that it was “my fault, and shouldn’t have been in that situation.” It was a party, there was underage drinking, and everyone crashed. I woke up to a friends hand down my pants and… well, details are moot. Once again, because I was female, the fault was on me. So once again, I shut my mouth and went on with my life.

When I was 19, I got my first REAL job. Business casual, 8-5, Monday through Friday, benefits… the works. Seeing as I was a college drop out, this was a very big deal for me, and I took my job seriously. I loved my work, and was well liked. Unfortunately, I was too well liked by one of my superiors. 

I really did try to keep my mouth shut. I laughed at his sexually laced jokes, even when pointed at me. All the other women were laughing… so why shouldn't I? On the outside I appeared fine; on the inside, it was doing irreparable damage to my psyche and my confidence. The harassment reached a point of being so apparent that a male friend came to me in private and said “You know, you DON’T HAVE to take that, right?” Coming from a man, I was positively floored. A) was it really that obvious?, and B) Could I really do something about it? 19 and ballsy, I decided I would try one. More. Time. So, I typed a letter in the most basic font, reporting him in the most generic of ways, leaving out anything specifically to do with me (I wasn’t his only victim and knew it), and put it in the drop box of the safety officer when there was no one around.

The next morning, the safety officer came in my office and closed the door. Had I been outed? Had I been spotted? Nope. He had seen it happening. He had seen it and done NOTHING, I might add, but here he was, in my office. He was required to take it to the CEO. I was required to make a statement, to the CEO, whom, I might add, was a friend of said assailant. What came of it? He got three days off with no pay, and had to make a verbal apology to me in front of the CEO. For about a week, I was championed by the women I worked with, thanking me in secret for standing up to him. Slowly, he went back to his ways. I quit a few months later. I couldn’t tolerate the stench of secrecy and cover up anymore, and the majority of the people there had stopped looking me in the eye. My boss stopped bringing me biscuits on my early Friday shifts, and little perks that I had been offered before stopped. Once again, I was at fault. I vowed to keep my mouth shut from that moment forward, and for the next decade, I did just that.

Did you know that no means no even when you’re in a relationship? Neither did my first long term lover. 

Did you know that no means no even when you’re acquainted? Neither did the guy at the party I never should have gone to when I was 25 and going through a separation. 

Did you know that screaming no, while being tied to a bed and sodomized by a man you trusted, who tried to quiet you with a gag, means no? Yea… he didn’t either, as he dragged the knife blade up and down my body.

I could go on and on about the countless times I’ve been too afraid to say that “this isn’t right,” or “you have no right to do that to me.” My next sentence was going to be about not "going on and on" about my experiences because I didn't want the post to become about “pity." A friend had to remind me that sharing my experiences, whether it be one or five or fifty of them, is NEVER done to get pity, nor does victimization make one come across as pitiful. Unfortunately, that idea/belief/fear is pretty universal.

In 2010, I took my first step, which was putting down the booze for good. My next step was my first “healthy” relationship. Even though I think deep down we both knew it would never last, it was nice to love and be loved, to be heard, to be touched with respect, affection, and admiration. I will never forget him for that. He gave me the courage to accept that fact that not only was I allowed to receive, but deserved, to be treated with respect, and to be respected for my womanhood. He empowered me to be better.

In the beginning of this year, I committed to healing my mind, heart, and soul. So, for the first time ever, I went into therapy an open book. Everything came out, from the first time someone touched me, to my present day issues with touch, sounds, smells, tastes. And for the FIRST TIME, my feelings were VALIDATED. WHAT I FELT WAS REAL AND NORMAL. I was elated. I cried. I cried for weeks, every chance I got. I had permission to be angry. I had permission to NOT be mad at myself. I gained what I had been seeking for over a decade: the chance to heal.

I’m far from whole and healed. I’m told that some of my wounds may never heal. There are certain ways, areas, of my body where I cannot fathom being touched. It makes me shut down immediately and I retreat into survival mode. There are smells that scare me, and sometimes, I can catch a glimpse of someone who brings back a person from the past and I begin to shake. 

I’m lucky to have a husband today who I trust completely, and knows everything. Well, almost. Some memories are so far down, that when I remember them, its as if we’re remembering them together, strolling down a very sordid memory lane. 

Men (and women), you can do better. Survivors, I am hugging all of you. Whether it be full on assult, or a “casual” brush of the breast. We are taught from a very early age where we are and are not supposed to touch people. Why this fades as we enter adolescence and adulthood, I’m not sure. But I do know this. I am so proud of EVERY woman (and man!), who has come forward with #metoo. I have found courage in your posts, and though late to the bandwagon, better late than never. #metoo