I wanted to be fully supportive of the #MeToo movement that started going viral in October 2017. Because as a woman I know first hand what is experienced and often must be endured when it comes to cat calls, obscene comments, groping, unwanted aggressive advancements, etc., etc.. But as much as I wanted to be supportive and write out #MeToo I couldn't. Not because I hadn't ever experienced sexual assault. No, quite the contrary I had experienced it several times. It started at very young age,(4 yrs old) and then seemingly didn't stop for years. It wasn't until I was older and physically strong enough to fight back that it stopped happening with the frequency it had occurred previously. I'd love to say that because I learned to fight back I never experienced those things again but it just isn't true.
The continuous stream of media attention on this movement and the charges being brought against high powered and prominent males in entertainment and media made it impossible to ignore. It felt like a female revolution. "Is this what my mother's generation felt when the feminist movement started?", I wondered. I didn't have an answer to that question. All I knew was that the more I heard #MeToo mentioned combined with the endless details on the high profile sexual assault cases the worse it got for me. Anxiety and dread filled me as i tried hopelessly to hold back the depression threatening to drown me. It was effecting every aspect of my life I couldn't concentrate at my new job that wasn't even a month old. Sleep was restless and choppy if not impossible. My stomach caused me tremendous physical pain and I was having trouble holding down food. And I was constantly on the verge of breaking down in tears.
As I desperately tried to keep myself afloat I realized why I was experiencing so much distress. In September of the previous year my dear great-uncle had passed away. My husband asked me if I wanted to go to the funeral and at first I said, "No" but at the last minute changed my mind. My great uncle was my grandfather's oldest brother, a WWII veteran who'd been on the beaches of Normandy, and the last of his generation in our family, he was 92. I felt I had to go to the funeral to pay my respects to this man who had been a wonderful positive male role model in my life. When I arrived at the funeral home I offered my condolences to my cousins, paid my respects to my great uncle, and then was completely blindsided.
The man who had started the awful cycle of sexual abuse for me when I was only 4 years old was there at the funeral. He had married into our family but when I was still in high school he had divorced out. Over the years I had rarely heard his name mentioned and thought I would never encounter this person again. At the funeral home he walked straight for me smiling with his arms outstretched. I couldn't move I was frozen to the spot as he advanced I wondered if I was imagining all of this, like a bad dream. Then I felt him hug me, too tight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But instead I was frozen, my senses overloading, my brain flooded with horrible memories as the same words in the same voice I had heard as a little girl whispered into my ear "you're so beautiful".
My husband had no idea who this man was to me and just assumed more family he had not yet met. He knew about the sexual assaults from my past but I'd never mentioned names. We went to the hotel afterwards and I pushed everything out of my mind so that I could make it through the burial the next day. When we returned home I initiated a huge argument that escalated into me screaming and yelling. When my spouse tried to touch me to console me I freaked out, pushing and shoving him away. We didn't speak for the rest of the day and I stayed in one of the bedrooms alone trying to figure out what was happening.
The next few days were some of the worst of my life. I'd always know I had survived various forms of sexual abuse and assault as a child, teenager, and young woman. Now however, the graphic details of the memories were loose and free to flood my mind. I was losing myself. My husband helped saved me from myself. He was understandably upset and confused. I broke down and choked out who the man at the funeral home had been. His mood shifted and his voice cut off, shock and disbelief flashed across his face. He had shook the hand of the man who had done horrible things to his wife when she was just a little girl. Slowly I saw the rage creeping into his face.
Anger and rage are more comfortable emotions for a lot of people, but I think especially when faced with helpless situations. The months that followed were full of paralyzing flashbacks, deep depression, uncontrollable sobbing, and intense fear. PTSD is not just something veterans get it is caused by traumatic and stressful events human being endure and survive. The flashbacks I had were vivid and real I could see, smell, hear, feel it all happening again and it was more devastating each time. Everything was raw and would stay like that for awhile. It would be over 6 months before I would start to feel better and even then I was still shaky. By late summer I was feeling like myself again. Everything seemed fine and then October hit.
What I hadn't fully faced, the trauma. What I was too afraid to write, #MeToo. And what I knew in my heart I had to do to heal was haunting me. One day I read an article by a woman that was so angry at men for being "SO" shocked by the mountainous stories and allegations. It was a long article and I read it all. Her angry so raw and pure, so honest and unforgiving it gave me strength and helped set me free. Her anger gave me the courage to face and chronicle every instance of sexual abuse and assault I had survived and to name my abusers and attackers. I wrote for hours detailing who had hurt me, scarred me, and stolen from me. When I was done I went to social media accounts and finally wrote "#MeToo (it started when I was 4 years old)".
