...the chorus asked Hamilton after he died. The answer: Eliza.
Today I posted this message on Facebook in reference to an article I shared titled (unfortunately), "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo":
I can 100% say #metoo because of blatant sexual harassment at a recent job, where my boss, as he was harassing me, literally said the words "sexual harassment" to describe what he was doing. So #metoo 1000%
But the other stuff: a "friend" taking advantage of me while I was passed out, an acquaintance having sex with me while I was passed out, a stranger having sex with me while I was passed out who when I woke up and said no called me a fucking whore and kept going, a date pressuring me so persistently to keep going even when I said I didn't want to keep going that I finally gave in because I had already done it a couple hours ago so why did I care anyway? This stuff - because it wasn't work-related, because it wasn't labeled, because I was drunk, because I'm conditioned by a society to be responsible, not just for my actions and reactions, but for the actions and reactions of men - would have made me have to think twice before saying #metoo
I refuse to let today be the day I told Facebook I was raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I admitted to myself I'd been raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I still didn't feel like it mattered because as hard as I cried, so many women have been through worse and I didn't lose a job, get pregnant or AIDS or even crabs, and honestly everyone has a story and this one is mine so can I just move on and make some lunch already?
No. I can't move on. #Metoo didn't just "woke" men and the media. As I saw "me too" posted over and over, my heart broke. I was sexually harassed at work, which lead to a month of anxiety, nausea and rage that ultimately ended with an apology from him. So I won. No more nausea. (The anxiety and rage are mine to keep.) I could participate in #metoo without having to dive too deep into what it really meant.
Still, day after day of Weinstein articles, Woody Allen articles, comparisons of Dylan Farrow's one story to the stories of untold numbers of Michael Jackson victims, my friends' own specific stories, Weinstein's friends sharing their versions of three decades of abuse, each victim's story, all of these were knocks on the door to the house of cards I'd built around my own experiences with abuse.
Then, I read an article at 4am that blew away my safe space in just one paragraph:
I feel guilty using those words [assault, rape, abuse]. I feel like I’m being dramatic. Or desperate to be part of a conversation for attention. I feel like I’m exaggerating. And I truly, in my heart, can’t figure out if I am. I can’t and don’t trust my own judgment with the severity of less-than-pleasant occurences that have happened in my life. It’s never been a matter of me thinking people wouldn’t “believe me.” It’s been an issue that I barely “believe” myself. And I don’t know what that says about me. ~Veronica Ruckh, "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo?"
Ruckh inspired me to examine some of the experiences that I keep compartmentalized in the memories of my 20s in a file labeled "Top Secret." I rarely acknowledge them because I'm strong willed and I don't think its productive to relive mistakes.
And there it is. Until #metoo, these were my mistakes. My binge drinking, my black outs, my leaving my friends to party with strangers in Vegas, my attraction to childish men. Mine, mine, mine, these guys barely factored in the stories anymore because I not so much owned these stories as I let them hold me hostage. I was so scared to face the truth, so ashamed of myself for letting myself get into these situations (even now, I default to safe words like "experiences" and "situations") that I never truly believed I was raped until a random internet columnist and hundreds of thousands of #metoos gave me permission.
There are some who might think I'd have had a better day today if I had never clicked on that damn article or wrote the word rape. I certainly would have had a more productive day, but I'd still be denying myself my real story:
I was molested by a friend and raped twice. I didn't deserve to be molested or raped no matter how much I had to drink. The guys who violated me are responsible for their actions.
I'm not ashamed anymore. As of today, shame is no longer my story. Self care is my story.
I share this because somehow it's less scary to tell the internet than a friend. If this triggers you in any way, please reach out to me. I'm here to love you and tell you that you are a wonderful gift and you deserve respect.
By the way, as I was spiraling this morning trying to outrun my feelings, I paid a lot of money for a ticket to Hamilton for my birthday next month. You who know me well, know this is my ultimate dream birthday present. So, not only is today the day I changed my story, today is the day I GOT MY MOTHERFUCKING TICKET TO HAMILTON!!!!!!
Today I posted this message on Facebook in reference to an article I shared titled (unfortunately), "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo":
I can 100% say #metoo because of blatant sexual harassment at a recent job, where my boss, as he was harassing me, literally said the words "sexual harassment" to describe what he was doing. So #metoo 1000%
But the other stuff: a "friend" taking advantage of me while I was passed out, an acquaintance having sex with me while I was passed out, a stranger having sex with me while I was passed out who when I woke up and said no called me a fucking whore and kept going, a date pressuring me so persistently to keep going even when I said I didn't want to keep going that I finally gave in because I had already done it a couple hours ago so why did I care anyway? This stuff - because it wasn't work-related, because it wasn't labeled, because I was drunk, because I'm conditioned by a society to be responsible, not just for my actions and reactions, but for the actions and reactions of men - would have made me have to think twice before saying #metoo
 |
| A few hours after this picture, I was raped by a stranger in Las Vegas |
I refuse to let today be the day I told Facebook I was raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I admitted to myself I'd been raped more than once. I refuse to let today be the day I still didn't feel like it mattered because as hard as I cried, so many women have been through worse and I didn't lose a job, get pregnant or AIDS or even crabs, and honestly everyone has a story and this one is mine so can I just move on and make some lunch already?
No. I can't move on. #Metoo didn't just "woke" men and the media. As I saw "me too" posted over and over, my heart broke. I was sexually harassed at work, which lead to a month of anxiety, nausea and rage that ultimately ended with an apology from him. So I won. No more nausea. (The anxiety and rage are mine to keep.) I could participate in #metoo without having to dive too deep into what it really meant.
Still, day after day of Weinstein articles, Woody Allen articles, comparisons of Dylan Farrow's one story to the stories of untold numbers of Michael Jackson victims, my friends' own specific stories, Weinstein's friends sharing their versions of three decades of abuse, each victim's story, all of these were knocks on the door to the house of cards I'd built around my own experiences with abuse.
Then, I read an article at 4am that blew away my safe space in just one paragraph:
I feel guilty using those words [assault, rape, abuse]. I feel like I’m being dramatic. Or desperate to be part of a conversation for attention. I feel like I’m exaggerating. And I truly, in my heart, can’t figure out if I am. I can’t and don’t trust my own judgment with the severity of less-than-pleasant occurences that have happened in my life. It’s never been a matter of me thinking people wouldn’t “believe me.” It’s been an issue that I barely “believe” myself. And I don’t know what that says about me. ~Veronica Ruckh, "Literally, Why Can't I Say #MeToo?"
Ruckh inspired me to examine some of the experiences that I keep compartmentalized in the memories of my 20s in a file labeled "Top Secret." I rarely acknowledge them because I'm strong willed and I don't think its productive to relive mistakes.
And there it is. Until #metoo, these were my mistakes. My binge drinking, my black outs, my leaving my friends to party with strangers in Vegas, my attraction to childish men. Mine, mine, mine, these guys barely factored in the stories anymore because I not so much owned these stories as I let them hold me hostage. I was so scared to face the truth, so ashamed of myself for letting myself get into these situations (even now, I default to safe words like "experiences" and "situations") that I never truly believed I was raped until a random internet columnist and hundreds of thousands of #metoos gave me permission.
There are some who might think I'd have had a better day today if I had never clicked on that damn article or wrote the word rape. I certainly would have had a more productive day, but I'd still be denying myself my real story:
I was molested by a friend and raped twice. I didn't deserve to be molested or raped no matter how much I had to drink. The guys who violated me are responsible for their actions.
I'm not ashamed anymore. As of today, shame is no longer my story. Self care is my story.
I share this because somehow it's less scary to tell the internet than a friend. If this triggers you in any way, please reach out to me. I'm here to love you and tell you that you are a wonderful gift and you deserve respect.
By the way, as I was spiraling this morning trying to outrun my feelings, I paid a lot of money for a ticket to Hamilton for my birthday next month. You who know me well, know this is my ultimate dream birthday present. So, not only is today the day I changed my story, today is the day I GOT MY MOTHERFUCKING TICKET TO HAMILTON!!!!!!
