October 17, 2017
I can’t say #MeToo.
At least not yet.
The consequences of saying #MeToo are so large and looming. The double-edged sword is pricking my back as I write this now - if I say #MeToo, do I have to say by who? Will you presume who did what, when, and why? Will you think back to a conversation you had with me where I choked out the right words that I still cannot write down?
Maybe it was him. He who pretended that he didn’t know what he was doing. He who said that this was his first time and suddenly found the courage to press on despite physical, emotional, mental, verbal no’s. Who, on his second time, found it easier to press on because he had effectively choked the no’s out of me, transformed them into nervous gulps of air and saliva. He emptied out all the fight in me to where I found myself imagining a future where I would eventually be content with my present. I suppose he was a possible future I avoided.
If the alternate universe theory is true, I hope that the version of me who had to marry him found the courage to walk out of her house and made a home somewhere safer. I wish I could help you love, but you’re too far and close at the same time.
Or maybe, it was him. He who was very sure of everything he was doing. Every action underlined with whispered words, seductive and dangerous all at once. Once you get consent, you always have it, it seems. If you said yes once, then three months later, the yes remains; what if it’s a little stale and hesitant? It was a yes!
It’s hard enough to block out my own screaming voice yelling “You didn’t need to come. You could’ve stood him up. Left him waiting. Or said hello at the door and taken off. Made an excuse. You could’ve pushed him away here. Or gotten up and put your clothes on there. When it moved from the bed to the floor, you could’ve just left. You could’ve said something. You could’ve just not moaned that one time or pretended to enjoy what was happening because you were not. You were not. Why didn’t you say something? You could’ve said something.”
But I did say something. But as the reality of the situation sinks low, deep into your stomach, it’s like an unknown finger is squeezing your vocal chords shut. A scared whine is all you can muster and in a different context, that can be a moan. It can be pleasure. It was pain but it could’ve been understood as pleasure.
I still can’t say #MeToo. He could be reading. Or maybe the other one. Or maybe her, so pure and innocent that I couldn’t believe that what was happening until it was over? I was enthralled and a little too drunk for the first time. Not just on alcohol but her words and charm swept me off my feet. Clumsy hands found their way underneath clothes, snapping me out of my delirium. Pushing hands out of the way, saying “not now, not here” in a low voice is hard to understand when loud music is blasting from the car speakers.
What happens if they read this? What happens if they read this and get upset that I wrote about this thing that happened to me? What happens if they say “that wasn’t me! That wasn’t what happened!” Does that mean it didn’t happen? Does that mean I misinterpreted the entire situation?
What happens if you know who did this to me? Will you treat them differently? Will you remain their friend? What if they’re your family? Someone so close to you that you can’t imagine them acting in this way. Will you dismiss this as the crazy ramblings of that one crazy girl? Will you swallow them like bitter medicine and promise to stop them next time?
When I say #MeToo (and I’m not), I don’t have any proof of it. I have no proof except for the shaky, anxious breaths I take every time I scroll past #MeToo on Facebook or Twitter. The anger that drums on my heart when I read how my friends are going through what I did is proof. Nausea that creeps up my throat and back down before I have the chance to expel it out of my body is proof.
I can’t say #MeToo without opening up the wounds I have bandaid-ed closed. The pain will seep out and no number of #IBelieveYou’s can help put it all back in again. I’m not afraid of what would happen if I made my experiences public but at the same time, I’m so so so afraid of what might happen. Of what you might think of me now that you know about #MeToo.
I am not damaged. I can exist in society without needing the patronizing protection that people will no doubt dump on me. I am not going to forget and put this behind me. I am not using this as an excuse to be a feminist either. I am not using this as a justification to listen to my words over others. This is not the experience that made me into a feminist. I was a feminist and then I was raped. I was a feminist and I found myself in a situation where rape became a sudden and spontaneous reality. I am a feminist and never a survivor or a victim because I am still me. I am still me and I hope you still see that me within me.
The problem with this movement is that while it is politicizing the personal narratives of so many people, it is only acknowledging the pain. The shock factor of learning that so many of our friends and family have suffered so much pain should not allow you to gloss over any political action that must be taken after. The affect released by this movement, through the reading and supporting, over and over again, should not overtake the need to change the behaviors that cause people to act the way they do.
I’m not ready to say #MeToo. And so many others like me are refusing to perform their pain for others. After all, I lived through this reality once. Why do I have to do it over and over again, expressing and exploring the intimate places that were violated within me, just to prove that this is a problem? Why do we have to keep proving this is a problem? Why is there such a great need to prove the pain that is performed on our bodies?
I’m not ready to say #MeToo. At least, not yet. Not until this world is a place where we don’t have to say #MeToo to gain some semblance of justice. Not until I do not have to perform my pain on the internet to convince the world that all bodies deserve respect.
Image: Woman Lying Down by Joan Llimona (1902)