Sometimes things don't hit you until you can process them fully.
Sometimes we are so used to forcing things inside, deep inside to that place of denial and shame and self-blame, that we don't even think about them in a way that isn't distorted by society's dialogue of victim blaming.
Sometimes you go out to dinner and someone makes a joke about the #MeToo movement to your face and you wince a bit but brush it off and don't realize how much it really bothered you until you're telling your boyfriend about it on the drive home and break down crying.
Sometimes you cry all the way home and all of your past pain pours out of you and you have to go hug your mom.
Sometimes you call your best friend on the way to go hug your mom, and you share with her exactly what you just shared with your boyfriend and are about to share with your mom, and she shares with you too, and you open old wounds together, and it hurts, but it also heals.
Sometimes you need one final push to talk about things.
Because in a world where "I believe you," is a radical and life changing statement, we need each other's stories.
This is for all of you who have this same story, because it is so tragically not unique. For all of you who spoke your truth and felt the intense vulnerability, and possible backlash, that came with sharing. For all of you who can't share, or don't want to share, but know the pain all too well. For anyone who has ever felt scared of a man. For anyone who has felt shame about something that wasn't your fault. For those who have lost their voice, and for those who have found them. This is for all of you. For all of us who need this healing-pain.
Here is my story.
