The past week and a half have been absolutely miserable for me. It's so painful to have the machine mercilessly move forward.
However, I don't deserve to feel anguish. Disappointment, anger, concern, but not anguish.
For the most part the Democratic Party and the media, by minimizing Ms. Reade's allegations, have set the women's movement back and placed a terrible burden on everyone who advocates formally and informally for gender equality, for safety in the workplace and for survivors' rights, not to mention people who work in every criminal justice system in the world. It is sad. It is wrong. I didn't do it. Ms. Reade didn't, either. We did what we should have done; others didn't.
If there is proof needed of how important it is to speak out, the pain inflicted on those who take the responsibility to speak out is that proof.
He was assassinated, you know? Winning takes a lot of forms.
When I took issue with the conglomerate in 2010, only a few weeks had passed before a few things seemed probable to me. One was that my risk of being sexually assaulted, even gang raped, and of dying that way, was exploding every day into an eventual near-certainty. It is impossible to be sexually harassed and branded a slut by so many powerful people and groups without incurring that risk. I knew that some horrible injury was inevitable; I didn't know that being targeted for criminal voyeurism until it was normalized as how I'm treated would be the injury. It also seemed to me that the mentality causing the harassment and branding was so entrenched that I might spend the rest of my life hemmed in by it; that's always the goal of harassment, to pinion the victims. By 2012, it seemed to me that I should try to be at peace with the thought that I was going to die a violent death. Mostly I felt sad and afraid; I have a low tolerance for physical pain.
Me Too was like a miracle; by the time it gained prominence, I was entirely stigmatized. I couldn't say a sentence without the conglomerate responding with ridicule and sexual harassment. Most of the sexual harassment stopped because of Me Too. I hoped and even believed that everyone who knew that I was telling the truth about the voyeurism would automatically do something about it. Unfortunately, although much of the promotion of the voyeurism stopped, not only did nobody take responsibility for stopping the voyeurism, the victim-blaming got even worse because nobody wants to admit that it's a horrific crime of power.
So I already knew that Me Too wasn't a perfect movement. We can't really count on other people for our protection. We have to live as if there won't be protection, while we advocate for a better world. Paradoxically, it's the only way I can sleep at night; knowing that I did what I could, hoping that others will also do what's right, but designating nobody as my savior.
I have succeeded enough to have hopes that my life can be happy. I was homeless; now I'm not. I was unemployed; now I'm not. I was too afraid to try to tell people who hadn't heard of me what was going on; that continues to be a difficult process, but I have started it and am gaining practice at it. Being made hopeful through my achievements has also has made it possible for me to be disappointed, angry and incredulous all over again.