#MeToo, But Not Me Too
Ever since the breaking news this past October about Harvey Weinstein’s sexual assaults and harassment, a deep discomfort and malaise has been growing within me. With every new headline of some entitled, male predator I find myself voraciously consuming every article I can find about each case. I have a sick fascination—near obsession—with hearing the accounts of what happened from the victims. But there are rarely details in these articles and I’ve found that frustrating. It’s like I need to know what happened to these women for my own sanity.
With what I’ve been able to glean, I’m still not satisfied. In all these recent stories I haven’t been able to find what I’m desperately seeking: word or whisper of something similar to what happened to me. It’s not out there. For that, I guess I should be happy. I’m glad these women haven’t experienced what I have. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so isolated—so alone.
Ironically, this #MeToo movement which I believe was meant in part to create solidarity amongst survivors and show how horribly normal it is, has had the opposite effect on me. I want to say #MeToo because I’ve also had creepy, bordering on non-consensual sexual experiences. That’s been almost my norm with cis-gender, heterosexual males. I’ve experienced the street harassment and feeling uncomfortable with an older man who has more “power” than me. Being propositioned in gross ways, being demeaned and sexualized. So, yeah, #MeToo! But I’ve also experienced hell. I’ve also experienced something so terrible, so soul shattering that I still haven’t recovered. I still struggle with PTSD every fucking day. I’m still not the same person I was before and may never be again.
In November of 2015, three days before my 28th birthday, I was abducted, taken to a basement and raped by a group of men who beat me and then stole everything I had: my money, phone and my much loved silver VW Beetle, a car I’d had since I was sixteen and had driven from Detroit to Chicago to its final resting place, New York City. In a scenario that, even to me, still sounds too crazy to be true, the perpetrators took my Beetle on a high-speed chase through Long Island that eventually ended in literal flames after driving it into oncoming traffic and then into a telephone pole.
Unlike my car, I survived. Somehow.
Everyone who knew what happened to me said it was a miracle I got out of that situation more or less unscathed. It wasn’t until I spoke to my dad a few days after my assault, that the severity struck me.
“You could have been killed,” he was weeping. “Men kill women in basements. Girls disappear off the streets.”
His words made my blood run cold. It was a disturbing truth. Yet there I was: hurt, in shock, but alive. I could have died that night, I know that now. And in the extreme depression that followed I could have killed myself many times, but I’ve survived that too. Though it’s hard for me to believe sometimes, I am strong.
What I’ve been wanting so desperately is some kind of validation. Some kind of normalization. Now I know that sounds depressing—why would we as a society want to normalize the horrifying experience I had? But the truth of the matter is I know women have experienced these kinds of traumas, and yet I haven’t heard anyone who has proclaimed #MeToo talking about this kind of experience. Everything I’ve read has fallen more into the harassment category. I do not at all mean to belittle or demean the experiences any of these women have had, it’s just a different kind of experience and not what I’ve needed to feel normal. I need to feel normal. I would love if other women who have survived violent rape would talk about it. Let me hear your story. Let me know that I’m not alone.
With this recent commotion involving Aziz Anisari, I finally had to say something about my whole discomfort with the #MeToo movement. Since its inception I’ve wanted to jump on the bandwagon and shout “Hurrah! Sexual assault survivors standing together! Fighting the man!” But I honestly don’t feel that excited about it. I feel bummed. I feel kind of left out. Because as much as I can say Me Too, it’s also not Me Too. I feel like I don’t fit in with the narrative, like my story isn’t what people want to hear. With all these women standing up and talking about harassment and creepy sexual experiences, I still sometimes feel like I’m the only one who has ever experienced this level of criminal assault. I know that’s not true. I know it’s not. Maybe, it’s just too painful for survivors to talk about. But god I want to talk about it. I want to talk about it with women who have been through it. I want to be told I’m not alone. I want to know that they were able to pull through and live normal lives. I want to have hope that I will get through this. One day.
I guess I need to remind myself that revolution starts small and gets bigger and bigger. So the fact that we are talking about sexual assault and rape culture at all is a huge step forward. But I'm hoping that eventually we can start airing our more painful experiences. Because if we just sweep them under the rug and carry them as our secret burdens, we're not moving forward. We have to talk about it. We must.
