I tweeted a #metoo experience. It sure wasn't about a hand on my waist [View all]

[femmedem]

or even my butt during a staged hug for the cameras. That shit would be an annoyance, not a trauma. I'd be pissed off for a moment, if I was certain it was deliberate. Then I'd shrug it off and forget about it.

After my #metoo experience, I slept with a knife under my pillow. I carried a broken glass bottle with me as I walked across town, and I made sure to show it to any man who came close. I lost my way in school. It changed my profession, it damaged my marriage. Sometimes I'd stay in bed for twenty three hours a day and feel relieved that at least I got out of bed that last hour to take a bath.

I was proud to tell a hint of my story during those hours when #metoo took over social media. I wanted to stand with people who had truly been preyed on, whose lives had been changed because of sexual violence or predation, who had suffered shame and then decided en masse to say to hell with that; they had nothing to be ashamed of.

Today I almost, almost wish #metoo hadn't happened. I'm so angry about how it's been co-opted and diminished.