Watching Kesha’s heartfelt performance of “Praying” at the Grammy Awards stirred something deep within me. As I witnessed her pour her heart out on stage, I felt a surge of courage. Yet, as I wiped away my tears from the emotional display, I found myself typing a name into the Facebook search bar, preparing to confront my past.
The moment I saw his face—my attacker—I was flooded with memories. It’s been twenty-two years since that fateful Spring night when everything changed. The smile that once charmed me now felt like a taunt. I found myself staring into those eyes that had once sparkled across a bar, now mocking me with their familiarity. Time has aged him; he’s not the same man I once knew, yet the memories remain vivid in my mind.
I pondered if he remembers that night, the same way I do. Does he recall knocking on my dorm room door with roses? Or brushing my hair aside before leaning in for a kiss? Did he plan my assault, or was it something he decided in a fleeting moment? I can still hear his smooth voice persuading me, even as I said “Not tonight.”
What haunts me is whether he ever felt remorse. Did he go home that night, burdened with guilt, or did he dismiss my suffering, believing he had done nothing wrong? I know I was merely an object to him—a fleeting conquest. In that dark room, his hands took more than just my body; they took my sense of safety.
Years later, I see his face again on social media, standing beside his wife. I search for signs of his potential violence in her eyes but find none. We survivors become adept at hiding our shame, stifling our panic, and burying our fears. When the memories crash over me like a tidal wave, I push them down, learning to redirect my pain into silence.
The world around us can be unkind. A man who has bragged about assaulting women is elected to the highest office, and we, the survivors, feel that betrayal deeply. Yet, amidst the chaos, I find hope in the voices of others like me. Every story of a powerful man brought down by his actions feels like both a victory and a painful reminder.
As I listen to the names of those who have finally faced the consequences of their actions, I grapple with my own silence. Will I ever have the courage to declare, “Me too,” without the weight of shame? I often practice that phrase alone, preparing for the day I can finally speak my truth.
For now, I remain quiet, wrestling with my trauma and shame in solitude. I look at his face glowing from my phone’s screen and whisper, “Me, too.” I hope he hears me, that he feels the weight of his actions, and that he is somewhere feeling remorseful.
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In summary, finding the courage to confront our pasts can be an arduous journey. Inspired by Kesha’s bravery, I continue to seek strength in sharing my story, even if I’m not quite ready yet.