I came off my Facebook for a few days as I couldn’t cope with the avalanche of ‘#MeToo’ on my timeline. It just hurt. But more than that, for all the people who are able to say ‘me too,’ it’s the number that can’t, or haven’t yet experienced it, that really upsets me.
I found it triggering, but in an odd way. Not a grief or anger over what happened to me but more of a collective feeling. One where nearly every woman I know has been affected, and some men too. One where every young female child you see, you know they’re nearly guaranteed to be the victim of awful, male-led assault at some point in their lives.
And there’s an associated feeling of helplessness.
Until as a culture we deal with this, until an ‘I believe you’ approach is our baseline, until women are kept safe from their attackers, until men are held accountable for their actions, until we stop victim-blaming, until we stop suggesting women should drink less or wear more, until we understand that most sexual assaults are perpetrated by friends or family and not out on the streets, until we start listening, until we take action, until men start calling out the locker room talk, until we don’t vote in politicians who are perpetrators of violence against women, until women’s aid is government-funded, until consent is taught in schools, until men stop sending unsolicited dick pics, until women can say no to them without fear of retaliation, until.., until.., until…
This wasn’t the post I was going to write today. But it’s been playing on my mind and a conversation earlier triggered an avalanche of thought.
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