Another day, another woman reports abuse from a skeptic leader. Pamela Gay describes the aftermath of being groped in a bar.
And I hate myself for wishing this would all just go away, instead of wishing that there could be justice. But I guess I fear that justice has a price I don’t have the life blood to pay for.
Over and over, I have made the choice, “what happened isn’t worth raising a stink about. Don’t ruin everyone’s [fun/con/career]“. Over and over, I’ve made the choice, “Yeah, that guy (but he was drunk!) slapped my butt in passing, but he is a leader at what he does, so I need to just get over myself and work with him.”
I hate myself for this.
I hate myself because I made the choice that not raising a fuss was more important than my self worth.
Read that again. It’s fucked up. But it’s who I am, … and when I read the hashtag #RipplesOfDoubt a few weeks ago, I realized how often we women make that decision. I’m fucked up, but I’m not alone. Too many of us fill our heads with euphemisms and excuses. It’s so much easier to think, “It’s a drunk guy being a drunk ass.” It hurts so much more to say, “I had someone try and sexually assault me.”
It’s a double strike. First there’s the assault proper, and then there’s the unwarranted guilt and self-recrimination afterwards.
It’s awkward for a man on the outside, too: I want to say, “Fight back.” I want to say, “You don’t have to suffer; you aren’t required to speak out.” But I don’t have the right to tell the victim how to process her situation, so I just have to stand back and support whatever decision she makes.