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If you had asked me when the Me Too movement built momentum a few years ago whether I would speak up, my answer would have been, “no way”. As people have become more vocal, I confess at times I wonder why now? Why now after years of silence do you feel the need to speak? It’s in the past, deal with it, let it go, move on. For me I think it is a form of denial, or the quest to keep my life calm, unruffled for a change. I thought silence was the easier way.

I also thought my experience, my trauma, was not big enough. It was after all, just a kiss. No bruises, no ripped clothes, no penetration, no graphic story. Just a quick moment in time. A moment that has lasted a lifetime.

Hearing stories of abuse emerge, I wonder, I try to imagine, if I had spoken up when it happened, what would have changed for me? What would have changed for the others that were there that night? The bigger question that pushes me forward is, if I share my story now, what difference will it make? It won’t change the past, how can it possibly change my future? What I do know is, sharing my story will help someone else, and maybe that someone is you, after all, that is always my reason to share.

I was twelve years old and my father’s best friend had come to town. He arrived with his two teenage sons, his sister, his brother-in-law, and their two teenage sons. They came to see a hockey game and gave a gift of four tickets to my dad. My dad, my two brothers, that left one more spot to fill: me or my mom. I was the lucky one, the chosen one. I got to go. I was so excited to be included in this night. I was usually left out of the boys’ fun. I was usually the baby sister left behind. But this time I would be one of the guys, part of this mysterious world they usually excluded me from. It was thrilling. We were headed to the big city. It would be a late night and I would get a peek inside their secret club.

My parents rarely drank and were very reserved. Their usual night with friends was spent around a bridge table. It would be filled with long silences, idle chatter, and tea. This night promised to be very different.

It started at the hotel. My father’s friend was already drunk, making lewd inappropriate jokes and gestures. I was enthralled and shocked at the same time. I’d never heard these kinds of things before and was surprised that my father did not reprimand his friend. My dad chuckled quietly, as if he knew it wasn’t the place to have his kids, but at the same time enjoying the camaraderie of his childhood friend, reliving memories and jokes from their school days. I remember wondering if my dad had forgotten I was there or was just unsure how to handle the situation. Regardless, I was excited, because I was getting a glimpse of this adult world, an evening out with the boys. I tried to become invisible. I thought if I was noticed the evening would change, that somehow, they would find a way to leave me behind as they carried on into to the night.

Boisterous noise, laughing, jokes, inappropriate behaviour, and lots of drinking continued all through the night. After the hockey game, we had a meal in a restaurant and then it was back to the hotel room. It was well past midnight: another exciting experience, being out so late. I had spent the night trying so hard to not remind my father that I was there, a spectator to it all. He would be ashamed, I knew, if my mother had been there to witness the tasteless behaviour and excessive drinking. But now the night was late, I was exhausted, the novelty had worn off, and I wanted to go home. I tugged on my dad’s sleeve, asked when we were going, tugged again, whined a bit, betraying my age. His promise that we would be going home soon, an unsatisfactory answer. I hoped my pouting retreat down the hall to the door would encourage my father into action.

Unfortunately, it was not my father who followed me to the door. It was his friend. A person who at the beginning of the night seemed so worldly and exciting, was now just a tired, old, drunken man. He cupped my face in his hands and told me I was beautiful. I was stunned. I wondered did he realized I was twelve, or had I managed to blend in so well that I appeared older, mature. I thought of my outfit of jeans and a sweatshirt, a kerchief on my head, that should have betrayed my age, but here he was looking into my eyes, the first time all night that someone had acknowledged I was there. The moment probably lasted no more than a minute but has lived with me every day since. He grabbed me. His huge arms engulfed me. I tried to back away, but I was trapped. His lips covered mine as his tongue pried them open and rammed down my throat. In that instant four thoughts ran through my mind.

I am desirable, somebody loves me.
I am embarrassed because his lips are touching my pimples, he will be repulsed.
I don’t want this, I can’t get away.
This is my fault.

This is the moment that shaped my future relationships. This is the moment that told me that when men were drunk, I was beautiful, that my body was not my own. This is the moment that told me I had no right to speak up or complain.

I wish that I had been brave enough to speak up, cry out, or scream. The fear was that I wouldn’t be heard, it would be dismissed, or that it was a result of my bad behaviour for wanting to go home. It has taken a long time to forgive myself and recognize that this was abuse, that I am justified in my grief, that it wasn’t my fault. It’s time to speak up.

As the Me Too movement gains more voices, I look back and wonder what would have changed if I had said something that night, or in the days that followed. What kind of conversation would have transpired between my father and his friend, if any at all? Would their friendship change? Would I have had to endure future visits? Would this man show repentance, make changes to his life? My guess is that I was not the first person he took advantage of nor his last.

What about those six teenage boys? Those were formative years. I wonder what they thought, witnessing a man of high standing behaving so inappropriately, with no one speaking up to say that it was wrong. Was this just an ordinary night for them? I have no idea the kind of men they all became or how they treat the people in their lives. If I had spoken up, how might their lives have changed? Would they be more conscious of the people around them? Of how a woman is spoken to at the office, a party, in their home? Do they have daughters? Do they know what is happening to them? These are all questions that can never be answered.

So, after all these years, I am speaking up and saying me too.

There is no time limit on exploring your grief, on reconciling your past. It doesn’t matter when the abuse happened or how big or small we think it might be. It’s about sharing your story, whether it is by whispering ‘me too’ in the confines of your own room, clicking ‘like’ on a story, or posting it in the media.

It’s about acknowledging that it happened, saying this is not ok, you are not to blame, and something needs to change.

Love,