Why did I not #metoo?

I’m a technology addicted millennial. The statistic that the average person, living in the UK, is on their phone for 5 hours a day definitely resonates with me; I wake up most mornings and instinctively check my phone. So it figures that this week’s #metoo hashtag, prompted by the flood of Harvey Weinstein allegations, did not slip under my radar.

Seeing the numbers of statuses with this # on my newsfeed was a sobering and upsetting thing. So many of my friends, both in the vague Facebook sense and the genuine sense, were posting, some with stories attached, some simply those six characters. I was quite frankly shocked that people I have known for years had been through such horrifying experiences and I had absolutely no idea. The first status I saw was of a long-standing family friend. She’s married, with two children and is a strong advocate of girl power. Seeing her status really took me by surprise. In my head, sexual abuse doesn’t happen/has never happened to people above the age of 25. It is an act I associate with excessive drinking, universities, exploration, and the loss of sober inhibitions. The circulation of this # reminded me that sexual harassment and assault is not just a current issue. It has been going on for hundreds of years. It may be a concept with a relatively new name, but it certainly is not a new concept.

Reading this flood of stories, shared by friends and family, bought back memories of my own experiences; as a teenager I was sexually assaulted by two different boys, both of whom I knew and trusted. Weirdly, though, I couldn’t bring myself to join in with the #.

Perhaps, my reluctance to post my story is to do with the fact that I didn't feel either of my experiences matched the ‘typical’ narratives that we associate with sexual assault or harassment. I didn’t feel I matched society’s 'expectations' of what a sexual assault victim 'should' be. In the first instance, I actually felt like I was consenting at the time. I was young and the world of sex and relationships was new to me. However, when I look back, I realise I reluctantly agreed to the things the other person wanted to do, most of which made me feel actively uncomfortable. I convinced myself that this was what a relationship was and that making sacrifices for the other person was completely normal. Everyone makes compromises don’t they? That’s part of a relationship. Now I realise that I was manipulated into things that I really didn’t want to do. He used me and my innocence, which I think had a lasting impact on my feelings towards sex. My friends often tease me because I’m so incredibly British when talking about sex. I realise more and more that maybe this is attributed to my first sexual experiences.

My second experience is more of a classic story: I was 17, at a party. The world of alcohol and drunkenness was still a bit of a mystery, and the excitement of kissing someone in my friend’s back garden to the distant sound of Titanium was real. The boy tried to make me have sex with him. I refused, he persisted. He ripped my pants and his hip bones dug into me. I knew I didn’t want it. Eventually, in a slightly alcohol fuelled fug, I pushed him off, got up and ran to my friend. ‘X just tried to make me have sex with him’, I blurted out. Her response was a joke about how he’s not very attractive, and so it’s probably a good thing I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t tell anyone else for a really long time.

I now understand that both cases were in fact forms of sexual assault. So why didn’t I post #metoo?

The answer to the question is complex but the most obvious answer seems to be this: I was simply too scared.

I really care what people think of me. I’ve always known this, but my reluctance to post the hashtag really brought it home to me. I’ve told very few people of the experience I had at that party four years ago, largely because I was so embarrassed. Even when I found out that the boy at the party was a serial offender and had done something similar to a really close friend, around the same time, I still found it impossible to speak of it to others.

I can count on one hand the amount of people I have properly opened up to about my experiences. This is quite unlike me. I tend to wear my emotions on my forehead and tell anyone who will listen all about them. I’m close to my parents, how would they feel if the way they found out that I had been sexually assaulted was over Facebook? Maybe they would get angry that I had never trusted them enough to tell them. This isn’t the sort of news you tend to break over Facebook.

What if the two boys in question read my post and contacted me in anger, defending their actions and saying that I consented? What if people read the very vague six characters and think I’m referring to my ex-boyfriend of two and a half years? What if any of the boys I’ve flirted with or drunkenly kissed think it could be something to do with them? The last thing I would want to do is land an innocent person in the midst of an allegation this serious.

But the biggest reason is that I was scared it would look like I’d overreacted. What if I have remembered these instances incorrectly? What if I’m over exaggerating? What if I’m just being an attention seeker, trying to make some unnecessary bra burning point about something that made me a bit uncomfortable? After all, some of the people posting #metoo will have much more serious, clear-cut experiences. Would I be diminishing or negating their stories? Do my stories constitute sexual abuse or was it actually all my fault for leading the boys on? Awkward sex stories are compulsory to growing up, aren’t they? Maybe my dress was simply too short and my smile simply too big.

Also, is there any point in me bringing this up? At the time, these experiences were awful, painful and embarrassing events which shaped the way I approached sex in my teenage years. I’ll never forget these events, but I am now fine. Does it really matter if I get a bit awkward when people talk about sex? I’ve since been in a very happy relationship, my mental health has not been irreparably damaged, and if I see the two boys in question again I’ll manage a very civil conversation. I forgave them a long time ago.

This is exactly the problem with rape culture. We are too scared to speak out about experiences because of how they will look to others. Too scared that we won’t be taken seriously, or that we will have to explain ourselves about an event which was probably pretty scarring. The whole point of #metoo was to show the sheer number of people who have been sexually abused. In my eyes, it succeeded. But I can guarantee I am not the only person who felt that their experience was somehow not worthy of Facebook publishing. And isn’t that kind of not the point?

Sexual assault is about more than verbal consent. It doesn’t just happen with strangers down seedy back alleys in the middle of the night. It happens to so many people, and the only way we can de-stigmatise the sufferers is by having the courage to talk openly about it.

Whatever your experience was, whether you are male or female, gay or straight, it matters. On the most basic level, human beings deserve to be treated with respect, and if it made you feel uncomfortable then it is worth talking about. #metoo.