Me Too

Not me, I thought. All those damaged, angry victims of sexual harassment or abuse, recounting their anguished stories. It’s so sad. Thank God it never happened to me. 

But it did.

A memory is rearing its ugly head. Not exactly suppressed, it’s smoldered in my awareness since it happened, a remembrance that made me squirm, shudder even – with embarrassment, with shame. Shame because I blamed myself. I made the poor decision. 

I wasn’t raped, attacked, or even touched without my permission. I wasn’t fired from a job or didn’t get a promotion because I refused someone. There was no Harvey Weinstein-esque casting couch (significant for me because I’m an actor.) 

I was nineteen, old enough to give consent. And I did. So why do I feel like a victim? 

Because he should have known better. 

He was a doctor. He took an oath. “I will abstain from all intentional wrong-doing and harm.” He could, and probably would, argue that since I went willingly, there was no harm involved. But he would be so wrong.

Me too.

I was in my second year of college, sick with an eating disorder, in full denial mode. Started running to burn more calories, though I hated it. Breaking food into tiny pieces to make it last longer, eating one kernel of corn at time. The pounds - along with my self confidence – dropped away. I was almost certainly clinically depressed, though in 1981 that diagnosis was rarely given.

He was the university physician, divorced (so he said.) with three teenage children. In his forties, the same age as my emotionally absent father. He was kind, attentive, nurturing, murmuring sweet words of comfort. And coming on to me.

I was flattered and reassured, thankful that someone cared.  At the clinic with him, I was safely out of harm’s way. Or so I thought. 

He saw that I was desperate for more. I was…more love, more kindness, more attention. We went to a park where we watched ducks and ate grapes and cheese. “I thought you’d want to do something like this beforehand,” he said. He took me to a cheap motel on the other side of town. I was repulsed by his flabby belly and graying chest hair, staring at the ceiling while he grunted on top of me. 

There was no force, no bruises. I don’t remember if I saw him again. I don’t even remember his name. 

He doesn’t deserve to be remembered. I was legal, yes, but young, scared, and needy. He’s a doctor, sworn to high ethical standards. He should have known better. 

Forty years later, I’m ready to release my shame.

Me too.