I
wasn’t going to do this.
Sometimes,
there are things you just don’t share.
There’s only so much people should know about you. If I downplay or ignore the memories, maybe I
can pretend the events never happened.
When
Christine Blasey Ford accused Judge Kavanaugh, people saw her as a victim. Someone to pity. Even if it was years ago, she was still
frozen, still hampered by it in the present tense. I don’t want that. I’m strong, immovable. I’m past all of it. I don’t want to walk down that road. I don’t want to relive it. I don’t want to be restricted or immobilized
by fear anymore. I don’t want people to
look at me with pity. It won’t thwart my
future.
So
when I was scanning my work email account and I thought I saw his face flash at
me on one of the educational messages, I made a decision. I was going to let go. But trying to ignore that it ever happened
hadn’t been effective. The fact that he
and I have similar professions means that someday I may run into him. And the fact that something else happened with
another person I’m forced to interact with regularly compels me into exhaustion
just to nullify the truth. If I have to
connect with the world—and them—on a
routine basis without overlooking chunks of reality, how long will I last?
I chastised
the #metoo movement. Why were all of
these people sharing events that were private?
Especially when nothing legally could be accomplished? Why did I want to know so many malicious
events took place around the earth, even practically in my backyard?
Listening
to the accused, I began to question my own reality. I mean, did all of those #metoo’s really
happen? Is it truly just how you
interpret or view the events?
There
were times when my memory is hazy; could I be wrong? My mental illness created distorted thinking
in my mind and progressed to some atypical behavior on my part. Though I had some unacceptable or in
appropriate conduct at times, were my truths any less than others?
If
I share my story, will I be seen as a victim?
Will it release me from my fear?
Will I become a statistic? Will I
be criticized or my experience renounced as something I brought on myself? Will it bring up painful memories that rip
open old wounds, or heal the undercurrent of unseen pain hemorrhaging within
me?
As
for the #metoo movement, could it be that others sharing their stories wasn’t
about pointing fingers or justification for their fear? Maybe it wasn’t for sympathy or a “poor me”
mentality. Could they have shared for
closure, for feeling less isolated? Did
letting go of the victim mentality allow room for forgiveness—not for benefit of
the offender, but to lessen the emotional “rocks” in the backpacks of their own
minds? Perhaps the focus wasn’t on
pointing fingers or attracting attention, but gathering sorrow in a form that
can be diluted or alleviated somehow.
Julie
S. Paschold
May
30, 2019