The powerful performance by Kesha of her song “Praying” at the Grammy’s resonated deeply with me, igniting a desire for bravery that I still struggle to embrace. As I watched her pour her heart into the song, I found myself searching for a name that still haunts me. Tears streamed down my face as his name appeared on the screen, and I was confronted with the face of my attacker.
His image brought back a flood of memories from twenty-two years ago. I recognized the smile that had deceived me all those years ago, and I was reminded of the eyes that once sparkled from across a crowded room, now mocking me as I scrolled through his profile. He had aged—his hair greying and thinning—but that smile was still there. Now married, he seemed to have moved on with his life, while I was left grappling with the trauma of that night.
I often wonder if he recalls that evening as vividly as I do. Does he remember the roses he brought me? Or how he brushed my hair aside before our ill-fated kiss? Had he already made the decision to hurt me that night? Does he recall the way I tensed when I said, “Not tonight”? I can still feel the panic of his grip around my neck, a reminder of my helplessness in that darkened space.
As I reflect on those moments, I realize that I’ve become adept at hiding my pain. The shame of my experience has driven me to conceal my feelings from friends, family, and even partners. The fear that lingers, that the past might repeat itself, is often overwhelming. I find myself redirecting intimate moments, purchasing new fragrances to mask the reminders of my assailant’s scent. We learn to keep our trauma tucked away, but the burden grows heavier.
In the wake of public figures being held accountable for their actions, I often find myself grappling with a mixture of anger and hope. As I witness the courage of others who have spoken out, I yearn to join them. My friends who have found their voices inspire me. I want to be brave. I want to say, “Me too,” without the weight of shame. But today isn’t that day. I’m still wrestling with my silence.
I sit alone in my space, staring at his face illuminated by my phone’s glow, and I whisper, “Me too.” I hope he is somewhere feeling the weight of his actions. It’s a small comfort, but it’s a start.
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In summary, the journey to reclaiming one’s voice after trauma is a complex and often painful process. Inspired by figures like Kesha, I strive to find the courage to speak out and heal, even as I navigate my own path.