One Way Back: A Memoir

Potent quotables

Once the nomination was confirmed anyway, it was clear that I, and Anita Hill before me, hadn’t solved the problem. Unfortunately, many others after us would need to come forward to bring about a larger systemic change. The strange part was that it didn’t feel like I hadn’t been heard. It felt like I had been believed, but then the response was a proverbial shrug. I couldn’t fix the fundamental injustice of that. But I could create a ripple effect by allowing others to hear my story and feel inspired to share theirs.

After all, I wasn’t a perfect person either. Did I really have the right to say something? Kirsten and I sat around for an entire day and told each other all the bad things we’d ever done. We didn’t spell out what we were really doing at the time, but it’s easy to diagnose in hindsight. The patriarchy was in my blood. I was gaslighting myself before anyone else could do it. Our day of confessions made it clear: I was a flawed person who had done a lot of stupid things. Then Kirsten asked, “But did you ever sexually assault someone?”

The main directives were to do well in class, behave nicely, and be respectful. We were all just products of the time and place we were living in. We did as we were told. It wasn’t until I was in college that I really had any conversations about feminism. When I was a teenage girl, my main concern was, “Am I going to be able to go to that party on Friday?” For better or, more realistically, for worse, that was where my energy was going.

There was never a sense—at least before the summer of my sophomore year—that drunk guys were something to be afraid of. We just awkwardly laughed as they made fools of themselves.

Often something traumatic, the unthought known, once experienced, is pushed down, shunned from our everyday thought processes. However, it doesn’t go away completely. It sets up shop deep within us, influencing our behavior without us ever having to remind ourselves of what happened.

It kills me now, how much learning I missed out on.

It’s clear looking back on the arc of my life that something had thrown a wrench into things early on and sent me on a bit of a tailspin. It’s not as if what had happened that night in high school was constantly in the back of my mind—far from it. But something significant had changed in me when that happened, a subtle thought that had taken seed, blossomed, and colored my entire self-perception.

We are drawn to psychology as a way to help others but also to heal ourselves.

Still early in my journey, it was what I would come to discover as the survivor’s Catch-22: you’re told not to tell too many people, but then later you’re told your story isn’t credible because you didn’t tell anyone. You can’t win. It’s one of the many ways survivors aren’t supported in coming forward.

My greatest fears have been realized—and the reality has been far worse than what I expected. My family and I have been the target of constant harassment and death threats. I have been called the most vile and hateful names imaginable. These messages, while far fewer than the expressions of support, have been terrifying to receive and have rocked me to my core. People have posted my personal information on the internet. This has resulted in additional emails, calls, and threats. My family and I were forced to move out of our home. Since September 16, my family and I have been living in various secure locales, with guards. This past Tuesday evening, my work email account was hacked, and messages were sent out supposedly recanting my description of the sexual assault.

When a victim does go for help, she is seen as attacking the assailant. These are separate; seeking aid is her primary motive, his fallout is a secondary effect. But we are taught, if you speak, something bad happens to him. You will be blamed for every job he doesn’t get, every game he doesn’t play.… Each time a survivor resurfaced, people were quick to say what does she want, why did it take her so long.… Why don’t we ask her how it was possible she lived with that hurt for so long, ask who taught her to never uncover it.” People also ask me, “Do you think you ruined his life?” Despite the fact that Brett ultimately got the job. Despite the fact that he sits on the Supreme Court while I still receive death threats, pay sky-high security costs, and continue to live a very limited version of the life I had pre-testimony.

TWO THINGS CAN be true at once. You can be a privileged person with a lot to be grateful for. And it can still suck that your life is so limited, simply because you were honest about something that had happened to you. You can be ruthlessly targeted, and you can have more support than you know what to do with. You can hold space for both of those things.

That’s a large part of the reason I’m dredging all of this up again, hard as it has been. It’s up to me to get my story down the right way.

“Few acknowledge that healing is costly,” Chanel Miller writes in Know My Name. “That we should be allocating more funds for victims, for therapy, extra security, potential moving costs, getting back on their feet, buying something as simple as court clothes.”

Staying quiet serves my best interests and safety, without a doubt. But it also serves the people who want me to stay quiet. And I’m not ready to give them that satisfaction. I also owe it to myself to break the silence.

What I’m finally coming to understand is that being imperfect doesn’t disqualify you from speaking out, finding peace, and healing.