For a long time, I felt alone.
And then the two simple words, "me too" started showing up on social media. Sometimes they were accompanied by a story, sometimes they were not.
The sheer number left me stunned. And sick. Women in their 70s to women in their early 20s. And that's just among my friends.
Stories of being taken advantage of by a boss. Or raped by a man, sometimes known, and sometimes not. Stories of being assaulted. Stories of being teased or catcalled. Stories of sexual abuse. And stories of the system failing them if they tried to report.
Their stories and their bravery made me feel all of the feels.
I didn't post on social media. I didn't have it in me. I lacked the courage to put it in print for the whole world to see. I didn't want to have to explain or be pressed for details by people I didn't want to share with. And I didn’t want to be accused of attention seeking. This space is a little safer for me due to the semi-anonymity.
Me too. Me. Fucking. Too. And the thing is, I’m not special. Or the exception. That’s the scary part.