#metoo: You feel powerless and worthless, a cloth with which he wipes the floor, nobody, dirty
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In the morning, there is a cigarette talk between two guys who work at a company based in the same building as the one I work for:
- What do you say, ma, de all those stars that have woken up now that they've been abused?
- What can I say, ma, it is fashionable to be abused.
They laughed ...
I did not stay until the end of the discussion, because I was not sure that I could abstain and I learned long ago that it is not good to put your mind to the fools because they have rested. I did agree with one thing though, the women who claimed these days were harassed by various men throughout their lives, "woke up" and it is good that they woke up because I hope that, thanks their courage, Tomorrow the young people will no longer live such harrowing experiences.
Why insulting? Because that's how you feel when you are abused, harassed, assaulted by a man. You feel powerless and worthless, a cloth with which he wipes his feet, no one, dirty.
I was 19 years old, I was my last year of high school and I was returning from school. I lived in the opposite corner of the city from the high school, but I didn't mind. I liked my 30 minute walk through the city center even though it was raining or snowing sometimes. Deh, youth ...
It was autumn and a beautiful day as today, hot and sunny, rusty leaves and the specific agitation of a city not very big, but active. I notice that near the sidewalk, a little further in front, stops a known car. It was the car of a good friend of my father's, a little younger than my father. I was walking almost weekend with my family and with him and his family "on the green grass", as my father said and we were grilling, playing foot tennis and enjoying the sun. We knew each other well.
She was glad she saw me and I recognize myself. It was good to see a girl "from home". I liked all that time of high school, with the terrorism and the spirit of adventure and I liked the city, too, but I never felt at home there. I knew that I would finish and go back to my hometown where I would look for a job, I would have a husband, I would make children. It didn't happen that way, but it's good.
I changed a few words, he told me he was coming. There was someone else in the car, still at home, still a man. I still had something to go home, I hadn't reached halfway yet. He offered to take me by car. I agreed, it wasn't the first time I would drive with him by car. It had happened before that he had to work in the city on Fridays and take me home. He never made a move. I was safe.
I arrived in front of the block where we were renting a nice nanny. He asked me how I got on with the host. "Okay, now it's up to the country to pick corn," I said. Before going down he asked me if I had a notebook and pen that he was going to a meeting or meeting and he had nothing to write. I told him I would bring them right away. "What sense does it have to go down, let me take it up," he told me. I still felt safe, I didn't object.
I reached the door, unlocked, left my school bag near the door and the door open and rushed to the room where I kept my books and notebooks. I had new notebooks and new pens, the school had just started. I took a notebook and a pen and went back to the door. He had entered, had stepped out, had closed the door.
Then I first felt anxiety. I didn't take it into account. He went into the kitchen, sat down in the chair and started telling me various things. I've been standing for a while. When I saw that his "visit" was prolonged, I sat down, sat for a while and then got up. I thought he would understand that it was time to leave. He had become embarrassed by the situation and the silence that arose from time to time, probably when a new topic of discussion was emerging in his mind. He didn't get up. I sat down again and repeated the figure with my legs raised. I didn't have the strength to even tell him that his friend was waiting for him in the car, apparently, it wasn't polite to kick people out of the house.
The second time it worked. He got up and started for the door with me behind him. He bent to his feet and during this time I wanted to open the door. Then I noticed that she was locked and my mind began to tremble with fear. As I stretched toward the yale, he got up and grabbed me by the arms. He wanted to kiss me, but I somehow escaped and ran into the living room. I wanted to shout on the window. He grabbed me, shook me, and sat down on me. I was struggling and he was moaning and rubbing my body. I started crying and it stopped like a wonder. He got up, put on his clothes and said, "What, do you, if we kiss you, will you take your lipstick?" Then he left.
I got up and quickly locked the door. I cried. I cried a lot. Then I was angry! I took a shower, I cleaned the house (I don't know why, there was no need, I probably had to keep my mind busy with something). I could not stay home, I slept with a friend of my mother who lived in the city and we visited sometimes. I told them. He advised me not to shut up, to tell my own.
I didn't tell them. I was ashamed. I felt guilty. Dirty. Humiliated.
I've never thought about it before. I instinctively avoided all the occasions when I could have my eyes on him. I went to college, I got married, I had children and this story was buried there. To this day, when in the morning cigarette, I woke up.
I received this story from one of our readers who asked us to keep their anonymity. She wanted to publish this experience in order for people to understand the magnitude of the phenomenon, but because she is not an influential person, she does not think that revealing her identity would bring an extra contribution to the story itself.
We are also waiting for your stories - sadder or happier, related to this topic or another, to share experiences and try to change mindsets.