Her Greatest Regret – Whose Shame Is It Anyway?

We had been talking for hours. And we were on our second or third glass of wine.

She asked what I was up to these days. When I mentioned that I was writing this series of posts on women and power, Jeffrey Epstein, and sexual abuse, she asked, “Why would you do that? What do you hope to accomplish?” (Was that judgment I heard behind these questions?)

I explained that my hope was to open the way for women to talk about their experiences, to come into their own power and to overcome any sense of residual shame if they had ever been abused, sexually or otherwise.

She went quiet and then, in a softened tone, said . . .

When I was completing my master’s degree in sociology, I worked as a research assistant for my prof in order to earn extra money.

I was a mature student, raising three young kids on my own because my husband was a medical resident who was studying, living, and breathing his chosen field. I was overwhelmed and struggling with home responsibilities and school assignment deadlines.

In the midst of this strain, my distinguished prof would call me, engage in sex talk, moan and groan and masturbate to orgasm. I’ve blocked out the details. At the time, I coped with it through denial and compartmentalization. I would tell myself this wasn’t really happening.

I felt helpless because in order to complete my master’s degree I needed a good grade. That was the power he had over me.

But more than helplessness, I felt shame. I thought I had somehow invited that behavior. I told no one. Not my husband. Not my friends. You’re one of my best friends and I’ve never told you. I’ve never told my children.

The other part of my shame is that even after the university had a sexual assault and misconduct policy I never took action. I never took action to assure that this would never happen to another student. And I’m sorry about that.

So I can appreciate the #MeToo movement and the women digging up and talking about incidents that happened many years ago. It’s one thing to tell a friend. It’s another to come forward and be challenged in front of the public about whether you’re telling the truth. People will either not believe you or think you did something to be a willing accomplice.

It takes real courage to do that.

Compared to these women, I think I got off easy. All I had to deal with was my professor jerking off on the phone.
~ My friend, “Emily”

And that, as you can imagine, gave rise to gales of healing laughter. And another glass of Shiraz.

(Emily’s story retold with her permission.)

Do you have a story of sexual impropriety that you have never told and now want to share? If so, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to contact me in confidence.