I danced on his grave at midnight

What does it mean to have a #MeToo story in this current age? Would it read as opportunistic, and in a way cheapen the tale? Or can I seize hold of this space to smash down the walls that silenced us, that divided us? And in so doing translate terror into a 21st century manifesto. Finding catharsis through narration — knowing that we were not alone in our tears of shame. By tapping into something that many women have experienced, I find strength in solidarity and authenticity in my own voice.

Imagine the final dawn of adolescence, when the vivid light fades away. Raped at 17. A terrifying rite of passage… forcefully penetrated… under the brambles… frightened… then rescued? I remember the nullifying feeling when he was brought back to the scene. I screamed ‘he hurt me’ at my well-meaning friends. He lied, ‘I did nothing wrong.’

In that moment I learned that my world turned on his word against mine. Consent — what an empty concept — it was brutalised on the night and in the years that followed. Consent denied, consent suppressed… only to be retrospectively reinstated, because here’s the thing — all he had to say was, ‘she wanted it that way.’

I am not ready to tell of the experience of being dragged through the ‘judicial system’. I bore this overwhelming burden throughout my college years, pressured into becoming a witness for the state…