#metoo helps a woman find her voice after 50 years

As soon as we were back in the limo, my companion leaned forward and whispered something in his chauffeur’s ear. Suddenly, the car swerved around and instead of driving uptown to where I

lived, we were now speeding down FDR Drive. Panic set in as I looked out the window at the pitch sky. “It’s the wrong way!” I shouted, my heart pounding.  A few minutes later, we were parked

underneath a deserted overpass. I had the strong sense that this was a well-visited destination for the driver and Paul. Frantically, I tried to open my door but instead heard the click of

the locks. Paul didn’t hesitate. He strong-armed me so that I was supine, he pinned down my flailing fists with one of his fleshy hands and, with the other, he unzipped and reached into his

pants. I remember screaming, “No! Stop!” again and again, and pleading to Joe for help. “Shut up, whore,” Paul growled, and he shoved himself inside me with a violence that I will never

forget. Two minutes later, an eternity as his prisoner, it was over. We were both sitting up. I couldn’t stop sobbing. “I wouldn’t say anything if I were you,” he warned.  That night at

home, I showered and dragged myself into bed. The next day, I was back behind the mahogany desk. When Paul walked in, he offered his usual “Good morning,” as if nothing had happened. And

that’s how I continued my life from that day forward — as if nothing had happened.  How could I have remained silent? First, there was the skin-crawling shame of being so naive, foolishly

believing Paul had really wanted to spend time with me. And I was terrified. My rapist had power. His warning to keep quiet was clearly a threat. Anyway, if it ever came to “He said, she

said,” who would side with me? Certainly not his driver.  I also knew that women who spoke up about rape were routinely blamed for bringing it on themselves, because of what they wore, said

or drank, or because of their sexual history. The victims were further victimized. For all these reasons, I buried what had happened. THE RAWNESS OF MY ALMOST 50-YEAR-OLD RAGE DIMINISHES

EACH TIME I GIVE VOICE TO MY STORY.  — Robin Westen But when the #MeToo movement roared into our lives last year, with its tsunami of outrage, the memory of my own rape rushed to the

forefront of my consciousness. I finally felt the visceral fury that I hadn’t allowed myself to experience for nearly 50 years. Fury at my attacker, mostly, but also disappointment in myself

for letting him get away with it. Even more surprising to me, I began talking about the attack. First I told my best friend, then the man I was seeing, and before long I was chiming in when

others shared their stories of abuse. About a month ago, while changing from leggings back to jeans at my yoga studio, I overheard several younger women discussing the latest sexual

harassment revelation. I felt compelled to share my story, and when I was through speaking, the young women offered their shock and sympathy. But a woman my own age became angry — and her

anger was directed at me.  “What did you expect would happen?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.  I heard the younger women gasp.