1.3.21

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I try to reach across time to give my younger self the language for what really went on. I live with a low-simmering rage, accompanied by the knowledge that he could not possibly think about these encounters as much as I do, then wondering if my occasional wishes for vengeance or punishment — mere thoughts in my head — compromise my respectability, and therefore my believability, until I have convinced myself that nothing really happened, based more on how I might read as a victim (vindictive, heartbroken, always-knew-what-she-was-doing) rather than on the actions of another person (the whole reason we are here to begin with). 

The terms that so many stories of sexual assault are forced into, and the demands placed on victims and abusers to look and act in a recognizable way, make the thought of naming my abuser in public seem like something that would only cause me more pain. So does the possibility of any self-appointed vigilantes attempting to do so on my behalf. The notion of monitoring a mob I didn’t ask for sounds exhausting, whether this mob is coming for his head or mine. The awareness that my experience would be transmuted into a fascination with his moral character makes me want to get offline forever. It is easy to imagine a world where audiences’ infatuation with fame takes priority over a survivor’s needs. 

(...) No matter what I choose, I also carry the sense of responsibility toward other survivors or potential victims. By not naming my predators, do I enable them to do more harm? By acknowledging nuance in my experiences, do I hand over the tools for any reactionary who seeks to weaponize the “gray area”? Do I cause other survivors to doubt their own authority or create a more hostile environment for those who wish to speak?

Um excelente ensaio da Tavi Gevinson, partilhado pela Rita Canas Mendes. Para ler na íntegra.