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But, try as I might, I could not persuade myself that this was a good faith account of what had actually happened. Not only personal disgrace, but justifiable accusations that I had appropriated and devalued the ordeals of those who had been drugged, overpowered, molested, or otherwise unambiguously sexually assaulted.Self-examination forced me to acknowledge that both my partner and I shared responsibility for the events of that night, and that martyrdom would be a cowardly and dishonest excuse for my own poor judgment. I could not in good conscience adopt a narrative of convenience that might make it harder for authentic victims of sexual violence to be believed were my duplicity to be exposed.
Certainly, the emotional burden would be easier to bear if the fault could be projected elsewhere.
By chance, I ran into an old friend from college and he and I spent the rest of the evening drinking together, reminiscing about old times on Greek Row, and exchanging stories of our adventures since.
As closing time approached, I invited him back to my house and he enthusiastically accepted.
But I was old enough to know that I might be unlucky. As I struggled to come to terms with my diagnosis and grieve for the loss of my health, I experienced a range of confused emotions – anger; denial; resentment; self-pity.
For a while, I cultivated hatred towards men, and even hostility towards my parents, who I irrationally blamed for failing to do enough to warn and protect me.For many women, the breaking of the Weinstein scandal has been a moment of catharsis and deferred justice.