Today, Facebook alerted me to a post I made 2 years ago.
#metoo
Not long after, I finally wrote my #metoo letter. I never planned to share it beyond those closest to me that already knew some of the story. That was enough.
Until now. It’s been 2 years and I’m not sure how much has changed. We are talking more. Being more open and vulnerable with each other.
That’s the way I like to live and lead. But this is the one story I’ve held back. No more. Secrets have a cost.
A lot has changed in 20 years…and in 2 years. The obvious stuff may not happen as much. The subtle bullshit continues. Finding new ways to silence women. To undermine them. Exerting power over someone doesn’t have to be physical to hurt.
I am no longer angry at my perpetrators. I am not angry about the threats. The intimidation. Propositions. Blackmail. Unwanted touching.
I am angry because so much of my experience was direct and blatant, I often miss the subtle ways harassment shows up. I am angry because things happen today that I don’t see and I’m failing to show up for myself and others.
I want to do better. I want us all to do better.
Whether subtle or blatant, I want to help women. I want to help bring light to what’s happening and help them realize they are not to blame for how they are treated. There should be no guilt or shame. Anger and a desire to put stop to the behavior is welcome. Negative self-talk is just another way to cede power.
The ripple effect of my experience went on for decades. Much of it without me realizing. It was in reading other #metoo stories that I finally felt ready to face mine head on. If even one woman reads this and thinks #metoo, it was worth sharing.
The conversation is shifting and growing, but let’s make sure it continues.
Warning: This is a long letter that includes foul language. It’s my experience and my feelings about that experience. I wrote it for my well-being. I share it for the sake of others’, but I’m not going to sugarcoat it for anyone.
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Dear Marc,
I’m not sure I spelled your name right. I remember the c vs k being important back then. But I don’t remember which is the right one. I feel like I should remember, even though it’s been about 20 years since I last saw you.
I’m going through some major life changes right now. I think back to when my parents divorced, and you helped me through that. As my mentor. As my friend. Someone who knew me from a young age. You shocked me back to solid footing when I lost my grip and spiraled into a very bad place. You were there to help make sure I didn’t fall. You would know that initiating a divorce of my own is difficult. That I did everything I could to avoid creating the same upbringing for my son as my own – and backed myself right into it. That divorce was never something I wanted and making this choice now is the best I can do to avoid the mistakes of my parents.
But you’re not here. You haven’t been here. As part of the divorce, I’ve been cleaning house – literally and figuratively. I’m burning away the bullshit and getting back to what’s real. I don’t lie – so I’m not going to lie to myself. It’s brutal, painful, necessary, and freeing.
The #metoo campaign hit me hard. I have spent 20 years avoiding relating my experiences. They are in the past. I know there are women that have had it worse. But I’m done. I’m done keeping my truth to myself. I’m done keeping quiet. I’m done silencing my voice for the sake of others. I’m embracing my truth. All of it. And then letting it go so I can move on with whatever this next chapter may bring.
So I’m telling this story. Finally. I don’t know if you’re alive to see this. You disappeared from LinkedIn. I would tell you this directly if I could. I’ve called others. Forgiven the unforgiveable. Because it’s time for me to say the words out loud and then let them go.
We met when I was 16. You were my father’s trusted lieutenant. I was impulsive, stubborn, too smart for my own good, naïve, and completely unaware of my power. But you were. Even then.
A few years later, I went to work at the same command as you and my father. I saw you as another father figure. Someone that I would listen to, who could advise me without the bias my father had. Different bias, but I wouldn’t figure that out until later.
You guided me on where to go to college. My major. Job changes. Ultimately so that I would end up working for you once my father retired. Retired with the thought I’d be well looked after by his trusted lieutenant.
You laid the path, and I blindly followed it. Because it seemed to make sense. Because I thought you had my best interests at heart. Maybe you did in the beginning. Maybe you did all along. I’m not sure I’ll ever know. I’m not sure – if you were honest with yourself – that you would know either.
When I worked for you, you gave me all sorts of assignments. Challenged me to learn and grow and develop. Looking back, there was magic in your approach. At the time it seemed haphazard, but it was glorious how it all came together into my first leadership position. I was 21. You assigned marines to work for me, though I had no business being responsible for other people. I had no idea what I was doing. But I learned. I grew. I delivered.
I knew there were rumors going around that I got my job because of my father. I was unaware of the others. I focused on working hard. On earning the respect of my marines. I committed all the cardinal sins – I was young, female, single and civilian. I was harassed daily. I was undermined. I was challenged. I was asked to get coffee. I didn’t care. I had your support and that of our CO. That was enough to convince me I had the job because I was good at it. Because I earned it. Screw the sins…I deserved to be there.
It was 20 years ago that you called me into your office and asked me to shut the door. I didn’t think anything of it. The conversation started the way hundreds had before. And then you told me you loved me. I tried to shut you down. I started to shut down. I wanted to scream at you to take it back. I wanted to scream at you to shut up. You said that I didn’t understand. You planned to leave your wife for me. So that we could be together. As if somehow that made it okay. It wasn’t okay.
I left that day. I disappeared. I don’t remember where. One of our customer buildings where I would escape to sometimes. Where I had friends. Or at least marines who weren’t actively trying to get into my shorts on a daily basis. You eventually found me. Demanded we talk about it. I’m pretty sure I screamed at you then. I don’t remember, but I remember I demanded that we never talk of it. Never.
Not long after, I got a job outside of the Marine Corps. I told people it’s because I wanted to know that I could be as good outside the Marine Corps environment as I was inside. I didn’t tell them it was because I needed to know if I was ever that good. If the opportunities and challenges were just given to me because of how I looked. Because the job had always come easy. I feared that maybe I was never that good, but that you had covered for me. It was easy because I wasn’t delivering. I just looked good doing it and that was enough. My imposter fears all of a sudden became very real.
So I left. It was after I left that I heard the stories. People were finally willing to tell me what others had been saying for years. That if they wanted to find me, just look under your desk. That the only reason I had my job was because I was screwing you. I was the only person that didn’t know. Apparently the way you looked at me and talked about me was clear to everyone else. Or maybe it’s because a 21 year old had no business leading marines and the only way it could be true was if I was banging my boss.
It didn’t matter that the CO supported me. That I delivered. That my team eventually did respect me and damn if they didn’t deliver too. That I killed myself for that job. That I protected myself the best I could against the pressures of being the only woman in IT and the only civilian among marines that saw me as a possible date and not their boss. From the touching. From the threats. From blackmail. From come-ons. I succumbed to none of it. I didn’t succumb to you. But none of it mattered. What did I really fight for if perception is reality and the perception was that I was nothing but pretty to look at?
I went into consulting. I was harassed, challenged, threatened, hit on…same as the Marine Corps. But I worked hard. I took every challenging assignment they could throw at me. I volunteered for the hardest projects they had. I needed to know. Was I that good? Was I only worth my looks?
There were more of you. I managed the best I knew how. But no one could possibly violate me and my trust as you had. I never let anyone get that close. I worked for weak men because they were predictable. I knew I’d be under the bus if I failed, so I always delivered. But I also knew exactly how to manage them and keep them in their place. I knew better than to trust, so I didn’t. I wore my flak jacket well.
In the last several years, I’ve broken the patterns. I’ve started to choose differently. I have started to trust and let myself be seen. Be heard. But not this story. Until now.
I recently attended a course and had to provide my work history to a colleague to assess. After telling my story – leaving this part out – he said that the word that popped into his head was “resilience.” Another word might be “grit.” Various studies have said that grit is the primary indicator of success. And yes, I have loads of grit.
While it may not be a popular sentiment, I believe one of the reasons why companies with more women outperform those with mostly men is because women have lots of grit. From shit like this. Follow the #metoo posts…women have to overcome loads of shit every day just to function, let alone get ahead. While it’s unfortunate that women have to, maybe it’s the very thing that drives our success.
I won’t speak for anyone but myself, but I’m going to thank you. You are but one chapter in my story. An important one, but only one. I have had to overcome other challenges and develop resilience or grit along the way. If you had not done what you did, I wouldn’t have pushed myself the way I have. I would not have learned all that I was capable of.
I used to think you were disturbed to have done what you did. I have since decided you were like Pygmalion. I was raw, untapped power and potential. You molded me like clay, and then fell in love with your creation. You didn’t love me – you loved what you created. By confessing that love, you forced me to break from the mold and discover and embrace my power for myself. To take risks without someone there to tell me they made sense to take. Reassuring me things would end up okay. Sometimes they did, sometimes not so much. But it was all me and mine. I wouldn’t have known that if I hadn’t told you to eff off. If you hadn’t deserved it. Hell, you could have been shaping my life even now otherwise.
So thank you. Thank you for the choices you made, no matter how screwed up I thought they were. Every twist and turn in my life has gotten me here. The choices you made helped me – even the bad choices. You helped me build a solid foundation, and then blow it up from a position of strength and rebuild. I’m doing it again now – and I have experience to draw on. Do I think you screwed up? Yes. Do I think you meant to hurt me? No. Did you? Absolutely. And I’d go through it all again to get right to where I am now.
I forgive you. And now I’m going to let this all go. I don’t need to keep renting out space in my head and my heart for something that’s in the past. I don’t know if you’re dead. I don’t know if you’ll ever know this, but I know. And that’s enough.
I’m no one’s Galatea.
