During the first peak of the #MeToo movement, a woman at my friend’s dinner party, asked, incredulous, how anyone could have had sex with a disgusting creep like Harvey Weinstein for years, repeatedly, and never tell? She didn’t get it.
Not me. I totally got it, and I want to tell you why.
But part of me is scared to tell, but the better part of me wants to trust we’re finally here, in the Brave New World, where women (yes, men, too, and not just movie stars) can break their silence about sexual assault, even decades old, without fear of being shamed or, worse, not being believed. I want to trust this bold new climate years after #MeToo encouraged us all, but don’t quite, because I have a secret so tough to tell, a secret that still, for me, carries shame. As a former journalist, I was great at telling other people’s stories, just never my own.
The Casting Couch—Even Outside Hollywood
What we civilians once jokingly referred to as “the casting couch,” isn’t a joke, not even close. It was a reality for many of us—even outside Hollywood—as we navigated our lives as career women. We had our own Weinsteins to deal with, men who held power and sway over us, who dangled figurative carrots—okay, jobs—and abused their positions for sexual pleasure with impunity.
These men never seemed to give a remorseful damn about the women (let’s say women, for the sake of this story) they pawed, coerced, raped, violated, verbally shamed, or taunted with loss of livelihood or opportunity, women too shy or polite or terrified or smart to tell.
I kept silent because the only person I wanted to tell was my therapist and that wasn’t possible.
There’s a reason many of the stories coming out today are from years ago. Until Clinton and the blue dress, abusers were safe. No victim in her right mind would put herself through the hell and humiliation of speaking out, and who would believe her anyway?
In 2017 as the Cosbys, Weinsteins, Spaceys, and CKs fall from their pedestals and pay a price for their sexual crimes, I’m optimistic that a climate now exists in which real social change is possible. That this is not just a protracted media storm that will blow over before things return to the old normal.
In my case, I kept silent because the only person I wanted to tell was my therapist. And, guess what? My therapist was the one abusing me. When his whistle blew, I discovered I was just the tip of the iceberg.
Read More: The Triumphs and Pitfalls of the #MeToo Movement
The Secret-Keeping Type
His chosen ones were not all beauties. They came in various sizes and intensities. Most were single, a few were married. Why these particular women and what criteria Dr. Barnes (call me “Marc”) used to select them would become a subject of much speculation. The common denominator was every one of them could keep a secret. For three years no one breathed a word. Each believed herself to be “the one and only.”
I certainly did.
What was it—our availability, our vulnerability, our youthful, romantic longings and unzipped secrets—that led him to cross the line? I still don’t know.
The common denominator was every one of them could keep a secret. For three years no one breathed a word.
I do know that when I first sought him out, Dr. Barnes was the “it” therapist in a city where he had a private practice. He was a clinical psychologist in his late forties, tall and bearded. A Harvard education gave him cachet. His wait list was long, even though he wasn’t covered by health insurance and patients had to pay out of pocket. No matter that I couldn’t afford him—I waited eagerly for his call.
I was in my twenties when I began to experience the crippling panic attacks that made me think I was dying. There was no rhyme or reason as to when these would occur; they were so sudden and so ferocious that my fear of them compounded until there was no time or place where I felt safe. I was desperate, barely managing to hide my illness from colleagues at work.
Panic Attacks Were Only The Beginning
Marc—I will call him by his first name because he eschewed titles—was so unlike my previous shrink, who had retired. Dr. S. was an old-school psychiatrist, with a furrowed brow, a compulsive note taker. He never looked you in the eye but gazed into some middle distance while you grew sick to death of your own stories.
You felt special, not the freak you feared yourself to be.
Marc was the opposite: warm, reassuring, quick to laugh. He didn’t believe in desks, or, it later turned out, boundaries of any kind. He liked to wheel his chair over to where you sat, over the all-purpose industrial carpet, propelled by his daddy long legs. Once close, but not too close, he would lock eyes and give you his full attention. He wasn’t put off by your darkest fears.
Being heard is a critical part of therapy, and Marc was a brilliant listener. You felt special, not the freak you feared yourself to be. Those crazy symptoms you were experiencing were simply a bit of youthful turbulence he would pilot you through.
“Promise?” I’d ask.
“Yes,” he’d promise, giving a bear hug at the door.
Then Came the Sex
The sex began sometime during the second year of my therapy. We were dealing with trust issues, and Marc had taken to sitting beside me on the sofa, occasionally placing a protective arm around me as I aired my fears and dredged up the past. He was so supportive, and I berated myself for feeling uncomfortable with his nearness, which was never unpleasant, only slightly disturbing. Here he was, trying his best to get me to accept that I deserved to be valued just for me, and there was me, reverting to my untrusting, juvenile self. How could someone so attractive not believe that she could be loved simply for being? In my despair, I admitted, yes, I did put up barriers to loving. Marc was right.
One day, in the middle of a conversation like this, he took my face in his hands and looked at me differently. He said, “Come here.”
His fingers began to insist, and I realized there was intent. I felt pure terror.
I was so startled when the avuncular hug and brush of his beard against my cheek at his office door turned into overt sexual touching, his lips on my lips, his hand on my breast. I thought he had made a mistake, like he’d been driving at night, somehow gotten lost in the dark, taken a wrong turn, it could happen to anyone, but then, his fingers began to insist, and I realized there was intent. I felt pure terror, although I couldn’t articulate it, especially not to him, because he appeared so confident and pleased. How to stop his wandering hands? When I cried, he mistook my sudden tears for those of joy, assuring me he loved me, no longer just as my doctor, but as a man, completely. He’d waited months to tell me he loved me loved me. I was finally ready to hear, he said.
Funny, I didn’t feel ready. I felt trapped. A voice inside was wailing, Oh. God. No! How had I not seen this coming and yet….
I hadn’t, not for a moment, and these new feelings were so complex and forcing me to be dishonest. I lived daily with crippling anxiety, nervous in my job, looking forward to the refuge of his office, which was now unsafe and complicated with sex. I realized I had come to believe that without Marc I could not function in the world. I was completely dependent on him.
No More Refuge
Part of me was flattered that I had been chosen above all others. But I had craved his reassurance, never his undressed self, which I found repugnant. I didn’t need to feel his skin next to mine nor did I want to smell him naked on the red and navy blanket which he produced like Kreskin from a desk drawer and unfurled with a flourish. It was as if we had just arrived at a picnic on his office rug. Except I was the picnic. In my mind’s eye, I would envision French paintings of naked ladies on the grass, distancing myself with my imaginings. So this was the price I had to pay, I thought. Not so different from sex in my mother’s day: close your eyes and think of England.
It was as if we had just arrived at a picnic on his office rug. Except I was the picnic.
My alternative, as I saw it, and he understood, was emotional exile and death.
Marc’s office was housed in an industrial building, a cinder block with a drab interior made homey with lamps. There were two doors leading to his inner room: one through a corridor leading from the parking lot out back and past a small bathroom; the other from the waiting room out front. Shortly after our first sexual encounter, he produced a rope from his filing cabinet.
“For our protection,” he said.
Roped In
It looked rough and ready enough to lasso a calf. While he looped one end to a door handle and knotted it with a skill I had never acquired in Guides, he calmly explained the logic behind this purchase, how he felt we needed privacy and this would ensure no one could burst in on us. The length of the rope was perfect, extending to the second door handle, the exact width of the room.
From my new vantage point on the floor, I saw an indoor clothesline without clothes. I, too, was without clothes. Being roped in was scary. If I hadn’t been with my shrink, I’d have been overwhelmed with claustrophobia.
My alternative, as I saw it, and he understood, was emotional exile and death.
We began having regular sex. While I knew I didn’t “love” him in that way, I loved him enough to go along. I couldn’t risk hurting his feelings. He told me about the glow in my cheeks, how I was gaining confidence. That confused me; I felt miserable. I knew only that I believed Marc could save me from the panic attacks. I needed him.
When Marc announced, proudly, that I had “come,” I didn’t wish to be impolite and tell him I hadn’t. I became an adept liar. I knew the sooner I faked an orgasm the sooner it would be over and I could put my clothes on and just be held. It irritated me when he expressed how happy I was. Those sessions he couldn’t get it up I was relieved that Marc was old: almost 50.
Later I understood his lack of erection had nothing to do with age. It was his schedule and where I fit into the scheme of things. I was his ten o’clock. The reason was his nine o’clock. A woman called Amy.
My Therapist Sexually Abused Me: The Reckoning
The sex part between us lasted seven months. It stopped when I met Philip, a writer, and asked to bring him along to a session. Reluctantly, Marc agreed. He expressed sadness that I wanted to end the physical part of our relationship, but he said that my self-esteem had risen and that I was ready for a real relationship.
Wow. This was a revelation. What had changed?
With Philip’s encouragement, I began looking at alternative therapies. I discovered a book by an Australian doctor on coping with panic disorders and anxiety.
During the time I was seeing Marc, many of his patients worked in a youth facility where therapy sessions were mandatory for staff. They were counsellors, colleagues, and friends. One day, the wife of one told her husband she was sleeping with Marc. Not sleeping, exactly. The husband went ballistic, felt doubly betrayed, because he, too, was seeing Marc, just not in that way.
He alerted the partner of another patient, a co-worker whose wife confessed she, too, had been Marc’s lover. In no time, it was all over town.
My former apartment mate, who had never spared me details of her love life, called to say Marc was finished. “Finished, how?” I asked, my heart racing. “I have a confession,” she said, telling me that she’d had sex with him during the year we’d shared an apartment.
“Me too,” I said.
A Strange Group Therapy
Others came forward. Thirteen in all. Most of us knew each other from group therapy. In the days that followed, I remember gathering at someone’s house, drinking camomile tea, and huddling together like widows or orphans, depending on our status. Those who hadn’t been seduced felt bizarrely snubbed. The collective betrayal was immense, but, in retrospect, it took too long for loss to turn to anger. Who, we wondered, day after day, was the real Marc? For a long time, he was my proof there was no God.
Marc called once to say sorry, in a voice I didn’t recognize. Then he vanished. In a stroke of luck—for him—his colleague, a doctor, arranged to have him checked into an addiction centre in another city. We, his patients, were reeling and so shell-shocked that no one had the strength to mobilize to pursue him for malpractice or what someone later called “sex crimes.” In those days, who would have believed our stories?
Those who hadn’t been seduced felt bizarrely snubbed.
Even friends weren’t able to offer consolation. Especially men. I understood more things then, not pretty things that I wanted to savour or were life-enhancing, but wider truths about human and animal nature. I understood Patty Hearst and her relationship with the Symbionese Army. I understood women who stayed with abusive husbands and hid their bruises with Cover Girl. I understood nature documentaries and the swift betrayals that lead to death and dinner on the Serengeti.
What became of us after Marc’s disappearance? Maddeningly, the sun continued to rise and set. Some of us moved away in order to rebuild our lives. Many of us remained single. I got better, despite him. We heard Marc divorced and lost custody of his children. Rumour had it that after rehab he got a job as a counsellor at a girls’ college. It may have been true. Memory is short.
Karma? Or Not?
He remarried. His new wife died of cancer. He would also die of cancer. But between illness and death, Marc had a renaissance of sorts.
When I look back on those times, given those exact circumstances, I ask myself: Would I change anything I did or didn’t do in the past?
I learned he’d been employed as an escort on a cruise liner, as a dance partner to women of a certain age travelling solo, and why not? He was a presentable bachelor in his seventies, a man who looked handsome in a tux, with lines sweet enough to melt the heart of a girl and moves as polished as the floor he danced on. While the band played and the ship progressed through the liquid night, here was a man so practised in treating women like belles that during the dance, for that moment, nothing mattered but allowing yourself to surrender to his lead, knowing that here, in these arms, you felt safe and confident that you would never sink.
So, that’s my story. I am breaking my silence because of the #MeToo movement, what actor Elliot Page calls “the long-awaited reckoning” and all the brave women who have made it possible to be heard. Would I change anything I did or didn’t do in the past? When I look back on those times when my therapist sexually abused me, given those exact circumstances, I ask myself: would I have had the guts to speak up?
The answer is no.
Read More: Trauma, Memory and #MeToo: Remembering What You Chose to Forget
A version of this story was originally published in November 2017.
The name Ellen Page should be updated to Elliot Page.
Yes, you’re right. Good catch. Thanks.
My female married therapist lost her license 2007 after a total of 6 year relationship with me a lesbian, my therapist was an intern and spent 1200 hrs of her 3000 hours Required to get license- she had total control over me, cell, my free time and wanted “us” to be a secret in those rooms and later after we ended therapy to continue our relationship- I knew her husband and she knew my partner I lived with but “they” didn’t know we were together sexually, I reported her and she lost her license in 2007 but she moved back to her husband and I believe she is still working as a LMFT, I am numb, emotionally dead and trust no one anymore! Wish to write a book without my real name. BBS boards don’t care she is still practicing as a therapist! There’s now a Netflix story- Gypsy on now about a therapist and have inappropriate behavior and it brought back all the horrible memories of distrust and betrayal, hurt and pain! Laws need to change to protect victims of therapist who sexually abuse their clients and even if therapist gives up their license to avoid a trial from BBS board, it still should be published in the newspaper! She is free and has her life, I don’t, lost everything, home, relationship and my trust!
So sorry for what you’ve gone through. Really, really terrible. Thank you for letting us know about this situation; others need to know this can happen. Best to you.
Should I speak up? I don’t know. I was in a “relationship” with a therapist for years! I was so vulnerable and he was so “loving”. It started with the light touch of the hand on the shoulder at the door when I was incredibly vulnerable and unloved by my boyfriend. Then him running over to me when I was sobbing. “No I said, I don’t want to fall in love with you”. “Don’t worry, I’m good at this”. (those words haunt me still). Then it was his suggestion of fifteen minutes of “holding me” at the end of each session. Then it was the hand rubbing my thigh during the holding. Then and I know not when, it was sex. It makes me sick to my stomach as I write this. So many clues I avoided and so needy I was and so hormonal in my 40’s. What should I do? He was nothing but respectful most of the years but it was just hellish, being so “loved” and “hurt” at the same time, as he was married. Ultimately he was very manipulative, even though he did devote a lot of time to our “relationship”. I wasted a decade or more being in this and disentangling myself from it.
He is a very popular therapist in this city. Does he do this with others? Should I do something? nothing? I don’t know. I just know that when I read this, I just finally had to say something, if not out loud, then at least out loud on paper.
No one can truly understand another’s motivations because they’ll never be the same person in the same situation with the same history, concerns, goals, strengths, support system, income … We’re different people, so “I don’t understand” should not mean “so you’re wrong.” The #MeToo movement is working largely because women are standing together and supporting each other. Let’s encourage more of that. Thanks for what you shared, Anne. It took guts.
So much validity in the article and comments
So scary, so brave.
still quiet….
Yesthey do!!!
Women speak up when they find the strength and courage to do so. Also…remember it can ruin your life as you know it. Easier for every one to sit and judge…but until you go through it yourself….the trauma and the fear is very hard to get over and ignore. So women speak out when they feel it is safe to do so. I don’t blame them.
Thank you for your bravery
In cultures and societies ruled by underlying and systemic religious concepts that promote women as ‘lesser than’ and men as not only stronger or more powerful but a more true representation of the ‘image of god’, it only stands to reason that this will create what is essentially a culturally-condoned and systemic rape culture that influences everything from how we raise our children to think of themselves, to the workplace and every other facet of every day life.
And given its roots in religious thought, it is hugely powerful and hugely ingrained in the societal psyche, and accepted theoretically on the parts of both males and females of such cultures, even when the inconsistencies of the concept are plainly seen. The concept itself is considered to be more powerful (and more true) than any inequity said concept may involve to one party or the other. Most of all, it presents a faulty perception of both males and females, and assigns them different levels of humanity in general….which is exactly what it is intended to do. It also demands strict societal gender roles in order for the more sensible men to be able to control the non-sensible women, because men are presumed to be more wise and women are presumed to not really know what is good for themselves at all.
And god help the unsuspecting male who displays any characteristic considered ‘effeminate’ in this culture, because that is considered a worse abomination than being a female to begin with, and hugely more offensive (and therefore far more frightful and far more dangerous) to those who consider themselves of the utmost self-proclaimed ‘alpha-male persuasion’. After all….since it is taught that Eve came to be from a part of Adam himself, the biggest fear in the alpha-male psyche is that anyone with a penis could somehow ‘become that’, instead of being a ‘real’ man….which is probably why teenaged boys so love to use derogatory terms like ‘fag’, ‘sissy’, etc. to prove that they are ‘real’ men…..because they are taught that a real man is always a ‘man’s man’ kinda guy who controls and never lowers himself. (John Wayne: ‘don’t ever apologize, it’s a sign of weakness’)
Women have been blamed and considered more ‘evil’ than men since the story of Eve in the garden, with Adam as the ‘innocent victim’. Society has been taught to view females as, at their core and despite whatever their true character may be, manipulative seductresses who will use their charms and wiles to entrap any man for their own ends. When a woman says ‘no’ it only means ‘try harder, I’m only being coy’ to many men, because it is a given that women are also born liars that cannot be trusted but are ‘flighty’ and ’emotional’ and victims of their own hormones. (‘you’re grouchy today, are you ragging it?’) So if a woman displays normal politeness or friendliness, there will be some men who will take even that as a subtle ‘come on’…we see this every day. Therefore, since all women are, at their core, liars, manipulators, closet seductresses, and hormonal, they cannot be trusted with any true responsibility, and if they are, it is a given that at some point they will fail, taking everyone with them, because their ‘true colors’ will eventually show them to be the incompetents that they are genuinely believed to be, so women in positions of power are considered to be a danger to us all, especially the ‘more capable’ men….and female children as young as practically fetal-stage on are shamed and repressed/controlled in their behaviors, clothing, and everything else because no matter how young they may be, they are never considered ‘innocent’ in the same way that a male child is….and merely by the misfortune of being born female in a patriarchal society, considered to then be somehow *responsible* for any lustful thought, action, or inclination on the part of any male who observes them and then decides to use them. Doesn’t matter if the guy is 45 and the girl is 5….she is still accused of somehow ‘wanting it’ or provoking it. He’s just the unwitting victim of some manipulative female.
And we wonder why women do not speak up? And when nobody (even, sadly, other women) is inclined to believe them even if they do?
Beautifully expressed.
Thank you, Meg. <3
I just read this, amazing insight, can I copy and share?
Glad you found this valuable. You can share, but please include a link back to the story and a reference that it first appeared in NextTribe.com. I hope it can help others too. Thank you.
I kept my secret for 50 years…until my parents passed, so they wouldn’t have to know…my abuser was my brother…my father would have killed him….kept my family together, until that brother decided to threaten me over my parents estate…I no longer have any family relationships left….their choices….
Same here. My brother died a year ago. I was the caregiver for our mom for eight years. She passed in March at 98. Our family is completely fractured and I’m fine with it. My sister decided to leave me with all the funeral expense for our mother even though she can afford it. No longer speak to her. They were toxic siblings growing up.
So am I just an asshole? I never hesitated to not just speak up, but as loud and as often as I had to until something changed. I cannot understand allowing it to go on and not speaking up.
Just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean those women aren’t valid. That was their reality.
I didn’t say they weren’t valid. But what the hell is wrong with someone who allows themselves to be treated that way and not say anything. They allowed these asshats to get away with it for years. That’s what I can’t understand.
‘Terri Lee White think about it; why did Elizabeth Smart not shout out that she was being held captive? Surely this was not her wish. Why did Patty Hearst hold a weapon and act like a revolutionary? She wasn’t one before they kidnapped her. Why would a room full of girls at a sleepover not shout out for help after a stranger enters the child’s room and kidnaps one of the girls? Why would a kidnaped child live with his abuser and not seek help until the perpetrator brings in a new little boy? There’s a lot of new understanding into why vulnerable people keep silent. And why they become abused. Part of the silence is fear of not being believed. Many abused people are/where vulnerable.
And the fear of not being believed is valid. Because very often people are not believed.
Some people work in communities where they can be quite sure that speaking up would mean social and business ostracism. It could mean getting fired and never getting another job in that community. Others might be in danger both from harassers at work and abusers at home. If you have never been vulnerable to this, good for you- but when you start with “I don’t understand why people do X”, you are absolutely right.
You don’t understand.
Which is EXACTLY what I said!!!
Until you have experienced it, it is extremely difficult to understand, for anyone.
I, too, have experienced it. I never told anyone about it for years, probably twenty or more, and then it was only to my therapist. It took more years before I could speak about it to anyone else.
Sexual politics are very tricky…so much depends on our age, our self esteem, where we are on the rungs of subordination, how we were raised, etc. There are no easy answers and thank god women are starting to share their most horrifying, humiliating, painful sexual encounters and are rebuilding their base of power.
Understanding the “times” only works if you’ve lived it. The 70s, 80s, and 90s were different times. Every decade has evolved until the now. Men were still the bread winners, “Mr. Mom” was a big deal. Women weren’t looked at as equals. Granted there were good men out there but for the most part if a woman was working the attitude was we were only trying to have a career to prove some kind of point. Once we found a man and had children we would supposedly drop the idea of a career. Attitudes have changed after many decades of fighting for equal rights. Some women of the times were pursuing careers and not only fighting to succeed in a “man’s world” but fighting the ideals of their parents.
Men did have control back then. Women were struggling to work and succeed but some men just figured they were “perks” of the job. To speak out was career suicide. One more reason that women shouldn’t be treated as an equal in the work place. As a woman you had to play the game with extra barriers.
I’m trying to put the pressures of the times in perspective to give some insight what women dealt with on top of the sexual abuse and harassment. The sexual aspect was only one of the pressures woman dealt with. The predators knew they could take advantage and not be reported.
If you don’t understand than just shut up and stop victim blaming!!
First learn how to read, then learn how to spell. And no I won’t shut up. If more people spoke up there would be a LOT LESS victims.
Ladies, I dont think ‘Terri Lee White was being sarcastic or condescending when she said she doesn’t understand. I think she was being sincere in saying “I don’t undetstand”.
Happened to me too when I was 12…I spoke up..no one believed me. It was my uncle and my cousin and now many years later (I’m now 46) some of my other cousins told me it happened to them too but they only told me because I’m the one that spoke up…none of the other family members know and it isn’t my place to tell them. Just think…if they had spoken up..it wouldn’t have happened to me or others. Also…the only reason I spoke up is because I told my cousin and she told her mom..her mom called the school..I had no choice but to confront it…I was scared to death
And that is correct…if it has never happened to you…you’ll never understand
Ive been in these shoes. About 10 years ago, I did once speak out, but I needed witnesses… (he didn’t like minorities, or women)… they said they would help, but changed their minds. This is a lesson I will never forget.
The business atmosphere in MOST companies precludes that a women keep her mouth shut.
I only hope that the women who are speaking up make it less difficult for all women to speak up.
Me too
Ouch. Maybe she’s speaking up at the right time.
WORD
Such a powerful piece; captures what so many women must be struggling with at this moment.