Editor’s Note: The following story was provided to me by a friend who felt it was time to tell her #YouKnowMe story. At her request, I’m publishing it here.
I’m one in four. You know me. I don’t owe you my story, but I’m ready to tell it – and to do whatever it takes to protect long-standing rights of women AND young girls, including my three daughters and countless females without the resources I had.
It was 1985. I was working at my first summer job, as a file clerk in an insurance agency for minimum wage. The work was monotonous but that didn’t explain why I was so tired. A co-worker saw me laying out the couch in the women’s room one lunch break and commented, “what are you, pregnant or something?”
It’s clear by now that I’m terrible at keeping a blog, so I won’t make any pretense or promises that I will suddenly reemerge with a consistent cadence. However, the current environment being as it is, I feel the need to at least nudge this blog out of its Rip Van Winkle-like sleep, if only to be at the ready for whatever musings or fiery soapbox ramblings that might suit my mood.
Truthfully however, I’m reawakening this in large part to provide a friend a forum for her #YouKnowMe story. None of us owe you our stories. I’ve chosen to share mine here, as has my friend, but there are so many stories out there that remain untold. For every story there are dozens like it.
So if our stories do some small part in changing opinions, strengthening resolve, or creating empathy, then I think those of us that are able to share them feel that it’s worth it – to give voice to the silent stories of those who, for reasons of their own, cannot share theirs.