This story is not a pleasant one.
Today, as I was waiting for an appointment, I was reading about Famous Writer (male) who recently has been accused of sexual assault and misconduct. If I hadn't been in a holding pattern, I might have just read the headline and skipped the meat. Instead, I dove in. The article--like most #metoo articles--was gross, but I read it in a different light.
I had a friend who years and years ago had an affair with Famous Writer. By time I knew her, the affair was over, but the emotional aftermath was still there. She was hurt, wounded, broken-hearted. Scarred.
Famous Writer had a cult following, and it wasn't uncommon for women fans to toss him their metaphorical and literal panties. My friend was an artist, and she connected with Famous Writer on a creative level.
Or so she thought.
He sent her poetry, and she devoured it. She loved it. She loved him, and she thought he loved her.
When I was reading this article about Famous Writer, I was looking for my friend. Where was her story, wrapped in the sheets? Where does she belong in the narrative and the mess that is and was this guy's life? What about the women who love Famous Writers and Actors and Sports Stars and whatnot, these guys who end up being at best creeps and at worst rapists and assaulters?
I don't blame friend for not seeing him as a creep or rapist. I can't. He probably didn't assault her. He didn't need to. She was willing and gave him consent. She was a fan with an open heart. She only saw one slice, one angle of his life. She didn't see the other women and how he treated them. And what Famous Writer did to my friend wasn’t a crime, but it was certainly part of a pattern.
My heart breaks for my friend again. My heart broke for her years ago, when she wished Famous Writer was in her life. And it breaks again today, as I see her as one of the many, many women he used and abused, even if she was willing.
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