I want to write about something that’s uncomfortable—something that’s been a source of shame for most of my life, something I’ve kept secret. When I was a child, I was sexually assaulted—not raped, but I was repeatedly fondled and kissed by an adult male who was supposed to be someone I trust. That does something to a person. Why, you might wonder, is there shame attached to being sexually assaulted? I honestly can’t answer that, but until the “Me Too” movement I felt like, if people knew what had happened to me, they would think I was weak or pathetic...
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