After EMDR, I Remembered A Violent Sexual Assault

The pieces of the puzzle come together and as they do, so do I.

A far away figure surrounded by an icy landscape
Photo by Valdemaras D. on Unsplash

Previously published on

Trigger warning: Content contains details of sexual assault.

I’m healing. I just finished an EMDR session and I’m feeling tenuously better.

Last week I had a dentist’s appointment. It was a routine screening and exam. I hadn’t seen the dentist in three years. I’d developed a kind of phobia around it. As I lay back in the chair, meditating, counting my breaths, working mightily against a rising panic attack, I realized my eyes were watering. But as they continued to water, I checked in with the rest of my body, I was crying.

Two days later I went in for my annual mammogram, also a thing I’ve been avoiding for three years. I felt nauseous going in and found the experience so brutalizing that nausea kept mounting. On the way home I projectile vomited out of the window on the freeway. It was everywhere. Nothing like that has ever happened to me, but I believe it’s because I am healing and I’m not repressing the stories my body wants to tell me.

I then realized that the phobias of routine medical screenings had developed following my last visit with my mother and older brother. And the last time I sustained injuries from a particularly violent physical and sexual assault perpetrated on the night before my departure.

If you’re encountering this story for the first time, I’ve been writing about the child sexual abuse and adult sexual assault I sustained for decades in my family home. My mother had perfected the art of drugging me. If you want to understand that I’d start here and then come back.

Two EMDR sessions ago, which was three weeks ago, I encountered the first pieces of a memory from that night. That’s how the memories of these events often return. They rise in kind of image fragments. A splinter here, a flash there. This one, I’ve briefly outlined before but bears repeating. My six-foot-two brother, well over 200 pounds, is hitting me on the left side of my face. It feels like he’s hitting me as hard as he can. My mother is standing next to him to his left. She’s grinning and saying something I can’t understand. The lights are on. They are blurry and like I’m seeing them through a shaky camera lens. I’m gasping for air. I’m terrified I’m dying. I’m confused, “how can this be happening, really happening? How is this real? Is this real?” I feel his hand against my face, again and again, and can hear the slap of his hand against my face. It’s deafening.

As I’m writing this, I’m cold. I’m so cold. I haven’t been eating, just drinking a lot of water. This has been going on for the last two years, but these last three weeks even more so. I’ve lost more weight. So, even on this beautiful 77-degree day, I’m shivering. The other night I was in a panic, chewing ice, freezing, taking hot showers, and eating ice in the shower. This went on for four hours.

I tell you this because four hours is significant.

Take yourself seriously and listen to what your body tells you

The night of the assault I was feeling strange and didn’t want to fall asleep. I was up watching YouTube on my computer, much later than I usually stay up when I visited my mother. The house was deathly still. Then my older brother ascended the stairs, but instead of using the bathroom and going back down to the basement where he lives, he stayed in the bathroom. I listened, the toilet never flushed, the water never ran, but he stayed there, the light on, and I kept waiting for him to go back down. I looked at my door. It was shut tight. I felt slightly better. “You’re crazy. Try to sleep.” I looked at the clock. It read 12:40 a.m.

The next thing I remember is waking up and the house was pitch black and deathly still, sickeningly still. I remember thinking that, “sickeningly still.” Listen to yourself when it uses adjectives that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else but you. I looked at the clock. It was 4:11 a.m. “I never wake up that early if I stay up past midnight,” I thought. “Why did I wake up?” I immediately checked the door. It was ajar. I reviewed my memory to see if I’d gotten up to pee at any point. I know I hadn’t. I know I hadn’t. I opened the door to see if I could see my brother; maybe he’d been in the bathroom this whole time. But that’s absurd. Why would I think that? I looked at my mother’s bedroom door across the hallway. It was slightly ajar as well. It’s usually pulled to, a term I use because there are no locks on any doors to any room except the downstairs bathroom, which is loose.

That’s when I notice a thick, salty taste in my mouth and my tongue swelling. Did I bite down on my tongue or cheek? My face hurts. The left side of my face is throbbing and my left eye is swollen. I have a headache and my ear is ringing loudly. I can feel the blood in my neck rushing, can hear my heart beat pounding in my chest and it feels like a drum. My stomach hurts, and aches. It’s sore like it’s been punched on the left side just below my ribcage. It’s tender too, like bruised. And my genitals are sore, like painfully sore, like they really, really hurt. I’m confused. Do I have to pee? Sometimes if I have to pee my bladder feels like it hurts. Is that what this is? I then notice that my other cheek hurts and feels like it’s swelling up too. What’s wrong with me? My eyebrows feel thick like they’re protruding. I feel sick in my stomach, nauseous, and like I’m about to throw up. I want to vomit, but can’t. My throat hurts “with a passion.” I still don’t know what this means, but it’s what occurred to me then. It feels like an ice pick had been driven into the back of it and I have the sensation of water having been up my nose. I feel like blood is coming down the back of my throat from my nose. I can’t breathe. I can barely breathe through my mouth, my throat feels like it’s closing up. I sit up. I want to go to the bathroom, but I’m terrified.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you’re mom’s right there. If he had come in and done anything, she’d know. He wouldn’t dare do anything with her there.” I reluctantly get out of bed and go down the hall to the bathroom, heart in my throat, terror coursing through my veins. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t want anyone to know I’m there. I’m so terrified every movement feels labored like I’m moving through molasses. Molasses. My mother is from the South. They have a lot of sayings that use that word. Molasses feels like it figures prominently for me, though I don’t know exactly how or why. This doesn’t come back. I still have so many unanswered questions.

I make it to the bathroom and decide not to turn on the light. I sit down to pee and I can’t. Something hurts like hell. My urethra feels wounded and damaged. It’s swollen and tight and my belly hurts so much and I can’t pee. I try to pee and little trickles out. “But I always have to pee. Why can’t I pee?” I notice that I don’t feel like this, ever. I’ve never woken up feeling like this, at least not since I’ve been noticing how I feel when I’m alone or with my husband. Because in the intervening years since I’d been on my own I had begun working on myself to understand why my body told a different story than the one I told myself, and the one my mother told me.

And that’s where she went wrong. She probably should have killed me when she had the chance. She probably wishes she had now.

Lucky to be alive vs. happy to be alive

But here we are and I don’t just feel relieved to be alive, I feel incredibly lucky to be alive. Because many in my shoes may not have lived to tell their families’ stories. But here I am. And the story of my abuse isn’t just my story, it’s my entire family’s story. They knew. They all knew. And justified it because I deserved it. I believe they believe I deserved it, asked for it, and was born to be it. My father knew. He couldn’t even look at me the day he walked me down the aisle, couldn’t look me in the eye. Couldn’t even speak to me. He was dead from cancer four months later.

I’m starting to hyperventilate, a thing I didn’t anticipate. But since I’m writing about this for the first time, it’s all very fresh and my body feels it’s a little soon. Well, it’ll catch up. Let’s press forward.

I go back to my room, crawl under the covers and feel like I’m going to throw up. I’m frozen in fear and watch the sunrise. Eventually, when I hear my mother stirring in the kitchen beneath me I rise. I am confused about what to put on my body. I don’t know if I’m hot or cold, only that something is wrong, “terrifyingly wrong,” I think. “I’m being silly, stupid. Don’t think that. This is your last day with your mom. Have a good day.” This doesn’t help me know what to put on my body. I’m deeply confused and disoriented. My feet feel glued to the floorboards. I get fully dressed. I don’t feel like showering today anyway. Showers have felt very strange in this house on this trip. Very strange, “dead strange.” I think.

Right now, I want to finish this, but I want to stop. I want to pull up the floorboards where I’m sitting in this lovely little coffee shop and crawl beneath them where I belong. I belong beneath the floorboards. I belong to the ground. That’s a weird thing to think. But since I thought it, I wanted you to know. It seemed important.

I’m switching tenses like crazy. I may go back and fix that, but I may not. It depends on how confusing this turns out to be. I’m getting lost. God, I’m cold. And tired. Recalling this is exhausting. I feel like I could sleep. Which is far more than I can say about that last day with my mother. I felt like I’d never sleep again. I sat down for breakfast. She made eggs, I think. I think, but I remember not feeling hungry at all. I remember looking down at the food but not registering what was there. Yes, it must’ve been eggs because I remember they tasted rubbery and flat, and chewing them nearly made me gag.

My older brother ascended the stairs from the basement, a thing he rarely did before noon. I look up and his back is to me as he stands at the stove. “How did you sleep?” He asked. Did he say it twice? I think he did because I looked at my mother who didn’t respond.

“Are you asking me?” I said. He grunted an affirmation. I don’t remember how I responded. If I was honest I’d have said “not very well.” I think I may have said that. I think so because I believe he responded sort of flatly, like “That’s too bad.” But he may have said, “That’s good,” which means I would have told him I slept fine. I was so confused that morning, disoriented, foggy, but trying to pretend everything was fine. I remember that exchange and then turning back to my breakfast and thinking how “nothing” everything tasted because all I could taste was that thick, salty, somewhat metallic taste in my mouth. I couldn’t get enough water that morning. Nothing washed it out.

The evidence a predator leaves behind can be seen

My mother and I went shopping, as we always did. But instead of browsing, she followed me, but not in a way that a mother and daughter would follow one another: chatting lightly, asking one another for advice on an item or a recommendation, looking around for things the other might like, laughing occasionally at an old family joke or a story about someone they both know. No, this was far creepier. I remember thinking at the time, that she was being, “really fucking creepy.” I felt a sharp pang of guilt and scolded myself, making a mental note to ask her if she was OK. But she was watching me from a long way off, not staying close. When I found some things I tried them on in the dressing room. When I tried to find her to get her opinion on them, she was gone. I got dressed in my own clothes and came back out, thinking I’d find her in the aisles, but she was nowhere to be found. I got in line and texted her. She said she was waiting for me in the car. It hurt. Something was wrong.

When I got in the car I asked her if she was OK. She looked strange as if that were an odd question. She said she was fine, but she was silent. At lunch, she didn’t say anything despite my concerted efforts at conversation. “Are you sure something’s not wrong?” I asked this time determined to get an answer.

She nodded quickly, multiple times, and with short, sharp breaths said, almost in a whisper, “Yes, yes, yes. I’m fine, fine, fine.” When she took me to the airport she was ranting about politics and “democratic socialism” being the new evil of our time, the new name for fascism. I didn’t respond. I felt like she was goading me. When she wouldn’t stop, I think I said something about how fascism and democratic socialism were not at all the same and then laid out a couple of my points. This silenced her until someone tried to get in our lane and she said, “I’m gonna getcha!” It was weird, particularly how she said it. It came from a pinched-off place in the back of her throat. I thought it was strange, that she was acting so strange and not at all “Christian.” Then I thought, “She’s not a Christian.” And once again I scolded myself for the thought. But then something else occurred to me, “She may not be. Remember everything from the last 24 hours. Catalog every detail and think about it when you get home.”

And I did. And as I thought about it, another thing happened that caused the great unraveling of my mother’s life-long narrative. I was wearing my favorite, raw silk sleeping pants. My husband said, “You have three holes in your pants.”

“I do? How’d I do that? Did I sit on something?”

“Not unless you sat on three nails. It looks more like you poked your fingers through them.” They were on my left inner thigh.

“I’d have remembered if I did that. That’s some pretty aggressive scratching.”

“Well, how else would they get there?” He asked.

How else indeed. I took them off and examined the holes. I thought they were finally proof that my older brother had sexually assaulted me. But it bothered me that the holes were too small to be left by his fingers and too small to be mine, but too big to be anything other than finger holes. It would be another year and a half before I was ready to see those holes for whose they were. Hers.

How ironic that my mother’s metaphoric grasp finally broke because of the finger holes she left in my pants. I want to add here that holes like that had been appearing in my pajama pants, underwear, and nightgowns throughout my life. I thought they were from my older brother. And maybe some of them were, but I doubt it. I think, like any good serial predator, my mother delighted in leaving evidence behind, as she delighted in ruining things I needed and/or loved, favorite pieces of jewelry would end up mysteriously broken, lost, or bent so badly they were unwearable, in between wearings.

My favorite nightgowns were ripped and stained without my knowledge. And at the time there was always a plausible reason, but on balance, there was a distinct pattern in everything of mine that got ruined. It was only when I was around my mother for an extended period and only when she had unfettered access to my things and my body.

And that’s the memory that resurfaced, placed within the context of the moments just before and just after it.

I still have the salty, metallic taste in my mouth that won’t go away. I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic or if it’s because of something they did to me that night.

The good news is, I’m feeling better. I’m feeling stronger. I’m feeling less shame than I’ve ever felt in my life, but especially since that last assault. I’m fucking better and that deserves a goddamn celebration. It’s evening now and I’m going to have a glass of wine. The good stuff.


© Amy Punt, Punt On Point Media, Inc. 2022

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Speak Memory | A Visual Poem

There are many times when words fail to express the totality of the human experience. The truest, deepest emotions often occur in spaces where language cannot go. My abuser wanted me to die. I live and I’m telling. This is just the beginning.

Mirror Game Premier

Cybil, Olivia and Melody play a video game with real-life consequences. “Playing With The Big Boys” is a multi-player game designed to teach women how to “make it in a man’s world.” The “man’s world” is a Silicon Valley gaming company. It rewards toxic masculinity while challenging the women with an onslaught of casual and overt misogyny through Tony, the manager and Rohm, the CEO. Cybil, inspired by disgraced Theranos CEO, Elizabeth Holmes, is determined to win at any cost. She constructs an elaborate lie to win the game, but finds it comes at great cost.

Overtly, you could view the women’s journey as a cautionary tale warning women to beware ambition. Yet, beneath the surface lies an allegory that aims to indict the systems that oppress and objectify women and celebrate toxic masculinity.

Silicon Valley, Hollywood, Washington D.C., corporate America–each system fails our culture. The media they produce and the ways they function, strangle innovation and imagination in favor of a brutal and cruel kind of capitalism.

In terms of Mirror Game and the central theme, the phrase, “It’s not personal, it’s capitalism,” is no more than an excuse for bad behavior that negatively impacts both the worker and the consumer, and eventually the one at the top.

As an aside, I encourage everyone, if you haven’t, to check out The 1619 Project. It draws a direct link from slavery to our modern economic systems.

Ultimately, one hopes a piece can speak for itself and that the ideas don’t weigh too heavily on it. Any artistic endeavor, particularly one as collaborative as new opera, must offer the very talented artists it assembles space to articulate their experience. Above all else, this piece must allow the audience member the freedom to discover it and perhaps enjoy it on the way. 

A Rorschach Test

Who do you see in this photo? A female superhero strong enough to kick a whole army of men in the teeth? A descendant of Amazons, female warriors so self-sufficient they don’t need men? To many, Wonder Woman is a symbol of female empowerment–a shining star of feminism in the pantheon of hyper-masculine alpha greats.

To me, Wonder Woman subverts true femininity. Super sexy, gorgeous, daughter of a father god and warrior woman, Wonder Woman has as much to do with actual womanhood as Barbie in a suit. She’s an object of desire, an archetype of cis-male fantasy. Literally a gorgeous Lesbian from Lesbos, she awakens to her true nature (the need of a man) when she meets Pilot Steve Trevor. Aside from her brawn, which I’ll get to in a moment, her greatest power against him is a lasso of truth. Why is this a thing? Men lie, you see, but a virtuous woman tells the truth, something the Lesbians of Lesbos hammer home quite a bit in the film. “The World of Men is evil. It will destroy us all.”

Captain Sexy Names finds he’s utterly powerless against her UNTIL he realizes she’s never had sex–with a man—the only kind that offers one carnal knowledge, right? Her child-like innocence yet another quality of fantasy femininity.

As for her brawn, it’s something every true superhero needs, yes? That’s what makes her a superhero. Yet, unlike Batman, Ironman, Spiderman, to scratch the surface, she was never human. She fell from the heavens, a perfect specimen of purity and sexual potency. Sure, one could argue that Superman is also a god, but it’s a false equivalent. He’s just one of many male figures in this world. Cis-boys of all psyches and shapes can find themselves in DC comics. Wonder Woman is tokenism, and tokenism takes an underrepresented demographic and distills it down to one unattainable ideal–ultimately more harmful than helpful.

Of course I loved her as a child. Of course the thought of her made me feel strong. Maybe she’s a step in the right direction, but as she remains the dominant representation of femininity in the superhero world, she reinforces sexist tropes that infect the DNA of social discourse.

A friend of mine, I’ll call her Tanya, is the new CEO of an arts-related non-profit. She asked a colleague, and frequent art donor, for help. He generously obliged. He wrote her a blank check to cover the cost of their first fundraiser. They’d never discussed her relationship status. It had never come up. Grateful for the support, she thought she’d take their friendship to the next level. She invited him to her wedding. Then things got weird. He was cold, distant and dismissive in their phone calls. He attended the wedding, but went out of his way to blow her off. He walked away when she approached and left having barely greeted her or her new husband.

Another friend, Julie, let’s say, is a Marketing consultant. A CEO brought her in to help him take his company to the next level. He was excited by her work, complimented her on her intelligence and enthusiastically talked of their future together–until he asked her for coffee. She mentioned she and her partner had plans at that time and suggested an alternative day. She never heard from him again.

Jen, another friend, attended a recent conference. During a panel discussion between several men and women, one of the men stopped the conversation to tell the women, “Can I just say, I have a crush on all of you!” Don’t be so sensitive, you may say. He was complimenting them! What’s wrong with that? Because it makes women objects of desire in a space where we seek to engage with our minds. This hurts our bottom line. Men’s desire can literally take the food out of our mouths. They have the luxury to determine when it’s sexy time and when it’s work time. And if women don’t play ball, men take it and go home.

This is the pernicious problem with a figure like Wonder Woman. There are many examples of toxic femininity that get tangled up in the muck and madness of good-intentioned media. I would love to think that movements like #MeToo and #TimesUp might move the needle, but as long as gender disparity is measured in wages lost and careers stalled, I’m dubious.

USC, You Have A Problem

Due to a back injury, I started physical therapy at the USC Verdugo Hills Hospital on August 28th at 1:15 p.m. In a large hospital room designed to serve a number of patients simultaneously, each bed is separated from the others by a curtain. Following my first session, my therapist turned off the light while I lay on an ice pack and relaxed. Across the way, behind another curtain, a therapist, a man, worked with his patient, a woman and senior citizen.  His tone was friendly and professional. They discussed her progress, her heart, and he asked her whether or not she felt any numbness in various parts of her body as, I assumed from her responses, he touched her. It all seemed above board. Then the conversation turned from the professional, to well, something else.

“So, every year to a year-and-a-half or so, I go with my patients to get a massage,” he said.

“Oh… that sounds wonderful,” she said with uncertainty.

“Usually, I take my patients downstairs to the spa. You know, I wait until the spa has a deal– 20% off or so.”

“I know, they’re so expensive, otherwise I’d get them all the time,” she said.

“Good. So, we go and get a couple’s massage in the evening. How does that sound?”

“That sounds fine,” she said, more quietly now.

“And then we can grab some dinner,” he said cheerfully.

I could barely contain my shock and mouthed, “OH MY GOD!” Two other female colleagues of his were milling about the room. One of them saw my face, looked away and quickly exited the room.

In the spirit of “If you see something say something,” I’d like to say I said something. I did not. Honestly, I’m not exactly sure what I heard. I could be missing something. Perhaps they know one another well. Perhaps there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps…

Here’s the thing, it’s not my determination to make. I will say something, and when I do, it’s in his supervisor’s hands. And therein lies their biggest problem. USC school officials ignored and suppressed evidence of the sexual misconduct and criminal behavior of two powerful campus medical figures for decades.

Dr. Carmen A. Puliafito, disgraced dean of the Keck School of Medicine and renowned eye surgeon, resigned his $1.1-million-a-year post in March 2016 following the drug overdose of a young woman in his presence, in his Pasadena hotel room. After nearly a decade of overseeing “hundreds of medical students, thousands of professors and clinicians, and research grants totaling more than $200 million,” he said he wanted to, “explore other opportunities,” The Los Angeles Times reported July 17, 2017.

It was just the tip of the iceberg. The Times uncovered video footage and photos of Puliafito using methamphetamines and other drugs with criminals and drug dealers spanning his decade as Dean. Times reporters also discovered evidence indicating that the school knew about it all along.

It’s hard to imagine anything more egregious than Puliafito’s behavior, or the school’s aiding and abetting of it. That is until this spring, when The Times published a bombshell revelation that Dr. George Tyndall, a campus gynecologist, had been sexually abusing his patients and harassing fellow employees for nearly 30 years, and, again, the school knew about it. In spite of their public denials of wrong doing and obfuscations, paper trails, discovered by The Times, don’t lie.

USC might want to consider a rebranding campaign: “USC, A Safe Space.”

Which would be a hard sell considering the number of Tyndall’s alleged victims could reach into the thousands. Jon Manly, a lawyer well-versed in mass litigation for sex abuse victims, told The Times, “I have never seen anything like the volume of calls we are getting.”

The details are harrowing in both cases, the coverups worse.

You’d expect then, that the medical professionals at USC might be more vigilant about identifying and rooting out those who behave inappropriately with patients. You might even think that the predatory medical professionals themselves might reserve their questionable comments and suggestions for a time when they are actually alone with their patients. However, Dr. George Tyndall received a large payout after decades of sexually abusing his patients in full view of countless other staff members. If he wasn’t hiding, well, why would anyone else?

What I overheard pales in comparison, but in light of these things, it’s speaks to a troubling pattern at USC. Whatever this physical therapist’s intent, it sounds like he’s taking advantage of his patient’s trust for his own benefit. Let’s be clear. He suggested a patient share an intimate evening with him as if it were medical therapy. I once managed a spa. Psychologists frequently recommended couples try a couple’s massage to remedy sexual dry spells. Follow that with a dinner date and you have the makings of something far outside current models of patient care. You have the makings of a lawsuit.

It makes me wonder if this kind of thing isn’t endemic at USC. Predators seek out professions that offer them easy access to vulnerable populations. I’m beginning to wonder if they don’t also seek out employers that offer them protection as they offend with impunity.

Your move, USC.

Louis C.K. Returns, But Where Are the Women?

Louis C.K. showed up for a surprise gig at the at the Comedy Cellar in New York City on Sunday night. According to the New York Times, he received an ovation before he even began. According to Vulture, there were at least two women who were not having it. And they felt they weren’t the only dismayed members of the audience, but it sounds like they were the minority. One of them reported seeing only four other women in the front row sitting stone-faced throughout his 15-minute set.

It was classic Louis. Surprise visit and 15 minutes of working out new material. He’s one of the hardest working comedians in his industry–and well respected for it. That is, until his fall from grace last year. Following the release of a short statement in the New York Times copping to masturbating in front of at least five women and coercing them into silence, he was dropped by Netflix, Amazon, shut out from the box office and dropped by his manager and previously devoted agent. The very agent who had threatened to ruin the first two women to call C.K. out if they came forward.  And he did. They received death threats, were blackballed from auditions and clubs and lost television opportunities that were all but a sure thing.

The two women in the Comedy Cellar audience reported feeling a similar kind of silencing as the men in the room boomed out their approval. “If someone had heckled him, I think they would’ve been heckled out,” one of them said.”It felt like there were a lot of aggressive men in the audience and very quiet women. It’s the kind of vibe that doesn’t allow for a dissenting voice. You’re just expected to be a good audience member.”

Yes, be a good girl and agree with the men. If you’ve ever been in a room throbbing with testosterone, you know better than to disagree.

The club’s owner, Noam Dworman, told the New York Times, “there can’t be a permanent life sentence on someone who does something wrong.” The social standards about how to respond to errant behavior are inconsistent, he said, and now shifting ever faster, and audiences should have the leeway to decide what to watch themselves. “I think we’ll be better off as a society if we stop looking to the bottlenecks of distribution — Twitter, Netflix, Facebook or comedy clubs — to filter the world for us.”

Dworman’s argument seems logical. Nevertheless, the audience’s response shows how little so many men understand about the MeToo movement, how dominant their voices are and how the needle on predatory sexual behavior hasn’t moved. Sure, men like Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey are gone forever, perhaps leading us to conclude that overtly criminal and predatory behavior has been curtailed. Please. Consider Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas and our Predator In Chief. Nobody talks about Thomas’ well-documented sins against Anita Hill. Why even talk about C.K.? Really, when there are predatory men setting laws that will impact women for generations. Aren’t they the very ones who should be shamed out of office? If anyone?

But I digress.

But do I?

What does C.K.’s comeback mean?

Many of C.K.’s fans and supporters argue that C.K.’s offenses didn’t rise to Weinstein’s level. Yet, that argument fails to address the real issue–that when victims come forward, they face swift and immediate retribution. They face losing everything. The problem with C.K.’s return is that the women involved don’t get one.

As a one time fan of C.K.’s, I always felt there was room in his comedy for me, for women. However, I predict that may no longer be the case. I fear his comeback will widen the gender divide as he pulls away from more inclusive topics. If Twitter offers any insight today, those most vocal against his comeback are women and those for it, are men.  This tweet first Screenshot at Aug 29 16-08-51Screenshot at Aug 29 16-08-17

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SNL’s Michael Che, comedians Marlon Wayans and Mo Amer were the first of his colleagues to speak in his defense, but I doubt they’ll be the last. Men are angry and confused. They identify with the public figures who’ve been called out. Even those who say they support the MeToo movement, fail to get what it’s about. An interview last year on MTP Daily with Chuck Todd encapsulated this perfectly for me. Jeff Daniels and Peter Sarsgaard say they fully support the MeToo movement and believe the women who speak out. When asked about Woody Allen and whether the two would do another film with him, Sarsgaard levies a decisive no.  Daniels, however hesitates, yet quickly says he believes Dylan Farrow. Then, this happens: Sarsgaard says, “Throughout history there have been so many artists that had bad behavior. Picasso, I mean my god, it’s just been one after another, right? In all professions, but a lot of artists, right?”

And he was doing so well.

Then he adds, a bit defensively, “I would continue to watch Woody Allen movies, I’ll tell you that. I would go back and watch those movies. He’s a fantastic filmmaker.”

Uh huh. Woody Allen’s films demonstrate the various ways in which women exist to serve men’s needs and desires–something that has existed so long in the arts, we don’t even question it. His female characters succumb to his sexual desire as soon as he arrives. When they don’t they are portrayed as devious, manipulative and untrustworthy. Manhattan, for instance, is about a 44-year old guy who dates a swooning 17-year-old Mariel Hemingway.

That’s exactly the point of the MeToo movement. TimesUp on that behavior. Someone’s genius does not excuse his predatory and misogynist point of view or artwork. It does not give him a free pass to continue to undermine women, while his career soars. His talent or ability should not trump a worldview that feeds a narrative that disempowers half the population.

That said, I don’t believe people should be tried, convicted and destroyed in the court of public opinion. I don’t believe that Louis C.K. should go away forever. Instead, let’s stop talking about him and the men like him. If we’re ever going to move the needle, we need to hear from the women.

Let’s give them the opportunities they lost. Let’s showcase their work and their voices. Let’s find their genius. If we are ever to strike a balance, the Entertainment Industry power brokers, the same ones who vanquished the worst offenders in the MeToo movement, should seek out the women who were wronged and give them their lost platforms. Offer them the same opportunities to prove themselves. If they really believe them as they say they do, put their money where their mouths are.


A Message from Rose McGowan on Asia Argento

As a sometimes journalist, I receive emails from publicists multiple times a day. Most of the time, they don’t interest me. However, I found this one noteworthy. In it Mcgowan offers insight into her friendship with Argento while denouncing her actions with/ against a 17-year-old boy.  She strikes the right tone reminding us all that the #metoo movement is more important than ever, particularly in light of these revelations.

When the story broke about Asia Argento’s relationship with a 17-year-old boy, my husband had one thing to say, “Those who are preyed upon often become predators themselves.” He meant that if anything, Argento’s seduction of an underage person proves she was a victim of Harvey Weinstein’s and does not, as Conservative Media opines, nullify her claims.

Growing up I knew boys of the same age who had been involved with older women. They were proud of it. They felt it made them men. I truly wondered what the difference was between girls who were seduced by men and boys who were seduced by women. At the time, no one talked about it.

Thankfully, as far as the law is concerned, nothing–which is what the #metoo movement is all about. Anyone can be a victim and anyone can be a predator. Regardless of what many may debate, boys and girls are different. Boys mature sexually before girls. They’re less emotional. They can’t be damaged in the same ways…The law in this country disagrees.  (The age of consent in the U.K, is 16. Another debate for another day.)

Whether Weinstein’s abuse of Argento influenced her decision to have a sexual relationship with an underaged boy may be something for the courts to decide. One thing is certain, Mcgowan’s observations are correct, while the boy in question solicited Argento with nude photos of himself starting at the age of 12, she allowed them to continue, and by doing so, she preyed upon his vulnerability. We are just as guilty for what we do not do as for what we do.

The law exists not just to protect the young from predators, but to protect them from themselves. 12 is too young to understand a single action’s ramifications, too young to know the far-reaching damage a too early sexual encounter can cause. Who doesn’t remember their first sexual encounter? And who doesn’t understand, now upon much reflection, how much it impacts all the rest that follow.

Email from Rose:

I would first of all like to start off this statement saying thank you for your patience. A lot of people have been demanding answers and a response to the recent events surrounding Asia Argento’s sexual assault case. Many people believe that because we have been close in each other’s lives over the past year that perhaps I am affiliated with this incident or being complicit. I am not.

I first met Asia on a red carpet, but it’s only been the past year through our shared experience of the HW case that we have bonded. Asia was a person who understood my trauma in a way that many others didn’t. We were able to talk through them together and champion each other’s voices. We even got matching dot tattoos! Something I had posted on my IG just about a month ago. It’s no secret to anyone that Im a blunt, candid, brazen individual vocally- and I think that’s what I really related to Asia the most with. They were edgy, confrontational, and strong willed with very little care about how much other’s liked or disliked them. Rare things to find in women in this industry or the world. 

 But then everything changed. In an instant. I received a phone call and series of messages from the being I’ve been dating- Rain Dove. They said that they had been texting with Asia and that Asia had revealed that she had indeed slept with Jimmy Bennet. Rain also shared that Asia had stated that she’d been receiving unsolicited nudes of Jimmy since he had been 12. Asia mentioned in these texts that she didn’t take any action on those images. No reporting to authorities, to the parents, or blocking of Jimmy’s social media. Not even a simple message “Don’t send me these images. They are inappropriate.” There were a few other details revealed as well that I am not at liberty to mention in this statement as investigators do their job. 

Rain Dove said that they were going to go to the police with these texts once we were done speaking no matter what. But that they wanted me to be aware of them so that I may be able to take further actions. I responded with “You have to. You must.” I wasted no time. It wasn’t hard to say or support. What was hard was the shell shock of the realisation that everything the MeToo movement stood for was about to be in jeopardy. An hour after our conversation was finished Rain Dove confirmed that they had turned over the texts and were in conversation with officers. Almost 48 hours later the texts were in the press. 

 I had introduced Rain Dove to Asia Argento last month, three days after the passing of Anthony Bourdain. I was with Asia to comfort and support her. Rain Dove came to support us both. It was an emotionally chaotic time and Rain Dove suggested we go to Berlin for a couple days to take the mourning out of Asia’s home and into a neutral space. So we did. While in Berlin Asia had mentioned that she was being extorted for a large sum of money every month by someone who was blackmailing them with a provocative image. No one in the room knew who the extortionist was. Now we know it to be a reference to this case. 

 Rain Dove continued on communicating with Asia occasionally after meeting her- and their conversations have been their own. I know Rain is a person to whom many high profile entities consult when they are experiencing social pressures because Rain is good at guiding them through the research confrontation, rehabilitation, and solution process. While they are a person who is good at keeping a secret for those dedicated to making things right- they are also justice driven. So it was not a surprise to me that I received that call and the messages from them. I’ve referred to Asia in the past as “My Ride or Die” and said very clearly that their friendship comes first. I know that coming to me with those messages must have been hard for Rain because of that so I commend them for their bravery. 

 To the people who have checked in with me to see if I’m alright- the answer is thank you and Yes. I’ll be fine. Its sad to lose a friend connection, but whats even more sad is what happened to Jimmy Bennet. Whether or not the extortion case is true- it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right. It is the type of thing I fight against alongside so many. The reason I haven’t released a statement is because I’ve frankly been extremely humbled by this event. I had to take a step back and realise that in my own activism while I fight hard with passion- I need to evolve. In the past I have been occasionally angry. As a victim I was justified in fiery feelings. But I know that those accused are the friends, parents, and family members of other people. There absolutely should be no leeway or tolerance for sexual assault. Hard stop. NONE. Victims also shouldn’t be told how they should react or what they should say about their abusers. However as allies to the victim and voyeurs of an event we should find a better way to balance support of the victim with due process for the accused. I’ve never claimed to be perfect. This week especially has made me come to terms with the fact that we all have a lot of growing to do, including myself. 

 At this current moment it may be easy to focus on the drama of the situation. The conspiracy. But the real focus should be on supporting justice. Supporting honesty. And supporting each other. We can not let this moment break the momentum of a movement that has freed so many people. We must use it to allow us to become stronger. More compassionate. More aware. And More organised. 

 Asia you were my friend. I loved you. You’ve spent and risked a lot to stand with the MeToo movement. I really hope you find your way through this process to rehabilitation and betterment. Anyone can be be better- I hope you can be, too. Do the right thing. Be honest. Be fair. Let justice stay its course. Be the person you wish Harvey could have been.