The Drawer with No Lock

I wrote my #MeToo story years ago. Quietly. Privately. I didn’t name him. I just needed to put the memory somewhere outside of my body. He was a man who hurt me eighteen years ago — an actor, admired by many.

Today, when I was just trying to make it through an ordinary, exhausting day — coffee in hand, a comforting song playing on YouTube — I saw his face.

There he was, in an old video.
Being interviewed.
Smiling.
Congratulated for his talent, his craft, his charm.

The internet is always pulling ghosts from the past.

And suddenly, without warning, it was there again — that familiar ache in my chest, a bitter twist in my stomach.

I felt sad.
Ashamed.
Angry.

That particular cocktail of emotions is potent. It makes your limbs heavy, your throat tighten, your breath catch. It either forces ugly, snotty tears out of you or it buries you in a silence so deep you feel invisible — and worthless.

Today, I felt both.

I wish I could say it gets easier.
But the truth is: it just gets older.
The memory gets pushed back into a drawer in your mind. But the lock is flimsy. Sometimes, it doesn’t exist at all. All it takes is a glimpse — a name, a picture, a headline — and that drawer bursts open again, spilling the hurt across your day like ink.

And yet… that wasn’t the only drawer that opened today.

There’s another.

The one with the story of a five-year-old girl.
Just a child.
Playing with her brother’s friends.
Too young to know that one of them would carve something out of her that would never fully grow back.

I don’t know what I’ve been looking for ever since.
Closure?
Justice?
Relief?
Language?

I still don’t know.
Some wounds are so old they calcify — and yet so raw they still bleed when touched.
Some wounds you didn’t even know you had.
Some wounds you never asked to carry.
And some… you don’t want to handle.

Not today.
Not again.

But here they are.
And here I am.

Still breathing.
Still writing.

Because even if the drawer doesn’t lock, maybe sharing the story makes the weight a little lighter. Maybe it helps someone else feel less alone in their own remembering.

If you’re reading this — I don’t need you to say anything.
Just… know this:
You’re not alone.
And neither am I.