Last Saturday, my phone started dinging with incoming messages at 8am.
It began with friends – five in the first hour – who’d read what I had written on this page about some of the unwelcome sexual attention I’d received in my adult life. They were supporting my decision to write about it. They also wanted to check that I was “okay”.
Brave was the word that kept coming up – a brave piece of writing. Honest, raw, brave.
I wasn’t certain being called “brave” was necessarily a good sign and I braced for the backlash I was sure would come from those who so enjoy dissecting my appearance and my intellect – or apparent lack thereof – from their anonymous castles on social media.
But the wave of responses was another kind entirely.
By the end of the day – indeed, the week – I’d lost count of the messages, not only from friends and family but also from colleagues, professional associates, politicians, their staff and strangers, responding to what had clearly struck a chord.
“I found your article hard to read,” a parliamentarian wrote to me. “Almost beyond comprehension that this has been your experience. Thanks for writing it.”
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Karen Middleton, The Saturday Paper
