I don’t owe you my story.

None of us do. #metoo was powered by the overwhelming rage of wronged people, rage which was never dormant but that has burned in so many hearts for so many years, actively, souring every day and every interaction until it could see the sun. We do not owe you the buried memories, the hidden tears, the shaking hands, the long, bleak nights. We do not owe you our truths, or even the names of our abusers and attackers.

But we have given them in the name of community: so that we could reach out and find others, so that others could find us, and so that together we could show you all the gravity and the breadth of the tragedy we face.

And if you think that survivors can’t see who among us is reading these stories with acceptance or apology versus who is getting off on them—if you think that people who list among their achievements not being dead yet can’t see the remaining predators and all the ways they continue to stalk prey—then you’ll learn, when the magma overflows. No volcano stays quiet, no fault line refuses to rupture.