I was perusing through news on the internet and was drawn to Huffington Post, as usual. As I was reading, I ran across an article about recent controversy over the nomination of Woody Allen for his work during his lifetime.
I have not seen much, if any, of Woody Allen's work. Growing up, it became clear that my mother had no care to see his work. I simply thought it might have been due to his style, focus, or flair. Today, after reading Dylan Farrow's letter, perhaps that was not the only reason for my mom's avoidance of his work.
As I began to read the letter from Dylan Farrow, I vaguely remembered from growing up a case that involved Woody Allen. Dylan Farrow was girlfriend, Mia Farrow's daughter.
Dylan Farrow has written an open letter about her time spent with Woody Allen. She addressed the experience vividly. She expressed her frustration, her current emotions, and her regrets.
As I read through the letter, I identified with Dylan. I am often skeptical about those who mention they were sexually abused. Sometimes, for me, it does not ring true. And, certainly, in our society, I have seen the overwhelming assumption of guilt leveled at the accused without consideration that something may be amiss.
I am not skeptical in this case. I have learned over time that those who have experienced sexual abuse have many of the same issues, feelings, and perspectives. While some find peace, others do not. Some forgive, like me, and some wrestle the remainder of their lives with what the predator did.
There, I stated it, subtlety. Yes, I was sexual abused. Not just once. Not by just one. And, it was over a period of years. Two separate individuals separated by a three year break over a course of 11 years.
Reading Dylan's letter brought me smack dab into those memories I carefully keep quiet. The attempt to avoid and hide. Check. The acknowledgement of the predator's skills. Check. The ability to hide from a watchful mother. Check. The feelings of guilt that we did not later pursue and hinder our predator's potential abuse of others. Check. The terror of being intimate or close to another male. Check. The failed strategies that developed to manage fear and emotions. Check. The immediate sense of revulsion when others even casually discuss the topic. Check.
These were all the same feelings. There were only two differences between Dylan and me. I kept secrets that Dylan ultimately did not.
Likewise, I am relieved to have a mother who when she learned about those events from others believed me. She blamed herself when I knew she could never have known. She worried about me, not herself, first. Dylan and I have great Moms. I have siblings, like Dylan, who when faced with the same information, believed me.
It is the entire story of Dylan that makes me believe her story. For it resonates wholly with my own. It is not that someone can describe what happened for anyone can conjure those actions. It is the consistency within the myriad of emotions which confirm or deny for me the gravity of sexual assault/abuse.
The similarities are striking. The only difference I see between Dylan and myself is that I determined to forgive those who harmed me and move forward. Through counseling and my faith based on wholeness, I succeeded in overcoming the damage done by my predators. For it is not sex that predators damage, it is they take, by force, ourselves, our power, our confidence, our choice. And there is little physical, and tangible, evidence of their crime. So, I felt there was little recourse or benefit to pursue any legal action when I finally was old enough, and willing, to address the issue.
Dylan, as an adult, seeks justice in a court of peers where Woody Allen could face justice. I can only hope that Hollywood is in session to preside over the proceedings. Consider this my "friend of the court" brief supporting Dylan. I could not have offered "proof" of the sexual abuse in my own case. It is likely that Dylan has only memories as a child to offer as proof as well.
Dylan asked in her open letter what my favorite Woody Allen film was. I am so glad I can say I don't know one. I for one, like my Mom, likely will never watch a Woody Allen movie.
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