Y’all, it needs to be done. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t also emotionally taxing.

I was in line at a gas station last night, 124 miles from my home, trying to buy a bottle of water. I was wearing a black dress, because I had just played at a church. It was knee-length and had very deep cleavage, but I was wearing tights and a black undershirt underneath to keep it modest. I checked it a solid fifteen times and even though I know it’s not important, have been socially conditioned to include this information in the story. What I was wearing at a gas station in rural Kansas is relevant, because as I handed $1.08 to the clerk, he said, “You look really great in that dress.”

The clerk had never seen me or that dress before. I’m unclear how he knew this was an improvement over my normal appearance.

I mumbled something, left without my receipt (it was work travel and should have been a deduction), and was suddenly extremely depressed. Social media started blowing up with #metoo and I was even more depressed.

It had been a really long time since I’d worn a dress, and I’d had a long conversation with myself that morning about whether it was appropriate to wear. I shared the story of the last time I’d worn a dress with my friend. It involved a “friend” groping me at a party for a yoga studio I used to be involved with. (I think I share that story here.) In the months following the groping, I stopped going to that studio. I didn’t feel comfortable with my ass in the air when he was in a row behind me.

I’m not normally the avoidant type. I was angry with myself when I realized what I had done. Every #metoo reminded me that I’d let some asshole chase me from a space I used to value. But it goes deeper than that, and I know it. I have “a history” and a person with “a history” sometimes these events are harder for me to shake off than they are for people who don’t have “a history.” I’m not the avoidant type, but I am the type who has worked very hard to be more than the sum of her stories.

I shared the story with a female friend who’d posted, and I got one of those sad face emojis from a mutual acquaintance. I saw his name, and remembered how he used to let himself into my practice room and start massaging my shoulders without asking, or letting me know he was there. But he had the nerve to sad-face emoji a story about physical harassment?

And then I remembered the other guy, the reason I hadn’t thought emoji-dude was a big deal. The other guy who pinned me to a wall in my own house and attempted to force himself on me.

And then I remembered the one before that. And the one before that. And the one before that.

I don’t want #metoo to stop, because it needs to be done. But guys ... #metoo. And I’m exhausted.