Misplaced Shame

I had a somewhat jarring experience recently, while watching a documentary about Jeffrey Epstein. I know there are many women who are unsettled by the reality of what he was able to do, and hide, for so long. But this particular upset, for me, was less about all of that and more about some questions asked by two male friends, who were watching with me. Then, as a reaction-to-their-reaction, I found myself face-to-face with misplaced shame I’ve held for a very long time.

I’ll explain.

One of the women who tells her story in this program is someone who (like many) started working for Epstein under false pretenses. Shortly after he “hired” her, she was invited to a weekend on his now infamous island, presumably to get oriented in the job. To her, it all sounded very glamorous and exciting: She would be part of a very small group of people (all women, of course) who would be working for a wealthy, connected man who had promised her help with advancing her career.

She was 20.

That weekend, of course, was nothing like she imagined. She was sexually assaulted multiple times, in mind-bending, game-playing ways that confused her, causing her to question her own perception of reality.

She went on to “work” for him for many years.

This is where my friends come in. They were shocked that she kept going back, asking why or how she could do that – why didn’t she stay away? Make no mistake, they weren’t “blaming” her for what happened; they know that responsibility lies squarely with him. They were simply confused, not understanding what led her to maintain a relationship that was so destructive and abusive. They couldn’t grasp that she didn’t run away, then tell someone, as fast as she could.

I tried to describe what it must have been like for her, as best I could.

She was young, I explained. She was vulnerable and inexperienced. There was a huge discrepancy in the power dynamic between them, one in which she felt helpless to protect herself. And she was surrounded by other girls and women in the same situation – if they could handle it, why couldn’t she? (I can imagine she would ask herself…) Who could she confide in, and would they believe her? She may have decided this was the price she had to pay to get his help with her career. (Which, of course, never materialized.)

I didn’t feel like I did a great job helping them understand her position. I was disappointed I didn’t have better words to explain it, and, more than that, I felt overwhelmed with shame, for my own complicity in a (less dramatic) but similar situation.

For me, it was my high school math teacher who tried something sexually inappropriate with me when I was barely 16. When it happened, I made a hasty exit, mumbled something about needing to leave, and did. Luckily for me, he never tried anything again but rather went on to pursue a classmate even younger than me. I didn’t tell anyone and – this is where the shame comes in – I maintained a “friendship” with him for several more years. When he offered help with my homework, I accepted it. When he suggested he give me a ride home, I took it. When he threw his name in the ring to be Student Council advisor (when I held office), I agreed.

All of this led to more, not less, time with him.

Why didn’t I try to avoid him as much as possible? Why didn’t I tell someone (and maybe spare the girl who came after me)? Why did I pretend it didn’t happen?

Like the girl in the Epstein documentary, I made choices that seem – to my adult self – stupid and self-destructive. My explanation for those decisions mirror what I said about that girl: I was vulnerable; there was a power differential; other girls thought he was harmless; I didn’t want to face the reality of who he was.

Again, my words feel inadequate.

Even as a type them, I feel shame lodging in my throat. I know it’s misplaced. I know it belongs to him. Yet, it holds on, asking me to take responsibility for a thing that – at the time – I felt no control over.