For so many of us, this week has been a collective mourning, a deluge of grief and trauma. We watched Dr. Blasey, and we remembered.

We sat beside Dr. Blasey in that Senate committee room, staring out at a sea of white-haired men.

We felt the eyes of millions of Americans pore over us, searching to see if what we were saying was the truth.

We watched a federal judge seethe at being accused, his body seeming to grow larger with rage as though he might be able to reach through the television screen and grab us.

It has been over a decade since I was raped, and the boy who did it is now a man. We haven’t lived in the same state since college. In all likelihood, he doesn’t think about me at all, while I have relived the moment he shoved himself inside me without my consent over and over for years, as though replaying it one more time will let me go back in time and stop this from happening to me.

I never felt compelled to share my story before, because it is so unremarkable, so common, because so many women have been through worse. I dated him afterward. Part of the encounter was consensual. We had both been drinking, him far more than me. I thought maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, and later didn’t remember (an idea the men in my life whom I’ve told, and whom I love and trust, have dismissed). And so I didn’t think there was anything to report.