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I’m a writer for a little-known show on Country Music Television Canada. I regret writing that I stupidly thought Ghomeshi was gay before meeting him. I want to scream and push him off, but his friends are standing around like bodyguards — his. This is the approach when I type it out for the online magazine xo Jane. They call my article a desperate plea for attention. Some of the women accusing Ghomeshi of assaulting them are about to come forward. The runs a story about the women alleging he assaulted them. The sole male on our copywriting team says, “poor fucking guy,” in a meeting. “You’re too sensitive, writes that the backlash I received was why Ghomeshi’s accusers were too scared to come forward. Coworkers who have never spoken to me before approach me: “Omigod your name is all over the news! Men write messages like: “I misjudged you,” “guess you were right,” and, “good on you for speaking up.” The anonymous man who made the Internet scumbag video refuses to take it down. The witnesses are torn apart by the defence and, later, when the verdict comes down, by the judge, too. I develop a low threshold for bullshit while simultaneously forgiving everyone that hurt me. I’m doing yoga in my living room when the story that flips my script breaks. Women apologize on the Internet’s behalf for what happened to me. During his sexual assault trial, Ghomeshi and his legal team look like day-walking vampires set on sucking the life and the hope out of the complainants and their supporters.
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I stare out the window “I should warn women about him,” I tell a friend days later. I’m swimming in a sewer of it, but even worse are the unexpected remarks from people in my life. Many people, mostly young men, send me the link to this video.
Like the villain in a Batman movie, he seems amused by my distress. An anonymous man makes a video about me in which he dubs me a “scumbag of the Internet.” He picks apart my article and concludes that I’m an opportunistic hack trying to take down a good and powerful man.
By 3 p.m., I’m stumbling up to strangers, “I made my mom cry.” A few people reach out to make sure I’m okay, but most of the support I get is hushed. An older woman lets me know I’ll never work in media again.
A man who looks like Santa asks me to do the world a favour and commit suicide. They all want to know about Ghomeshi, but none of them will hire me. A Canadian journalist reaches out letting me know that he’s talked to a few women who say Ghomeshi assaulted them. It’s like we’ve just watched an episode of called The Patriarchy Always Wins.