I wish things were better. They’re not.

A year ago, I shared a version of this story on my Facebook page. It was October 15, 2016 — less than a month before the 2016 presidential election and just a few days after the now infamous Donald Trump “grab em by the pussy” tape was made public.

I’m going to reshare a version here. Because a year later, yet another man is in the headlines for abusing women. And nothing feels different. In so many ways, it feels worse, as if we had our moment to do something real that would disrupt just how normal it is for women to experience harassment, intimidation, abuse, and rape — and it’s long passed us by.

The very day that the Access Hollywood tapes were released, I had plans to get drinks with a guy I had hoped I could be friends with. We had hooked up once many, many months prior to his coming into town, but we had stayed in touch and I honestly thought we were friends. He knew I was in a monogamous relationship when I agreed to meet up. I thought he was a rad guy and it would be fun to grab drinks and blab about the election, catch up on our lives, etc.

It’s clear to me now he was already pretty drunk by the time he met me at the bar. After some conversation and catching up (and only one drink), he suddenly got very handsy. Grabbing my thigh, rubbing my back. I casually inched away and laughed it off, reminding him again that we were not going to hook up. It’s clear I should have left right then. I didn’t.

After convincing me to stay for another beer, he got up to go to the restroom, but instead grabbed my face and forcibly kissed me, not letting me go even as I pushed my hands against his chest. At this point I was I was done giving this dude a pass, so I got up to leave. He grabbed my arm tightly to stop me, “Why would you have come out with me if you weren’t interested?” he asked. Actually, I’m fairly certain he said, “If you didn’t want to fuck.” “Because I legitimately thought we could be friends,” I said as I actually PAID for our beers and pushed him away from me. I don’t remember what else he said, but I know he followed me for about a half a block trying to convince me to let him walk me home before giving up. I looked over my shoulder a lot and took a winding way home.

That night I got home, I actually felt bad. My immediate instinct was to apologize to him for unintentionally leading him on or giving him the wrong impression about our relationship. But I managed to not do that and just stay silent about it, not even telling my friends what had happen.

A few days later, I got a text. “I hope we’re still cool.” I told him very clearly we weren’t. That what he did was fucked up and that being friends was not in the cards for us. He replied that he felt shitty about it, that he didn’t recall how drunk he was, and that I was probably right about not being friends. He even threw in there a “let me know if it doesn’t work out with your boyfriend” for good measure.

Normally I would have brushed it off, not tell anyone. I mean, it’s not the first (or likely the last, unfortunately) time this has happened to me or so many of my friends. Or I’d probably just talk about it with a friend or two over drinks so we could say, “fuck that guy,” and move on. But it was different that week. And the stakes just felt so high, so I sounded off on Facebook. And now I’m sounding off here again a year later.

I have straight, cis men in my life who are totally capable of being my friend without thinking that if they push hard enough, they will get laid. Because having a few beers with someone you’ve hooked up with before is not implied fucking consent, asshole.

During the campaign, Michelle Obama said: “In our hearts, we all know that if we let [Donald Trump] win this election, then we are sending a clear message to our kids that everything they’re seeing and hearing is perfectly ok. We’re validating it. We’re endorsing it.”

Guess what? We endorsed it.

I shared this story not because I wanted anyone to worry about me or feel bad for me — believe me, I’m ok. And with Harvey Weinstein news continuing to roll out, and the countless people coming forward with their own #metoo stories, I’ve heard so many women in my friend and professional circles talk about how deeply traumatizing it all is — because so many of them are survivors of far worse than a shitty dude trying to kiss them in a dimly lit bar.

These stories are important because we’re exhausted by pundits arguing whether or not this stuff really happens, if it’s such a big deal, or why didn’t anyone say anything. Because yes it does, yes it is, and yes they did.

I wish I could say things are different, not worse. I can’t. All we can do is keep the fuck at it, because the alternative is not an option.