In 2006, I met Harvey Weinstein. He was the King of Hollywood and I was a struggling actress. I did not know he was a serial rapist. After two years of auditioning without landing many roles, I realized I had to be proactive and create my own projects.

We had lunch at Bar 89 in Soho. Weinstein showed up with his head of casting, who told me I was in a great place with my manager and agent and they’d keep an eye out for parts I might be right for.

“We’ll find you something,” Weinstein assured me.

I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Then Weinstein sent his casting agent out shopping, and said to me: “I’ll be blunt. Now that we’ve gotten her out of the way, I want to say that I’m attracted to you. Do you have a boyfriend?”

I lied and told him I did and that I wanted to keep things professional. My armpits were soaking wet.

Over the next month, Weinstein groomed me. He sent me scripts and I met with him in public places and often brought a friend. One day he got fed up and told me he was “sick of this platonic crap.” He wanted us to date or, he said, “he never wanted to hear from me again.”

I dove into a depression. I was terrified he would ruin my acting career before it had even started.

Later, I was in Cannes, working for a film production company, and I called Weinstein and asked to meet up, hoping I could restore a professional relationship. I foolishly thought I could get my power back.

I brought two girlfriends to his hotel room, where he was conducting all of his business meetings. When he saw my friends he pulled me into the bedroom and threatened, “either your friends leave, or you go with them.” If we all left, I thought that would have made the situation worse. It never even occurred to me I might be assaulted because I associated assault with dark alleys.

Weinstein guided me to the couch and sat me down. He gave me a neck massage that hurt. I said, “No, I want to go. My friends will be worried.” He then put his hand in my dress and grabbed my right breast. I pushed him away. “Now you need to give me a massage,” he said.

At that point, I wasn’t thinking about salvaging my career anymore. I was trying to figure out an escape plan.

He grabbed me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. I thought, “I’ll give him a two-minute massage and then get out.” When I finally told him that “he was all done,” he took me in his arms and said, “Let me at least see you in your underwear.”

I rationalized it, thinking, “That’s like wearing a bikini. People have seen my bikini on the beach.” He guided me to the bathroom and lifted up my dress. But suddenly, a force came over me and I shoved my dress down.

I pushed past him and ran into the hallway. He followed me, tucking his shirt in his pants. I pressed the elevator button. It was full of people. A woman said, “Oh, my god, it’s Harvey Weinstein,” like she had just seen the pope.

Weinstein told me to promise him I’d never write about him and I did. I guarded my secret because I thought it was my fault. I thought that’s what happens to women who are ambitious.

But by 2013, I could no longer keep quiet, so I wrote a piece about our encounter for the Observer. I didn’t name him because I didn’t have the resources to fight him, but it was pretty obvious from my descriptions who he was. I received multiple e-mails and Facebook messages saying, “that sounds like Harvey Weinstein.” To many people, my story just seemed like the status quo. After I published, I crawled into bed and sobbed. I felt like an idiot for thinking I had the audacity to change the world.

Then, in 2017, The New York Times exposed Weinstein as a serial predator and countless brave women told their stories. I wanted to support them, so I wrote another piece about my encounter with him in the Observer again, this time naming him and describing the assault. I feared for my safety but more than anything it felt right.

When my story broke, I suddenly met scores of empathetic, smart, kick-ass women online, who were all breaking their silence as well. We call ourselves “The Silence Breakers.” But with them came the trolls. Some comments were ridiculous, but others were shocking:

Why didn’t she come out sooner? She’s just jumping on the bandwagon.

Another unknown looking for money and fame.

Shame on you. You give rape victims a bad name.

Once Weinstein’s trial for rape and sexual assault started in January, I was glued to the news and sickened by the defense’s low-blow tactics of victim-shaming — a magnified version of what I was going through. I took to social media and cheered on the women who were testifying, leading to even more online abuse.

“Why didn’t you just walk out and leave? I wouldn’t let Harvey do that to me,” Sarah posted on my Instagram page.

“I can see that you’re an opportunist that seeks fame. There are thousands more better looking women than you….” said David on Facebook.

“He [Weinstein] might be a disgusting human being… but you ARE full of sh-t,” Adam added on Facebook.

It’s hard to take some of these comments too seriously, but they did wear on me. After all, how many times could I respond, “No one wants to be famous for being assaulted.” What got me through the railroading was a sense of community. My family, my friends, social media support and my fellow silence breakers. But sometimes when I have a migraine and I’m exhausted, the comments get through my shell. They sear me and even pummel me.

After Weinstein was finally convicted of rape and sexual assault last Monday, I was overwhelmed with relief. But the culture still has a long way to go. It shouldn’t take a hundred-plus women to hold a predator accountable. And too many people still believe that sexual-assault victims are to blame for their crimes, and we are harassed for speaking out. I offer up my story yet again as proof that, from now on, I will never be silenced.