“As we go on our pilgrimage and the song of sorrows plays in our lives, we must be reminded not to serenade our days with regrets—-and refuse to make it the melody of our lives” – Dodinsky
In August of 2013, Daniel* said to me “Two years from now your life is going to be different. You’re going to find a man who loves you, you will have a new life, and things aren’t going to be as bad as they are right now.” He was right. Daniel * was my imaginary escape from my marriage and was trying to love me by giving me hope. I didn’t believe him, but he was right. He is still a friend and continues to give me hope by proving to me love does exist. He is now married with a baby and couldn’t be happier, and by watching his happiness unfold, I have hope that my own truly does exist.
But where am I now? The two year anniversary of the assault is September 29. There isn’t a day I don’t think about it. There isn’t a day it doesn’t enter into my mind at the most inconvenient times. The pain isn’t as fresh. The flashbacks aren’t as intense. The anxiety doesn’t throw me to the ground like an apple from a tree. But I can’t let go. It is a monster in my head that never leaves my side. The event isn’t exactly what hurts me still. It’s the remembrance of the feelings of isolation. The feelings of being imprisoned in my own head. It is the fear that Daniel* wasn’t right.
But overall, I am happy. I am in a year long relationship with someone I adore and who treats me in a way I have never been treated. I have a new life. I have the highest paying job I have ever had, my own health benefits, friends who I can truly believe are real, and confidence I never in my life had. Yet my monster still lingers.
Mike* still tells the world of my trespasses and convinces people that I spread lies that he raped me. I feel paralyzed in these words. I feel without a voice much like when he attacked me. My voice choked up inside and I wasn’t strong enough to stop him or to cry out for help. And at times I still feel just as weak. So I go to the gym to lift heavier. Work harder. Be better. But I am still so weak. At times I feel the pain of entrapment piercing through my skin into my heart. So I drink alcohol to numb my skin. Numb my mind. Help me to not feel the anxiety. I am still so hurt. At times I still feel so silenced. So I write a song to hear my own words externalized. To hear my truth come out. To break free the chains of PTSD. But I am still so muted. At times I feel the self-hatred consume me like a fire. It is hot and it burns. So I choose to empathize with the world. I give more of myself to those around me and work harder at being a better me. But I still sometimes hate myself.
It’s been two years and I am better. Even with the loss and the pain and the monster that lives in my head, I am better. Even with the feelings while remembering the isolation and feeling like I am eternally trapped, I am better. I am free. And perhaps freedom always comes with a price. I cautiously walk forward in my life, my relationships, and in my head, looking at every corner preparing to be trapped again. But I am free. At times freedom brings me to my knees in sorrow and gratitude. Knowing life wasn’t done with me yet and I can make a new life escalates my soul. Yet remembering the years I felt trapped and abandoned, isolated from my friends, and codependent on another person brings a deep sorrow. As the anniversary approaches, my emotions are fragmented. I feel everything and nothing all at once and the dichotomy of my inner life begins to play out in my externalized emotions. I am trying to keep it together, and I am trying to not to let anyone see these ups and downs. This isn’t me, yet it is. It’s who at times I have become because of what he did to me two years ago. Perhaps two years from now, my life will be different.