I’ve written some hard rants you guys. I can do this. Let’s talk about: Life after Sexual Assault

Just one story here, but there are so many others.

When you’ve been raped you don’t tell anyone because you’re ashamed. Because you think you deserved it.

You don’t say anything to your mom because you think she’s going to laugh and say “that’ll teach you to wear your hooker shoes”.

You don’t tell your dad because you think he’ll shake his head and say “Hanging out with all those boys did nothing for you, huh?”

Your brother would probably look at you in sincere disgust for the person you are now if he knew. Or no. No. He won’t even be able to look at you.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, when in reality they probably wouldn’t say that at all. They wouldn’t treat you the same, no. But they definitely wouldn’t treat you the way you imagine they will either. You’re just scared.

Besides, you don’t live in reality anymore. You live in the horrible prison of your own mind. You wonder from cell to cell, always feeling the walls of concrete closing in on you. And it’s terrible. You’re the jailer and you never let yourself out on good behavior, because you aren’t good. You think you deserved it.

Your one relief is that the guy you care about more than anything—the one that saved you from the hospital; the one that went to multiple stores and bought every brand of sleeping pills he could get his hands on just to find one that worked when you stayed awake for nearly five days straight after it happened; the one that made all of your favorite meals and finally convinced you to eat when you refused to for almost a week; the one that says he loves you no matter what—doesn’t leave.

He knows what happened and he wants to help you through it. He doesn’t want to fix you. He doesn’t want to make you all better. He wants you to know that it’s okay if you’re not okay, because it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you. Bad things happen. Good things will come.

But they don’t. Soon, you start to wonder if they ever will and you know that someday he’s going to get tired of waiting around too.

But that doesn’t come as quickly as you expect it to either. So you live in fear of the day when he walks out and you are left truly, completely alone.

Every day could be that day.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night and notices that your side of the bed is cold he comes looking for you. And when he finds you just down the hallway, sitting at the top of the stairs, crying softly, he sits down next to you. He’s smart enough to leave enough space that you’re not touching—you hate being touched—but not so much that you can’t feel his heat.

You just wanted a glass of water, you tell him. You wanted a fucking glass of stupid water, but you can’t go down there. You cannot go into the kitchen, because what if he’s down there? In the dark. What then?

So you sit there crying, knowing he’s not in your kitchen and yet you still don’t have enough courage to go get yourself a goddamn glass of stupid water. And you hate yourself for it, but your best friend seems to understand.

When he gets up to get it for you, you know in your heart that he’s not coming back. He’s tired of you. Tired of your fear. Tired of your crying. Tired of not being able to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you.

He’s not coming back. He’d be stupid not to seize the opportunity and run.

So you’re incredibly surprised when he does; he’s humming softly in the dark so you know it’s him ascending the stairs. And you’re so shocked that you don’t argue when he places the glass of water in one of your hands, takes your other in his, and leads you back to bed.

And you hate that he isn’t angry at you. You hate that he’s like a little puppy, doing everything you ask and loving you unconditionally through it all. You hate that he’s so nice to you.

When you see the glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand as you go to bed the next night you want to scream. You want to throw it on his side of the bed and slap him. How dare he think that you’re so weak you can’t even get a glass of water? You’ve never been so angry in your life. But you’re so grateful you don’t do any of that. You’re so grateful and you don’t ever want him to leave.

You know that no one else is going to love the girl that cries over the glass of water because that’s not normal.

Nothing you do anymore is normal, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He waits it out patiently.

For seventeen days he’s not allowed to touch you at all and he doesn’t push for contact. For thirty-two days, you insist on holding onto his ring finger—and only his ring finger—when you lay in bed next to him at night and he doesn’t care. For six months you shower in the dark and he never questions it. For a year you wear two shirts everywhere you go and he doesn’t mention how frivolous it is.

But you never get over the way you hide things from him and he doesn’t even know.

Every time you go outside, you have to look over your shoulder and pray that you don’t find anyone. But you do it casually so that no one else notices. You do it like a strange tick or a strange compulsion. You never show how afraid you are.

Every time someone looks at you, you feel dirty. Like they’re undressing you the way he did and you hate it. It’s why you wear two shirts. It’s why you always have a jacket handy. It’s why you keep your arms around yourself.

Every time one of your friends says something about being young and beautiful you cringe. That’s how you felt the day it happened. But now, you just feel old and awful.

Every time your dad calls to ask how you are, you tell him you’re fine, but you’re not. You’re not even okay. Then you tell your brother that you’re not afraid of working nights, even though you’ve never been more terrified in your life.

You tell your mom that things are great with you and your best friend, even though you can feel them starting to crumble.

And it’s all your fault.

You beg your best friend to just ignore your quirks. You’ll get over them soon enough, but meanwhile you just want him to stop being so understanding. And because you insist that he treat you normally, you can’t deny any of his requests.

That’s not normal.

When he wants to have sex again, you end up giving in before you’re ready. It’s the worst mistake you could ever make, because after that, you don’t trust him like you used to.

He thinks everything is under your conditions. You can only do it when all the lights are out and you get to put all your clothes back on when it's over, but they're not under your conditions. If things were under your conditions, you wouldn't be doing it at all. Ever.

Because it hurts. He does nothing wrong, but it hurts. And not the good hurt. It's the kind that makes you want to cry.

And you can’t close your eyes, because all you feel is him. You feel all his weight crushing down on you. You smell his stench and taste his sweat.

It’s like it’s happening all over again when you close your eyes.

So you keep them open. You can hardly see him in the dark, but you keep them open. That way you can know the one you’re with isn’t as heavy and he’s careful not to crush you. The guy you love smells like soap because he always showers. Because you ask him. And he tastes like wine and you do too. Because he asks you. He wants you to drink it with him—to relax and have a good night.

And you do. But nothing makes the pain go away.

You don’t want to disappoint him. You don’t want him to think it’s his fault, because it’s just something stupid. It’s something wrong with your messed up head.

Something that you can’t get over.

Something that causes you to purposely dislocate your hip so you don’t have to have sex anymore. Because he won’t ask and you won’t feel guilty if you can hardly walk.

And you make sure that you don’t get better in three months. You run when you aren’t supposed to. You do stretches you’ve been warned against. You do anything to keep your hip from healing properly. To keep yourself from having to explain to the man you love that you just can’t sleep with him anymore.

To keep him from feeling like it’s his fault.

Because nothing is his fault. Nothing is ever his fault, but you keep pushing him away.

When he’s lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, and he opens his mouth to speak, you just know he’s going to ask you if you still love him. Because lately you’ve been distant. Any more you don’t talk to him like you used to. You don’t let him touch you and you don’t say his name like you did before.

But he doesn’t ask you that. He just asks if you’re okay and you sigh and tell him yes.

And you know that if he had asked you the question you’re terrified of, you would have said yes to that too. But you don’t know if you mean it or not.

You definitely don’t love him like you used to. You don’t love any one anymore.

Especially not yourself.

How romantic, right? Doesn't that just sound like so much fun?

Probably not. That's probably why no one tells the truth abou it. Because the truth isn't pretty. It's horrifying. It's hateful.

It's that.