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I don’t want to be that kid. The one who was given electroconvulsive therapies while watching porn or the one who spent time with hired prostitutes having heterosexual sex to teach me how a sexual relationship should work.
But the sex wasn’t consensual, and I was just sixteen.
“If I accept the abuse, I’ll admit to being a victim of rape.” It’s the first time I say that out loud.
The first time I admit to someone else and maybe myself that my parents sent me to a place where I was abused with objects and used by women against my will. I didn’t have a say though, I had to do it so I could get forgiveness from God. How dare those people claim to do those horrific things in the name of religion?
But isn’t that how things have worked since the beginning of time?
My therapist looks at me. “And how does that make you feel?”
“I imagine being in a room filled with clutter, and when I open the closet, there’s more chaos that spills into what I was already trying to clean.”
“There’s that word,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow. “Clutter?”
“No, clean. You use it often. Why?”
I rub my arms. “I feel dirty, guilty, ashamed of everything that happened to me. A part of me believes that if I was normal, I could’ve avoided it all.”
He studies me and, after a few long seconds, says, “Why do you think it’s the victim’s fault?”
“What?”
“You’re the victim—”
“I don’t want to be the fucking victim.” My voice resonates throughout the walls, and I almost sob when I finally say, “because if I do, the two people who love me might see me differently.”
He taps his folder before opening it. He scans through some of the pages inside and then looks up at me, pushing his rimmed glasses up his nose. “Do you see your girlfriend differently?”
“What does that mean?”
“We spoke about her a few weeks ago. You wanted me to help you since she was abused, and you didn’t want to treat her differently.”
I nod and let out a long, harsh exhale. “You can’t compare her—”
“Why not?”
It frustrates the fuck out of me that he doesn’t let me finish the sentence and that I can’t answer his question logically. We’re the same, even if they were different circumstances, aren’t we?
Wednesday’s scene plays in my head one more time. I didn’t like that my parents showed up unannounced. Everything was fine until Matt appeared, until there was a chance they could discover my relationship with him. My brain went into survival mode. Even when I know they can’t do anything, the trauma takes me back to that moment when Dad caught me.
“Is this why I push them? My mind is trying to keep me safe?”
The doctor nods once. “Yes. I think we need to dig a lot deeper, or maybe…” He taps his chin.
“What?”
“You have PTSD,” he says. “I think you could benefit from EMDR therapy. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. We could complement these sessions with that. I’ll give you a list of providers I trust.”
I scoff.
“What is it?”
“This reminds me of one of the bars I bought a few years back,” I respond, sighing heavily. “It had some cosmetic issues, but it seemed like a good investment. As I began to make the repairs, I kept finding more issues, and at some point, I sold the piece of shit because it wasn’t worth it. It was just a waste of time.”
The last sentence carries all my frustration, and even my fears. I’m usually contained, but not today. Today my voice is coming out loud and… fuck, I feel so broken.
