If Only You Knew

“It’s funny when people say “My body is my choice” because that isn’t always the case. It was a cold summer night. June 15th to be exact. I only remember because who could ever forget? The summer of ninth grade was only a month ago. I don’t remember what was on my mind or why I let my dad trick me into going, but I went. Sometimes I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could just forget.”

I can feel my heart start to pound as I describe the worst night of my life to my therapist. I’ve been seeing her for about a month and she wanted to know about it. For some reason, I’m talking about it. I’ve never talked about it to anyone.

“Forget about what”

I stopped to think. I want to forget everything, the good and the bad. 

“Forget everything that happened that night. Forget the music that was playing, forget his hands on my thighs, neck, and chest. The heavy unusual feeling of his weight on my body. His lips are on mine. Sometimes when it’s late at night I can’t help but think about if he knew what he was doing. Maybe I was asking for it. If my clothes were too revealing if the way I was acting caused it. I wasn’t acting much differently than I usually do. Or maybe he was just drunk and totally out of it. Though everytime I do start to think about it, I don’t want to. It’s usually because of a flashback or nightmare. Or if somebody said something to trigger it. I didn’t want it. I never did. I said no, but he didn’t seem to hear it. That’s the thing with sexual assault they never seem to hear it.” She stopped to type something on her computer. It always scares me when she does that. It’s almost like she knows too much or she is judging, or maybe writing everything down to tell people I’m a psychopath. I don’t know who is going to see it. Everything I tell her could potentially end up on that file. My file.

“April,” she says, almost too calm. I’m almost afraid of what she is going to say next.

“What was his name?” My mind goes into a panic. I can’t tell her. I don’t want to. I know that when I tell her, she will report it. If she reports it, he will get in trouble. If he gets in trouble, he’ll hate me. And when he hates me, he’ll do it again. I can’t let it happen again. 

“I-I don’t remember.” That's a lie, but I continue to go with it.

“That night-”

“It’s okay. It’s perfectly normal to not know the name of your rapist…”

She continues to talk but I refuse to listen. That word, rapist, it hurts. Almost as if a brick were to fall from the sky and land on your chest. To know that you were raped. I stare off into space, making sure that my eyes are sitting just above where her head sits, to make it look like I’m paying attention. I can’t stop

thinking about that night. I feel my eyes start to water. My heart begins to pound to the point I think it’s going to break my ribs. It’s getting harder to breathe. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. My eyes start to burn. 

“April, are you okay” I can hear her say it, but I can’t respond. My mind is going a million miles an hour going over every detail. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. But I'm not feeling my body.

“April, look at me” I can’t. I can’t focus on anything. 

“April, breathe, just breathe it’s going to be okay.” But it’s not. It will never be okay. I will never be okay. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. But my arms and legs are tingling.