part one: this is what happens when my therapist dies

CONTENT WARNING: sexual assault, rape

Typing that title may be the closest sign of acceptance so far. I still haven’t processed that she is gone. That I will never have the chance to sink into her couch & hear it sigh with me. That I will never run the risk of seeing her in public (a genuine fear, despite loving and appreciating her existence). That I will never hear her laugh again, share stories about her brothers, recommend something reckless as a test of my work toward reducing impulsiveness. She will never again be the person I trust to help me through *anything* I encounter.

—

On the day that I discovered her early death, I called the office to ask, “Will Nikki return soon? This is an emergency.” She had been in the hospital a few weeks prior. The receptionist had cancelled my appointment. I didn’t ask for anybody else then because I felt stable & strong enough to face a month without her—a sign of progress.

“No, she won’t be returning here,” the receptionist said.

I stammered, “Who else can I see? As I mentioned, this is urgent.”

I saw a new staff member four hours later.

—

After the typical greetings, the New Girl asked me to share my story, to reveal my secret traumas & diagnoses & history. I laughed and told her that would take a while. She laughed back and asked me to start.

Throughout my rambling, she would pause my storytelling to ask a question. The frequent flipping of her notepad made me feel laughter inside, knowing that I’m the perfect candidate for a new therapist (I’d feel excited to treat me, too). When I finally stopped, I stated, “that’s what I can think of sharing now. I know there’s more.”

Fewer than ten minutes remained in the session. She smiled, “that’s okay. Is there anything specific you need to discuss today?” I knew what I would say next would crush her excitement. She would have to switch from contemplating treatment plans and research tactics to in-the-trenches work.

“Yeah I was raped on Friday,” I stated, staring at the flickering shadows from the floor lamp.

The room’s silence felt heavier than his hands had around my neck, heavier than the weight of my shame and guilt.

As I had in any silence since that night, I heard two old friends recently saying, “you’re basically a prostitute.” They had insinuated that my choice to pursue healthy, physical connections with others would eventually be the cause of a person raping me. As if my choice to casually date is an invitation for someone to take advantage of me, to hurt me, to create permanent emotional damage. The day after the assault a friend told me, “But you are in no way to blame for this. You have every right to expect and demand respect and safety, even with people you don’t know well.”

Frankly, if you disagree, I don’t want you in my life. If you were one of the people to demand that I report it—without considering what emotional cost that constitutes—I don’t want you in my life. If you feel the need to ask about the sobriety levels of either of us, I don’t want you in my life. I don’t want anyone around who doesn’t firmly believe that no means no, consent can be taken away, and an aggressive slap across the face / elbow to the ribs / kick to the back of the knee multiple times is more than an indication to stop.

—

In the week after the assault, I didn’t feel safe alone. I didn’t want to go to work—one day I didn’t. The other days I didn’t interact with anyone unless necessary. I didn’t want to be touched (I nearly threw hands when a coworker hugged me). I didn’t feel comfortable around any men, even the friends I’ve had for months.

I didn’t feel myself because a part I’d grown confidence in was shattered by a shameful excuse of a man who pretended to care about me. At one point, I told him, “you need to respect me as a human being.” He stammered, “I do.” He didn’t.

I cancelled a trip that I had planned for months. The flight alone put me out $800, but it didn’t really matter. That money was already gone last October when I spent it to visit my at-the-time partner for Christmas and New Year’s. After the breakup, they refused to pay anything more than the flight change fee. Why would I expect anything more from a person who built our relationship on the lie that they were single? The point: the $800 and flight changes were financially and emotionally spent months prior. I didn’t care at this point. I also didn’t care to visit the city in which my internship director harassed me for months. The city that another ex proudly hails from, who proudly shared his cheating escapades & shamed my body and mind often.

I don’t deserve anything hurtful has happened to me, and I didn’t deserve to force myself to take that trip for the benefit of others.

I cancelled. I started to plan a solo drive south, likely to New Orleans but if ambitious enough, some part of Florida. Then I considered visiting far-away friends or family. When I learned that a friend would be in the same city as four of my family members, I took a few days to consider the possibility—I know my therapist would have been proud of that.

I know that she would also be proud of my thoughtful communication lately, my acknowledgment of all of my feelings, and my intent to do something for myself.

My first flight of the weekend left Des Moines at 2:11pm on Thursday. I made two new friends. I’m bursting with excitement to see people I love soon (it’s hidden under flight anxiety, but it’s there). I’m reading Rachel Hollis’s Girl, Stop Apologizing with a group of badass women, and I’m ready to start celebrating myself more.

After all, I will always be the only person who’s been there my entire life. I’m acting like it now.