the longest shower

I was in the shower for at least 20 minutes.
My hair is barely dry, and already I want to crawl back into the warmth of it.
I was trying to wash off my dream.
It was too real, and I was the girl in it.  Not the woman I am in my life today.
I was the girl of 15 years ago who was raped by 2 football players.
I was the girl who walked home with her underwear wadded up in her pocket.
I walked home with vodka still rotting in my mouth.
I sat in my apartment with hands jammed into pockets of my winter coat.
I didn't move for a long time.  I just sat on the couch.
I inhaled slowly, so as not to disrupt the pieces of myself.
I wanted my roommates to wake up, but when they did, I couldn't speak to them.
"When did you get home?"
"This morning"
"Oh."
They went about the kitchen making coffee, recovering from their own hangover.
This is just college, right?
We all have bad nights....

I tell myself, I tell other people, I don't have any secrets.
But this isn't true.
This is a secret.  This girl is a secret.  But she is still with me, and today she cried in the shower.
And she is crying now, because she knows she is not supposed to feel ashamed, but she does.
She knows she is not disgusting, but she's hiding in old sweats and could barely meet her husband's eyes.
She clutched the down comforter against her body and couldn't let him touch her.
Once again, she couldn't speak.  Her soul was wadded up in her throat.

People tell me, "You're so brave to write this blog about your eating disorder."
And I suppose that's true.
When I began, I was very afraid.  But I'm not ashamed about it anymore.
But this...I am ashamed of this.  I am scared for my Dad to read this.  I am scared for my grandma to read it.
I am scared to be tarnished.
But just like the eating disorder, most women can relate, and I write for them.
I write so I can come out of hiding, so we can come out of hiding.
More than 25% percent of college women report being sexually assaulted.
Many more never report it.  I never reported it.
I am not a minority.  I am the norm.
If it is so common, then why am I so ashamed?

Andrew just called to ask if I am okay.
"Not really.  But I got Sophie to school,"  I am curled up in a ball and crying.
"I'm sorry you had that dream.  I'm sorry you have to feel this way," he says.
I know he means it.  I know he cares.  Neither of us know what to say beyond this.
We sit in silence, hoping the other will fill it.
"I don't know what to say," I tell him.
"You don't have to say anything.  I just wanted to check on you."
This is why I trust him.  He knows some things cannot be fixed by words.
And he's not mad that I'm not fixed yet.

Rape is nothing like I imagined as a kid.
I remember the first time I learned the word.
I was shocked, terrified that such a thing actually happened to people.
It seemed the worst act ever to be committed or endured.
But it's not, and it takes a long time to catch up, to become real.
It is not sharp or acute. It is in slow motion, blurry, like trying to see under water.
I want to say, 'It's not so bad, Dad.  Don't worry.  I'm okay.'
The bad part is not the experience, it is the aftermath.
It is the girl who feels like a lie.  The one who is stuck between two worlds.
The world where she stands tall and has nothing to hide.
Versus the world where everyone can see through her clothing and knows she is not so tough after all.
It is the hollow dropping in my stomach now, as I write.  The contrition that will not subside.
"I should have been better.  I never should have let this happen.  If I had been more careful...maybe.
Maybe I deserve this."

This is the crux.  The placing of blame.  Because it is true.  I did put myself in danger.
I was drunk.  Really drunk.  If I don't care about my body, why should anyone else?
Did I not send the message that I am disposable?
Yes, I did.  I wanted to be.  I wanted to be trivial, evanescent.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Therein lies the lie.
The lie is, "I don't matter.  I am not soft.  I am impervious if I choose to be."
If I acknowledge the lie, then I have to admit that it hurt.
It did.  It does, hurt.

Tell all

I've found myself waking up lost.  As if my voice has been silenced or I've forgotten how to walk.


I stopped writing chrysalisbreak about 2-3 months ago.
I did it because I wanted a rest.  I didn't want this thing which started out so life-affirming to be one more chore on the list of things I must do to maintain functional-adult-status.
But now I am missing it.  I miss my fingers dancing on keyboard like a seasoned pianist.
I miss the tiny clicking into place when I tell myself the truth by accident.
I miss the deep sighs I breath only when I am alone here with my coffee.  It is the air which goes to my core and lets me know everything is going to be alright, in spite of everything I've just admitted to.

Also, I've had things going on at home that I cannot share with the world.
So it seemed I couldn't write.  Because the truth I had to tell was too delicate, too fresh.
It is not only my story I tell here.  It is the story of my family.
I wish I could bare all.  I wish I could walk naked and let whatever jiggles be exposed.
However, I'm learning that sometimes love requires discretion.  I hate this. I hate that we are so fragile.
I wish we didn't need to hide behind identities constructed out of words and paper cut-out clothes.
But that is only upon initial response.
It is this sensitive nature which makes it all worth it.  I need the parts that make no sense, that ache for no reason other than I want to be heard, understood.  I want my face to be caressed when I cry, and I offer the same to those in my care.
I do not want my husband to be his calloused hands.  Sometimes I wonder how he can feel my skin through all that work.  But he does.  He kisses the top of my forehead as we fall asleep together, curled into the formation we've perfected over 7 years.
I want to honor that.  I want to preserve a space for us to be soft.  This means respecting his trust.  This means I do not tell all.

soft spot