Counseling is better than I ever dreamed it would be. I could kick myself for not going earlier, but in truth, I don’t think I was ready. The first day I walked in, I wanted to bolt right away. I was so nervous that my whole body was shaking, and I had no idea what to expect. I was terrified that somebody I knew would see me, and that I had no right to be there. Those feelings vanished almost immediately when a young woman, probably in her early thirties, greeted me warmly and asked how I took my coffee. She made me feel at ease immediately. She didn’t look at me like I was this strange specimen that needed to be treated with kid gloves; she simply walked me into a side room, poured me a coffee, and told me to take a seat. Then we talked, but not about me. We didn’t talk about me at all. Instead she focused on the weather, told me about a wedding she’d been to that weekend, and about her daughter, who was just starting kindergarten. She was one of those people who can just put you at ease without doing anything at all; she made me feel relaxed and calm, and not like the completely useless, worthless fool I’ve felt like since Robbie broke my life.
Before I knew it, an hour had passed, and she told me she had another appointment, so we would have to leave it there. Then she explained that her name was Lucy, and she was the psychiatrist there who runs the counseling group. She informed me that they offer private one-on-one sessions once a week and also hold a weekly support group; Lucy recommended I attend both. She said it was helpful to know I’m not alone, and that it’s good to see how other people deal with sexual assault. She gave me the group schedule, told me everything was completely confidential, and said she hoped she’d see me back there next week.
She did.
I haven’t shared my story with the group yet. I’m not even sure I will, to be honest. I mean, I’d change the names and the details—I wouldn’t want anyone to be able to link it back to me—but still, it’s a big leap of faith to share my story, and nobody pushes me. Nobody makes me feel bad that I keep quiet or look at the ground when Lucy asks if anyone else wants to share. It’s good to know that there are other people out there who have been through this. Other people who have moved past this and aren’t letting it consume their every waking moment. Other people who are now using their experiences to help others. It’s fascinating to listen to everyone else’s stories, and sometimes it’s just plain heartbreaking.
One poor girl is only seventeen, from one of the bad neighborhoods on the outskirts of town. She wears a nose ring and her clothes are cheap, and I knew just by looking at her that her life has been harder than mine has ever been. And I was ashamed, ashamed that I’ve wallowed in my own misery for the better part of a year and haven’t been looking at how lucky I am in many ways. This poor girl was raped by one of her parents’ friends. She told her mom, who just insisted she was lying. He still visits her house once a week, and her mom makes sure she sits at the table with them for dinner. It was the way she told her story that affected me the most. The way it was so matter-of-fact. She wasn’t looking for sympathy or expecting anything from us in return. She was just telling us about her life while I sat there and listened in horror.
Watching Lucy with her was amazing. The way Lucy is with everyone is amazing, and so inspiring. She’s at ease with everyone and just seems to know how to make people feel safe and comforted. She always knows what questions to ask and when to stop pushing. She has this innate sense of calm that she seems to pass on to everyone in her presence. She told me she’s been doing this for five years, and she does it because she feels like she makes a difference. She definitely does. It must be amazing to know you can really make a difference in someone’s life. I’m in complete awe of her.
I’ve been going for five weeks, and I’m starting to realize this isn’t something I did. It isn’t something I chose. This is something that was done to me, and I need to stop blaming myself for it. I get it, I really do, but it’s easier said than done.
I just got home from today’s session after spending the day in the library. I’m determined to do well in my studies this year. This is my last year in college, and I don’t want the previous three years to amount to nothing. I want to do well, and I’m prepared to put in the hard work to get there. To be fair, it’s not like I have much else to do. I might be way more sociable than I was for most of last year, but I’m still pretty reluctant to do anything that I think might put me in danger. It’s pathetic, but I now consider people I don’t know to be dangerous. I know that will change. After talking to Lucy, I know this is normal, and I know that as time goes on, I’ll get more comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings and with unfamiliar people, but right now, I can’t push myself to get there.
Tina wanted me to go out with her tonight. I could see the hope in her face when she asked me, but I declined. I’ve stopped drinking completely. I had a couple beers when I was away for the summer with Sam, but that’s only because she wouldn’t drink when I did, and I knew she wouldn’t leave my side, because she knew the truth. If I went out with Tina, she’d assume we’d be knocking back the shots like we used to, and I don’t want to have that discussion with her. It’s not that she’d mind me not drinking, but I just don’t want to put myself in that environment. It’s the last place I would want to be.
I pull out my phone and order a pizza from my favorite local place, then go sit on the sofa and put on Netflix. I surf through the options until I find a film I want to watch, settling on a British romantic comedy I’ve never heard of before, and I’m about twenty minutes in when my pizza arrives. I settle back down, taking a bite of pepperoni, and feel as close to content as I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t give a damn that it’s a Saturday night and I’m spending it on my own. I finally feel like I’m moving forward and am starting to get a grip on things.
I’m fully asleep on the sofa when my phone starts ringing next to me. I blink awake, groggy about where I am, then realize I dozed off in front of the TV. I squint at the clock on the wall and see it’s after midnight. Yawning, I grab my phone, sitting up in surprise when I see it’s Maddy.
“Hello?”
“Becca?” The noise in the background is so loud I can barely hear her. “Becca, is that you?” I roll my eyes. Who else would be answering my phone? Clearly she’s had a few drinks tonight.
“Hey, I’m here,” I tell her.
“Oh, thank God,” she says dramatically. “I didn’t know what to do.”
I sit up straighter in my seat. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Oh, it’s nothing too bad. It’s just, well, Tina’s here, and she’s completely wasted, as in, she’s thrown up and can barely keep her eyes open.”
“Fuck, how did she get so bad?”
“Oh, you know, shots.”
I shake my head. Tina is a shots fan. Every time she wakes up with a horrendous hangover, she swears she’s not going to do it again. Then she does.
“Is she okay?” I say, standing up and looking around for my jacket.
“Not really. She’s upset and was crying and stuff.”
“What?” That’s unlike Tina; she’s not an emotional drunk.
“Can you come get her?”
“Yeah.” I’m already pulling my boots on. “Where are you guys?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I think she must have lost reception. “Hello? Maddy?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“So where are you?”
She sighs. “Well, that’s the thing. We’re at Carrington’s.”