CRUSHED

March 11th

“Crushed,” Dr. Gentry repeats, her eyebrows jumping, momentarily reflecting her shock. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

The lump in my throat chokes me as I stare unblinking at her, my chest tightening and heart rate increasing as my emotions stir. Taking a deep breath, I cross my arms and pinch myself, feeling only the tingling in my face as I fight to keep my tears at bay.

“I buckled under the weight of it,” I breathe, my eyes falling as I shake my head and allow myself to blink. “The pain, the self-hate and blame, the fear…it was so heavy. I tried to carry it all, to be stronger than what he did to me, but I couldn’t do it. It crushed me, killing the best parts of me. He took my life, and I let him because I was weak and stupid.”

It’s not until I pause to look back up at her that I realize I’m crying, the heavy flow of tears causing droplets to drip onto my lap and rush down my neck. Dr. Gentry’s mask of indifference is in place, though slightly askew, her wide eyes and stiff back giving her away.

Nodding, she clears her throat and extends a box of Kleenex to me. “Julianna, are we still talking about your husband cheating on you?”

Grabbing the box from her, I pull out a tissue and begin the pointless task of trying to dry my face. Once the focus of my gaze is on the window, allowing the burn of the sunlight to blur my vision, I shake my head.

“No, I was raped.”

A week ago, I’d never said those words out loud, and while it doesn’t seem to get any easier, I do feel a little lighter each time.

Even though Lizzy was the first person I told, she was the easiest one to talk to about it. Maybe it was because she understands what it’s like to have your life completely changed by a single moment. She’s familiar with the hopelessness you feel trying to hold on to the pieces of your broken dreams.

Telling Eric, on the other hand, was gut wrenching. I hated him knowing I’d been violated in that way. It made me feel tarnished. If I’d told Christopher, I don’t doubt that’s exactly the way he would have seen me. Although, I knew Eric wouldn’t feel that way, I worried it would change the way he perceived me. Instead of seeing the brave, strong woman he thought he knew, he’d only see the broken victim hiding behind the curtain. Afterwards, when he looked in my eyes to express his love for me, those concerns were put to rest.

“When did this happen?” Dr. Gentry questions, scribbling on her notepad.

“I was nineteen. So, almost ten years ago.”

The scratching of her pen stops, and her eyes snap to me. Sitting up straighter in her chair, she places it and her note pad on the small table next to her chair then clears her throat.

“Have you ever talked to someone about your rape?”

Biting my lip, I shake my head. “Not a professional. Actually, I’d never talked to anyone about it until recently.”

“Well, I’m certain most anyone would feel the way you do after carrying such a thing around for so long. Is there a reason you didn’t feel you could tell anyone? Did you know your attacker?”

Nodding, I pick at the nail polish on my thumb. “Yes. Well…kind of. I mean, I wasn’t attacked in some alleyway by a stranger or anything. He was in one of my classes at the university. It happened at a party he invited me to. It was more of a date rape, I guess.”

“I don’t think we should describe it that way. Rape is rape, Julianna. The situation or the circumstances leading up to the act aren’t relevant. It doesn’t make it less of a violation.”

My head slowly bobs as I let her words sink in. She’s right. Calling it a date rape is just another way I’ve placed the blame back on myself. It’s society’s method of putting the fault on the woman or victim. Date rape implies willingness and distracts us from the main subject. The fact that I knew Jim and had been attracted to him isn’t relevant. He still had sex with me against my will.

“My reason for asking was to get a better understanding of why you felt there was no one you could confide in. Not even the man you married. I think we need to explore why it took so long to address this, and why you feel ready now.”

That’s easy. I didn’t tell anyone what happened to me because I’d been lying to myself. Opening up about it meant recognizing it changed me, and I wasn’t ready to completely let go of the person I’d been or the future I’d envisioned. But my life was a lie. Christopher’s affair shined a bright light on that truth. Now that I have my friends and family supporting me—now that I have Eric’s love—I can see everything I’ve been missing. That’s how I found the strength to do this now. I want to move forward—to build a life here. To accomplish that, I must take the steps toward healing this wound.

March 25th

Eyeing the light beaming out from the bottom of Dr. Gentry’s office door, I strain to hear what’s happening inside, worrying someone in the waiting room might be able to hear my couch confessions. When a shadow crosses the doorframe, I avert my eyes and lean back in my seat, feeling satisfied my secrets will be safe.

My gaze lands on the wall clock hanging across from me, its ticking seeming overly loud after my attempt to eavesdrop. Realizing there’s still five minutes until my appointment, I sigh and shift in my chair, uncrossing my numbing legs, only to cross them again. My mother’s scolding voice echoes in my mind. You shouldn’t sit that way, Julianna, it’s bad for blood circulation.

I hate waiting, especially in waiting rooms, but being late gives me anxiety and I almost always arrive fifteen minutes early for everything.

As my wandering stare moves to the end of the narrow room, my lip snarls. The space looks like it was decorated in the seventies and hasn’t been updated since. There are two mismatched chairs placed opposite of each therapist’s door in various versions of yellow, orange, and brown. The Fern hanging in the back corner is suspended with beaded rope, and the end tables look like they belong in my grandmother’s house. It’s honestly very fitting for Dr. Gentry. The inside of her office is very similar, as was her outdated sense of style during my last session, with her linen peasant skirt and oversized top.

My pulse beings to race when I hear her muffled voice and the jangle of the doorknob turning. I may be even more nervous than I’d been for my first appointment. At least then she was still in the dark about my issues, and I felt like I had control over what we talked about. But at the end of our session last week, she’d given me an assignment and told me what she’d like to work on during our next visit.

Pulling out my phone, I pretend to be distracted as the door swings open and her patient steps out. The last thing I would want is someone staring at me as I leave my therapist’s office, and I have a feeling everyone feels that way. My heart skips then lodges in my throat when Dr. Gentry calls my name, waving me inside.

When I join her, she’s on her computer, instructing me to close the door behind me. As I take a seat on the overstuffed beige couch that’s better days have come and gone long ago, she apologizes and insists she’ll only be a moment. I’m sure her type B personality is annoyed by my type A need to be on time.

It’s a little odd that she has her desk resting on the back wall, instead of turned away from it so she can see the door the way most offices are laid out. But there isn’t much about her that isn’t outside the norm. Besides, I like it. It’s as if she didn’t want there to be any barriers between her and her patients.

With her back to me, I take the opportunity to focus on the different pictures and knickknacks overcrowding the room. Some of the stuff seems like it could be worth some money. Her office could take up an entire episode of Trash or Treasure.

“All right,” she chirps, swiveling her chair around to face me. She smiles as she comes to a stop, tucking her bare feet under herself then laying her pen and pad in her lap. “Were you able to complete the task we talked about last week?”

Nodding, I fight the urge to roll my eyes, hating that she jumped right in, acknowledging her little assignment. When she asked me who I’d told about my rape and I’d given the very short list of names, she asked if I planned to tell other people close to me. My “probably not” response was not received well. After she tricked me into telling her how good it felt to tell Lizzy and Eric, she challenged me to tell a loved one, and I knew exactly who it needed to be.

“I told my sister.”

The main reason I didn’t want to tell Lori was because I didn’t want her to make what happened to me about her, which is exactly what she did. At least, at first. She’d cried about me keeping something so big from her, and talked about how I didn’t trust her. I ended up snapping, saying my rape had nothing to do with her, and immediately felt incredibly guilty for it. But after that, she was understanding and supportive—exactly what I needed her to be. Though I hated Dr. Gentry for pushing me to do it, I’m glad she did. For years, I’ve been hiding who I really am and how I really feel, and I’m tired.

“And?” she prompts.

“It was good. I think it may have even brought us closer.”

“That’s wonderful,” she beams, jotting something down on her pad before bringing her attention back to me. “How was the rest of your week?”

“Good,” I croak before clearing my throat. Her eyebrows lift as her mouth presses together. I’m not sure whether it’s because the crack in my voice gave away the dishonesty of my statement or she’s waiting for more information. Probably both.

It’s not that my week had been particularly bad, but it was a little nerve-racking. In addition to completing her assignment and adjusting to the fact that I’d shared my secret, Jim’s murder was all over the news and in the papers. I couldn’t seem to avoid seeing images of him or hearing detailed information about his life and death. It makes me so angry that I can’t seem to escape him, and that makes me feel guilty because I’m being selfish, and perhaps even a little heartless, but it’s hard to move past something when it’s constantly in your face.

“Okay,” I relent, sighing as I rub my shaky hands up and down my thighs. “It was stressful. The police arrested a young woman in connection to Jim’s murder this week, and she confessed. Her boyfriend is claiming she acted in self-defense, says there’s evidence Jim sexually abused this girl repeatedly for over a year.” I pause to gather myself as emotion burns in my chest. All week I’ve been imagining this poor girl, wondering what she was like before Jim ruined her life, and the kind of things he must’ve put her through that drove her to kill him.

Dr. Gentry blurs as my eyes fill with tears.

“It’s not your fault, Julianna. You’re not responsible for his actions or the consequences of them. Even if you’d reported your rape, there’s a likely possibility he still would’ve gone on to hurt other women. Unfortunately, there are not adequate laws in place to protect us from men like him. You were a victim trying to survive. You need to let go of your guilt.”

Giving her a quick nod and a tight smile in agreement, I dry my face with the sleeves of my hoodie. She’s right, and deep down, I know that, but it doesn’t do much to rid me of the heaviness in my gut.