Therapy Interlude
I sat up straight watching my therapist move a black wand with a red ball balanced on its tip. It went back and forth, side to side, across my line of vision. She said something about the pace gradually quickening, but for now I was simply to track the movement of the red circle that reminded me of my least favorite type of gumball. As it hovered in front of me, I thought of “Grad Night” of my senior year in high school where I witnessed an amateur hypnotist the PTA had hired. I watched passively as my friends slipped away, one by one. 
What I was doing on my therapist’s dreamy cerulean couch was supposed to be different. The intent was to heal trauma not to entertain eighteen year-olds; EMDR is what she called it. A quick Google search before our session demystified this drug sounding-acronym: Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. EMDR even had its own website that defined it as “a psychotherapy that enables people to heal from the symptoms and emotional distress that are the result of disturbing life experiences.” 
My therapist Tracy, who had a lively personality and nurturing demeanor, offered this experience as a supplement to the talk therapy that had yet to show any significant changes to my overall wellbeing. Though it was set at a higher price point and therefore not covered by my insurance (big surprise), she believed this process of rapid eye movement, when repeated in structured and spaced-out sessions, would be powerful at healing the most recent development in my resume of traumas. Spaced-out I was, as I tried to follow Rudolph's nose while mentally taking myself back to the “disturbing life experience” that had brought me to her office in the first place.
I felt more disoriented than anything after the first session of EMDR, and a little nauseous after the second. I understood this to be a valuable tool for some, and there was plenty of past and current research to back up Tracy’s claims of effectiveness. Despite this, I had a lingering suspicion that my body still wasn’t ready to submit to any source of healing at this time. It had been a couple of months since the incident, and Tracy and I had done a fair amount of talk therapy to process what had happened. And yet, I was still paralyzed when I tried to work myself up by replaying the sensory details. 
I was easily distracted by Tracy’s ever-so-perfect blown out auburn hair and neatly painted scarlet lips, mixed with envy over her diverse collection of floral midi dresses and assorted knee-high boots. I had tried and failed to bond with several therapists throughout my adolescence. Tracy was the first I willingly allowed below my thick layers of seasoned defense mechanisms; I trusted her with my truths. 
I had struck up a deal with my primary care doctor who also doubled as my OBGYN (I wasn’t privy to letting many people examine my body) that if I agreed to finally take a stab at antidepressants then I would also land a therapist (and a job and a place to live and ideally a new partner). I followed through on the first three tasks. It was all going so well. 
Being in cahoots with Tracy was the best. Her office was cozy and ocean-themed. And though I could not discern this from her psychology.com profile, the decor was alluring and it motivated me to get my ass in the car and drive to see her. I lived about 40 minutes away, over a big hill and winding road on the coast near Half Moon Bay. Leaving the ocean’s side was not something I did voluntarily, but throw in an octopus vase, some seashell adorned artwork, a starfish lamp, and an assortment of velvety, aquamarine-colored blankets, and I was there! 
I tried my best to be present. I really gave therapy a shot. I fit our weekly 60-minute sessions into my schedule and tagged on another 60 minutes for the EMDR shifts. It’s easy to talk yourself out of meeting with someone who can help you, but each time I overcame this internal battle, I was rewarded with a safe place to cry and her incredibly white-toothed smile. We had a great thing going until Tracy and her family had a greater thing going, which entailed an immediate move to Nashville. 
Cue a nervous breakdown. But wait, I wasn’t given enough time to conjure very many feelings other than being taken off guard by this unsolicited decision. She casually dropped relocation on me at the beginning of what would become our final session together. Who does that? Tracy did that. 
She was delighted that I had graduated from therapy. What?! First off, I didn’t think using therapy as a ‘life-long tool’ really set the stage for any sort of graduation ceremony (also, if this was indeed my graduation, where was my party?) And secondly, what the actual fuck? We still had shit to say to each other! We still had that “disturbing life event” to work through! How could a professional deem me as capable of carrying on without her when I clearly couldn’t incite my body to try to heal itself? Antidepressants weren’t going to heal me; they were just going to ensure that I could be a productive member of society and contain me into a constant state of inquiry of whether my “happiness” was real or synthetic. I was not going to miss the recurring weekly charge of $114.10 on my Mastercard, but I was going to miss Tracy.
Teletherapy hadn’t gotten its pandemic debut and wouldn’t for another year so, despite my best efforts, it wasn’t offered as an option. Tracy also claimed that there were privacy laws and issues with state to state insurance coverage. I bet she secretly had reasoned that EMDR wasn’t doing anything miraculous to my psyche, so she figured it was a convenient time to drop me as her client. 
I was for sure projecting my long-held belief of worthlessness on her. It was clear that she felt terrible, especially because she truly thought she had given me a courtesy call with this new information like she had for EVERY OTHER one of her clients. This did wonders to an already unresolved bout of abandonment that had been developing since my parents’ divorce when I was six years old. Tracy gave me an all-embracing hug goodbye; it felt like what I imagined hugging Barney would be (before I found out that he was a pervert). I closed her door and cried my way back to the stuffy elevator. 
I walked outside into the blaring sunshine, which aggravated the murky state of my mind. I made it to my car and settled into the driver’s seat. It must have been the doings of my subconscious knowing that I would no longer have a weekly date to see Tracy, because my body immediately relapsed into a burden. The weight she had offered to carry these past months suddenly dropped from the third floor of the building 
back onto my shoulders, my chest— 
into my head, my neck, 
my belly, my abdomen, 
filling the space between my thighs. 
My limbs no longer numbed  
now resaturated 
          with the sensation 
                     of undesired touch. 
The unpalatable memories my mind had refused to overcome invaded my shuddering nervous system. What was I supposed to do now?
That Night
I wanted him to come with us that night, but it was the beginning of our long ending and there was nothing more that he did not want to do. So much so that he didn’t even question how I would get back to our bed. I boldly decided to wear my lucky bodysuit. It was from Free People. It was burgundy and stretchy and smooth. I didn’t have to wear a bra or underwear with it so it was truly an act of rebellion to my overwhelming closet. I paired this adult-onesie with black skinny jeans and my sherpa-lined, dark wash denim jacket, which I used as a cover up for my otherwise unclad upper body. I had these tall suede moccasin boots on my legs that were easy to get on and off thanks to an impressively long zipper. 
He was seated in the far corner of our one-bedroom apartment, focused on his new found obsession: tying fishing flies. He didn’t do a double-take of my outfit; he couldn’t have cared less about me at that moment. He didn’t even lift his head to meet my eyes when he said “Bye.” I slammed the door without locking it. Erin was waiting outside in her bright yellow Nissan Xterra.
Erin and I walked into the local micro-brewery, and it seemed like the entire community had sought respite from the rain. The air was damp. There were the familiar smells of assorted hops and the borrowed saltwater that lingered on our unwashed manes. It was comedy night and we had come for a good laugh. We searched through the many familiar faces and found our friend group leaning against the wooden bar. We made our way over and placed our bags and jackets on an open chair. I felt exposed in my outfit but knew a beer would quell my insecurities. People asked why my boyfriend wasn’t with me; I evaded these questions with a slight shrug of my bare shoulders. 
I’ll never be able to recall the exact moment Theo showed up. He usually disappeared and appeared in his own cryptic ways. He never gave goodbyes, only hellos. It was pouring rain and home was exactly a mile away. I would have to cross the one highway through town and who knows what kind of car and what kind of person would stop to ask if I needed a ride or simply follow me all the way home… imagine a stranger being safer than a friend. 
After the two-hour show, our group congregated outside Theo’s van in the parking lot behind the brewery, under a dimly lit street light while heavy rain drops continued to fall. We were delirious off the energy of laughter and poorly delivered punch lines, getting higher as we passed a joint around. 
I sometimes think back to my heckling, and how the owner of the brewery had threatened to make me leave if I couldn’t stop engaging with the comedian. I wish I hadn’t stopped. I wish he had asked me to leave.  Earlier in the week I remember being in the beach parking lot when Theo rolled up in his newly-acquired, well-used rapist’s van. We joke about these things until they become our truths. I’d spent the past few years getting to know him. I considered him a brother. I guess you never know someone well enough. I never thought to wonder: would he take advantage of his own sister? 
Erin asked me if I would be okay to get back home: of course I would be. I was surrounded by a group of our friends. She walked off to the harbor to find her belligerent boyfriend, while I waited for someone to volunteer a ride. She and I each had three hazy pints of beer at most. I was not drunk, but I was not sober. I hadn’t eaten much of anything throughout the day or night. I didn’t know how much anyone else had drunk. We were just a mile from my apartment. 
Theo was the first to offer. I didn’t know that he had already been drinking before the comedy show. I also didn’t know he had taken some sort of pill. All I knew was everything I knew about him. I trusted him. I don’t recall anyone looking sideways or making a remark that he wasn’t straight to drive. I didn’t get the sense that I was putting myself in danger or warranting a questionable situation. It was Theo. I knew Theo. My boyfriend had grown up with him. Everyone around me had grown up with him. His chosen nomadic lifestyle was not to any of our standards, but I’d never questioned his intentions prior, and if anyone else had, they were keeping it to themselves.
One by one our friends filtered out and drove away. I still don’t understand why no one else offered me a ride. On the coast, everyone’s home is on the way home. Location is relative to the ocean. I turned to face him and asked if we could go. He nodded. The back double doors were already wide-open. I climbed in.
The interior was dingy. A twin-sized pad with a sheet stretched along the left side was what he had been sleeping on for a bed. An ugly framed piece of thrifted art balanced on top of a stack of abused surfboards. This left a narrow pathway to get from the back of the van to the front. It didn’t seem like a long distance until it felt so far away. 
I turned my back to crouch and walk towards the front when he closed the back doors from the inside. The overhead light went off. Darkness. The lonely street light cast elongated shadows on the dashboard. The only other windows were located on the back doors and they had been covered with construction paper and Scotch tape. Earlier this week he had mentioned his future decor plans for curtains. 
Now might’ve been a time to feel afraid or concerned by the situation, but I still had no reason to. Though my heartbeat quickened with the sudden absence of light, I simply reasoned with myself: he was a close friend avoiding the rain by closing the doors from the inside instead of walking around to the driver’s side. My senses might have been dulled, but I was aware of my surroundings. I was incredibly aware when he gently grabbed my left wrist, stopping me in my route to the passenger seat. 
He was not forceful at first as he pulled me towards him and coerced me onto the sleeping pad. He kissed me. I kissed him back. He tried to put his tongue in my mouth. I sat up and pushed him away. I clearly said “No.” He paused and stared at me with a knowing smile. It’s like my refusal turned him on. He was no longer gentle after that. This is when my lucky bodysuit became my unlucky bodysuit. 
The incessant rain beats upon the metal box you are keeping me in. Gratefully, it will last longer than you can. You are instinctual enough to finish outside of my body. For 27 years of life experience, my denotations for rain have come to be: cozy, nostalgic, moments of love and making out and feeling wild and free to revoke the use of an umbrella, smashing puddles and pounding my feet into uphill rivers of mud on long-distance runs, and that time at the Shoreline when Blink-182 performed “I Miss You” and we all cried tears of joy and angst from our broken hearts feeling seen and that pivotal moment in the Notebook that I’ve read and watched over 100 times combined— rain meant: Innocence. Romance. Liberation. Nourishment. 
“Can you please take me home now?”
For the unforeseeable future, I will connote rain with the looming outline of your body harassing itself upon the surrendered shape of mine, with being able to do nothing beyond imagining running away, with feeling scared instead of feeling sexy— rain means: Suffering. Hatred. Suffocation. Deficiency.  I will grow thankful for climate change and California’s ever-worsening drought, as I learn how my body’s reaction to hearing rain hit the roof of a safe place like home, or the windshield of my car, or my face as I float on my surfboard and succumb to the beating of the Pacific, or the window pane of a classroom, will be unpredictable, like shell shock.
Standing below my apartment building watching as he drove away, the drops hit the concrete, one by one— I was drenched. 
a night for comedy
how comical
the cause of the crime
and the crime scene
driving around town
evidence at the wheel
behind the driver’s seat
police never answered
joke was on me
After that night (then)
The self-loathing and repugnance were not immediate. No one tells you what to expect along your line of healing, or while you add details to solve for clarity by putting two and two together. People think there is an instantaneous distaste for the person who violated you. It wasn’t the case. I had loved him like a brother before that night. I was confused the morning after. Familial love isn’t an on-off switch: it is a dimmer. 
I woke up the morning after to an empty apartment, to a phone call from my boyfriend who got up early to go surf. While I nursed a sore pelvis, while it hurt to pee, while I stripped off the bodysuit stained with your best friend’s body fluids and threw it in the dumpster of the coffeeshop below our building to avoid the start of the conversation I wasn’t ready to have, you and Theo were riding waves together. 
Six abstract days passed by before I saw Theo again. There we sat on the edge of the bluff at Kelly beach, watching the sun settle behind the horizon, listening to Beach House. How do you tell someone who doesn’t remember what happened that they took advantage of the situation; that you were the subject of the situation? Why did I have to be the one to explain it? I didn’t know what to name the encounter. I recall muttering, “I forgive you.”
I dug my chilled fingers into the warm ice plant, observing my boyfriend’s body move carelessly over sections of breaking water. How was I going to recount the night to him? What was he going to do to me? What was he going to do to Theo? I still cared. The apathy had not set in. It wouldn’t set in for a couple of weeks until I gathered my bereft pride to talk to someone who was also a survivor. It took another woman’s torment to place what had happened into a perspective I could be more removed from. Plain and simple: he raped me. 
All you had to do was take me home.
Stammering in the street,
neighbors have heard the rumor.
He claimed I willed this. 
He blamed me for wanting it.
He took sides without reading my eyes.
A woman knows consent can be revoked,
a man will forget what you said,
a boy pretends he didn’t hear,
a girl has no idea her body 
is not for others to enjoy.
All you had to do was take me home.
After that night (now)
I saw him watching me the other day. A new van. A fancy van. The same smile of knowing plastered across his cowardly face—I froze. My muscles tense like the moment before an administered shot. Two and a half years and a global pandemic had kept us apart. My new therapist and I refer to him as ‘Dick in a van’ because hearing his name stings. Seeing his face disturbed me. The liberty he took to study me was provoking. I moved away. He’s still living in a van that travels nowhere.
I was at FedEx this week when a guy stopped to survey me. He turned away. Turned back. He licked his lips. I had to walk by him to drop off my silly little packages. Approaching the shared social space unsettled me. It’s a daily wonder being a woman, to endure the malintent of men. I wonder daily how my past infiltrates my current anxieties of being a female body in a society of unwanted glances, too-long held gazes, tongues licking lips. I longed for two N-95 masks to keep these parts of us hidden. 
I dropped the boxes at the counter. I smiled at the man working because he smiled at me; 
He didn’t deserve the stone-cold look I carried into the establishment—Where does this reciprocity come from? I saw through the door that the hungry looking guy had left. I felt relieved walking back to my car knowing he was gone. I buckled up, and put my Subaru in reverse. 
A seatbelt no longer entailed safety.
I checked my rearview mirror. 
I saw your face in the rearview mirror.
I watched as a car backed into my bumper. 
I watched as your body bumped into my body. 
My bellowing horn meant nothing. 
My articulated “No.” meant nothing. 
I got out of my car to assess the damage. 
I woke up that morning to assess the damage. 
My car was fine. 
My body was not fine. 
My body is not fine.