I continue perusing different sites and videos when I stumble upon one from a survivor. She discusses the most important thing a person can offer a victim of sexual assault: listening. She keeps iterating thepoint.
Listen. Just listen. It’s not my job to fix anything or force him to doanything.
It’s such a simple piece of advice, but it makessense.
As she explains, there’s nothing I can do to change what happened to him in his past, so my work is to simply let him know that I’m here for him if he needsme.
Who knows who he’s spoken to about this. Maybe his therapist. Regardless, especially considering his guarded personality, I know it’s something he doesn’t share with a lot ofpeople.
The woman in the video explains he might not be ready and that pushing isn’t a goodidea.
I don’t want him to feel obligated to share something with me that he’s not readyto.
When I’ve watched too many videos and read too many articles—to the point where my speculation is becoming counterproductive—I find myself too angry and frustrated and confused to look muchmore.
I start cooking dinner. I’m not a great cook, but I need something to distractme.
Hell, Eric probably doesn’t even want to eat, but I need to do something to calm the fuck down. I sure as fuck won’t be able to be here for him if I’m all workedup.
I just hope he can at the very least appreciate that I’mtrying.
I put together a stir fry, and when it’s ready, I approach his office andknock.
“You can come in,” hesays.
Even with the door between us, I can hear a lightness in his tone that wasn’t present earlier. I open the door, and he’s sitting at his desk, his swivel chair turned tome.
His expression is stoic, and I struggle to read it. I desperately want to know what he’sthinking.
He rises from hischair.
“How are you feeling?” Iask.
“A lot better. Thankyou.”
“I made some dinner if you want to come out and eat. If not, that’s finetoo.”
He smirks. “I really appreciatethat.”
I guide him out into the living area, to the diningtable.
“You already made my plate?” he asks, eyeing it as if he’sconfused.
“I was trying to make iteasier.”
“I’m not weak,” he practicallybarks.
Suddenly I feel like I did something wrong, but just as quickly, his expression twists as if he’s shaken himself out of some state. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meanthat.”
“No, it’sfine.”
We sit across from oneanother.
He picks up his fork and pushes his food around the plate like he’s not all that hungry. I start eating to keep things from getting awkward so he doesn’t feel like he has to do anything or sayanything.
Really, I’m happy just being here withhim.
“I am feeling a lot better,Jesse.”
