I don’t realize I’m still crying until I feel the heat of the tears rolling down my cheeks.
“I don’t know how to move forward,” I admit. “Not without shame crawling into my soul.”
“You’re already wanting,” she says. “Imagining touch without hurt or humiliation. Your body is speaking for itself.”
I go still.
“I’mscared to ever have sex.” I wring my hands until they’re sore. “I’m afraid I’ll freeze. Or disappear. Or say yes in a weak moment and then want to take it back.”
“All of these feelings,” Camille assures me, “are common for survivors. We’ll take it step by step. You’re learning how to trust yourself, and for now, trusting yourself is the only thing you should focus on.”
I peer up at her. It’s not exactly a breakthrough. But it’s something.
A crack in the wall. A small, flickering light under my skin.
I don’t know if I’ll ever feel normal. I don’t even know what normal means.
Maybe I’ll settle for safe.
Camille turns to me carefully. She knows I’m basically a cornered little kitten. “You were never allowed to be touched, right?”
“No. Not even as a child.” I wince at how many physical interactions I’ve shied away from out here in the real world. “Hugs were discouraged. I was taught touch was a gateway to sin.”
“Even if you didn’t initiate?”
“Didn’t matter. It meant you’d provoked it.”
“So you learned accepting comfort was dangerous.” She taps her pen on her chin.
“I remember once, I was five or six. I reached for my mother’s hand in a prayer circle. She pulled away so fast it was like I’d burned her.” I swallow. “She told me only men touch women, and only in marriage. Everything else leads to wickedness.” My voice falters. “I didn’t understand. I wanted comfort.”
Camille shifts in her seat. “Would you like to be touched now? A hug?”
I flinch—then freeze.
She adds, “Only if it would help.”
I don’t answer right away.Then I nod.
She gets up and sits beside me. Opens her arms.
I lean in. I’m starving for human touch.
When she holds me, I feel it.
The grief.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Deep.
Like a well inside me, finally touched by the sun.
Her hands are gentle. Not moving, resting. One on my back. One behind my shoulder. No pressure. No agenda.
I don’t know what to do with it.
So I bawl. Silent. Breathless. Like my bones are exhaling for the first time.
