I spend the next hour carefully choosing every word, every phrase, every punctuation mark. When I’m done, I study the neat, black letters typed out on the stark, white page. Visually, they don’t look ugly, and yet they hold a memory so foul I have to fight the urge to press and holddelete.
I don’t. I save the document and shut down my computer, letting the words marinate overnight before I decide how best to share them with Deborah. For the first time in a while, I sleep through the night. No nightmares. No stress dreams. No tossing and turning. And come morning, I wake to an unexpected text on my phone.
Mom:I thought a lot about what you said last night. You’re right. I shouldn’t expect you to want to be open with me. I apologize that I’ve made things this way between us. But despite what you may think, I am sincerely worried about you, and I care very much.
I study the message, trying to coincide it with the woman who sent it. All I know is that actions speak louder than words, and I’ll believe the sentiment when she’s done the work to back it up. And so I respond the way she always responds to me, short and with no emotion. If she wants to prove that she cares, she’s more than welcome to, but I’m done trying to make up for her shortcomings.
Me:Okay.
The ball’s in her court now, and after the past two years, maybe thatisa little bit of progress.
I siton the couch in the counseling center, across from the woman with the kind eyes and patient smile. I stare blankly at the green walls around me as I debate passing her the note. Emailing felt too impersonal, but now that I’m here, it doesn’t feel right to simply hand off the page either. It feels dismissive, and I’m working hard to stop dismissing my past.
I pinch the paper between my fingers. It’s flimsy, despite the weight of the words on the page, and I take a deep breath. That driving anger from yesterday feels muted now, leaving me exposed and vulnerable, my protective shell as feeble as this piece of paper.
After minutes of silent deliberation, I force myself to speak. “I think I’m going to read it.” Once the words are out of my mouth, I hardly believe them, but I peek up at Deborah from behind the page and keep pushing on. “Is…that okay?”
She nods and gives a reassuring smile. “Of course, Ivy. It’s your decision. You can start whenever you’re ready.”
I grip the paper hard enough to form creases. For some reason, I picture myself standing in front of Markham’s class, working up the nerve to recite my speech. This feels harder, and maybe it’s because this time, there’s no lifeline in the back of the room. There’s no Wes offering me his strength and support. Oh, how badly I wanted him to be the guiding light, illuminating my path forward, but he couldn’t be. He can’t be.
I have to do this on my own.
So I read.
“On May twenty-seventh of my junior year of high school, I went to a party with my friends. At the party, I started talking with a guy named…named Mason Bryce. He was older, alreadyin college, and I guess…I guess I thought he was safe because he was dating my friend. He offered me a drink, and I took it. Now, I’m sure he spiked it with something. He led me to one of the upstairs rooms, and he—” I stop myself. Swallow. Here it goes. “He sexually assaulted me.”
He sexually assaulted me.
There they are. The words I’ve never spoken aloud, not to Wes, not to anyone, not even to myself.
They hang in the air for a moment, polluting this beautiful room with their toxins, and I have no choice now but to inhale. I wait for my throat to close up, for the air to leave my lungs in a slow, tragic wheeze, but it doesn’t happen. The words don’t kill me, but they still hurt, a deep, agonizing kind of pain. It’s similar to heartbreak and close to grief, but also something else entirely. Something more sinister.
Deborah breaks the silence. “I am so sorry that that happened to you, Ivy. That was very brave of you to share, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
I set the paper on the cushion to my right and tuck my shaky hands under my thighs. A part of me is still waiting for the panic to consume me, for my lungs to shrivel up and die, but in the meantime, I keep breathing. Inhale. Exhale. “I tried to tell my friend, Wes, that I was—” I cut myself off, having almost said theR-word. I’m purposely avoiding it, I know I am, but it’s too heavy right now. Maybe one day I’ll work my way up to it, but right now, I’m not ready.
“You tried to tell your friend…” Deborah prompts.
I clear my throat. Start over. “I tried to tell him that I was assaulted, but I kept my explanation vague. I’ve never said the words out loud until now.”
Deborah nods like she understands. “This was a big step, and you should feel very proud of yourself. How are you feeling right now? If you feel at all overwhelmed, we can slow down.”
I check in with my emotions, but as usual, they’re jumbled up inside my chest, a tangled, messy web. “I’m not sure,” I admit. “I don’t know.”
“There’s no right answer. Why don’t you give me your best guess?”
“Okay. I guess...I feel sad that this happened. I feel angry and frustrated at myself for carrying it around for so long and for letting it ruin parts of my life. I feel disappointed in myself.”
“All of those emotions are understandable, Ivy. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. There is no right or wrong way to feel, but I want to talk about one emotion in particular. You said you feel disappointed in yourself? Why is that?”
I stare at the candle on the table, but I don’t really see it, my vision blurring. “I guess…I guess a part of me thinks that there was something I did that led to this happening.” My eyes drop to my knees, and I fixate on the hole in the left pant leg. My throat grows thick, and I swallow. “I’m having difficulty processing, I think.”
Deborah doesn’t say anything for a while, but when I look up at her she’s set her notebook to the side and is leaning toward me with her forearms resting on her knees. “Ivy, what happened to you was not your fault.”
I don’t say a word, but I suppose my silence says it all.
“Can you explain to me why you think that?” she asks.
