Because.
I shouldn’t have talked to him. I should have walked away. I shouldn’t have taken the drink. I should have been more careful. I shouldn’t have been drinking at all. I should have found my friends. I shouldn’t have been flattered by the attention. I should have shut down his flirtation. I shouldn’t have gone to the party. I should have had an exit strategy. I shouldn’t have worn that outfit. I should have listened to my instincts. I shouldn’t have been jealous of Alexis.
I should have known better…right?
I tell her all of this, spilling my soul, cracking myself open, baring all my doubt and shame and regret.
When I’m done, she leans forward again, staring intently into my eyes. “Listen to me, Ivy. You’re looking for all the ways you could have prevented this from happening. You’re trying to find the ‘right’ mistake, like it can make sense of what happened to you. Our brains want to believe that if we did one thing differently, we could have controlled the outcome. When we tell ourselves that we’re at fault, it means we have some sort of power over the situation. Does that make sense?” I nod, and she continues. “But you are not at fault. You are not to blame. The only person responsible for what happened to you is the one who chose to harm you. You did not give him permission. You did not deserve this. You did not cause this.What happened to you was not your fault. Any action or reaction you had that night was a survival response. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
This time, my throat does close up, but not for lack of air. I can’t help the tears stinging my eyes. “Yes.”
“I know all of that may be hard to accept right now, and that’s normal. The healing process isn’t about forcing yourself to believe something before you’re ready to believe it. It’s about making space for kindness and compassion toward yourself. I’m here to help you work through this at whatever pace you need. You don’t have to carry this weight alone anymore, Ivy.”
I’m at a loss for what to say, so I just nod and nod and nod some more. Deborah passes me a box of tissues, and I pull one from the top, dabbing my eyes and cheeks.
You don’t have to carry this weight alone anymore, Ivy.
I repeat her words in my head, and I feel another emotion, one I haven’t known in a while.
Hope.
THIRTY-FIVE
The world keeps spinning.April bleeds into May. Every day that I make an effort—that I keep going, moving, breathing—is a small victory. Every moment that I don’t give in to paralysis or defeat is a tiny win.
I center my focus on bringing up my grades, praying that As are salvageable. Still, I’d settle for Bs at this point, and I practically beg my professors for extra credit work. Most of them take pity on me and allow it.
I continue my two meetings a week with Deborah, and while it’s becoming easier to talk to her about my problems, the sessions have their ups and downs. Sometimes, we talk about school or my family, but most of the time, we talk about the assault.
The more I talk about it, the more I grow used to the idea of talking about it, and the more details I’m able to share. I delve into my stint in the hospital, my isolation and depression afterward, and Alexis’s crusade to bring me down. Somehow, though, it always circles back to my relationship with Wes, a subject I’ve been trying to avoid because it hurts too much to talk about him. But I can’t ignore the topic forever, and it becomes impossible to circumvent after a while, leaving me no choice butto spill my guts. I cycle through everything I did wrong and go down the checklist of all the ways I fucked up with the boy I love.
My issues with intimacy? Strike one.
My pattern of pushing him away? Strike two.
My inability to trust him? Strike three.
During a particularly miserable session (though Deborah would call it productive), I give her the final piece of the puzzle. I tell her that my assaulter is Wes’s friend from childhood, and while Deborah’s not easily stunned, I think that this one catches her off guard.
She sets aside her notebook and pushes her reading glasses onto her forehead. “Ivy. Did you share this with Wes?”
Guilt settles heavy in my chest, and I shake my head, my shoulders drooping. “I wanted to tell him. Ishouldhave told him, but I couldn’t. I just…I pushed him away. I gave up on him. I didn’t even give him a chance.”
Deborah is quiet for a moment, processing my words, and I stare down at my hands in defeat. When she speaks, I force myself to look at her.
“I want you to give yourself a little bit of grace here, Ivy,” she says. “You were in an incredibly difficult position, and the fact that you couldn’t bring yourself to share this with him says nothing about your character or his. You’ve been carrying around this weight for so long, and you decided to protect yourself in a situation that I’m sure felt overwhelming. Opening up to someone about something so personal can be a daunting thing to do.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, considering her words. “I guess.”
“It doesn’t mean you didn’t trust Wes. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love him. It means that you weren’t ready to share that kind of information, and that is okay.”
“I miss him,” I admit. Wes and I haven’t spoken since that afternoon on the quad. Not a call. Not a text. Not a smoke signal. Without the forced interaction of Public Speaking, I have no way of relishing in that warm, sunny smile. No way of soaking up his rays.
“Is there a chance you might mend things?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, though my heart yearns for the opportunity to make things right.
“How would you feel now about telling him the truth about his friend?”
