A friend gave me a metaphor recently. She said: “You’ve planted a seed and you’re standing over it, yelling at it ‘Grow! Grow!’…You are going to exhaust yourself. Just wait. It will happen.”
I was young enough at the time of my assault that even if I had wanted to tell my parents what had happened, I was so far from being a remotely sexual being that I’m not even sure I would have had the vocabulary to describe it.
Few good things come after the statement, “There’s something I need to tell you,” and absolutely nothing good comes after the follow up, “But you need to know that I’m ok. I’m really ok.”
Nothing puts you more in your own head quite like a secret.
The seediness of the New York city block felt like an incredibly appropriate location for the clinic I was about to enter.
It was my first year of college, and I was sitting in a room on the first floor of one of the all-freshman dorms with a group of friends.
In the days leading up to my pressing charges, I found myself creating a vivid series of events of what it would be like.