*trigger warning: this post features mentions of rape and the invalidation of a victim*
Two days ago was the four year anniversary of my sexual assault.
Now, it’s been four years, and they have been extremely turbulent and chaotic in terms of healing. Every year has been characterized by becoming a crazed maniac for the whole month of February, having panic attacks in the middle of stores or when I smell something that reminds me, and, most killer: nightmares. Cold-sweats, wake-up-shaking, Can’t-go-back-to-sleep nightmares.
Every year (up until this one) that had been true. I went into hypomania for a week or two starting February first this year, but it ceased. I started to think that I was safe and this was going to be the year that I was all healed up.
Then it happened, the night of February 19, the day before the anniversary.
I closed my eyes and there it began: I took out my phone and saw a text, Ziggy. Ziggy is my rapist’s best friend, someone who, when they heard my story told me “I don’t want to be caught in the middle of you two’s drama.” Their denial hurt, in the moment, about as much as being violated in the first place.
The message read “Hey Flora, I’m thinking about you, I know it’s been forever. I took the train today from Reading into North Station and it reminded me of you! Anyway, I started a band and I think you might like it. [insert stupid hair metal band name Spotify link here].”
Of course dream-Flora opened the link. It was Ziggy, my rapist, my rapist’s new girlfriend and someone else all decked out in hair metal gear, leather and fringe. Ziggy was holding a bass, which I never knew them to play. It was bizarre. I woke up with a pit in my stomach and by then it had been four whole years.
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