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Writer's pictureBianca Wargo

Dark Moments Haunting Me

If there was ever a time in my life that I most feared losing it, I don’t know whether it would be when I was raped, or when I decided to tell the world about it years later, in the form of a book, and the first copies before its release being my way of telling my parents that I’d been raped at all. Granted, I haven’t gotten there yet; the book is almost done, but needs some finishing touches before it hits the presses and I can give my parents the first copy I get. Right now, they’re excited for me because this book means I’m fulfilling my childhood dream of becoming a published author— but what will that turn into when they realize what it’s really about? My mom might be so upset that I hadn’t just talked to her about it that she’d chew me out. Maybe they’ll both cry and grieve for me even though I’ve already done enough of that for myself. There’s also the possibility that they’ll just look up, concerned, and say something like “at least you turned it into something beautiful,” or “I’m glad you’re okay now, but you should have let me be there for you.” I have no idea what they’ll think or say or who they’ll blame and shame or what they’ll do or if they'll even believe me… it’s terrifying. 

“I’m sure they won’t over react. It’s been years, hasn’t it? And you’ve taken care of yourself the best you can since then, haven’t you?” 

There are certain things I only feel comfortable going to Tony about. He’s my best friend, boyfriend, and everything in between. There are some things that I know he’ll never fully understand, and this is one of them; as a woman, there are things that I experience and have to deal with that he doesn’t and vise versa, and we’re both well aware of that. He still tries to understand though, and I appreciate it, but sometimes his questions are too ignorant for me to tolerate. All I could do right now is roll my eyes, otherwise I know I’m going to start a fight. 

“Sunshine? You good?” he hesitantly poked me.

“I–” I was fighting back a panic attack. “I think so,” I sniffed and gently brushed past him and out the door of my bedroom, darting down the hall to the bathroom. I turned the water on in the shower as cold as it could go and– 

“I know you’re not. Once you’re done come right back out here and talk to me, please.” 

Tony’s patience and kind words barely reached me through the ringing in my ears. My mind was more focused on the numbness all over my face, teeth, and arms, and trying to breathe normally. Such a simple task– to breathe– but sometimes…

I took all my clothes off so fast that it’s surprising none of it ripped. The ice water rushed from the murky silver shower head, crashing onto my already shivering, thin body as I stepped in. I crouched down, hugging my knees and crying. The hot tears stung my cheeks as the cold water calmed me. With each breath the clamp in my chest loosened itself, little by little. The ringing was still there. The ringing turned into my own voice four years ago.

“No!  Stop! NOT WITHOUT A CONDOM!” The numbness in my hands and forearms turned into me pushing Christopher off of me, and him grabbing my forearms and pinning me to the floor of his Jeep’s trunk. I closed my eyes and let myself see that moment: the moment I froze and gave up– helpless. 

When I opened my eyes, I was bundled in a towel, a giant, fuzzy blanket, and Tony’s arms on the white tile floor. I still felt dazed, but more than that I wanted to cry. I saw nothing after that one moment replayed behind my eyelids, but I knew what happened. 

“Which one did you see?” he softly asked, taking one hand to cradle my head in. 

“Chris.” I wanted to say more, but I didn’t want to start crying again. I wanted to say more, but the more I said, the more likely I’d have another flashback. 

“And you think you’re ok to get dressed now?” I shook my head. I just wanted Tony’s comfort right now; that’s all I needed. “Ok, do you want me to at least carry you to bed?” He lifted me up before I even nodded, as if he could read my mind. I closed my eyes, feeling the soft, warm hug of my bedsheets after a few moments, and more blankets over top of me as Tony wrapped me in them. 

“Do you ever feel like no matter how many times you rewrite or tell your story,” I said in a soft voice, “it’s never enough to help people really understand how you feel?” 

“Believe me, I know, Sunshine.”

“Do you though?”

“Look,” he sighed, laying down on his back on the bed beside me, “I may not know how any of what you specifically have been through feels, but I know how being misunderstood feels.” I turned onto my side to face him, still bundled in blankets like a burrito. Keep talking, please. Your voice is soothing to me, I told him with my eyes. He looked over at me and rolled his eyes with a weak grin; he knew what I wanted, and he was happy that I was there with eager and open ears. He continued telling me about being misunderstood, mistreated, and misguided until I felt myself drifting to sleep. Panic attacks are exhausting.


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