9. Her

9

HER

E veryone's reaction was different. Shrinks liked to tell you otherwise—at least mine always did. That same stuck-up bitch in the chair with her glasses sitting on the tip of her nose also liked to look at me like I was cold. Or maybe just a bit crazy. While narrowing down my symptoms and tossing me into one of those boxes from the many books lining the shelves behind her. Beating me down and shoving me inside until I fit. But it was so much more complicated than that.

There was anger, sure. At the asshole who took your choice away. Yourself and society as a whole. Then came the shame. Feeling like something was wrong with you, just as much as there was something wrong with them… the person who did it to you.

It. The word no one wanted to say because it felt nearly as dirty as the act. But alongside all the usual emotions, there was also detachment. The part of you that floated away and could pretend like it didn't happen.

Screw diamonds. Detachment was a girl's best friend.

It meant survival. The ability to compartmentalize. To pretend you enjoyed it until maybe part of you did. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

There was nothing wrong with protecting yourself how ever you could. That was what I told myself when he bent me over the hospital bed and violated me in the worst way possible. When I felt my body accept what was happening to me. When I heard the sounds he made when he was finally done and part of me didn't hate the audible grunts as they rang in my ears.

It was rape. There was no nice way to put it. No more accurate definition. And I hated him for it. Hated the way my body vibrated, because whether I wanted it—him—or not, he'd found a way to stimulate my every nerve ending. To turn me against myself. So I shut down. Switched my brain off like a simple reboot could somehow make it all go away. Help me forget where I was and who put me here. And focused on finding a way out. No matter the cost to my mental state.