by N. K. Smith
Although she shook her head, she acknowledged the truth. “If it would’ve worked, it would’ve been like... like, I don’t know, making it like I died that night. It would have been... better.”
This group was not my favorite.
My visits to this facility were filled with support groups and individual sessions. This group was only for female victims of rape or incest. I hated sitting here and listening to all of it. Maybe it was about regaining power, but the words of others did nothing but pull me back to Tampa.
I still went to NA in Frederick two or three times a week. That was my favorite group setting. It helped me remember that I wasn’t alone. There were times when I still wanted to use.
Just two nights ago I woke up in a cold sweat. I could taste coke as it went burning up my nose. I could almost feel it. I was drooling. Literally drooling.
I couldn’t go back to sleep after that.
But today, I was with Dr. Stone again. She tapped the top of her fountain pen against the yellow pad. It was always like this. We would sit quietly for a few minutes while I looked around the room and then she would tap her pen and we’d begin. I didn’t know if the routine was on purpose or if she was unaware. I supposed it didn’t matter because either way, it gave me time to remember some of the things we spoke about in the previous session.
It was difficult to remember. It wasn’t just from the stroke. The things we spoke about in this room weren’t short-term memories. They were things I’d stopped thinking about for a while. Things that were too painful to think about for long.
She said the goal was for me to embrace the memory until it wasn’t painful anymore, but I didn’t think my mind would work like that. There were times when we’d talk about stuff and the only thing I could think about afterward was getting high or getting laid. I didn’t like that my mind made that connection between something painful and intoxication and sex, but I didn’t seem to be able to stop it.
I understood now that drugs weren’t the way to block this stuff out, but I wasn’t happy that everyone said my recovery meant that I would have to confront these things. I didn’t want to think about them.
She wanted to talk about a particularly bad memory. The one I remembered in Elliott’s room when that song had played.
I didn’t feel like I could answer her. I didn’t want to, so I stayed still. My body was still tense as the memories of that night flooded back to me.
“We don’t have to talk about that, Sophie.”
I nodded and when I was finally able to open my eyes again, I found Dr. Stone studying me. I shifted as much as I could and wished she would look somewhere else.
“Why won’t you ever use his name? You’ve never said it. Are you protecting him?”
That made me angry. It was ridiculous. I hated that man. I wanted to kill him for everything he’d done, but I couldn’t let my anger mess up what I was trying to say. I concentrated very hard to make sure what I said was what I meant. “Why would I protect him? He makes me sick.”
“You’d be surprised how common it is.”
I looked out of the window behind her.
“I don’t like thinking about all of that stuff. I hate everything about him, including his name, so I don’t want to say it.”
“That’s fair enough, but do you think you’ll ever be able to process what happened if you keep big things like that locked up?”
This was frustrating. I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to be pressured into saying his name or thinking about his tattoo or his hushed voice. “My dad’ll try to... go after him. He’ll try to...”
When I didn’t finish, she asked another question. “And that’s frightening, isn’t it? You would have to relive everything again, even if you never set foot in a courtroom, you would have to be his victim again, be at his mercy.”
I was always at the mercy of others. I didn’t want to have to think about him all the time. I didn’t want my dad to know everything that happened. Even if I didn’t say it, my dad would know that I let him do those things; that he made me do those things.
I brought my hand to my mouth and nibbled on my nails. I didn’t know where I had picked up the habit, but for whatever reason, it helped me process my nervousness. “Sometimes he made me feel...”
“What, Sophie? What did he make you feel?”
“He made me feel good.” My face was hot and my eyes burned. “Sometimes he wouldn’t have to ask me to do something. I would just do it because I knew it would make him happy. He didn’t always... he didn’t always force me.”
I was crying now and while I wanted to stop speaking, something in my head told me now was the time to actually say something. Robin said this place was safe and I knew no one could tell anyone else what I said. I could say it and put it out there and no one would judge me.
My hands fisted, fingers curling around my thumbs. Knowing I would have to say my thoughts out loud made me sick.
“Sometimes I would hear him having sex with my mom and I would hate her.” I wanted to hug my knees to my chest, but it would’ve taken a lot of effort to pull my legs up like that. “I felt like he was choosing her over me, but then when he’d come into my room, I wouldn’t want him there. Sometimes I wanted to be sick from the smell of him, and other times I wanted him to tell me how good I was, so I would do everything perfect before he asked me to.”
“You were a child.” The doctor’s voice was gentle and soft. “What he did to you wasn’t just a physical violation. He twisted your mind. Of course there were times when you did things before he asked. You’ve said before that it was painful. If you did what you knew he wanted, you avoided the pain, right?”
I nodded.
“That doesn’t mean that you wanted it and just because your body responded, didn’t mean that you liked it. You were a child, Sophie. Children’s minds aren’t developed enough to be able to handle those things. Most children want to please authority figures. If you were jealous of your mother at times, it was because you were confused. The few times he treated you nicely, you felt loved because you’d experienced very few moments of actual love in your life.”
I ran my hands down my face and then pulled my hair back. “I don’t want my dad to know,” I whispered.
“What don’t you want him to know?”
“Any of it. I just want be his little girl again and not his messed-up daughter who let herself...”
“Do you honestly believe that you ‘let yourself’ be raped?”
I nodded.
“Not that this is an indicator of culpability, but you never struggled?”
“I did,” I answered.
“And what happened when you did?”
“I got hurt.”
“Even more than usual, right?”
Again, I nodded.
“Just because you avoided some pain by not physically struggling, doesn’t mean you asked for or let these things happen. Rape, molestation, sexual assault: these aren’t just physical, they’re mental. He didn’t just physically take away something from you. He didn’t just hurt your body. He hurt you. Your whole self. He forced you to choose between feeling physical pain or mental and emotional pain. Even if at times you went to him to seek out sexual intimacy, the responsibility lies with him. He is at fault. He is to blame. You did what you had to do and you were a child.”
I took in a deep breath. What she said was relieving my guilt, but it still felt wrong.
“There are lots of things that you’ve done that you have to accept responsibility for, like doing drugs, stealing, lying, and having sex with people who didn’t force you. The root causes of your actions might not be your fault, but what you’ve done in response is your responsibility. You have quite a lot to deal with already, so please don’t take the blame for things that were outside of your contro
l.”
I understood what she was saying and most of me felt good that she was telling me not to accept responsibility for doing what I had to do in order to survive, but I still felt uneasy about even sharing some of these things. I still felt like having all of it dragged out into the open would be more painful than having had to endure it the first time.
“I don’t want my dad to know.” I paused, still feeling sick. “I don’t want Elliott to know.”
“I know you think otherwise, but they won’t love you any less.” After a long pause, Dr. Stone changed the subject. “Let’s talk about addiction.”
“Okay.”
“Do you remember the point in your life when drugs became the norm? When they became not just something you did, but something essential?”
I didn’t want to answer that. I didn’t really want to talk about addiction or how it had shaped my life. I didn’t want to do any of this, but I knew I had to. It wasn’t for my dad or for Elliott. I had to do this because otherwise I’d be dead. If how I lived was all there ever was, I didn’t want any part of it.
“After the first time he made me smoke it, I could have some whenever he... you know, whenever he...”
“Say it, Sophie.”
I took a deep breath. “When he... fuuu... when he had sex with me.”
“Say the word, please.” I liked Dr. Stone’s voice. She was so calm and relaxed, and yet her words had this forceful way about them.
I played dumb, knowing it wouldn’t buy me much time. “What word is that?”
“He didn’t have sex with you. He didn’t make love to you. He didn’t fuck you, Sophie. What did he do to you?”
I let out a haggard breath. “Raped me?”
“Good. So after the first time he forced you to smoke pot, every time he raped you, you were allowed to get high. What was the purpose?”
“To help me. To make me relax and make it hurt less.”
“How very kind of him,” she said, not hiding her disgust. “But you started smoking other times, too, though, correct?”
“Yes. I liked being high. I could use it to not care. Helen could hurt me and I didn’t care.”
“It made you feel good, right?”
Being high was great. Not only did I feel good, I felt safe. “Yes.”
“You used other things, too, like sex. Sex can be just as addictive as narcotics.”
We’d gone over this in NA. I was an addict through and through. Anything that made me forget the things I didn’t want to think about was one of the many weapons in my arsenal of drugs. I used sex the way I used pot. I slept with whoever wanted to have sex with me because I mistook it for having power and I liked how numb I felt.
I nodded, knowing that she was looking for it. “It scares me now.”
“What else do you feel?”
“Cheated.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “I feel cheated because other people have real lives, with good parents and I got ...”
“What did you get?”
“I got mean Helen and absent Tom.”
She nodded. “That’s where you started, but the question I want to know is where are you going? The past will always be a part of who you are, but will you let it dictate the future?”
I was anxious. Elliott was coming over. It wasn’t a date, it was never a date anymore. We usually had an enjoyable time just sitting next to each other, but it was awkward and strange. It felt like we should have been touching more.
“Hhhhhi.”
I nodded as I carefully made my way to the couch. He made me nervous just by being here. Elliott was wearing his gray button-down shirt. He always looked nice when he came to see me, but maybe that was just because Elliott always looked nice.
I put both of my hands on the arm of the couch and gently lowered myself down. I felt his hand on my elbow. It was the most he ever touched me during our time together.
Once I was seated, I shifted and turned to him.
“You’re w-w-walking b-better t-today.”
Again, I just nodded because what was I supposed to say to that? I hated that he paid attention to how I walked and I hated that I had to get “better” at walking.
What I felt was strange, foreign even. I felt incredibly insecure, even around him. I remembered that he wasn’t my boyfriend anymore. I remembered that I had no right to believe that he would be, and I remembered Dr. Stone thought I shouldn’t have a boyfriend right now.
Elliott was my friend. I didn’t know why he kept choosing me, but he did. Knowing that didn’t make me any less self-conscious. I had a hard time looking directly at him. I always spent a good deal of our time glancing at him out of the corner of my eye.
He looked so nice. My mind flashed with memories of what his body looked like under his clothes. He had a nice collarbone. My face felt hot as I thought about using his collarbones like handle bars as I sat on top of him.
More and more overtly sexual thoughts of him had been creeping into my mind. They were nice and uncomfortable all at the same time. I felt strange because I shouldn’t have been thinking that way, especially with all the work I’d been doing with Dr. Stone. We were talking a lot about sexual assault.
I didn’t quite understand why I would have fantasies about sex after having a session about being forced to do sexual things. I definitely wasn’t comfortable with it.
“W-w-what’s that?”
I blinked rapidly and focused my thoughts. “What’s what?”
He chuckled. Elliott had never chuckled much, and I was so curious that I had to look at him. “That.”
I looked to where he pointed and saw the little piece of forgotten paper in my hands. “Oh.” I turned it over and read it to myself. I wanted to show it to him. Hopefully my memory would get better soon. I hated feeling like a moron. “It’s a note.”
I held the paper to him and averted my eyes.
I wanted to remember what it felt like to kiss Elliott.
I drew my attention back and I looked at my scribbled note. It looked like a child had written it. I wrote it last night after I’d spoke with Dr. Stone. Elliott had written me that letter when I first came home and I felt like I needed him to know certain things about me. In it, I told him about the things I’d been talking to her about. I told him about Helen’s boyfriend and about his friends. I told him about trying to hide away in a world of fabricated numbness.
When he was done reading it, I could tell he wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t feel like I could. I didn’t want to. Writing it down was so much easier and just like him, maybe someday I’d be able to verbally confront it with him. After a few moments of silence, Elliott asked, “D-do you n-not want me to c-come over anymore?”
My head whipped around as panic seized my heart. “What?”
“Y-you’re nnnot talking to mmmme.”
Tears stung my eyes again. “I want you to be here,” I whispered.
“Then w-what’s w-wrong? I-I-I mmm-mmean, b-besides the sssstuff in the l-letter.”
I felt unable to articulate, so I asked, “Do you want to take a walk?”
“O-okay.”
It took me a full minute to get off of the couch, but I did it on my own. I was aware that Elliott was hovering around. It was as if he was scared to offer help or touch me. We slowly made our way outside. It was a nice day, even for late September.
It was almost October and I had known Elliott for a year.
I tried to think of things to talk about, but everything I wanted to talk about was too deep for a visit like this.
“How are David and Rebecca doing?”
“G-good. They’ll b-be b-back for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh.”
Silence again as I took a few unsteady steps toward a stone bench. My body was tired. “What about Tren
t?”
“Hhhhe’s o-okay, I g-guess. J-Jane says he’s o-okay.”
“How’s school?”
“I w-w-wish you were there.”
That depleted things I could ask about. We reached a row of old tree stumps and I sat down. Elliott seemed nervous as he shifted before claiming the spot next to me. “Sophie?”
I looked at him and waited.
“W-when we were apart, d-did you think ab-bout me?”
I didn’t need to think very hard to remember. “Yes.”
“Are you sssstill m-mad at m-me?”
“For what?”
“What I said.”
I felt confused, but that was my new normal. “What did you say?”
“D-dirty,” he whispered.
I blanched, but recovered quickly. “No. Like the letter said, he ...
“I b-broke up with you. Are you m-mad about that?”
I shook my head. “No. I miss you though. I missed you then, but it gave me a chance to try to figure out some of my stuff.”
I was thankful for the breeze that distracted me as I said what I knew I had to. With a lot of words and phrases, I’d practiced this one until it was clear and unhindered. “I’m an addict. My mind is broken because—”
He cut me off. “I-It’s n-n-not b-b-broken.”
“I wish I was different. I wish I was more like you.”
He shook his head. “I-I-I w-w-was sssstuck, Sophie. Ffffor years I sssssat a-around a-avoiding people and t-telling myself n-nothing was wrong.”
“It’s amazing how similar our pasts are, but—”
“Hhhow d-different w-we r-reacted,” he finished.
We were quiet for a while and then I pushed myself to say what I needed to say. “He used to call me his dirty girl.” I scanned all around me, not looking at the landscape, and not really seeing anything other than brown hair and a skull tattoo before it shifted to a broken Elliott that horrible day when I heard him say the word “dirty.”
“I-I-I-I didn’t c-c-call you d-d-d-d--”
“You could’ve said that the bookshelf was dirty. It wouldn’t have mattered. My brain was ready to interpret it wrong no matter what.” I shook my head and took a deep breath. I was thankful that speaking had become easier. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t...”