Pieces For You (2 page)

So now I feel selfish and guilty, as if I’m not lugging around enough guilt-colored baggage.  Beyoncé doesn’t even travel with this much luggage for crying out loud.  As much as I hate to admit it, Shelly is right.  I made a promise to Everleigh and I will keep it…even if it kills me.

I spoke today.  Shelly’s guilt trip proved impossible to shake.  I owed Everleigh so much for taking care of me when my parents wouldn’t.  I have never broken a promise to her and I didn’t want to start now.  I thought about how much it would mean to her if I actually told her I was okay and that I was getting better.  Maybe if she heard the words she would worry less and be able to start living her life again.  So I did it.  I spoke.  Nothing monumental—I asked someone to pass the coffee at breakfast.  The room fell silent for several seconds before everyone resumed their conversations as if nothing unusual occurred.  I was grateful they didn’t make a big deal about it.  I knew it was a big deal, but I didn’t want any additional attention.  I’ll admit, it was nice to be included in trivial conversations.  It made me feel less alone.  And my conscience is no longer nagging me…that is a small weight lifted.

I shared today in group—really shared.  I’ve been participating since I resumed speaking two days ago, a few comments here, a fact there, but nothing specific…nothing too deep.  I planned to continue that way until they finally released me out into the world, but my life rarely goes according to plan. 

A new girl came this week.  She’s really young, maybe fourteen.  She shared about her rape, dissecting everything she did wrong, why it was her fault, and how she didn’t fight back hard enough.  God, she broke my heart.  Her tears were like a knife in my chest.  I knew that pain…I’d lived it…I was still living it.  But she was so brave, letting the truth and pain and tears pour out of her with such raw honesty.  This girl was practically a child—I didn’t want her to feel alone or to blame herself, so I opened my mouth and let my story spill out.  All I could look at was her big brown eyes, filled with compassion, understanding, and…relief.  So much damn relief.  Relief that someone understood and had experienced the same hell.  After group she came over and hugged me, the first physical contact I willingly allowed with the exception of Everleigh, and I was okay.  As I left the room, Shelly nodded to me from the doorway and mouthed the words ‘I’m proud of you.’  I was proud of me too, and for the first time since the attack, I had a second of happiness.  It was gone before I could even fully appreciate it but it was there—the promise that I might be able to feel joy again someday. 

I met with Shelly and TPC’s head physician today to discuss my pain management plan, as well as my difficulty sleeping.  I want off all pain medication because I’m scared of becoming dependent like some of the other girls.  I’m not judging them, everyone’s recovery is different; I just don’t want to fight an addiction along with everything else.  I legitimately needed the narcotics to deal with the pain until this point, but now Motrin keeps my pain at a manageable level.  Both Shelly and the doctor supported my decision, but there was one issue that had us gridlocked.

The pain medication helps me fall sleep, which has been an epic struggle.  Every time the meds wear off, the nightmares come, and I relive that night in gruesome detail.  I can hear the leaves crunching beneath my body, smell his overwhelming cologne, hear his sick laughter, feel his hands on my skin…Every.  Single.  Time.  I wake up a shrieking, sweat-soaked mess—hysterical and irrational.  It doesn’t matter how tired I am, I can’t fall back asleep because I am afraid of the terror that awaits me.

The doctor keeps insisting I need to take medication that will force me to sleep.  She says I need the rest to continue to heal physically.  She tried to scare me into agreeing by explaining that prolonged sleep deprivation would negatively impact my physical and psychological recovery.  But I’m adamantly against taking sleeping pills.  My mom pops Ambien like candy to help her sleep.  The woman can’t sleep without them, and she doesn’t remember anything that happens while she is under their influence.  She sleepwalks and has whole conversations that she doesn’t remember the next day.  I refuse to depend on drugs that could leave me vulnerable while I sleep.  No.  Thank.  You. 

Shelly tried to find a middle ground, suggesting a low-dose anti-depressant to help me sleep and combat the effects of the night terrors.  We spent over an hour debating before I finally convinced them it was my way or the highway. 

I will not bend on this.  I know millions of people take them with success and that’s great for them, but I know myself.  Pay me now or pay me later.  I’d rather face the nightmares now and learn how to deal with them.  Fortunately, in the end I got my way.  My body, my choice. 

WooHoo! 

I got my casts off today.  In celebration, we took physical therapy poolside and I was able to do my exercises in the water.  Olga, the gigantic German therapist (I couldn’t make this up), worked the shit out of my arm and leg.  I think she may be a closet sadist because every time I grimaced in pain, she smiled.  I am trying not to focus on how much flexibility and range of motion I’ve lost.  It’s not permanent…or at least that’s what they keep telling me.  I even took baby steps while holding onto the side of the pool—all by myself.  It was a small victory, but it felt huge.  The weight of the casts and being confined to the wheelchair were constant reminders of what he had done, as if he could reach across the 3,000 miles separating us to retain his hold on me.  When the plaster was sawed off, it felt like his grip had been pried free, too.  I was so relieved I cried like a big, fat baby—I had no idea the weight I had been carrying, both physically and emotionally. 

When I shared these feelings in group, Shelly suggested we celebrate.  I had no idea what she had planned, but when we all gathered on the beach, she lit a fire in a huge barrel and handed me the pieces of my casts.  Then I understood.  I threw each piece in with deliberate slowness, imagining each as a bond no longer tying me to him.  I watched as they withered and burned, disappearing to ash.  It took hours before they were all gone, and when they had finally dissolved in the flames, I breathed a sigh of relief. 

There is still so much that needs healing (inside and out) but I’m no longer tethered to him.  I am free, and for the first time I know it deep in my bones.  He may have beat me, scarred me, shattered me in a million pieces, but I’m not under his control anymore…now I get to decide. 

I’m so freaking excited! 

Everleigh and Hunter arrive today…not that I’ll get to see Hunter (no boys allowed at TPC), but I feel better knowing he’s here for Everleigh.  I’ve missed her so much.  As wonderful as all the girls are here, it’s not the same as having your bestie/almost-sister around.  There is no one in the world I trust more than Everleigh.  I hate that I’ve been missing all the exciting new-relationship gossip about her and Hunter.  Even though we speak several times a week, I still feel disconnected being so far away.  I need the comfort of someone who has known me my whole life—who knew me before.  It’s irrational, but I need proof that someone who loved me before can still love me now.  I’m realizing how much that asshole took from me—my choice, my power, my sense of security, and worst of all, my self-worth.  The therapists tell me these feelings are normal and common for rape victims.  I’m starting to believe them—intellectually—but it doesn’t stop the feelings.

It also doesn’t help that my parents only came to visit me once in the hospital while I was still in a coma.  They haven’t even tried to contact me since I awoke.  They were never candidates for parents-of-the-year, but their complete abandonment during the worst time in my life hurts.  Are they just self-absorbed and incapable of love, or do they blame me for what happened?  As if I don’t already blame myself enough. 

I need to see Everleigh.  I want to spend a little time with her just being normal; sitting around in PJs, eating ice cream, and watching a movie while painting our nails.  I’m craving that simple, familiar routine...any proof I’m still me.