I got home that morning and sat with it – with the knowledge that this was one of those moments that would break my life up into a “before” and an “after”.
Before the assault, and after the assault.
It’s the kind of knowledge that makes your head spin and your stomach ache because you know part of you will hurt from it forever.
I saw the look in my mom’s eyes as I told her and as the intensity of this truth fell over her mind and her heart. It was the same look I saw in my friend’s eyes as she drove me to her house at 3 am after everything happened and laid in bed with me while I sobbed.
We all cried and we all ached. We mourned the parts of myself I didn’t know I would ever lose.
I’m convinced those innocent pieces of me still exist somewhere – forever suspended in the before. For a while, all that was left over for the after were painful, broken pieces that forced the people in my life to share concerned whispers when I left the room.
My loved ones worry less about me now. The after is no longer a seemingly scary place to the outside looking in; years have passed, and it appears I’ve made my home here. They don’t know, though, that it’s not possible to feel comfortable in this place. The mistrust and pain that exist here are cold, and all they leave room for is longing. Longing for the pieces of me I’ll never be able to get back.
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