Daily survival after sexual assault
Everyday, I get in my car, turn on Spotify, and head out to work. In this moment in my car, I am truly alone with my thoughts and feelings. There is no need to fake, no need for my mask — just me and my music. I am defenseless in my own car.
Everyday, my brain takes this moment to dig up memories and emotions I normally shut out and have shut out for years. Once it finds a memory, my breathing quickens and intensifies. It’s so painful I start to groan. I roll my neck over my shoulders. My skin begins to crawl and my arms tingle as I grip the steering wheel. A black wave of terror, rage, hopelessness and guilt starts welling up inside my chest all at the same time. I try to shake it off, but I can’t. The wave crashes over and floods my soul. I sob uncontrollably.
Over the last six months I perfected my coping technique. I take deep breaths and let the tears well into single drops on my lower lashes. When my panicking stops, I blink so the drops fall in two tiny streams and I can quickly wipe them off without disturbing my makeup. Two short swipes: left cheek, right cheek. Sometimes I just have to do this once. Other times this technique can’t save me, I wipe over and over, and I have to reapply foundation in the office parking lot. Either way, I tell my coworkers it’s allergies.
Everyday, I take my medication, my mascara is waterproof, my eye liner is prepped with powder, and my blush is set with a MAC spray — anything to help me survive this 45 minute drive.
