It has to get better

It has to get better

I am numb. I am slowly dying on the inside and no matter how loud I scream, nothing changes. It has been 5 months and still I am an empty shell. 

It takes time. 

You can’t speed recovery. 

I’ve tried therapy. I committed myself to a psychiatric hospital. And still nothing. 

Six. 

That’s the number of times I’ve attempted to end my life since November. 

Six. 

That’s also the number of of people who would be intimately affected if I ended my life. 

Zero. 

That’s the number of cares I give. 

It’s selfish. 

My choice to end my life is completely selfish and yet I couldn’t stop myself even if I tried. 

I know what the mental health professionals say. 

I know how it would affect my family and friends. 

However, there is this out of body experience that I am having. 

I know I am in the throes of depression. 

I feel emptiness. Darkness. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. Regret. Apathy. 

And the worst part? 

I can’t fix it. 

I can’t snap out of it. 

I have flashbacks, panic attacks, nightmares, anxiety and depression. 

No amount of mediation, good thoughts, or mindfulness can fix this.

I was raped. 

I was brutally held down and raped by two men. 

It was dark and cold. It was either very late or very early depending on perspective. 

I lay in bed tossing and turning. I was anxious. 

Now that seems like a joke. I never knew anxiety until now. 

I remember getting the bright idea to go for a drive. 

Without a second thought, I threw on some flip flops grabbed a coat and my keys. 

I was new to the area. I only knew my way to work and back home without my GPS. 

So I drove to work. 

30 minutes. 

15 minutes each direction. 

I made it to the exit where my job was located. 

Something on the dash caught my eye. 

Check engine light. 

I remember pulling off the highway confused. 

When did I change the oil last?

Had it always been on? 

Should I ignore it? 

I should have. 

1 minute. 

That’s how fast my life changed. 

I popped the hood. 

I got out of the car. 

I looked at the various parts of the car and laughed. 

I’m no mechanic. What the heck am I doing? 

Then I heard them. 

The crunch of the leaves under their feet. 

I turned to look and saw two men coming towards me. 

Where were my fight or flight responses? Was I freezing? 

“Hey, how are you doing tonight” 

I remember debating whether or not to respond. 

Southern hospitality took over. 

I responded with a curt, “fine” 

I turned on my heel and made to get back in my car. I’d figure out the problem later. 

“Where are you going?”

I remember calling them stupid in my mind. 

“home.” I said reaching for the handle. 

I felt a tug on my arm. 

“No. You’re not.”

They dragged me from my car into a grassy area. 

The ground was damp. 

There were leaves and sticks and mud. 

I was terrified. 

Did I scream? 

I can’t remember. 

I got one good hit. 

Then one held my hands down, while the other pulled off my shorts. 

3 hours. 

I laid in the grassy patch for 3 hours while they took turns raping me. 

It felt like 30 minutes. 

Crazy how time passes. 

They got progressively worst as time passed. 

More aggressive I should say. 

They started slowing down and that’s when the threats came. 

During a particularly vicious act, he said he would stop if I said “Thank you Daddy” 

I wanted to throw up. 

But I couldn’t move. I was still being held down. 

I was in pain. 

I was scared. 

I was cold. 

I withheld saying it. 

So he hurt me more. 

Finally, he broke me. 

I said it. 

He laughed and spit on me. 

Then him and his friend got up zipped their pants and ran away. 

I laid there. Staring at the branches on the tree above my head. 

I felt water in my ears. 

I realized I was crying. 

An episode of Law and Order SUV flashed through my head. 

I remember Olivia Benson talking to a rape victim. The best thing to do after an assault is to run as fast as you can away from them and get yourself some help. 

I don’t know where I got my strength. 

I crawled to my car sobbing. 

I climbed in the driver’s seat and locked the doors. 

I banged on the steering wheel cursing the car. 

I felt something wet running down my thighs. 

Blood and semen. 

I started hyperventilating. 

The keys were still in the ignition. 

I twisted the key and took off like a bat out of hell. 

I made it a couple blocks before my tears blurred my vision.

I pulled over and sat in my sorrow. 

Then I remembered. 

My phone on the passenger seat. 

I lunged for it. 

3%. 

I reached for the charger I normally kept in my car. 

Gone. 

It had broken earlier that week and I threw it out. 

I prayed. 

1 phone call. 

That’s all I needed. 

But who should I call? 

I was in a new state, new town.

 I had friends but who could I tell what had just happened to me? 

All I knew was that I needed help. 

Police. 

That’s what they are there for right? 

I remember thinking, am I dead? No. Dying? No.. 

Then not an emergency. 

Stupid I know. 

So with my lousy 3% I googled the non-emergent police number.

I dialed. 

1%

A man answered. 

“Salt Lake County Police Department.”

All at once everything hit me. 

It can only be described as a wail. 

A deep sorrowful wail came out of my mouth. 

It was so hard to form words. 

Nevertheless, the actual words I needed to say. 

Rape. 

What a stigma comes attached to that word. 

“Just breathe” 

“Calm down”

“I need you to talk to me”

The officer was trying to communicate with me and I knew I had to pull myself together. 

I still had 1% of battery life left. 

In between sobs I got out, 

“Help. They raped me. Help me.”

“Where are you?”

New state. New Town. 

I couldn’t tell him even if I tried. 

More tears. 

“I don’t know” 

I heard him whisper in the background before asking,

“What do you see” 

I called off the intersecting streets that I saw. 

He transferred me to the correct precinct. 

A woman answered. 

“I’m going to help you. I’ve sent cars to your ---“

DEAD. 

My phone literally died in the middle of my saving grace. 

I was bleeding. 

I was cold. 

And I wanted, no needed someone. Anyone. 

I prayed again. 

I can’t remember what I asked for. 

I do know that was the last time I spoke to God. 

I remembered a hospital across the street from my job. 

I raced there. 

I knew the area well enough to navigate my way back to the highway and then onto my job and subsequently the hospital. 

I still remember the look on the hospital guards face. 

Shock. 

Complete and utter shock. 

I had sticks in my hair.

Mud on my clothes. 

I was basically crawling inside the hospital. 

He was frozen in his seat watching me. 

Things happened much faster after that. 

They got me in a wheelchair, took me to the back, called the police station, took my statement, called my emergency contact, and sat with me. 

Then came the rape kit. 

I won’t go into detail. 

I feel as if most of this is already too much information. 

All I’ll say is that it was painful. 

Physically and mentally. 

I squeezed my sisters hand and cursed and cried. 

They swabbed every hole and made me tell them in grave detail every single thing they did to me. 

They photographed my body and took my clothes. 

They gave me some painkillers and after a fight with the doctor they gave me plan B. 

I was on bed rest for a week. 

We worried that the damage to my vagina would result in surgery.

I had follow up appointments with an infectious disease doctor to check for STDS and HIV. 

My job fired me for missing so much work. 

I lost everything. 

My job. My sense of security. My self-image. My voice. My freewill.

I gained sorrow. Depression. Anxiety. PTSD. And medical bills. 

Good lord medical bills. 

Thankfully the state of Utah stepped up and is helping but is it enough? 

My attackers were never found. 

My rape kit sits in a lab unprocessed. 

And I am too afraid to leave my own apartment. 

Every time a man looks at me, my skin crawls. 

Or I fall into a panic attack. 

And don’t get me started on the flashbacks. 

It hits me most in the shower. 

At my most vulnerable I suppose. 

My world stops. 

I only see the past and it’s like a bad dream I can’t wake up from. 

5 months. 

You’d think it would be easier by now. 

I thought so. 

It’s not. 

It’s somehow harder…

Strange right? 

Suicidal thoughts plague me daily. 

And that’s where we are now. 

The daily battle of will she or won’t she. 

My mind changes every hour. 

I want to die so badly. 

I have been through some awful things. 

I hope by sharing them, people would understand my choice. 

Because ultimately, it is my choice. 

This isn’t a suicide note.

I’m not going to hurt myself this second. 

It’s more of a wakeup call. 

I am not ok. 

I am not going to be ok for a while. 

So if I haven’t answered your text or your phone call in a while. 

It’s simply because I don’t want to. 

I don’t have the capacity to do so. 

I need time. 

I need to find my will to survive. 

Because it has to get better right?