CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Your Pain Is My Pain Candice . . .
During my last few sessions with Dr. Raysor, I’ve been discussing my fear of sex. It is a long overdue topic of discussion. I guess, like they say in group therapy, the first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem. Group therapy is another recommendation of Dr. Raysor, along with exposure therapy. She advised that I might want to consider joining a support group for trauma survivors. When I spoke to Jenna about it, she raved about how beneficial the support group she’s been attending has been for her. I have been considering it; however, I cannot even envision group therapy being more rewarding than my sessions with Dr. Raysor.
Just recalling our last meeting brings tears to my eyes.
“Tell me what occurs if and when you think about sexual intercourse,” Dr. Raysor asked me.
“I am ashamed, scared, and I feel dirty and weak. Why would someone want me? I am used-up, damaged goods.”
“No matter how you feel right now, it is essential to remember that you are not to blame yourself for what happened. You did nothing to bring any of this on yourself. You have nothing to be ashamed about. It is not abnormal to feel this way. Just remember, you don’t have to stay there. It is possible to recover everything you’ve lost emotionally, and that includes your safety and trust. When you feel you’re losing touch with your present, and the flashbacks consume you, talk to yourself. Tell the inner you that this or that is no longer your reality. Pinch yourself if you have to. No matter what, do whatever it takes to regain control of your thoughts, because you hold that power.”
“Wow.” Tears flooded my eyes. “Something that appears to be so simple could be one of the remedies to my deep issues.”
“Please explain what you’re saying,” she replied.
“When a flash from the past consumes me, I get stuck there, and my mind travels back to each time they violated me. I stay in that moment for weeks and days. I walk around with a smile plastered across my face, as if everything is perfectly fine. It’s a cover-up. I am dying on the inside. Never would I have thought to pinch myself to snap me into the present, to prevent my mind from wandering completely away. And something that simple could help prevent me from drifting into a deep depression.”
“It can aid in helping you not get lost in your head,” Dr. Raysor tells me. “Lastly, it is scary to start all over again and learn to love your body after being assaulted. To a high degree, rape puts you at odds with your body, and it becomes your adversary—something you despise. Because you’ve been violated, you tend to feel contaminated. Reconnecting with your body and feelings is scary but not dangerous. Avoiding your feelings is where the danger lies. Some approaches can assist you with reconnecting with your body. One, in particular, is massage therapy.”
“A massage, Dr. Raysor?”
“Yes. However, it isn’t the traditional massage. This is massage and bodywork therapy. Bodywork can help survivors learn to trust their bodies and not view any form of human contact as degrading or a violation.”
“This is so what I need, Dr. Raysor. I just want my body back.”
I will have my first bodywork session next week. It sounds extremely promising, and I am excited to undergo this. I am a work in progress. That’s why I am anxious to start running in the morning with Jenna. I am on my way over there now. With all this freedom of not living out of a room, like we used to do at Hope House and pretty much at Ms. Jasmine’s, I have been eating as if the food industry is going out of business.
“Not any longer,” I say, my thoughts seeping from my lips, as I pull into a parking space in Jenna’s complex.
I climb out from behind the wheel. It’s getting hot out here. I remove my fleece jacket and place it the back of my SUV. As I close the door, I look at my reflection in the window, and I notice Jenna’s car next to mine.
Turning around, I say, “I didn’t even realize I parked next to you.” I reach out to open her car door, but it is locked. “Jenna! What’s wrong? Unlock the door. Why are you in there crying? What’s wrong? Please unlock the door, Jenna. What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay?” Hysteria sets in.
As she lifts her head and turns its completely in my direction, a picture of grief, loss, and devastation sucker punches me. Her eyes and face radiate a familiar pain.
“Please open this door,” I say frantically. “What happened to your face?” My eyes burn as the car door opens.
I kneel before her, and my chest feels heavy, as if it is being filled with lead. Jenna’s arms make their way around my neck.
“What happened? Please talk to me,” I say. After a minute or so, I break our embrace.
She attempts to hide her face and breaks down entirely. “H-He . . . I—I . . .”
“Take your time. I am right here,” I tell her. Her face sinks deep into my chest as I put my arms around her. “Please talk to me, Jenna,” I blubber.
“O-Omarion . . . r-r-raped m-m-me. He raped me.” Her chest heaves up and down.
My words lodge themselves in my throat, but finally, I say, “Your . . . your counselor?”
I try not to panic any more than I am on the inside. I cling to my sister, trying my best to absorb some of her pain. There’s no script for this. I don’t know what to say at all. I do know there aren’t any words to comfort her or make her feel better at this moment. My heart is bleeding right now.
God, if your listening, I need your help, I pray silently. I cannot find words, because I am hurting for my sister. Why is this happening? Why would you? How could you let this happen, God?
“Jenna, I need you to know this isn’t your fault. We have to call the police. There’s no way he’s getting away with this. No, Jenna. No, I will not let you go through what I have been through internally,” I tell her, on the verge of breaking down myself.
“I—I can’t go to the police. I’m not even sure about the exact details. They won’t believe me, Candice. I went to his house. I slept there. It is my fault.” She shakes violently.
“You trusted him, and he took advantage of you. You did not give him consent, Jenna. He assaulted you, and he has to pay.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I raise myself up off my knees and then lift her to her feet. I can feel my heartbeat, every single pound in my chest. I daren’t breathe or move. I am frozen to the cement. Then I catch sight of Alonzo making his way toward me.
“Candice, this doesn’t look the—” Alonzo stops in his tracks before he reaches me. Noticing what has me glued to the ground that I stand on, he becomes alarmed. “What happened to her, Candice? Is she hurt? Why is the middle of her pants saturated with blood?”
Burying her head deeper in my chest, Jenna weeps like an inconsolable child.
Raising my eyes to look at Alonzo, I shake involuntarily. I can’t speak.
“We need to get both of you to the hospital,” he gasps, flipping out.