The first week of January, at the beginning of a brand-new year and a little over a month since I’d made my victim impact statement at Tyler’s sentencing hearing, I stood in the middle of my now-empty bedroom in my parents’ house, my gaze traveling around the space to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when I’d packed. My bed, dresser, and nightstand were already inside the U-Haul I’d rented in order to move, along with all my clothes and a few boxes of household items that I’d need for my new place—dishes, towels, and the like. I’d taken a personal training job at a gym in Edmonds, a tight-knit community just north of Seattle, and found a tiny studio apartment only a few blocks from where I would work. I’d registered to take my exam with the American College of Sports Medicine at the end of the month, and for the next few years, I planned on building up my experience and professional reputation before applying to work at the Seahawks training facility. Reaching my ultimate goal of being a trainer for the team was at least five to eight years out, but I had to start somewhere, and moving to Seattle was the next indicated step.
In the two months that had passed since the day I dropped Tyler off at the police station, I’d spent a few hours a week in therapy with Vanessa, dealing with all my messy, convoluted feelings about everything that had happened since July, as well as another hour with Greta, the counselor in the hospital who’d helped me with my eating disorder all those years ago. She was in private practice now, and was helping me again, trying to get me to develop different and better coping mechanisms for stress, other than restricting what I ate.
“Remember that you’re going to deal with this for the rest of your life,” she’d told me yesterday, at our last appointment before my move. I’d gained back the twenty or so pounds I’d lost since the rape, but I still struggled with taking solace in food restriction whenever my emotions felt too big and unwieldy for me to handle. “Much like dealing with addiction to drugs or alcohol,” Greta went on to say, “recovery from an eating disorder is a process, something you may have to deal with every day. There’s no point at which you are totally ‘cured.’ But if you stay aware of your thought processes and behaviors, and ask for help when you need it, you can manage it. It doesn’t have to rule your life.”
Vanessa had said much the same thing to me about having been raped. “It will always be a part of you,” she said. “You’ll never forget what Tyler did or how you reacted. But it is your choice what you do with that. You can let it control you, or you can integrate it into your past as a traumatic experience, and not allow it to define who you are. It won’t be easy, but you will find a way to survive it.”
I’d nodded then, thinking about what she’d taught me about the concept of “trauma repetition,” and how when I started sexually acting out with strangers after the rape, it was my way of trying to re-create the trauma of what Tyler had done by being in control of the men instead of them controlling me. “More women do this after being assaulted than you’d think,” Vanessa said. “It’s a self-destructive behavior, yes, but while they’re doing it, they get a few moments of feeling safe again. Unfortunately, they’re almost immediately flooded with feelings of guilt and self-disgust, because all they’ve really succeeded in doing is reinforcing the idea that they’re sluts who deserved what happened to them.”
I had already made appointments with two new therapists in Seattle, recommended to me by Vanessa and Greta. I’d also been toying with the idea of attending a sexual assault victim support group, but I hadn’t quite decided if sharing what happened to me with a roomful of strangers would actually help. Still, Vanessa had given me the name of the organization that held the meetings, and a location near my new apartment, in case I chose to go.
Now, with one last glance around my childhood bedroom, I closed the door behind me and headed outside, where my parents were waiting. We were going to caravan together down to Edmonds—my dad and mom driving the U-Haul, and me in my own car—so they could help me move into my new place. It was a cold but clear winter day, and the sun felt warm upon my face.
“Hey, sweet girl,” my dad said, as he loaded the last box onto the truck.
“Hey, Pops,” I said, walking over in order to give him a hug. He wrapped his thick arms around me, and I felt grateful for the solidness of his body against mine. He smelled like coffee and sweat.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” my mom asked, for what had to be the hundredth time since I’d told them my plan to move. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“I lived on my own at school,” I reminded her, pulling out of my dad’s embrace so I could look at her. She was wearing jeans and a gray PROUD WSU MOM sweatshirt, and her hair was in a ponytail at the base of her neck.
“I know, but that was before—,” she said, stopping short before finishing the sentence.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. I need to do this.” I needed to get a fresh start, to build the life I’d always wanted. I needed to prove to myself that I was still a capable and worthy human being, and the only way I could imagine doing that was away from the environment where I had spent so much time feeling like I wasn’t. But despite the fact that I’d already told my parents all of this, I knew they were worried about me. They were worried I’d slip back into starving myself, that I’d hide from life instead of learning to live it. And while there was no guarantee I wouldn’t do these things, I had to give it a shot. I had to at least try.