Five Years Later

I leave the doctor's office and get into my car. Glancing at the paperwork before I take off, I see it there in black and white. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Major depressive disorder. Bulimia nervosa. 

My translation: ****** up.

I'm supposed to be at work in 15 minutes. I can't stop crying and don't know what to do. I've been trying to find someone to cover my shift, but no one is available.

I go into work, make a beeline for the bathroom to try to get rid of the mascara running down my face. It's no use. My eyes are puffy. My face is red and splotchy.  I'm sobbing. We're talking full body, gasping for air sobs. 

The thing is, I thought that I was over this. I thought that I had moved on. Now I'm wondering if I'll ever really move on. 

I wound up at the doctor's office because I convinced myself that I had meningitis. Yes, meningitis. A fairly rare, but possibly fatal infection. That's why I had to get to the doctor right away. WebMD told me to. I can be a bit of a hypochondriac at times. Anyway, I had stayed at a hostel recently and wasn't feeling well. My symptoms got worse the more that I thought about it. 

While I'm telling the nurse what's wrong, I start coming back to reality and realize how crazy I sound. But I'm already there, and I really don't feel very good.

I'm not alone in the office for long before the physician's assistant comes in. She's not much older than me, a cute little Asian woman. An established PA. She digs deeper after I tell her my symptoms and what I think is really wrong with me, asking about depression symptoms and my eating habits. I want to run. We both know good and well that I don't have meningitis. So what's really going on? Then it hits me. I'm approaching the five year anniversary of the incident. I don't really know what else to call it. It's been trying to make its way into my consciousness for the past week or so, but I won't let it. I just keep pushing it away. Of course, it eventually makes its way to the surface. Out of character, I break down and tell her the whole story. 

There's that look again. I know that it's empathy, but all that I can see is pity. I hate that. She feels sorry for me, that I had to go through that. She doesn't understand how I haven't even told some of the people that I'm closest to: my sister, my mom. But I still wonder if at some level I didn't want it. I'm the one who went over to his place. I'm the one who took my clothes off when he told me to. I never said no. I didn't fight it. I didn't do anything.  I just laid there and let him do whatever he wanted. 

But it's been five years. One thousand eight hundred twenty-five days. One-fifth of my life. How could he still be haunting me. Stealing my thoughts and the best years of my life. How could one night linger for so long. 
missemilia missemilia
22-25, F
1 Response May 24, 2012

You froze.<br />
This seems to be a good article on the freeze response:<br />