Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock’s rhythmic beating hounds its way into my thoughts as the noise from the classroom begins to sound like TV static, dwindling into a deafening silence. My eyes grow numb from digging into the wall with a gaze so sharp it could cut diamonds, and the tightness I feel in my chest starts to bubble. The side conversations around me, participated in by fellow students and friends, begin to sound like screaming, a noise violent enough to send winces of fear and rage through my blood. My vision of the wall grows fuzzy, as it appears to twist and mold itself into monsters and shapes I can’t quite make out. I rack my brain for reasons, attempting to land on whatever has triggered the trauma. Pulling out my phone, I scroll through every notification I possibly could have received that could be capable of sending me into shock. In the top corner of the screen, my eyes circle today’s date. October 30th. The breath I was about to exhale sucks itself back into my lungs, and my posture slumps. It’s his birthday. I can’t believe I didn’t remember upon waking up. I swipe through Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, and every picture or memory I have that corresponds to the date, but nothing pertaining to him comes up. I wasn’t quite sure what I was expecting, as he currently resides in San Diego, and besides the friends we have in common, we have no means of contact. My head begins to mimic the feeling of being on a ship, rocking back and forth with a dizziness that just about sends me to the ground. This can’t be happening now, I think to myself, letting my shoulders tense up with guilt and embarrassment. In the front of my brain the ticking keeps pounding, providing an eerie music to my memories. Tick. Tick. Tick.
BOOM!
The classroom begins to fade into space and time, but I appear to be stuck in my empty, pitch black room. I am alone. My heart is racing miles around my head, which remains completely calm and silent. Objects begin to appear in the emptiness, taking me back to the scene. Familiar but forgotten details from my recollection of that night transition themselves into my view, and I realize where my memory has taken me. Surrounding me is the image of my old room, mirroring exactly the way it was that night. The blankets are laid out in jumbles across the bed, the closet doors left wide from the fashion show I had for myself earlier. The breeze through my window leaves my body bare and cold, like it had been crusted in snow and blow-dried off. A touch on the curve between my ribs and my hip bone startles me and brings my attention away from the temperature of the room and shoots me head first into my recurring nightmare. My mind is utterly aware that this isn’t real, but my body is reacting as if reality has transited itself from seven months ago to right here in this classroom. His hands grasp at my bare skin, gripping it tightly, like a snake closing in on its prey, and the pressure of his wrists bludgeons my back, welting the skin. The only part of my body I am able to have control over is my mind, which at the moment is whirring with ringing and screams to block out what is happening to me, but his grunts and whispered words leave a lasting imprint on my growing adolescent brain. Being trapped inside a lucid dream of the most horrific thing that has ever happened to me is a history that will repeat itself until I am on my deathbed. I know this. Trauma does last a lifetime, and that’s all this is. I know this. I force my body to go limp, like I have finally blown my last breath, and let my body sink into the blanket. My eyes soften whilst staring at the Christmas lights on my wall, and seeing them twinkle brings a warmth that soothes me into a dream-like state. I recognize this now to be a common reaction for victims of sexual abuse. I close my eyes and wait for it to pass. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Since the attack seven months ago, I find it difficult to complete simple tasks such as sitting in class or mustering the ability to participate in my favorite activities. My therapist often tells me that trauma acts as a blockade for passion, and as much as I hate to hear it, I believe that she’s right. I find myself disengaged, like a strange piece of fruit that doesn’t belong on the branches of the mangled mess we call “a high school experience”. In my case, much like many other girls my age, the experience I have obtained in the realm of life exceeds the bounds of high school, and it is something no one should experience at the age of sixteen.
My eraser digs and grinds into the paper before me and my eyelids fall in a motion of relief. As expected, my surroundings have gone unchanged, and my random burst of trauma is gone unnoticed. With limbs that feel like raw and irritated meat, I stand up and excuse myself to the bathroom to breathe.
