First and foremost, you should know that this comes with a trigger warning. You will read this and feel things you DO NOT want to feel. You will read this and think things you DO NOT want to think. If you are ready for that on a personal and/or protective level, then please read. If you do not think you can handle the triggering nature of this post, stop here. Don’t let curiosity get the better of you; sometimes curiosity isn’t a good thing. It is okay to pass over this one. The topic is rape, and although I wouldn’t say it is overly graphic, it is specific.

This is the time of year when I give everyone a glimpse of the way my life has unfolded according to my chosen intention. I am overwhelmed with gratitude as I reflect on my year of curiosity. I have been willing to go places I never considered going, both in my extrinsic world as well as my internal, shattered world. What I have learned is that you can make some of the most beautiful art out of the shards left behind if you have a vision, careful handling, and the right materials. Not every piece is pretty, but each piece fits somewhere to make a radiant mosaic.

Instead of highlighting moments of curiosity, I am going to share one story. This is a meaningful story because it is one of the times this year that I allowed myself to be both curious and compassionate, and it was a time I was fully in SELF. The experience was private. I was alone and had no intention of sharing any of the details. I felt shame creep in periodically, but I understood, according to Brene Brown, that the antidote to shame is empathy. I handed that to myself freely over and over again.

When I realized I could hold compassion for the 25-year-old, I decided I could share it with my therapist. I didn’t make this decision lightly. I didn’t want to allow her to take over the role I needed to have for myself. I didn’t want to seek out acceptance; that wasn’t going to help anyway. I’m certain she was aware of this need long before I was, which is why she has been carefully present. I needed to be believed. I needed someone to understand what happened and reflect something back to me that wasn’t automatic blame and shame as had been the case MANY times.

Now, I want to share this with my readers. I am still very much in a healing state. I have to choose curiosity and compassion every minute of every day, and I somehow still manage to fall into the rabbit hole often. This story isn’t an announcement that “I have arrived” or “things are better.” This story is about starting a dialogue about rape, the messy aftermath of emotions, sensations, thoughts, and how people perpetuate lies in our current rape culture.

I stepped on the trail at World’s End State Park not having much expectation but knew where I left off and how I wanted to proceed with the younger version of myself. She and I have punished each other willfully for the past nearly 17 years, and I NEEDED to be open to hearing what else she had to say.

As soon as my left leg hit the trailhead, I started checking in with all my parts, including the 25-year-old, to get permission to dig deeper into the painful memories, but not even a mile in and I could feel my gut start to cramp. I had felt the twinge several minutes ago while still loading water bottles into my pack at my car but hadn’t thought much of it, or maybe I chose to ignore it. At this point, though, I had to seriously consider turning around and calling it a day. I knew this was more than a cramp. It was a temper tantrum from one of my relentlessly protective parts, and I wasn’t convinced it was going to let me walk with my 25-year-old self.

Despite thinking about how I “should” get back in my car and go find a different place (with a bathroom) to try to connect with myself, I decided to keep going because maybe I needed to show this part that it would be okay. I knew where the part came from and understood why it worked so hard. It has served to “purge” from the beginning. My first encounter with it was in a small lavender and silver bathroom on the 3^rd floor of a beautiful home in Pennsylvania. I dry-heaved for several minutes first, and then I sat on the toilet and passed mucus for days until the only thing truly left to pass was blood. It was as if my body was saying goodbye to Hell itself. And now I am trying to get permission from this part to dredge that Hell back up. The part doesn’t understand I want to dredge it up to give it a proper burial; one that involves true healing.

At .8 miles, I had to veer off the trail. I dug my first cat hole and then tried to recover with some water. It didn’t take long before I was back on the trail and regretting my decision to leave the comfort of my makeshift outdoor bathroom. I retraced my steps to the place I had been just two minutes earlier and dug a second cat hole. By the time I made it back to the trail the second time, I was sweating and seriously considering whether this was the end of the road for me. I needed to double down on my conversation with this purge part first. “Okay, Purge, I’m not going to force anything, and I’m not going to use whatever comes up as ammunition to hate or punish the 25-year-old. I want to be curious and have compassion.”

This time I made it a tenth of a mile before needing to look for another satisfactory place to dig a hole. There was a road to one side and absolutely no cover on the other. Nevertheless, I found a place, did what I needed to do, filled in my cat hole, packed up my stuff, picked up my pack, put it back down, and started all over again. How was I going to hike ten miles if I couldn’t even leave this spot? It was ten minutes of hell, and then everything felt done. It felt done. My body was exhausted and sore, but it seemed the worst was over. That “done” feeling was the only reason I chose to take the medicine my doctor gave me and to keep going. Up to this point, I was not going to take the medication and force the issue. I would sooner turn around than quiet a part that did not want to be quieted. I took the pill because I had a sense that my body no longer wanted to keep doing what it was doing. It wanted to be able to relax and couldn’t quite get there.

By the time I arrived back on the trail, the ache was gone. The heaviness, anxiety, and doubt had dissipated. Okay, again, I will not force this, but I really want to hear what needs to be said. I really want to feel what needs to be felt. I was out in the woods with no signal, and no way for others to get ahold of me. Two people in 8 billion knew where I would be. One of those people knew the specifics of what trail I was taking. I was here, with the intention of listening. I had permission.

The last time I was with the 25-year-old (I’ll call her Beck—no “s” at the end), she told me about a conversation I had with XX and what she wanted to say about it. A few years ago, I called XX to ask, “Why?” XX never answered the question. Instead, I was met with a question: “Are you upset that it happened, or are you upset that I left?” Beck told me the answer to that question. S was upset that XX left, sure. It was EXTREMELY complicated. The truth was Beck was holding a lot inside of her regarding “it happened.”

There was the relationship and what it meant to me. Someone liked me. Someone gave me attention. Someone was as adventurous as me. Someone wanted to invest in me—in more ways than one. Myself, money, time, care. Care. I felt cared about. I didn’t want to lose that connection. And truthfully, I didn’t want to lose the benefits that went with that connection. I felt like I was manipulating XX to stay because there was money, reputation, and sex involved. Despite those “benefits,” I was living in constant fear of being found out, specifically XX telling someone without giving the whole truth. XX had started seeing a therapist at the counseling center where I was doing my practicum. I knew when XX was on the schedule and would choose that time to do my notes in the “middle room” where I could listen to the session. So, not only did I feel guilt that I was in a relationship that felt very wrong and deeply confusing, but I also felt guilt about listening to the therapy sessions. Practicum students were allowed to listen to any session while there. It was part of the release that was required for clients. The problem was that this was for my reputation rather than for learning, and my own ethics were against it. What could I do though? I was on probation and knew XX would be the reason I could be kicked out of graduate school.

Things were more complicated than that, though. XX was in a relationship with a co-worker. XX thought I didn’t know, but I did. XX’s partner also hated me. I’m sure she knew about me as well and maybe felt some jealousy. The quandary was feeling like I had to maintain this relationship with XX to keep XX quiet, but maintaining that relationship also increased the chances that XX’s partner would say something and potentially ruin my life. I also felt some sort of sick sense of jealousy as I imagined XX’s actual partner did. The whole situation made me feel as though I wasn’t good enough. I needed to try harder to be a good friend or partner. I would need to do even more than what I was already doing. I needed to do what XX wanted anytime XX wanted it.

Further, I was upset when XX left because I missed the sex. Was I relieved? YES—and no. It was over. I didn’t feel stuck anymore. I didn’t feel confused by my options and personal choices. The lack of relief came from my inability to “control the situation.” Up to that point, I believed I was in control because I maintained the sexual relationship that I felt so much dissonance about. The lack of control I suddenly felt was not knowing if XX would tell someone now that it was over. I know now XX told many people. Yet, that never actually affected my personal life the way I thought it would.

At this point in the hike, I (Becks) had cringed so many times that I am sure any other hiker I encountered must’ve thought I was in pain. But with each cringe, I reset myself. Okay. I’m sorry. I’m listening and will do my best to not judge. I kept coming back to this thought that was maybe a little judgmental but mostly something I think I need to grieve:

And none of that would’ve happened if there hadn’t been a first time—or a second time, for that matter.

The first time was so confusing, though. XX moved into my room because it was darker, and XX was working the night shift from Friday to Sunday. Why sleep in one bed for three days and not just stay for the other 4 nights? You should’ve known, though. You had signs that you didn’t feel safe. You were physically uncomfortable a lot—and remember those fearful thoughts. They were telling you something, and you didn’t listen!

I slept with almost nothing on, but so did XX. It didn’t feel particularly unsafe. But one night, XX rolled over to talk with me and started tickling my arm. It felt good. It seemed a little off but not necessarily inappropriate—or maybe I was ignoring the discomfort as I had so many times before. XX’s hand moved to my stomach. That was it. The conversation ended. We fell asleep. This continued for weeks. It seemed normal, but yes, it also didn’t seem quite right. Then one night XX tickled my entire torso, hands moving over my breasts and playing with my nipples. I was aroused, but I was also uncomfortable. I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I had let XX touch me before without ever saying anything. And hadn’t it felt good?

Night after night like that only furthered my inability to stop it or say something. And then, one night, it went even further. XX was doing the same thing as every other night but leaned in and started kissing my body. I could feel myself stiffen, so I did my best to relax and pretend to be asleep. XX’s lips moved up from my stomach to my nipples. I could feel my face flush despite still trying to will myself to sleep. I was aroused. A flood of thoughts and feelings overwhelmed me. I wanted XX to keep going, but I also wanted XX to stop. XX’s hand slipped into my underwear, and I was no longer conflicted. I wanted to run. I wanted it to stop immediately. This was way too far now. I continued to lay completely still as if I was asleep so XX would stop. XX didn’t stop. I tried to roll over. XX rolled me back over. I didn’t fight it. I faked an orgasm, hoping that would be the end. I think that only encouraged XX to keep going. I was in pain and wanted it to stop, but I lay there for hours. It wasn’t until the next morning when XX had to get ready for class that the nightmare ended.

I had been walking around like a zombie and drinking gallons of water every day, thinking it would both flush my system of all the disgust and prevent a UTI. One of the days after it happened, I told someone I knew and asked to stay at their house. I ended up watching Kill Bill with absolutely no awareness of what was going on around me. I had no tolerance for any stimulation and wanted to die. After three days of this, I finally went to my professor and told him what happened. As I have written about before, he asked me what I did to cause it.

With the belief that it was my fault hanging out in my back pocket, I think I was resolved to believe I deserved it and caused it. If that was the case, then I might as well continue doing what I had been doing. So, XX continued to sleep in my bed. Maybe it was self-sabotage. Maybe it was a false sense of safety. Maybe it was a punishment. Maybe it was my way of keeping XX as a friend. Maybe I liked how it physically felt to be touched. Maybe I didn’t want to be lonely. Maybe it was all those things. Maybe it was none of those things. I don’t know for sure.

I was probably about four miles in when all these thoughts and images were going through my head. I wasn’t feeling overwhelmed at all, but I was feeling the emotions and physical sensations more strongly. The tension was also starting to build a little. I was subconsciously bracing for what I knew was coming next. Beck was going to show me what happened next—the thing that has caused all the grief, anger, punishment, and hatred. I am ready. You can show me. It’s okay.

I don’t remember what happened—or how it started the second time. I’m sure it probably started the same way as before, but it’s all darkness. The only thing I remember is that XX wasn’t using a hand this time. I “woke up” or “came to” when I orgasmed. I opened my eyes slowly as if I was hoping it had been a dream and wasn’t happening. But it was happening. I saw XX between my legs. XX had given me oral sex and was half laughing, half-smiling. I don’t think it was a malicious laugh so much as pride in what just happened—that my body had surrendered and orgasmed. But it changed everything, that’s for sure.

I think this was the point in my hike that I started to feel afraid that I couldn’t make this better. The pain was deep, and it was too complicated. I was grieving something that shouldn’t have happened but did, and it was something I was trying to deny for over 16 years. Tears were streaming down my face, and I was trying to wipe them away because it just so happened that a couple and their two dogs appeared out of nowhere behind me. I didn’t want to experience the deep-seated shame or embarrassment while crying on my own in the middle of World’s End State Park. Fortunately, I looked up and saw Prospect Rock and a beautiful vista just ahead. I sat down on the rock with my back facing the incoming hikers, took off my pack, sipped some water, and returned to what was coming next.

After that, I started asking for sex. It was complicated, like I’ve said before. I had my reasons. But I have to admit that I craved the sex. I fought so much with hating what I was doing but feeling unable to stop it. It was both an addiction and a means to protect myself. I was trapped. I was confused. I was afraid. I was ashamed. I was guilty. I was alone. There was no way out. Except for when XX finally left. So, yes, there was relief too. But now, I am still feeling trapped, confused, afraid, ashamed, guilty, and alone. You silenced me and blamed me just like others have. You didn’t try to understand.

I cried. Hard. I’m glad I stopped at Prospect Rock, so I wasn’t near the couple when the agony really started. No, I am not upset that XX left. I am upset that XX was even in my life. And I need to grieve everything that goes with that. So does Beck. Beck doesn’t want to hide anymore. She wants to be heard, accepted, and loved for who she is.

I don’t have anything more to say right now. I just need you to be with me because it hurts.