Dr. C. asked if she could have my narrative. I searched through my bag, pulled out my portable keyboard case, unzipped it, and found the folded and worn blue legal pad pages. I carefully pulled them out and leaned forward, arm extended to pass them to her. This was the next step we had been planning. I would hand over the current version of my narrative, with its judgmental statements and lack of compassion, and I would rewrite it. There were no rules to this rewrite. The only thing Dr. C. told me was to act as though I were telling her or a friend what happened. “What do you want me to know?”

So, I sat down to write last week. New notepad, good pen, and my usual seat at the coffee shop. I retold the 8-year-old’s story. Then, I retold the 10-year-old’s story. Finally, I retold the 13-year-old’s story. I found myself including new information that, at first, may not have seemed relevant, but seemed important this time. I also found myself less dysregulated while reflecting on each event. In the words of Dr. C., they were things that happened to me rather than who I am. They were things that happened to those younger versions of myself. I am 43 years old and guiding those younger versions back to a sense of self and safety. I’ve always offered compassion or a pass for what they did to me, but I never had compassion for myself. This time felt much different.

This is what I wrote about the experience of rewriting those sections of my narrative:

Admittedly, I’ve been sitting in the coffee shop procrastinating on the next part. I started out by asking if they had a hex key to tighten a bolt and ended up downloading a stupid game on my phone. And then suddenly, I was choking back tears in this very public place. It wasn’t the narrative so far that made me feel this way. I actually feel very much like that was in the past. The younger versions of me are here now—not trapped anymore. I wasn’t prepared to feel the same feelings as I did back then, though. Not the fear of being in trouble, but the constant ducking from people for fear that the next bad thing would happen. No, what I feel sitting here is the weight of how absolutely alone I felt. I felt like no one in my world cared about me—the real me. Not the me that accomplished things in high school, but the one who was hanging on by a thread. The narrative doesn’t feel heavy. The feelings feel heavy. It’s the same feeling I associate with depression and suicide. It’s the one that also makes me feel desperate to self-harm. This level of grief feels just as bad as when my brother Matt passed away.

I know people cared then, and I know they care now. The problem with things like sexual assault is that we are coerced into silence and shame. We are led to believe it is our fault. We have to hide what happened, and the isolation absolutely destroys us. And that sets us up for more hurt, more secrets, more shame, and more vulnerability for it to happen again and again.