I'm a psychology student, but until this summer I didn't know about repressed memories.
I was a sophomore in college. It was the height of the COVID-19 pandemic - or at least, I hoped it was. I had been exposed and I was living in a house for two weeks with my other friends who were exposed. I was living an hour away from home - and I had never moved out before. I had to get a COVID test before I could go home to my parents and my animals.
My cousin was driving me, because my anxie
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take your broken wings and learn to fly . . . "
I remember hearing that for the first time. I think it was Kel who sent it to me. I liked him, Kel. He was tall, stocky, reminded me of my dad, but my age. And I liked him as if just yesterday I was fourteen. But that makes sense, because the years between then and now are fuzzy at best.
Kel had an affinity for the Beatles. Oh, when I say it that way - it sounds cute. Like Kel wasn't a
He was seven months old.
She was the first of my childhood friends to have a baby.
She had gotten married in January and he was born in April. Though she loved him dearly, she wondered what people in our closed, Conservative circle would say.
But I loved her for it. Because everyone who has walked the hard paths of life in a broken Creation know sorrow.
I knew it. And I knew that she knew it.
She was the first of my friends to get married, and to have a baby.
I just happened to glance at my phone as the text flashed across my screen.
"NEVER let anyone walk to their car alone. Sarah* was almost grabbed last night by a man in a ski mask. She got away but he exposed himself to her."
I sputtered. The girl on the other side of the Zoom call was waiting for me to speak, but whatever we had been discussing faded away like fog being burned by the sun.
After the call was finished, I re-read the text. My heart dropped. My hands felt clammy.
I was scrolling through Reddit.
"What's one thing you wish you'd never gone through?" Ahh, AskReddit, the deeply philosophical subreddit. One of my favorites.
I paused before I wrote. "I was a victim of domestic violence from sixteen to eighteen," I began. "It's made me a better therapy student," I admitted, "but I could do without the lingering anxiety and PTSD."
For the first time in therapy a few weeks ago, I had acknowledged that I wasn't sorry the abuse had happened. I w