I think I was raped. Let me rephrase that: I know I was raped.
I don’t know how I know.
It came flooding back to me a few weeks ago, as bad-movie cliche as that sounds— it was true. One moment I was enjoying a fantasy in my head, and the next I was knocked out of it, and thrust into another. I was young, naked, and vulnerable in all the worst ways. Suddenly I felt paralyzed in this memory. And then it was gone, as quickly and suddenly as it had arrived, but not without leaving a sour taste in my mouth and heavy questions in my heart. What did this mean?
I know what triggered the remembering, or at least, I think I do.
I’m in love.
Not that I haven’t been this entire time. Different people do different things for you.