Diary Entry (Warning- SA)
It’s been almost six years, and I still can’t breathe when I smell those Black Ice air fresheners. They’re everywhere — gas stations, the thought of them, sometimes even someone’s rearview mirror — and every time, it hits me like a sucker punch. August 2019. The bed of a 2019 Ram. The ridges digging into my back like teeth. I was 20 years old, wearing that orange Florida t-shirt — the one I never wore again.
I remember the heat first. The sweat, thick and constant, sticking fabric to my skin. His grunts felt louder than anything, like they echoed inside my skull. My panic didn’t look like screaming or fighting — it looked like freezing. Going still. Going somewhere else.
I had suggested it, I think. Losing my virginity, I mean. I was young, naive, and thought I should want it. I thought it would be some kind of step I had to take. So, when I first mentioned it, it was my voice, my words, my idea. But as soon as it started happening, I changed my mind. I said no. I wanted it to stop. I remember the wave of horror when I realized it was already too late to pull back. But the fear of being judged, the pressure of not wanting to seem foolish or regretful, kept my mouth closed when I should’ve shouted.
I hated myself for not doing more, for not stopping it in time. But I’ve learned that my brain wasn’t failing me, it was protecting me. Freezing is just another way the body tries to save you. Still, that doesn’t stop the guilt from creeping in: why didn’t I stop it before? Why didn’t I fight harder?
The truck bed was hard under me, like sharp edges that wanted to break through my skin. I kept counting the starts above me and searching for the big dipper to distract myself — trying to will myself back into control, but it wasn’t working. Every part of me wanted to scream, to fight, but I couldn’t find the words, and by then, my body was already somewhere far away. Detached. Silent.
Some days it feels like it never happened. Other days, it feels like it’s still happening.
I can’t erase it. I can’t rewrite the narrative, no matter how hard I try to make sense of it. That part — the suggestion, the regret, the change of mind, and his refusal to listen — is a tangled knot that sits in my chest. But I’m writing it down now. Finally. Not just in my head. Not just as a flash behind my eyes. Here, on paper, or more like my laptop screen. Where I can see it and say: it happened. It wasn’t my fault.
Two months later, I tried to take back control. I thought that if I could just make the choice again — this time on my own terms, without someone taking it from me — maybe it would feel different. Maybe I’d feel empowered. So, I did what I thought would give me that sense of agency: I had a one-night stand. It was a terrible attempt at regaining power, but in that moment, it seemed like the only way to fight back. I didn’t feel empowered. I felt hollow, empty, used. The aftermath was worse than anything I could have imagined. I didn’t take control; I only hurt myself more. It was like I was chasing the feeling of ownership over my body, but I didn’t realize that I was just running in circles, trying to reclaim something that was never mine to lose.
I never reported it. I never went to the police. Because he was friends with them. Everyone knew him. They were on his side. He’d always been a part of that circle, the kind of guy who could talk his way out of anything, while I — a scared, vulnerable 20-year-old — would be dismissed as overdramatic or worse. I was terrified that if I spoke up, they would just take his word over mine. I already knew how they’d side with him. I knew that my voice wouldn’t matter. That nothing would change. So I stayed silent, and every day since, I’ve carried that silence with me, and I hate it.
Now, when a man — anyone other than my fiancé, father, or brother — tries to hug me, I freeze again. It’s like the air changes. I become sickeningly anxious. My heart races, and those memories flood back. The scent, the sweat, the ridges of the truck bed, the silence that choked me. I can’t stop it. My body remembers, even if I don’t want it to. It’s not just a hug anymore. It’s a trigger, a reminder. The anxiety gnaws at me, and I wish I could be normal. Just let a hug be a hug.
But it’s not. It’s never just that anymore.
And just two days ago, I had to relive it again. He created another Snapchat account — a new one — and somehow tracked me down to follow me. The notification popped up on my phone, and in that instant, everything froze. My chest tightened. My heart pounded. My breathing was shallow. I had a panic attack right there. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I wanted to scream, but no sound would come. He’s still there, lurking. Still trying to follow me. He never stops. And now, after everything, after so much time, I still don’t feel safe. I still feel watched.
I know my fiancé is my protector. He watches out for me. Threatens every man or idea that may hurt me or make me feel uncomfortable. In these 6 years, he's been my savior at my side.
I’m still here.
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