Things that used to be a joy are now laced with fears and insecurities. This is not a broken arm that heals in a prescribed length of time and in a highly predictable fashion. You may think one week is enough time. Or maybe your generosity will allow me two months. But if I still cry, feel apprehension, or have panic attacks or moments of despair five years from now, will this take away my value in your eyes?

There is nothing I would like better – and nothing that is more impossible. Don’t you see? It won’t stay behind me. It’s not “over” just because I am no longer physically in the presence of my attackers. It is ever present, constantly replaying every “what if” in my mind. Life is different now. I will never be the same as I was before this happened. I don’t know where to fit this horror into the narrative of my life.

Yes, perhaps I am. Maybe with time I will value the gift that was given to me when they “let me go.” Right now I don’t feel so lucky. I feel tortured, betrayed, abandoned, and isolated. Not only did I lose control over what happened to my body, but I had no control over whether I lived or died. And if this paralyzing fear that sits in my stomach, if this ache of grief and loss that fills my heart, if these replaying pictures that occupy my mind, are life, then I’m wondering…

Thirteen years ago, my grandfather Bernard at the age of 75, stepped on a chair to reach for a light bulb in our garage that needed to be changed. Granny lost his balance and fell on the concrete ground, head first. He survived the fall but Granny had to go through two brain surgeries. He stayed in the ICU for almost six months, There were times when we thought he would die.