Dating : When Angels are Demons…

A Story About a Sexual Assault Flashback

That Sunday… it dragged on forever.

My nerves had been rubbed completely raw by the fire of a flashback that morning, taking over without warning while we made love his three day absence. That one shook me up, badly. Hell, it shook him up too. We laid in bed, holding each other in silence, for maybe half an hour afterwards. My head on his shoulder, his lips against my temple periodically kissing me, making soothing sounds while his arms tightly to me so I could ground myself back here in reality.

My muscles wrought sore from the tension of that flashback.

I cannot stand the way the panic overtakes me. When it happens I can do is try not to get completely lost inside of the few painful memories of my rape that I have access to.

It’s terrifying to get so caught up inside of repeating memories that I lose touch with being here now, with the fact that it isn’t happening right now. I hate losing myself like that. It makes me feel helpless and crazy. It makes me feel afraid that one day I’ll get lost, that I won’t be able to find my way back home.

My eyes were raw from seeing reality with that double exposed image of that night on top of it all day long.

As Sunday wore into evening I started to feel that every-little-thing was too much. The sound of voices in the house hurt my ears. All I could think to do was cry. I knew it wouldn’t be a quiet, pretty cry so I decided to take a shower, to cry in peace. I brought with me the little red iPhone speakers my love had given me our first Christmas together. The ones that always remind me of a childish cartoon toy version of twin R2D2’s when placed on their little squat edges. They usually made me smile.

Days like this I usually hide behind too many glasses of wine.

I’m humiliated by this weakness, of this giving up that spending my evenings just a little past tipsy signifies to me. Today was no different, I was a failure at facing down my demons once more. By the time I went in for my shower I was far into a bottle of cheap red wine.

I‘d given up being sober for the day once more — that was stupid.

Something about those flashbacks puts me into a sort of fatalistic, self-punishing frame of mind and I found myself putting on Delta Machine by Depeche Mode. That album is not a safe choice — — being the one I listened to most during the time I knew *him, the man who raped me. But too many hours into a shitty day found me making the choice to listen to the one album that always makes me think of *him and of the time when everything went horribly wrong. This cd reminds me too much of pain and of loss and of fear.

I put Welcome to My World, the first song, on repeat before getting into the shower. It’s loud, with a heavy electronic bass sound I’d meant to swallow up the sound of my crying. The song also means, for me: welcome to my world where I’m a broken mess who can’t seem to stop remembering and stop drinking and stop crying. It isn’t a healthy song for me to listen to right now.

Putting that song on was stupid too.

But the hot water and hopelessness of the song created space for my tears to flow freely. I needed that private space to cry for a bit.

But then something went horribly, awfully wrong when, instead of repeating itself after the song ended, the next song, *his song, came on.

“Please no” I beg the song to stop but it won’t. It just plays on and on and on and I am fighting to stay here.

I hear myself crying louder, now sobbing.

I can’t stay fully here, safe at home, and I can’t stop crying. I can’t move to turn the song off. I can’t think. I feel like I can’t hardly breathe. I can’t stop. Memories of *him, of what he did, flood my mind in a cruel, acrid tinny loop. I feel myself getting sucked into them, farther away from reality, farther away from being home and safe.

I am now trapped back in that hotel room under a monster and I can’t get back home.

I push myself hard into the shower wall trying and trying to stay rooted here at home, waiting for the song to end. Just waiting.

But then, as soon as the song ends, it begins again and I realize that something has somehow gone terribly wrong because this song, *his song, is playing again. This must be what Hell feels like.

No. No. No.

I’m quickly engulfed in panic.

Devoid of where reality is, and where my nightmare has taken hold…

I am now fully there, in that Salem hotel room with *him. I have no voice and it hurts and I’m scared and I’m waiting for it to end. My stomach is contracting with fear, I can taste bile at the back of my throat. I don’t want to be back here again. Not ever. This must be what Hell feels like.

It won’t end. Those few memories I have of that night are on a loop, repeating over and over and over. It’s like I’m glued to my seat in a tiny, tiny dingy viewing booth with this horror movie that I was the star in, playing over and over and over again. It won’t end. This IS what Hell feels like.

I sink down to the bottom of the bathtub, my body heaving under the weight of memories and sobs; I’m terrified, unable to move. Please god, save me…

I hear knocking on the door, my love’s voice on the other side.

I tell myself to stop, to quiet down. I can’t stop. This IS what Hell feels like.

The memories won’t stop.

I am going to die — I just know it.

I hear more and more knocking. I’m drowning, trapped inside the song and the looping memories. I can’t stop. It won’t stop. This IS what Hell feels like.

I feel cooler air push against my skin causing me to understand that the door must have opened because he is here, my love is here; kneeling down on the other side of the tub, pulling back the shower curtain. I see his eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, looking at me with this softness in his expression that I know must be forced through his own concern at finding me like this. He says something, I’m not sure what. He pulls me towards him and I sit there, inside the bathtub, sobbing against his shoulder. I lean into him feeling like I’m dying, trapped inside my nightmare.

“Make it stop.” I try saying but it sounds all garbled up and crazy, just like I feel. “What was that?” he asks. “Make it stop, make it stop, make the song stop, please make it stop.” Comes rushing out of me, all my words smashing into each other in a breathless, messy heap.

He pulls half away from me with his right arm to reach the player behind him.

Only his left arm now grips me tighter though as he moves. It helps me — this almost-too-tight grip his fingers have on my upper arm. I know I’m not imagining the pressure of his hand, muscles strong after a lifetime of playing music, as he holds me hard against the edge of the tub and to him.

…

The music stops with a sudden rush of silence, like a gunshot in its abruptness.

Thank you god.

His right arm circles around, pulling me keenly back into his embrace. I feel relief. I can begin to taste reality again. I can smell the sweetness of the safety that is here now.

Just like this morning, he again rubs me with firm pressure and makes soothing sounds and tells me again and again “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re here.” Slowly I feel myself settling back into myself, into reality. I become aware the water is nowhere near hot anymore and turn it off. The tub is hard, it must have been this hard all along but now I can notice it, now that I’m back home.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here” and he moves to help me up.