It’s not about leaving things behind.

Somewhere amid all the chaos of which my life has consisted for so many years I’ve become an expert at in-betweening. So much so, in fact, that the idea of being completely anything often seems completely foreign to me. I’m finding that’s not so much the case anymore.

I’ve become violently apathetic about school and spend my time looking toward future internships and job opportunities. My girlfriend and I regularly discuss furnishing our future apartment or travelling to this-or-that city. Our relationship is deepening rather quickly and she’s already met some of my friends and family. My parents adore her.

I spend a lot of time thinking about the events of two years ago – I had a therapist who liked to call it “the rape.” “Let’s talk about the rape,” she’d say. I stopped seeing her after a short amount of time. The way she either ignored or didn’t notice my extreme discomfort in talking to her reminded me too much of “the rape.”

I think about what happened then, and I think about moving forward from it. I think about how it’s unbelievable to me that just last year I could hardly function and was almost taken or admitted to hospital several times, yet somehow I’m now in the best relationship I could imagine and am actively looking toward my future – something that’s never happened for me before. I picture myself having children one day. Owning a house. Being properly employed in a field I love. These things were all unimaginable to me, and it’s slightly terrifying to now see that they could actually happen.

Moving forward is such a complicated thing. I constantly find myself thinking, “I need to move on from this. I’ve got to move past it.” It feels absolutely pathetic that two years after the fact I still have such vivid nightmares. It’s so difficult to remind myself that in many ways, I have moved on. I’ve narrowed my field of study and taken courses on triggering subject matter because they’re important to me. I’ve stopped seeing a trauma therapist and no longer spend long periods of time in dissociative states. I’m more capable of articulating my thoughts and emotions on trauma-related things than ever before. I’m living an entirely normal life, away at school, with great friends and a wonderful relationship, and I’m doing my psychology courses just like everyone else. In some ways, though, actually being present in my life is unnerving because I’m there to notice PTSD symptoms when they do come up, even though it’s not as severe as it was only a year ago.

I’m learning right now that I need to re-learn how to be content in the in-between. I’m not completely recovered, but I’m certainly not as traumatised as I once was. I need to let myself experience both sides of it. Is it shameful that I’m still living with the repercussions of something that happened so long ago? I don’t know, but whatever the case, that’s where I’m at. Is it wrong that I don’t think a day will come when I never think about it again? Some people might think so, but others would probably say it’s alright that we never forget the experiences that deeply change us – and experiences do change us. For better or for worse (or, perhaps largely for some combination of the two), they change us. Moving forward, as I’m constantly trying to remind myself, isn’t about leaving things behind. It’s about learning to carry them with you in ways that are hopefully more meaningful than they are heavy. Moving forward is, in itself, a change. For my own sanity, and for the support of those who have been through similar things (and most likely been told by several non-survivors that a bad day means they’re “giving him power” over them), I refuse to continue seeing that change as anything less than a personal transformation and an important part of healing.

Note to self: Progress is real.

Next week will mark the halfway point of fall term and the end of my half-term yoga class. Having a bit of a mixed history with yoga, I wasn’t exactly thrilled over taking it, but none of the other P.E. courses really appealed to me and I figured, “Why not?” Last Wednesday, my instructor announced that there would be one assignment for the course: A one-page reflection on how we’ve noticed yoga impacting our life outside the class. She gave several examples of things we could write about – perhaps our focus in class has improved, or we’ve been sleeping better, or our improved flexibility and balance has helped us in some other area of our lives. I attempted to write total word-vomit about how I feel generally healthier and better able to focus and whatever else she likely expected to hear, but none of it felt right. I decided to write the truth instead. I’ll give you fair warning – it’s corny as hell as I was given only a page in length. The following is my completed reflection:

Speak and be heard.

I have selective mutism. There – I’ve said it. Of every trauma response I’ve dealt with, for some reason, this is by far the most humiliating. Moderate anxiety brings on a stutter. Severe anxiety takes the use of my vocal chords away completely. Therapy helps, but doesn’t cure. There is completely, absolutely nothing more frustrating than needing to reach out and having no ability to do so. There’s nothing more dehumanizing than the all-too-symbolic reminder that my voice has been taken from me.

I’m currently finishing the final assignment for my Psychology of Memory class. Looking over the syllabus and previous assignments for the course, I’m reminded of a confrontation I had with my professor earlier in the term. I dug back in my tumblr posts to find my transcription of our conversation right after it happened, and now I’m going to bring it back by sharing here. For most of last year, I was completely overcome by my PTSD – a very difficult issue to have as a psychology student who could stumble upon triggering subject matter at literally any point in time. I’ve found it very important in my healing process to acknowledge the progress I’ve made since then, and I feel the need to remind myself of this interaction. In a rare but beautiful moment, I found my voice when I needed to. While I still have no idea how it happened, I’ve decided I now understand why: Because I needed to see that, if only for one brief and shining moment, it could.