Ros was going to leave last night. Apparently my sour mood was too much for her to take, though she never asked what was troubling me.

Before she walked out the door, for some reason, she took a peek at my journal and read about yesterday. She said she knew that I would have written it down somewhere.

She changed her clothes and crawled back into bed, holding me tightly, crying with me.

I hate being like this, especially in front of her. I don't want her to be exposed to the aftershock of rape, to the mental pain that accompanies it, to the hate and blame and tears.

They say rape affects everyone. True, I suppose.

They also say rape is a violent crime. Not true. It's not blood, pushing, sex, hands, shoving, stifled screaming, hitting, love, cuts, bruises, power, or threats. It's none of that; it's the exact opposite. It's curling up in a ball ten years later, crying so hard you throw up on the bathroom floor. It's remembering ten years later what his hands felt like on your fourteen-year-old body. It's knowing that he walks in freedom while you are a prisoner to your own mind and body.

There are physical remnants of the actual crime of rape, but the aftershock ... there's nothing. All the cuts heal, all the bruises fade, and there's nothing left behind. That's one of the hardest parts of healing: there's just nothing there.

Rachel said, when I talked to her last night, just walk away. Sounds insensitive, but find the song "Little Black Sandals" by Sia ... it makes perfect sense.

Tune: Sia, "Little Black Sandals"
Mood: Thank you, feet, for guiding me. I'm glad somehow I got brains down there at least.