Gaslighter

32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

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2020

          Sophomore year appeared to drag on even longer than freshman year.

          The novelty of college had since worn off and I found myself trudging through each day like one did during a snowstorm, struggling to lift their legs and keep moving forward. I didn't find much motivation to keep my momentum, as everything felt pointless and I was living for the thought that each passing day brought me closer to graduation, but that shouldn't be the point of college. I was meant to be enjoying my time—people didn't refer to college years as the best years of their lives for no reason, as everyone enjoyed reminding me of—which only worsened the guilt and inadequacy feelings.

          Generally speaking, though, I was okay. I was stable.

          Though I spent the vast majority of my time hating every single thing I produced for each of my courses and felt too stupid to even sit next to my peers, school allowed me to keep my mind busy and far away from things I shouldn't be losing sleep over. The trial was done and dusted and it was something I wouldn't have to worry about for a while, something I should be excited about, but there would always be a gnawing feeling resting at the base of my skull that would never let me rest. I wasn't sure if I could fully blame these suffocating feelings on my anxiety or if there was some hidden truth behind them, so I'd remained stagnant, choking on nothing, and no one managed to explain why.

          My legal knowledge was non-existent, so I didn't know whether a retrial would be a possibility or not or if they would be able to cut their sentences short for good behavior. I didn't want any of them to get out earlier than planned, as I'd need that time away from them and safe to properly process everything that had happened and how lonely and isolated I'd felt, and it would never feel fair if they somehow managed to still get the upper hand.

          More than ever, I was feeling the despair brought by the need to be perfect, the perfect victim (and, Lord, I loathed that word and hated referring to me as such, like I was weak and powerless in the middle of all of this), the perfect woman, but that was unattainable. I knew that, and I still kept chasing an impossible standard in hopes it would be enough to save whatever was left of my dignity and self-respect. I knew it wouldn't be easy to deal with a negative legal outcome—if they had gotten away with just a community service conviction or a simple fine, where no actual consequences would be suffered—but I had failed to consider the implications of a temporary positive outcome.

          It reminded me that everything good had an expiration date, and I hated it.

          If anything minimally positive had come from all of this, my social life was more active than ever, even if I wasn't that active of a participant.

          With Ingrid and Savannah living for the college nightlife and me being a people-pleasing introvert who could never say no to anyone (a fact about me I was terrified would be weaponized against me in court, evidence that I hadn't refused consent, when I had, in fact, refused to do a single thing I wasn't comfortable with), our apartment was known as the party place in the building. As always, I still didn't enjoy those parties, and would much rather stay hidden in my bedroom, but the apartment was always filled with people and it was borderline impossible to find some peace and quiet. Therefore, I was forced to mingle and socialize with strangers, which made me break out in hives by the end of the night.

          It gave other people—and, in a way, me—the illusion that this was something I could grow accustomed to and learn to enjoy as time went on, but I felt like a fraud.