HIM

TWO. PART ONE: WHAT I'VE BECOME

I opened my eyes to find myself surrounded by no one, on a bed, in a room unfamiliar to me.

Immediately, I jumped off the thick mattress to check myself in a body mirror across the way, shuddering at the thought of something detrimental happening to me the night before. I could barely recall a thing. I hadn't even remembered dreaming. That came to me as a surprise and an unforeseen relief. Dreaming did nothing for me besides cause anxiety. I conjured up terrifying, vivid images, which always involved him in some way or another. After months of this ongoing internal pain it became immensely disturbing; especially because the dreams ended up with him almost succeeding in killing me. At points, death somehow seemed like a brilliant idea. And yet, I still found a reason to continue living. What it was I didn't know.

I carefully inspected myself. Everything looked fine except for the heavy bags underneath my dull hazel eyes. If you had looked into these eyes last year you would have seen a young, vivacious twenty-one-year-old looking for adventure, love and ultimately romance. Now, in its' place you'd see blankness, nothing. I was positive a black hole was in place of my soul, my very essence. All the life that was once there had long since disappeared – taken, stolen by him. Because of that my mind and body wouldn't allow myself to get close to anyone – especially men. Not anymore.

When I met him it was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. He was like a breath of fresh air and I was unreservedly in love with him, breathing him in with every breath I took. With him, I was willing to risk it all – everything I had and everything I was just to be with him – all of him. He called me his everything. He told me he loved me. Now I knew that those six months of spending numerous nights on end with each other, speaking the words aloud I often wanted to hear, was a waste . . . and a lie. He never came back to apologize – to say he ruined something so pure and amazing. To tell me he was sorry for what he'd done, especially since I didn't deserve it.

Ha. Maybe I did deserve it.

Maybe he'd say it was a moment of weakness for him. Maybe he'd tell me the truth. Maybe, maybe, maybe. So many maybe's yet no actual answers. The night it happened would be the last time I'd ever lay eyes on him ever again.

Not too long after was when I fell into my Personal Great Depression, or PGD, as I'd like to call it. My mother didn't know what the cause of it was; I wouldn't tell her. For five months she sent me to numerous psychiatrists that told me the same, unoriginal things; "Do this; do that – You'll get better." You know, the typical stuff they tell depressed patients that are in danger of losing all reason to live. They even prescribed me with medication. It was supposed to help me relax and calm my nerves. But I never took any of it. None of their advice mattered either. I was taking care of things on my own time in my own way.

Even I know I'm lying to myself.

I was barely eating, moving, sleeping. I couldn't function properly. Besides forcing myself to attend class I rarely ever got out of the house, let alone my bedroom. All I did was breathe and even that was a struggle. For a very, very long time.

I hadn't only been raped; I lost someone I truly loved. That person betrayed me, tricked me. I gave him everything I was. I gave him my heart. And he ripped it to shreds. That, I believed, was the hardest part to handle.

Remembering how I felt about him made my stomach lurch and my heart ache with betrayal. He was my world and without him I wouldn't have been able to survive.

Proving myself wrong, here I am. I made it – but just barely.

About two months after my PGD calmed down some Tory took me to see a movie to help take my mind off of things. I'd told her many times I didn't want to go but she'd insisted I "Get out and have fun with a friend." Reluctantly, I went.