Seven months, two weeks, and three days.
I think I'm making good progress.
I'm back in school. I'm being more active. I'm meeting new people. I'm learning new languages. I'm planning to go overseas.
And yet...
The movie theatre. How poetic. So very perfect a place for my wounds to reopen.
I wrote a story with a friend once. A novel about a group of friends going through life. One of the main characters worked at a movie theatre. He was kidnapped from that movie theatre and raped.
I've been thinking a lot about what happened to me in January lately. My Human Sexuality class discussed sexual assault this week. I shared my experience with them. The teacher told me I was brave.
I thought I was brave. I felt like I'm heaps better than I was in January.
I went to the movies with my boyfriend and his family last night. We enjoyed each others' company and talked outside the theatre for a long while.
Anthony was at that theatre. I saw him walk out with two other people. I heard his voice. I felt my entire body revolt.
He didn't approach us. He didn't acknowledge us. He just walked by.
And my heart raced. My body put up all its defenses.
I kept my composure until I parted ways with the group. As I walked to my car, I feared Anthony would meet me there. That he would want to talk. Or worst.
He didn't.
I sobbed the entire way home.
I sobbed when Peter got home. I told him my fears and I sobbed. And I felt sick. And my heart raced for three more hours.
Seven months, two weeks, and three days.
I thought I'd made more progress than this...
