I don’t think police are going to be “getting back to me very, very soon”.

Which means that I missed the opportunity to confront my rapist for nothing.

 

 

Here, have some pictures of happy bunnies.

 

 

I went in for the check-in that my therapist insisted I needed when I decided to quit therapy, and I literally could not speak. I’ve never had that happen to me before, but it’s increasingly now. Where I just stare at the carpet/linoleum/contertop/whatever else is around and fail to make words happen, because I just know that I’m going to say The Wrong Thing or something I Don’t Mean.

He asked me if I had been considering suicide. I didn’t want to talk about it. But I told him that I wouldn’t; which is true. I don’t know why I’d ever do that, because what good would it do? That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. That just means it isn’t going to happen. I wouldn’t. Ever.
In the end, I left ten minutes early feeling sick and guilty, like I’d hurt his feelings. He said he wanted me to know that “the work we’d done was meaningful and important” to him. I told him that no, it wasn’t, and I knew it wasn’t, and that was okay. I told him it was his job and I appreciated it and knew he’d tried hard, and it’s not you it’s me. I wanted to leave. I wanted to disappear.

 

I think I still sort of do.

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