The Worstiversary

Typing this post makes my fingers want to atrophy a little bit, because I don't want to type it.

Tomorrow is an anniversary for me. It's not a pretty anniversary, not one that will ever be marked with flowers or a romantic dinner. It's one that, for the past eight years, has been marked with wishes that it will pass quickly. And oh, it gets easier every year, but I will never, ever make it through a day without thinking of what this day means. I will also never, ever spend a June 2nd not wishing and hoping that I could just go to bed and wake up on June 4th.

Eight years ago tomorrow, I was raped. As I say this, I feel so distanced from it, yet so close, too. Has it really been eight years? Did I really survive all of that? I remember the first year after, I would wake up every morning and think, "A year ago today, I was happy. A year ago today, I didn't know what it was like to live with this." EVERY day for an entire year, I woke up to that thought. In many ways, I felt like the day I was raped also the day I was born, because a new me was born. One that didn't laugh as much, one that didn't trust as much, and one that sometimes thought about what it'd be like to go to sleep and never wake up.

Last week, I drove past the place where it happened. It's been years since I last passed it, but my throat still swelled up into a lump that was hard to swallow, and I could picture it so vividly, as if it were yesterday.

But I don't want to talk about that. What I want to talk about is what I did on the second anniversary of the day I was raped. I threw myself a party. Yes, a party. I sent out invitations to everyone who was there for me throughout this journey. I said on the invitation that it was to celebrate surviving and thriving. I remember when I told my mom what I wanted to do. She didn't question it. She didn't say that it was an ugly thing to celebrate. She understood my need to make this good, my need to make this light. And maybe she had that need, too. My mom made food and bought drinks. My dad grilled. And people came. Oh my, SO many people came, some from nearby, some driving hours. Friends, family, people who deserved a party of their own, truly. I ate too much, I drank too much, and I LAUGHED. The reason for the party was there, over us all, and I wished in the bottom of my heart that I wouldn't have a need for such a party. I did, though, and in its pain and ugliness, it was beautiful. It was a big, in your face to the depression and sleepless nights, a big in your face to HIM. I remember staying up late, laughing around a fire, sneaking off into the darkness with Shane like we were teenagers (and believe me, that was the biggest in your face... because no matter what this man stole from me in one single act, he never stole my ability to separate the passion I felt for Shane), having six people crashed on the floor of my parents' house by the time we finally turned in, waking up to my mom and sister making breakfast, and love. SO MUCH LOVE that even today, six years later, my heart still swells when I think of it.

I learned so much from what happened to me. I learned not to trust so easily, I learned the true depths of darkness and depression, but I also learned the importance of celebrating life. I learned that the contrast between sorrow and happiness can some times be closer than you think, that the love of friends and family can heal you better than any medicine, and that it's okay to throw yourself a party because sometimes, you deserve it.


I don't know how tomorrow will go for me. Maybe I'll make it through the day without a single tear, and that'll be something else to celebrate, but I do know that I'll carry with me those memories of six years past and find strength within all of them.