Trigger Warning

I’m seventeen or eighteen years old, and I’m reading a graphic account of a survivor of a gang rape. I don’t want to read it, but I feel like I have to. I can’t explain it; I just feel an inexorable pull toward this particular corner of the internet. This is after some idiotic senator or other makes ill-conceived comments about rape. So a brave survivor posts her account of the gang rape on the internet (a very detailed account, I might add). And as I read... I remember. It’s like a dam breaks. All of a sudden, my senses are flooded with foggy memories. HIS cologne and deodorant. The terrible stench of HIS breath, like rancid garlic. A cloth being placed over the lower half of my face. A funny smell. Blackness. Waking up to pain. Pain in my most intimate places. And movement inside them. Being on my back. Being on my stomach. My mouth opened and forced to stay open. Something in my mouth. A terrible taste. Words. “It’s okay, Daddy’s here; Daddy’s got you.” And my personal favorite, “I will kill you if you tell.” Pressure and pain on my legs. On my hips. On my chest. HIS heavy breathing. My underwear being taken off or put back on. That’s what my flashbacks are like. I can taste, hear, smell, see, and feel it all over again, like it’s happening again. I have a panic attack at my computer in the middle of my Mama’s living room. Luckily, no one’s there to see. I can’t breathe properly, though. My breath comes in ragged gasps. All I can hear is HIS breathing; I can even feel it fan across my face. I exhale sharply through my nose several times but I can’t get the various scents out. I’m in so much pain and I feel like I’m being raped right this second. I choke down a scream. My vision blurs with tears and I feel like I’ll never stop crying. But nothing lasts forever. After about half an hour that feels like an eternity, the assault on my senses ends. “I was raped,” I whisper in agony. “By my own father.”