Vignette: Another Parking Lot

This is the first in series of vignettes that I plan to share in the hopes of helping others understand trauma and also because writing helps me recover from my own.

I am driving alone in my car. It is January, early in the morning, and the sun is not yet up. I am on the way to my gym. My gym is important to me. It has been like a refuge these past two years, but today I don’t feel safe. Winter drizzle collects on the front windshield but it is not until my view becomes mostly obscured that I think to turn on the wipers. My mind is elsewhere. I am thinking about my abuser.

These thoughts are nothing new, but this morning they are especially present. I barely slept and today I feel off-balance and anxious; almost panicked. I had thought that my ordeal was nearly over, but yesterday’s revelations changed that. My conversation with my lawyer had not gone well and left me feeling like my tormentor could always hunt me; always haunt me. It is possible that I will never be free.

As I drive, sobs begin to escape from my body despite my trying to hold them back. Each is deep and raw, shaking me from within before I can catch them in my throat. In a way they feel good; like something is being purged. But I can’t allow myself to indulge in them. Not now. The drive to my gym is short and I don’t want to look like a mess when I go inside. So I push the sobs down and wipe the tears off my face. Try to look normal, I tell myself.

As I pull into the lot to park my car, a memory sits below the surface of my thoughts. About this time, four years ago, I pulled into another dim parking lot, but then it was night. My abuser had a knife. He threatened me and slashed my clothes. He raped me in my car. But I can’t think about that.

Grab your bag.

Get out of the car.

Hold yourself together.

Be strong.

The gym is not a place to break down.

I get out of my car, tunnel visioned on my goal. Just get inside. But suddenly there is a sharp voice. Quick steps towards me. I don’t know who it is or what they have said but before my mind can figure these things out, my body responds. My heart jumps into my throat. It stops, and then it races. I startle and gasp.

Then I see who it is. It is a woman. I know her. She is my dentist. We go to the same gym. She saw me get out of my car and called out to say hello.

But it is too late. Every rational thought in my mind is overwhelmed by a reaction I can’t stop. I am sobbing. I am shaking. I can hardly breathe. When she rushes to comfort me and asks what is wrong, words tumble out of my mouth.

I have a horrible secret.

I am a physician.

I had a patient.

He abused me.

He raped me.

I have been suspended.

I have been accused.

There will be a hearing.

Everyone will know.

Somewhere in my mind, I tell myself to stop. Stop talking. Stop crying. Stop shaking. But I can’t.

This is trauma. And trauma is what I’m afraid I will never escape from.