I began feeling a dull ache in the base of my left heel. Picture a horseshoe on the bottom of your heel. That's exactly where I felt the ache. After ignoring it for a few months, the pain increased to the point where I needed to see the doctor. He had an MRI done and the result was a large heel spur that was pushing against my tendon. It needed to be removed. He warned me that once the surgery was done, I wouldn't be allowed to walk for about 8 weeks. In order to remove the spur (knows as Haglund's deformity), he'd have to cut the tendon off the bone. That's what take the longest to heal. My husband rented a wheelchair to enable me to move around the house. Leaving the house was more awkward since we have a few steps to master. My friends know that being confined to the house, I'll go stir crazy. Our friends who know my husband know that he doesn't know his way around the kitchen. In order to make things a bit easier for us, they took turns bringing dinners for us to enjoy. Saying “thank you” won't even come close to showing my appreciation. The goodness of people, though, didn't stop there. I belong to a dance group that meets three times weekly with another section (the PC group) that meets in another town weekly. We often interact rehearsing for shows and holiday parades. I have been very blessed to become good friends with most of the PC group. A few days following my surgery, I received a call from one of the women. She asked how I felt and said, “We'd like to come see you. We'll bring pizza. Oh, and tell your husband he's invited to our pizza party.” I was awed. As I said, we are all in the dance group, but they are in the other section and I don't get to see them every week so when they volunteered to bring dinner and spend some time with me, I was beyond thrilled. The women arrived; we all had our share of pizza; we played dominoes. The night flew by and they left laughing. It was quite a night. One I certainly will never forget. While I'm still in the wheelchair, once my foot is healed and I'm back to walking and dancing, my plan is to treat all those wonderful women to lunch. It's the least I can do for friends who went out of their way to keep me company during my recovery. I also intend to make a habit of attending their dance class a few times a month. As of today, September 2, 2019, I am two weeks away from having the cast removed. For a few weeks afterwards, I'll be in a post-surgical boot but at least, I'll be walking. For those who have had any type of extensive foot surgery, you know how I feel and how enthusiastic I am to get my life back to normal. My friends, all of them, will be around to help me celebrate. They are wonderful people on whom I know I can rely. They also made me realize that you can never take friendships for granted. I know, I never will again. There is nothing like friendships.

I still remember the smell of his skin, the stench of cheap brandy on his breath, and the specks on the ceiling that I counted each second hoping that by the time I counted them all this nightmare would be over. I remember the exact moment I thought my life would end. The look of hatred in his eyes as he took away my dignity is something I can never forget. I had never been too religious but if there was a God, now was the time to make me a believer. Between counting the infinite specks on the ceiling and countless “Hail Mary's” it finally ended. I remember my lifeless body being moved upstairs. My head ricocheting off the walls in the narrow stairwell. Who cares that this girl was just violated? The party must go on. I'm carried into the bathroom and thrown in the tub. I wake up empty and full of shame.The memories of the night before haunting me, my body aches.I wake up wishing my life had ended in that moment. I look in the mirror and can't recognize myself. I find my purse and use my concealer to hide the bruises, hoping it can somehow mask the shame. I find what is left of my clothing and cover myself up as best as I can. I make my way through a maze of people who are passed out all over the floor. I wonder if he's still here, or if there's any more of me among them. I think that if I pretend it never happened that it will all just go away. The pain, the shame, the hurt, the disgust- maybe it will all just disappear. As I walk home I tell myself “it never happened” over and over. By the time I reach my house I almost believe it. I make a promise to myself that no one will know. I promise myself that I won't let him win. I will put on a smile and walk the halls at school pretending that nothing bad has ever happened to me if that is what it takes. I promise myself that no one will see my cry, except the shower as it perfectly camouflages my shrieks. But lying to yourself for months is hard. Keeping up your image is hard. Pretending you're ok when you're not is hard. Looking behind you to make sure he's not following you home from school is hard. Seeing him in the hallway, at the store, in your nightmares- is hard. School is hard. Sleeping is hard. Living is hard. I will take a pill each time I remember what he did to me, what he took from me, and what he made me. I will lock my door at least seven times just to be sure. I will stop going to school, unable to cope with seeing him. I will stop leaving my home out of fear that it could happen again. I will know what the human species is capable of doing to one another firsthand, and I will stop living. I will merely just exist. Between constant high and the night terrors that have me screaming out in my sleep, my mom knows that something is wrong. But I can't tell her. I can't tell anyone. “I can't live like this.” My mom constantly tells me. I have become a burden that she has to bear. My mom puts me in therapy and I sit there in silence each Thursday for forty-five minutes. Silence has become my specialty. I don't even acknowledge the existence of another person in the room. Instead in am trapped within the thoughts inside my head. “it's all your fault.” “Why would such a young girl go to a party?” “Why would you drink so much?” “Are you stupid?” “Just end it all.” Each day I become closer and closer to gathering the nerve to kill myself. The thoughts in my head have me spinning out of control. Some weeks I don't even leave my own bed. I lay there in a catatonic state wondering if my death would even mean anything. I write my suicide note about once a week. Each one starts the same. “I'm sorry.” I can't have my family blame themselves, it's not their fault. The silent therapy sessions just weren't cutting it- and the therapist tells my mom I'm not progressing quickly enough. But how are you supposed to progress when you're broken in two, when you don't care if you live or if you die, and when it seems like suffering is all you now know. When the shame takes over, and emptiness and disgust is all that fills you. When you dream about death and are discouraged to wake up and find out you're still alive. I tell this all to my therapist. I break my year long silence. I break my promises to myself, and I tell her everything. I tell her I went to a party I shouldn't have went too. I tell her I drank myself into oblivion. I tell her I was raped. I tell her that over the past year I haven't gone a single day without using and that most times I hoped I would just overdose. And I tell her that right now there is a suicide note tucked underneath my pillow. I leave my therapy session and go home to pack enough clothes for “about a month.” I'm being sent to a treatment center that specializes in trauma. I was diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder. I never thought a label would give me so much comfort. After a year of living alone with my demons, I feel relief. Relief that it's not a secret anymore, and relief that the silence is over.