sonder

CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT, DRUG USE, SUICIDAL IDEATION

CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT, DRUG USE, SUICIDAL IDEATION

                                                                                                    Finished: 2/12/2023

What is the definition of “Sonder”?

Sonder means the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own

Does he know?

Does she know?

No one should know about that night. The shame that was in my spirit, it stayed even after 5 years. I don’t have nightmares, yet I have this nagging feeling and it haunts me. Why do I have to be hunted by the ghost of that night?

“What was I wearing that night?

Were you drinking?

Did you consent?”

I didn’t know that being blacked out meant that I said yes. I started tweaking off the weed that night, then I passed out. When I woke up, my pants were unbuckled. I ran out until I found a gas station. I had spent the night in the hospital, getting sober. The next morning, I went back to my dorm with no shoes on and no purse. I had gotten my purse back that day. However, that night stayed with me. I kept blaming myself and wondering about the what-ifs. I spent three days in a mental health facility wondering if it was my fault.

“Did I lead him on?

We were supposed to fuck that night. He took it anyway”

After I went back to school, it was all a blur. I tried to do all of my school work to distract myself. But, the depression and anxiety took over for me. I was missing classes more and I just wanted to party even more. I couldn’t even look in the mirror and recognize who I was. I became paranoid about smoking with people, yet, I hit the blunt more when I was alone. I fucked an old friend with benefits to distract myself from the flashbacks. The money I get, I would spend like it’s no tomorrow.

“Does he know?”

“Does she know?”

“Do they both blame me?”

Everything I promised myself I wouldn’t become or do, I ended doing it anyway. All of the vices I refused to follow, I turned to them to cope. I didn’t want to accept that for the second time, a man that I cared for and trusted had violated me sexually. I didn’t want people to know that I was damaged goods. I needed help. I needed to heal but I didn’t know where to go. While my psychiatrist was worried about my blood pressure and keeping me on my meds, I didn’t want my mother to find out that I was attending therapy sessions. Yet, those sessions were not as helpful because I was being judged for something that was out of my control.

I made the mistake of telling those psych people I wanted to “not live anymore”. Yet, my mother still made it about herself and called me “naive” and “attention seeking”. She kept reading my journals and going through my social media. She kept thinking that she knows me since I am her firstborn. While she gave birth to me, she judged me harshly and to my family (specifically the man that helped give birth to me and my grandmother).  I wasn’t allowed to have flaws and she made herself seem flawless. As she rightfully did call me out on BS, I wasn’t allowed to do the same. I had to wallow in sadness and self hatred alone. I had to be strong and take the pain to my notebooks. Regrets and darkest secrets were locked away in poems and journal entries.

That February of 2018, I needed something that will help me on my new path to spirituality. Through Groupme, joining a sister circle seemed okay. However, the hesitation stayed with me because I didn’t want to feel exposed. The minute I walked into the first meeting, the hesitation suddenly left me.

“Does she know?”

“Does the group know?”

The women started telling their stories and their own pain. I didn’t show it on my face, but I was shocked. They were mirrors of my story. Some of them were fighting heartbreak. Some of them were fighting memories of abuse. Some of them were just fighting to live. As soon as it was my turn, I said the words I refused to say for a couple of months: “I am damaged goods.” I told the women about what happened to me when I was 3 and a small mention of what had happened recently that year. Instead of shame and judgment, I felt sisterhood and wanted. No one was calling me a “depressed, sad girl who makes other people's problems hers”. No one made me feel like a burden.

The sad part of hearing the other women’s stories, they were similar to mine. We were college women who were still figuring out our place in the world. Campus was our safe haven, while our own home felt uncomfortable. Once we started going on our own, we saw a difference from the schools we went to and the friendships created back at home. We weren’t allowed to make mistakes, let alone make a bad grade. We had the friends that we didn’t know we needed, the ones that called us out on our own bullshit yet still wanted us to be better.

While the pain of that night stayed with me, I couldn’t tell my mother what happened. I would be blamed for it, even though I kept blaming myself. I couldn’t tell her that I let another man hurt me. I always loved being on my own, but the loneliness hit more as I was becoming more aware of myself. The more I did become aware, I would sometimes cringe at certain moments of my life. I kept apologizing and went into putting others before myself. My own being was not worthy of needs and I became human again. Even though I let my mother hurt me with her own words, I would never tell her that because she would see it as an attack. Yet, I know that those times with those men were not my fault. I have to keep telling myself that until I fully believe it.

Sometimes, I take a walk to think and ponder on thoughts. Then, I see women who like me and wonder:

“Does she know?

Does her kid know?

Did she go through the same thing as me?”