I was in High School before I realized that I had been molested. There were still so many questions. I had no idea how long this lasted. I had no idea how far things went. I only had a few revolving memories. There was a lot about my childhood that was just missing.

I learned what I could about childhood sexual abuse. I read books. I looked at the research. I knew the statistics. I moved on with my life because I had no other choice. I was expected to go to college. I was expected to perform. Keep a smile on my face. No one look over here, everything is just fine.

That research loomed though. I knew that if I didn’t deal with my past, then it would come back. I did see different therapists through the years. I truly thought that I took care of my feelings regarding the situation. I just didn’t attend extended family events because “he” was there. I chose to stay away, but I always secretly wished for the day that he would not be invited.

A few really close friends knew what happened, but this was not until I was older. It just was not something I shared openly.

During COVID, I started to feel unsettled. I kept telling my husband that I felt like I was going to have to run away for a while. I could not put my feelings into words exactly. I just knew that my past was coming for me. I knew that I was not going to be able to run away from it. I knew that there would not be enough smiles in the world to hide behind.

It came crashing into me like waves into a rocky cliff on June 10, 2023. It was disguised as a broken down airplane and a missed cruise ship. A beautifully planned family vacation that would never come to fruition. The tears started. The real problem was that, weeks later, they had not stopped. Looking back, I should have known not to go the that lunch on June 9. That lunch changed my life. I thought I was strong. I thought I could handle it. That one meal broke me.

It was supposed to be a celebration. A birthday for the matriarch of the family. A turning of 97 years old and she would finally have my family there as well. I agreed because my abuser would not be there. He had finally died and I could finally have peace. I underestimated that lunch. Maybe I underestimated his death. Who knows what actually caused the pain and torture. All I know is that I could finally put a name to the feeling I had been telling my husband about. I was having anxiety. There was probably some depression too, but it was definitely there now. Oh and now comes the PTSD.