The Choice Not Taken (6 page)

FLASH! A matronly doctor examines my every crevice with quiet reassurance while inside I scream silent, blood-curdling pleas for my mother and my home.

FLASH! I’m back in my dorm room, and I don’t leave until my parents arrive.

I never returned.

In fact, I didn’t attend any school for two years. It took that long–and more–to achieve even the slightest degree of control over my newly acquired obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Despite the unmatched support and patience from my family, I sunk into a deep depression. For the first six months, I shed an additional twenty pounds from an already too-thin frame. And days and nights were spent in my girlhood bedroom where prompts of a simpler time taunted me with their idyllic hopes and dreams.

A patchwork of photos lined the dresser mirror, depicting a happy girl with hopeful eyes. And though I vaguely recognized the friends who laughed by her side, her face was entirely unknown to me.

Silver trophies for spelling contests and volleyball matches covered the heavy walnut bookshelf handcrafted by my father, but their once-priceless forms only appeared cheap. Worn paperback novels tucked amongst the shelves detailed first loves and endless devotion. Now their lies were finally revealed. For I’d discovered it was only a charade, used to disguise broken hearts and shattered dreams.

Even my most prized-possession–the four foot wooden dollhouse handed down from my mother-became a symbol of disillusionment.

I stayed inside those four walls, where life remained safe and the familiar was a guarantee. And after awhile friends on hiatus from college, and even those who never left town, stopped asking me to come out.

But my family...they never stopped.

Each day, Mom or Dad would summon me to the kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They refused to let me eat in my room-as I preferred–and instead waited in enduring hopefulness for me to come down when called. It was a given I’d make an appearance for at least one meal since I needed to eat something. And within my first few months home, during these daily treks downstairs, I noticed strange habits forming.

An overwhelming desire to count things like footsteps, stairs, and even bites of food dominated my mind. Initially, I was able to hide such odd behaviors since they were only ideas in my head.

But then things changed.

No longer content with counting a silent sing-song pattern while I walked or ate, I now needed to complete tasks, consecutively and from start to finish. If I got interrupted in the process, I had to start over. It became highly suspicious to the ever-watchful eyes of my parents when I walked up and down the stairway three times in a row before joining them for a meal.

I also began organizing everything in my bedroom. Items would be placed together in perfect precision, and if one was moved out of view-where I couldn’t keep track of it–I’d panic and need to find and replace it to its rightful spot. My need for order inside my room wasn’t difficult to manage as long as my mother didn’t come in and clean or put away laundry.

It eventually escalated to where I couldn’t sleep at night until I triple-checked every room in the house and confirmed things were indeed organized to my satisfaction. Then I’d lie awake in bed and mentally review them one more time before finally allowing sleep to come.

Such patterns continued for approximately nine months before I broke down and told my parents. I knew these actions weren’t common. But more importantly, although I somehow sensed things would never truly be normal for me again...I still
hoped
to be in charge of my life.

My mother was sympathetic, but my father was not.

He’d experienced vast remorse over not being there to protect his little girl; it was in his eyes every time he looked at me. And the pent-up rage he held toward my assailant became fully unleashed in the very moment I revealed my emerging disorder.

“Damn it, Courtney! This needs to stop. Now!” he yelled, slamming his tight fist upon the kitchen table.

“Ken. Please,” my mother begged, tugging on his forearm.

“No!” he shrugged her off. “I’m tired of seeing that low-life scum destroy our beautiful girl, over and over and over...” Frustration turned to sadness, and my father’s chest heaved under his shirt.

“Honey,” Mom came to wrap me in her arms, “your dad doesn’t mean it.”

“I do mean it, Helen.” Dad was now calm. “She has a choice...”

“Mine was taken,” I furiously interrupted.

“Bull-shit,” he countered.

My father then rose, slowly, from his chair and walked to where my mother and I stood. Tenderly unwrapping her arms from my body, he filled the barren space with his own warm one. He didn’t speak until I looked him straight in the eye.

“Courtney. You,” his voice rasped within his throat. “You are a different person now. I know that.
I accept
that because we can’t undo what’s been done.” He paused with watery eyes. “No matter how much I’d give my own life to undo what’s been done, it’s now a part of who you–and we–are.”

He held me tighter and continued speaking, this time to the air over my shoulder. I sometimes wonder if it was the only way he could say what he did.

“There is no way in hell you deserve what happened, Court. No way in hell,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “But sometimes even the horrible things in life can help make us better versions of ourselves.” He sighed. “Don’t give up. Just please don’t give up.”

For the first time in months, I spent an entire night awake thinking about the future rather than the past. And by dawn, I came to this conclusion: my attacker stole
one
piece of me I could never get back, but I became bound and determined he wouldn’t take anymore.

In those bleak hours, I’d also finally resigned myself to the fact he’d likely never be caught. After thoroughly investigating my case, the police came to the decision there just wasn’t enough viable evidence–other than my story of course–to track down a reliable suspect.

The binding from my wrists, cloth from my eyes, and rag from my mouth revealed nothing, giving the impression he wore gloves. And the intrusive vaginal and full body exam proved inconclusive, meaning he likely wore a condom and several protective layers of clothing.

The officer in charge assured me they would continue to monitor the cold case file, comparing it to similar attacks and remaining vigilant. Yet, for me, it no longer mattered. Damage was done.

My life, however, was not.

It took a full year of intensive therapy with one of the best OCD doctors my parents could find for me to finally return to center. And since they were both still working full-time, they alternated time off and limited vacation days to drive the two-hour trip–there and back–for my weekly appointment in Milwaukee. On a separate day of those very same weeks, I met with another therapist in town for the sole purpose of working through the rape trauma.

By the fall semester of my twentieth year, I was again enrolled in a university. Only this time, classes were less than an hour away from home, and I didn’t live on campus.

attraction

Until the very last moment Jen called for me to wake, my mind was happily empty. It became a practice nearly perfected during those darkest days, and I hadn’t been able–or more importantly, felt the overwhelming urge–to go there before this morning.

Dressing and grooming a woman I couldn’t recognize helped me make it to the kitchen table in plenty of time for breakfast. Bearing witness as Joe and the boys wolfed down bowls of cold cereal and loaves of toast slathered in butter and grape jam again reminded me of where I was.

Jen and I silently poured mugs of coffee and headed out to the garage. Another day of the yard sale was both welcomed and dreaded. For while it provided a good diversion from my difficult walk down memory lane, it also meant hours alone with my sister.

How would I ever hide what was happening from her
? I agonized. She knew too much and cared even more. What’s worse, I knew Jen would never allow me to fall down again without at least trying to catch me.

Drawing a deep breath, I channeled the Courtney everyone wanted–the one who proved happy endings were indeed possible. Because for them, I was the distressed princess-locked in a stone castle tower-who had been rescued by the brave prince right before a fire-breathing dragon destroyed the entire kingdom.

I faked it before, and I could do it again.

The morning moved swiftly as friends, neighbors, and strangers shopped amongst our cast-offs. And as each hour passed, I became more adept at participating in courteous conversations without getting overly involved.

Yet when my parents arrived-unannounced-for lunch, warning sirens and whistling bells chimed in my head. Keeping the distance with Jen and her family was exhausting in itself, and I intuitively feared I’d need even more resolve and skill to fool Mom and Dad. They were the only two people who saw me–up close and inside out–those years following my attack. They both knew every trick in my book for masking what I didn’t want others to witness.

After hasty greetings, the boys saved me by pulling my parents into the house to show off the elaborate city they crafted from assorted building blocks and books upon the floor of their shared bedroom.

“Hey, Jen. Things have slowed down, and we both know it’s not going to be much for the rest of the afternoon. I know I offered to stay until four, but do you mind if I head out early?” I asked. “I’d like to swing by the outlet mall, and leaving now would allow plenty of time to shop and still be home for dinner.”

“Sure. No problem. Joe can help out,” she replied without suspicion. And within the hour, I was gone.

Of course I didn’t intend to stop at the mall, but a few hours of solitude seemed more than necessary at this point. I couldn’t handle perceptive looks from my mother, nor was I mentally prepared enough to go home.

Unsure what to do, I pulled into the wayside located a few miles outside town. Just off the highway, it was a charming rest area, complete with picnic area and pond. It was terribly busy this time of day, but I didn’t care.

Being around people who didn’t know me wasn’t the problem.

I selected a far parking spot, secluded yet near families and others walking the path. Even in the bright light of day, I imagined the worst.

After buying a soda from an army of machines lined up in the tidy lobby, I walked to an open bench. Every picnic table was occupied, and this seat afforded a serene view of the pond, which was still lovely despite the layer of mossy scum left over from erratic temperatures.

A whiff of smoking meat and charcoal passed in front of my nose, signaling someone was actually using one of those battered grills cemented haphazardly into the grass. With an absence of appetite, I instead laid my head back, closed my eyes, and let the rhythmic lull of kids and dogs and highway traffic pacify my senses.

Prompted by the lyrical song of a bird calling its mate, my mind wandered to the ritualistic pairing off animals and people do and the natural laws of attraction that guide them.

For while the course many take to find the perfect half to make us whole is similar, the reasons we choose another is not. Sure, we could talk about love and lust in the general context of things. But how could we ever really explain to someone
why
we love and lust for a certain person?

There wasn’t any concrete way to define the attraction, nor the need, to be with another human being.

Sometimes...it just couldn’t be helped.

***

Returning to academic studies proved troublesome for more than the obvious reason of my psychological disorder. Because though I was still in the prime of my youth, I wasn’t even remotely interested in flirting, hooking up, dating, or socializing.

Much like my prepubescent years, boys were again yucky and full of cooties. They were to be avoided at all costs. I rarely sat near them in lecture or worked with them in group study. And when I had little choice but to do so, I suffered with sweaty palms, tight lips, and a racing heartbeat.

I saw past the guise of shy smiles and helpful attitudes into their hidden agendas and raging hormones. But I was the only one.

All of the other girls on campus fell for the evil charms of these boys–hook, line, and sinker-which meant I became an outsider with them as well. I lacked any desire to swap clothes, try new makeup, or peruse the ridiculous fashion magazines glorifying ways to entice the opposite sex while subsequently devaluing the entire female population.

Preferring instead to be invisible, I blended into a camouflaged sea of faceless kids and didn’t date, party, or make myself known in public. Rather, I relied on the support of family and friendships with the few people who proved to be solid and trustworthy, not only before I was hurt but long after. I’d decided two very close friends who understood me were way more important than fifty acquaintances that didn’t.

Roaming campus in oversized flannel shirts and torn sweatpants, I dedicated every waking moment to class or study. I continued therapy but “graduated” to one professional rather than two. And though my OCD was well under control in many ways, it now manifested itself into my academic career.