Moving Forward

       Gabriel and I have been packing for days. We have to fit a stroller, four or five large boxes of books, countless wedding gifts and all of our clothes into our small Chevy Prizm for our big move. After visiting Chicago and not feeling very confident about moving there we decided to step back and look at our other options. I realized that we couldn’t have the life I honestly desired in Chicago. We couldn’t have a life full of friends, school, going out, auditions, rehearsals, and work. I can’t have that right now when I’m afraid to leave the house without Gabriel. I can’t have that life now that my life has become about our family, and not about me. 

       Gabriel and I were awesome at being a couple of individuals. We had our dreams, our ambitions, our desires. We respected and encouraged each other, but we were simply two separate people who happened to really love each other. That won’t work anymore. We needed to make a family centered decision about where we ought to be. Chicago was perfect for us as individuals, but for our family it was scary, expensive and isolating. 

       My sister, Becca, had written me a letter months ago asking Gabriel and I to come live with them in Columbus, Ohio, the city I grew up in. Becca has always been my best friend. We haven’t lived in the same state for nearly 7 years, and I miss being near her.  When I initially received her letter I cried and sadly set it aside, wishing so deeply I could say ‘yes’ to her, but it didn’t seem to be where Gabriel and I were heading. 

       After our visit to Chicago, I took that letter out again. Gabriel and I Skyped with Becca and her husband Teddy. We prayed. Gabriel and I talked some more. We didn’t want to live physically with family again. As much of a blessing as it has been, we need some autonomy as a couple. Standing on our own feet, as shaking and young as they may be, will unite us. Becca had the answer. A friend of hers moved into a three-story house a block away from Becca and Ted, and was looking for roommates. Gabriel called her. They talked details. And our plans clicked into place. Gabriel and I are moving to Columbus, Ohio on Tuesday. We’ll be living a block away from my beloved sister, but with our own space and room to grow. 

       As piles of our possessions get pulled out and sorted—covering every surface of our room—my anxiety increases. We are so excited to be settling somewhere. We’ll have our own bedroom, a nursery and even a guest bedroom for family to stay in. But all of this change means I have to move. I’ve become comfortable holed up in our bedroom here, just waiting for Gabriel to come home from work. I’m not happy being stuck, but I feel safe. Moving means I won’t have this room to lock myself into and wait out the panic and sadness. Moving means I won’t have my therapist to go to several times a week to work on the issues she knows I have. Moving means I won’t be able to see the beautiful women in my group therapy every Tuesday night. The Sexual Assault Center that I’ve been receiving treatment from was the only place I went besides our bedroom (except for maybe the occasional Barnes and Noble visit). I have found places here that feel safe to me and now I have to leave them. 

       I know forward movement is positive. I see the wonderful opportunities we have in Columbus, and I’m so jazzed  to attend the church I have missed since high school, and living so near to Becca will be a blessing. But that doesn’t mean forward movement isn’t hard. Sorting through our things and throwing away old notebooks full of diligent notes, highlighted and well used scripts in the trash, seeing old photos—all of these things reminding me once again of the life we were ripped out of. I still grieve losing that life, just as I grieve losing Chicago. 

       People try to tell me all the time that “he didn’t take anything from you when he raped you!” But that’s not the truth. Being raped has taken much from me. My sense of safety. My independence. My confidence. My home. My body. My trust in people. Having PTSD and anxiety attacks makes it feel like even my mind was taken from me. Holing myself up in our bedroom, afraid of what might be behind the closet doors, makes me feel like my spirit was taken away, too. Maybe these things are only lost. Maybe I will find them again. But things have been taken. But I will move forward—I have to. 
I’m terrified to meet new people. Not only am I afraid they might hurt me, but what if they don’t like me? Insecurity burns hotter than fear half the time, and I’m not sure why. I cannot wait to unpack our things and start nesting in our new home, but what if I don’t feel safe there? What if I’m just as lonely? Just as afraid? Just as broken? What if there isn’t a place for me there, like there was at the Sexual Assault Center? What if people I used to know, don’t understand why I’m so different? 

       Today is rainy, grey and warm like it was on July 8, 2013. I don’t feel very strong as I wait in our bedroom for Gabriel to return from work. I know we made the right choice for our family, but there are no certainties beyond that. A brain hijacked by trauma doesn’t process change well—every unknown can set off the alarm system warning that everything is unsafe. 

       I found a piece a paper in my purse from an early counseling session that had a list of ‘Coping Skills’ on it. One of the cognitive coping skills was to ‘lower your expectations of a situation.’ When I first read that—my heart sank. It said don’t expect anything to be too good anymore. After seeing my distress Gabriel helped me realize it was more about having an open heart and an open mind. I know I am different than I once was. I won’t expect to behave or feel the same strength I once did. Transitioning will be hard, but simply because I’m afraid doesn’t mean it can’t also be wonderful.