"I'd Rather You Here Than in the Ground."

A few moments from the year I discovered the depth of my trauma.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

"I'm going to get better," I promise her. She carries a small bag of my clothing for me as we walk down the hallway from the unit to the waiting room. Behind her, there's a thick glass window framing the shining sun, the bright blue sky, and the freshly blooming garden.

"I believe you," she says, looking at me with a soft smile. "I don't believe most people, but I believe you."

This chokes me up. Over the past two weeks, Erin has perhaps given me more care and attention than any other person from the past two years of my life. She's young, at least, in comparison to the other mental health technicians. Her main job is to convince me to not want to kill myself, and to her credit, she's done all she can.

It was Erin who discovered my sexual abuse. And then, it was Erin who called the cops. For two weeks now, it has been Erin holding my hand as I walk through the process of understanding it as rape rather than a normal part of any young girl's life.

We reach the end of the hallway, and she uses her ID badge to scan us out of the hallway and into the waiting room. There, my mother sits, relieved to see me, or maybe, relieved to not have to wait any longer.

Erin hands her a huge stack of paperwork, talks about dates for follow-up therapy and psychiatry appointments, and gives me a pat on the back.

"Good luck out there, kid. If you need anything, you know where to find us."

"Thanks," I mumble, the idea of coming back here equally as gutting as the idea of leaving and returning to my normal life.

The real world is worse than I left it. My rapist nis gone, but the shame follows me like a shadow. All of my teachers have been debriefed, and a few times a week, the detectives pull me out of sixth period to ask questions that feel like traps.

I make it two months before the weight of it all crushes me again.

A few days short of my 14th birthday, I'm back in that waiting room, sat in those chairs specially designed to be suicide-proof, and a bag of hospital-approved clothes on my lap, waiting to be brought back into the intake room.

Erin walks into the room, and reunites another teenager with another mother. The second I see her, the waterworks begin. I can't escape the shame, and knowing she will be one of the first to see me here crushes me.

She sees me, and walks up to me, crouching on the ground in front of me.

"Here to stay?" she asks, motioning to the bag in my lap.

I nod, immediately crying, feeling as if I had already broken my promise to her. I can't even speak.

"Hey, it's okay," she says, grabbing my hand, forcing my gaze to her face. "I'd rather you here than in the ground."

I cry even harder, breaking down in front of her. Nothing about any of this feels fair, but there's nothing I can do. I want so badly for it all to end, and even then, I can't face my fear of the moment right before it ends.

All I can do is cry, barely even a teenage girl, with way more weight than she can carry on her shoulders. Erin pulls my head onto her shoulder, but what can she say? Would she, in my position, feel any differently? Hold a different set of desires?

No, the most she can do is hold me. And so hold me she does.