TW: sexual assault

During the pandemic, I began doing my therapy sessions in my small bedroom closet. It was an unwelcome disruption from a sacred tradition: sitting in the liminal space of a therapist’s quiet lobby. But with my paper-thin walls and roommate to consider, I sat down in the 4 x 4 room and allowed my dulled senses to reanimate. We began by talking about a phone call.

The last time I called my rapist’s mother, she answered from their second home. “It’s nice of you to call, Nat … how have you been? Hopefully doing better, and feeling safe and all…