I was the first to arrive and thanked the restaurant Gods that the Brooklyn cafe was empty. I felt anxious, worried. Would she remember it exactly as I did? Did she feel as bonded to me as I did her? Would we just sit there and cry for hours over our tainted youths?
When she walked in, still as small, bubbly and glowing as in that fourth grade talent show, I felt okay. I melted into her warm hug. I felt a familiar relief: This was a face that would forever represent support to me.
Sitting across from each other, we talked about what we’d missed in each other’s lives—homes, husbands, moves, jobs and a baby. Eventually, we talked about that summer, finishing each other’s sentences, constantly agreeing with what the other was saying. Looking at her face that had barely changed, I felt the tether that’s been between us since that summer tighten: The confirmation that Erica will forever be my sister in this allowed my body to relax in a way that it hadn’t in a very long time, in 16 years if I’m honest.
We didn’t relive the brutal acts or cry about how damaged our lives were. We didn’t change our tone or lower our voices—we didn’t need to. These are just things that happened to us, like anything else. We’ve both wrestled with the events of that summer, and each of us turned out okay. Because when we were sexually assaulted, we found support in each other—we were heard, we were believed. “I didn’t realize how fortunate I was to have someone come over immediately and never question any part of my story,” she told me.
The fact that she remembered what he did to me, too, gave me validation I never thought I’d get. It gave me permission to feel scarred. “Do you hate him so much, like I do?” I asked. She responded with the wisdom I remember getting a glimpse of that summer night: “Over the years, I’ve spent so much time hating him that he isn’t really a person that registers in my mind anymore. I’ve hated him down to non-existence.”
I’ve struggled a lot with my own healing process; I had a hard time giving myself permission to “recover.” I felt my experience “wasn’t that bad” because it wasn’t violent or severe. It wasn’t what Erica experienced. Even today, all these years later, I still silence myself because I feel my sexual assault can’t compare to what so many other women have been through. But I’ve realized that’s part of the whole problem—cases of sexual assault shouldn’t be rated like Yelp reviews. What I’m trying to internalize is that each woman’s experience is unique. Her trauma her own. Her recovery is her own. And by comparing and stifling, we’re only making our trauma worse. We’re only stunting our healing.
What has kept Erica and I connected, almost like long lost family, has been the fact that we gave each other that space to be heard, to feel, to not be measured or judged. “I think the trauma I experienced in the years after would have been a lot worse if I hadn’t had you there with me right after through the night as I processed what just happened,” she told me. “The way I was able to overcome the experience was by finding a community of amazing women—like you—who supported me and believed me even when others didn’t.”
Dr. Lott had warned me that a reunion like this might be painful: “Although you may have recovered from your trauma, it is never forgotten. So when you do see each other or catch up, you may be reminded of the shared invisible battle scars that remain even if the impact or pain has dissipated.” But on my way home, it was clear to me how our relationship has been part of our recovery. Back then we were too young to understand it, but we were each other’s way out of that terrible time of self-blame and confusion. It’s not that our friendship will never fade—it’s that we need each other in a way that goes beyond friendship. We provide something for each other that no one else can. Our reunion wasn’t like old times, but it was a reminder that we did this, and we did it together.
Maggie Parker is a journalist in NYC covering wellness, entertainment and travel. Follow her on Twitter at @Maggie_WP.
