T W E N T Y

LOS ANGELES, CA

          It takes everything in me to avoid resuming my sobbing session on the plane.

          Like I did last week—which honestly feels like forever ago, with everything I've put myself and others through during the past few days—I'm all covered up just in case, hoodie and baseball cap over my head to help conceal my identity on the off chance I'm recognized while flying economically.

          Realistically, I don't think I'm well known enough to the point of being recognized in this context and I don't think anyone cares, either, but it's better than risking a public meltdown. I've already endangered my reputation enough, and I'm nothing without it and the safety blanket it provides me.

          Sadie leaves me alone during most of the flight, giving me as much room to wallow in my misery as she's physically capable of, but there's only so much sniffling and shaking she can ignore until it becomes unbearable. The reality of what I've done and the consequences of my decision are beginning to dawn on me, now that it's been a few hours and I have nothing to distract myself with, not even the vast selection of entertainment on the back of the chair in front of me. All the coping strategies I've developed throughout the years have mysteriously vanished and all it took was a week in Los Angeles. Lovely.

          I went to Los Angeles and all I got was a revival of my trauma. It's not the type of t-shirt you can buy as a souvenir, but, then again, neither is what Adam did to me and the ways he continues to affect me to this day.

          "Do you need water?" Sadie asks, curling her fingers around my wrist to try and steady me while I feel like there's such a thing as an airborne earthquake. It's just the plane soaring through the sky, moving through the clouds, and these slight oscillations are to be expected, but I feel so on edge that the terrifying sensation that the plane will inevitably crash is overwhelming me. "Something sugary?"

          "Would you be sad if I died?"

          Her eyes briefly narrow. "Should I be concerned about this?"

          "It's a hypothetical question. I'd be devastated if you died, because that's what friends do. I can get another publicist, but I can't get another Sadie Choi."

          She scoffs. "Good to know you haven't fully lost your spark."

          I don't know if she realizes how truly appreciative I am of that comment or of the way she instinctively reaches out towards me to physically ground me in reality, but, if I wasn't feeling utterly miserable, I'd be hugging her. Sadie Choi hates physical displays of affection (I legitimately have no idea, to this day, how she survives being engaged to someone), so I don't do it, but she's the common ground between the two versions of myself I've been forcing myself to acknowledge.

          All that ruin I was convinced I'd unleash upon Adam, upon my mother, hell, even upon Michelle, has only ended up backfiring. It's not a rational thought and I'm stuck in my anxious mindset, my thoughts being tainted by the fear of what will happen to me if something catastrophic comes to fruition, but it also feels impossible to challenge these feelings because they're mine. They feel safe in a way—a sick, twisted way—and that's how anxiety usually works, convincing you it just wants to keep you safe and far, far away from danger, but Adam is dangerous.

          I don't want to be consumed by obsessive thoughts about what can happen the moment he finds out I've been running my mouth to Michelle and to my father, not to mention the criminal charges. He's bound to be notified and, if the case moves forward and he fights me for the right to decide which version of reality is valid and acceptable, I'm bound to see him again. Nothing could ever prepare me for seeing him this week, even though I was deeply aware of it being almost a certainty considering how close to my family he's always been, but it would be even worse to face him in a legal setting considering our history with it.

          I know what I went through. I know he put me through hell and, even though I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he continues to steal pieces of me, bit by bit, after all these years have passed, I'm not stupid. I know he thrives on my misery, on witnessing how barely able to function I am when he's around or when I'm reminded of what happened, but there's also a rational, more confident part of me that suspects he's overestimating himself and, in turn, underestimating me. He thinks he has me cornered—and has had for the bigger half of a decade—because he's assuming my fear will always overpower my desire for justice and closure and my self-respect, but those assumptions will end.

          They'll have to.

          Realistically, I know how unlikely it is to get a conviction, let alone a respectable, adequate one. Like many others before him, his potential can easily matter more than my dignity, and that's something I need to be prepared for, but no one can ever prepare you for the rush of distress and heartbreak that comes with not being believed. It's earth shattering to realize a man's hypothetical future will always, always matter more than the horrible things he's done to you.

          Would it be a felony? A misdemeanor? Will it even be taken seriously? Will I ever be taken seriously or does my reputation truly precede me?

          "I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but believe me when I tell you one day you'll stop forgetting you don't need to break yourself into smaller pieces just to make yourself easier to care about," Sadie wisely reminds me. "I'll never stop being sorry about what was done to you and for helping you relive that trauma by the situations I've put you through, but there will be a time when all those pieces will be placed back together. He can't steal anything else from you again."

          I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Am I supposed to be thankful for all of this? Am I supposed to gloat about how this has made me stronger?"

          Sadie shakes her head. "I would never say that to you. If anything, I'm happy you've found a way of surviving it and moving forward, but you've always been strong. This is just another obstacle that I know you can jump over and kick away from the middle of the road."

          I exhale through my mouth. It comes out so shaky I feel utterly defeated and pathetic. "It's too much responsibility, you know? Being told you're expected to do a certain thing, behave a certain way just to protect hypothetical future people. What am I supposed to do if I fail? How can I cope with disappointing everyone?"

          The softness in her eyes isn't easy to ignore but, unlike all those other times when I've seen it happen and resented her for pitying and infantilizing me, I let myself be worried about now. I let her support me in the way she's most comfortable with (vague words of comfort that can sound borderline insulting because she's so blunt and the occasional blink-and-you-miss-it caring gesture) and accept the responsibility of holding on for myself.

          Though yes, I do want to support other victims, particularly women, I don't think I have it in me to accept the responsibility of becoming a pioneer or a beacon of hope for every single survivor. It's not my job to fix the system or to force Adam to be held accountable for what he did, and this is something I have to do for myself. I owe that to myself, at the end of the day, and I no longer have it in me to make excuses for being upset.

          If that makes me uncool, if it makes me be seen as a hag and a bore who can't take a joke, then so be it. My blazing self-respect will always be worth more than Adam's opinion of me, and it's the reason I have a career. It's the reason I survived, and he can't take that away from me. It's the one thing he can't ruin.

          I can ruin him. And I will.

⊹˚. ♡

NEW YORK CITY, NY

          The beginning of my so-called sad girl summer officially begins in New York City, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

          Unfortunately, it starts off gray and rainy, rain drops pelting my windows like bullets, and I'm taken back to simpler times and calming winters. I adore storms, mostly because it tends to give me an excuse to stay in my apartment and hide from the world and anything that can endanger me, but there comes a time in everyone's life when they have to break the cycle and defy those thoughts. Acting on those fears, those phobias is what keeps me stagnated, and I no longer have the time or the patience to devote to not sitting with this anxiety. It's my own version of exposure therapy, in a way, and it helps me realize those feelings won't last forever. Gradually, they'll plateau and decrease.

          I give myself a few moments curled under my sheets and blankets, escaping into a fictional world where there's no pending investigation, where I've never been harmed in any way, and where I still ended up in New York, like it's been my calling all along.

          The latter is harder to believe, as it's something I actively never challenge because it's what keeps me sane, but sometimes I have to indulge in forgetting about dropping out of college. Maybe I'd be happier and more stable if I had stayed in school and gotten a proper degree, I don't know, but then I wouldn't have met Sadie or Nick. I wouldn't have gone through formative experiences that ended up becoming some of the greatest moments of my life.

          Then, my eyes open, and I quickly realize this isn't my apartment.

          The colors are all wrong and so is the brightness—if I don't have complete darkness while I sleep, then what's the point?—but the difference is familiar enough to not send me into a full blown panic attack first thing in the morning. The Canadian flag hung on the wall in front of me is a clear indicator this is Nick's apartment, since he's one of those people who will never let you forget they're Canadian, but that's okay. Nick is one of the best things that has ever happened to me after garlic bread, and I'm safe here.

          I didn't necessarily plan for anything to happen and, truth be told, neither did he. I've been back in New York for a couple of weeks and it's June now, the awkward shift from spring to summer, and something must have clicked inside my brain (I'm choosing to blame it on hormones and a scenario change because I'll never hold myself accountable). Remembering your own potential and acknowledging that you deserve good things, including happiness, does wonders to your self-esteem and sends you into the power trip of your life. It's a true rush of adrenaline.

          I don't remember the way I walked up to him and told him I wanted to talk to him. I don't remember pushing away my utter terror about opening up to a man about my past and about what it would mean for the present and future state of our relationship the moment I decided to go forward with it. All in all, Sadie aside, the dude is my best friend, if I dare to call him that, and I'm frustratingly in love with him, which is an inconvenience I no longer wanted to pretend to not be bothered by.

          Turns out that while, yes, I still have things to be scared of that aren't necessarily about him, it's also not the end of the world. Nothing imploded, not even my heart, the second I chose to bare my heart to him, and he took it far better than I expected from a man (who isn't my father because, again, I'm seemingly incapable of not idolizing my father, but that's a conversation for another time). Being in love and having those feelings reciprocated makes my blood run cold at times, but it's still so, so rewarding at the end of the day.

          Our beds are always warm, for once.

          The thing about egotistical, pathetic little men with inferiority complexes is that they'll never hesitate before eating you alive and spitting you out, accusing you of being poisonous as soon as they can't gain anything else from it. They'll use you as a distraction, give you crumbs of attention and shower you with affection to keep you roped into their malicious scheme, and then hope you'll keep coming back.

          Starved for the little things they provide you and unable to see the red flags for what they are, more often than not, you'll fall for it. You'll be the one thing feeding their ego, the shiny, brand new pretty thing that is naive enough to be trusting a man who has left a trail of brokenhearted women who know better now than to give him the time of day. You're taught that it's your fault that you're being used and ghosted, but that's not true.

          It's not your fault. Trust me. There will be a time in your life, if you're interested in that kind of relationship, when you'll meet someone who rocks your world in the best way possible, who treats you right and with respect, and you look back and wonder why you ever let yourself believe you weren't worthy of that. And yet, you still weren't the problem.

          I am not a rehabilitation center for horrible men. I am deserving of this love. I will not be punished for admitting I need that love.

          Even when my phone rings with an email informing me the case against Adam will be moving to court, I'm still stubborn enough to not let it ruin the beautiful thing I've built here. Not anymore.

⊹˚. ♡

a thing to remember: is harley strong? yes. is she strong because of what's happened to her and is that the only reason why? no. like sadie said, she's always been strong, and is using that resilience to keep fighting. you don't have to go through heartbreaking trauma to strengthen your character or be worthy of better, happier moments in your life. 

you're not tied to your past and you shouldn't be told you have to learn from every single bad thing that has happened to you, but what makes you strong is moving forward in spite of it. fighting to see another day is what makes you strong. it's what makes you brave. the thing i personally LOATHE about psychoanalysis is the way it tells you your present and future will be determined by your past, like you have no choice in the matter or like nothing can influence the way things turn out, and that's extremely reductive in my opinion. you're an active agent in your life; even if there will always be things you can't control (i.e. your trauma, how people treat you, how people ARE, etc), you're not just some guy. embrace that main character energy like you should, and remember there's always a way out, even when everything feels bleak.

there's light.