My gown was lifted and all I could think was she’s inside me. She’s inside me. She’s inside me.
I tried to wrap my mind around what was happening. I felt burning. Bright lights. Grinding teeth. Sweat accumulating inside my fists. Tears stinging my eyes.
Thoughts flew through my head. Why is she twisting that way? How long is this going to last? It’s only been 2 minutes? I can’t do this. Is she seriously talking about her dog right now?
Parents, movies, teachers, books – they all tell you to save yourself for that special someone right? And here she was, violating me, talking about her dog.
I remember counting the tiles on the ceiling. Tiles I would come to know well over the coming months. 30. It was always the same 30 tiles no matter how many times I counted.
And the window with the plant that never seemed to change. It always looked the same – same color, same height, same number of leaves. Until one day in December, it was gone. It was kind of like me; I continued to look the same on the outside, but slowly, I was changing on the inside. Gone was the girl I once was, happy and carefree, replaced with feelings of emptiness, disgust, and lack of self-worth.
When it was over she handed me some baby wipes to clean up the blood and lubricant that was running down my legs.
That was my introduction to physical therapy for pelvic floor dysfunction.