I Survived Long Enough to Speak

I had spent the early weeks instinctively covering the scarred side of myself, turning it away from doors and mirrors.

My therapists taught me to stop.

Slowly, I did.

I stopped wearing scarves.

And when the time came, I chose for court a fitted navy dress, with a tailored jacket that could open along the scarred side — not to expose anything private, but to show, when I decided to, exactly what had been done to me and exactly how completely I had survived it.

The physical recovery was its own long war, and I will not pretend the six months were anything but hard.