I recently stumbled upon digital medical files from the ICU hospitalization that this entry refers to, and as I read through them, I was struck by how much of that time still eludes me—fragmented and disorienting. The files offer a window into a deeply complex period of emotional trauma, one that I’ve only been able to piece together in bits and pieces, scattered through a haze of broken memories and confusion. At first, I was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the rawness of what I was reading, unsure of how to process the details that were once just echoes in my mind.

We talk about sexual violence like it happens in a vacuum, as if it begins and ends with the act itself. But that’s not how it works. Abuse is never just one person’s doing. It’s a structure. A stage built plank by plank from silence, excuses, admiration, and denial.

I don’t know what I thought middle age would feel like, but I didn’t think it would feel like this. I had vague ideas once, soft-edged and sparkling with something like certainty—that life would settle. I thought the pieces would click together and I’d walk through my days with an air of having arrived. But instead, here I am, standing in the wreckage of expectations I didn’t even realize I was still carrying.