The train horn woke me up in the early morning hours. My husband sound asleep next to me on our queen size blow up mattress in our little Virginia rental house.

My heart pounding, sweat rolling off my body onto the green army blanket.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.


My heart beat faster and my thoughts raced in a tornado I couldn’t slow down but desperately wanted to.

Oh my God.

I need to talk to someone right now. Wait, no, I can’t ever talk about this. I want to never think about this again.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

I can’t breathe. Someone help me.

The train horn woke me up and I immediately had a flashback. The first one, 7 years later. How does that make sense? Is this even real? Go back to sleep, you’re fine.

I purged for the first time in a year, multiple times, in the following month. The shame from purging is real. It’s concrete evidence I’m not ok, I’m fucked up, something is wrong, I’m gross.

It makes so much more sense than rape.

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