Deja vu, I guess

I am nearly 48 years old. 

Just a few minutes ago while flying down the freeway with Q’s Coldplay Amazing Day singing away, I realized with a jolt why that polygraph needle bobbled. When the interviewer for what is probably the third largest LEO in the state asked me about sexual assault as part of my employment background check, there was “a little jump.” “Probably because it’s such a hot button issue.” That was 27 years ago. At that point I hadn’t yet realized that what happened six years earlier was assault. That would take me almost four more years, and the birth of my first child. 

My memory of telling my then husband about it, about nine years after the fact, is not quite as strong as that of the events themselves, but still something I revisit regularly. I had realized that there was a name for what happened and since the person in question was traveling in the periphery of our social circles, I thought it was important that the father of my child know why I didn’t want to do whatever it was that was coming up. He was appropriately incensed and compassionate, but I don’t think he quite knew what to say or do. What does one say? Do? To whom should one speak about these things? 

Time marches on of course, and the kids are practically all grown. They seem happy, well, hard-working, kind. Life is normal. “Normal.” I’m about to take Q into therapy. Normal.

I think about this periodically, probably a few times a month, and have worked to make it insignificant. But between current events and this sudden revelation I’m shaking, my palms are sweaty, my stomach churning, and breathing purposefully to calm the heck down. I’m going to have to figure out how to attend to this foreign-feeling, newly-fitted puzzle piece. Maybe I’ll try that when my heart rate drops, then. 

Perhaps I’ll avoid the news for awhile and do a lot more running.