I’m Fine.

I saw an old friend yesterday. We met for a drink at a bar in Korea town where we always liked to frequent.

“How are you doing?” she asked with that slightly condescending tone stinking just enough of pity.

“I’m fine,” I replied casually, tossing back a shot of soju—Korean rice whiskey. It’s smooth, so very dangerous.

“You’re so strong.” She shook her head in wonder. Eyes wide with what I suppose was sympathy. “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like…”

I had no responses. All the words I’d planned to say had dried on my tongue.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

Don’t worry. I’m fine…

 And yet—on the inside, nothing was “fine.” Sometimes it felt like it never would be again.

In November of 2015, three days before my 28th birthday, while on my way home from that same Korean bar, stumbling from too many shots of soju, I was intercepted by a group of men, taken to the basement of a house a few blocks from my Crown Heights apartment and violently raped by one,

and then another,

and then another…

“Girl, you’re so fine—” They’d said to me on the street trying to get my attention… But everything that was, died in that basement bedroom, or so it seemed.

Everyone said it was a miracle, a blessing that I survived and got out of that situation alive. How did I do it? I’m about to get real with you.

I got out by pretending—by getting aggressive. For a brief moment I took my power back, pure survival instinct kicked in. Because looking back on it—I can’t really believe I did what I did—

“So is anyone else going to fuck me?” I snapped, challenging them, throwing them off their guards. “Because if not, I’m going home.”

As steadily as I could, I stood from the mattress, adjusting my clothes and grabbing my bag. “I’m going home.” I stated, and moved past the men who had been tormenting me the past hour.

 It was like they didn’t even know what to do—my behavior had completely confused them. Were they expecting tears? Was I supposed to beg?

I will never know why it happened the way it did, but I walked out of that basement of nightmares on my own two feet. It wasn’t until I was out on the street, walking at a fast pace through the crisp November night that shock and terror set in. I was intensively frightened and disoriented, and I just took off, not even paying attention to where I was going.

I remember walking

And walking

And feeling like I’d never get home.

This all took place within a three-block radius of where I’d lived for three years, mind you. That’s how out of my head I was—I was lost in my own neighborhood, the place I thought I knew like the back of my hand. It was at this time I also discovered they had taken my phone, my wallet and my keys (including my car key, which led to my adorable VW Beetle getting stolen and burnt to a crisp after a high speed chase through Long Island—but that’s a story for another day…)

I didn’t know how I was going to get home. When I momentarily came out of my shock, I realized I’d wandered so far in the wrong direction, I was on a street I’d never even heard of. I saw a cab and begged him to help me. Luckily he got me back to my place and with incessant buzzing I was able to wake my roommate from the downstairs lobby.

“Hello? Who is it?” A groggy voice came over the speaker—at this point it was past 3am.

“Kelly let me in, let me in! Let me in! Please!”

A savior. A blessing. I’d never wanted a roommate in my one bedroom apartment (necessity had led to that) but at this moment I’d never been happier. If she hadn’t been there, I would have been in a lot more trouble.

Inside I was able to call the police and my mom who lives in Dallas Fort Worth, and that set off a whirlwind of gritty, miserable events and experiences. The attack itself had been surreal; it was like I’d stepped outside myself—I even remember wondering who was screaming, only to realize it was me—that’s how disassociated I was. But now harsh reality had hit and I was dealing with the fallout under the biting neon lights of the emergency room and the SVU detective’s office.

The whole experience left me reeling, shaken to the core. In shock and struggling with the early signs of PTSD.

I was not fine.

I couldn’t fathom feeling stable or normal again, like the person I’d been before was completely and utterly lost to me. But I suppose…

Somehow, through this all there was something guiding me—some positive energy, or “bigger reason” why this had happened. And through it all I had wonderful friends and family who supported me and showed their love in many ways, from helping out with expenses, to just making me laugh, to even tweeting out about my CAUSE when I was fighting with the banks (another story for another day, that involved checks getting re-cashed and stolen) blech.

Anyway—though this intense darkness, there was this thin ray of light, almost invisible at first but getting slightly bigger week to week. As corny as it probably is, I literally visualized it as a light at the end of a tunnel, and I just moved towards it step by step. Sometimes even less then that, sometimes tiny centimeter by centimeter, sometimes I even moved backwards, but that light was always there…

In the distance…

I cocooned myself, leaving the cruel city to stay with my mom in Texas for a few months. I was surrounded by family, but mostly I just liked being by myself. When I was with others I had to put on a mask and pretend I was ok. Not that they all expected me to be ok, but I’m the type who doesn’t express their more “intense emotions” very well. And my family, though very supportive, are not of the “lovey-dovey talk about feelings” variety.

Still, this break was good for me—the demons seemed farther behind me than before and at last I felt that I was at the end of the tunnel, ready to step out into the sun. I decided it was time to come back to New York.

I was returning to a better situation, many friends who were eager to see me, and a new apartment far enough from my old place that I’d never have to return to that area—never have to walk down those streets littered with bad memories, ever again. 

But I can’t say it’s been easy.

After the whirlwind of moving, my mom flew back to Fort Worth and again I was on my own, for the first time since the night it had happened. Every day is a struggle and the Post Traumatic Stress has reared its ugly head more intensely than before.

I get scared and startled easily—something I’d never experienced. And my anxiety is off the charts. I have intrusive thoughts, visual flash backs every day.

But the nightmares have stopped. And I feel like I’ve stepped out into the day.

That darkness is still right behind me—over my shoulder, and sometimes (more often than I’d like) it reaches out a slippery tendril and coils its way around me. But still …it is behind me. And every breath I take, every waking moment, propels me away from it and into the light.

Since this trauma happened, I’ve been determined to make something of it, to turn it around, to find a way to channel it and maybe, possibly, help others who have experienced something similar.

For a long time I wasn’t ready. I still may not be. But I’m a big believer of fake it till you make it.

So for now, I’m going to keep pretending “I’m Fine.”

And wait for the day I finally am.