Irony

One day, when I was around sixteen years of age, my mother asked to talk to me. This was highly unusual since we rarely spoke, and then not civilly. Curious, I followed her to her bedroom. She shut the door, turned to me and gave me a brief hug. Then she told me she had a very vivid nightmare the night before. She dreamed that I'd been attacked and raped by a young man. She said I had been physically harmed, and hurt badly, but the part of the dream that got to her, that made her feel she had to tell me was that after the attack, I had tremendous emotional and mental anguish. She said she felt as though I was lost to our family because of what I had to endure. She wept as she talked.

I looked at her, amazed. I bit back every sarcastic comment that came to mind. I calmly thanked her for the warning, promised I'd be careful, then said, "But just so you know, I'm stronger than that. If someone happens to rape me in the future, I'm sure I'll be fine."

I went upstairs to my room, unsure whether this was something I should laugh about. My mother was concerned that someone might attack and rape me--when that had happened to me repeatedly in her own home. She was afraid I would go through some mental anguish...when I was cutting, anorexic, and completely emotionally detached about life. She was afraid I would be lost...when I had spent hours contemplating suicide, and even chosen my place to end life. She was five years too late. There was no way a little thing like a passing rape could even phase me. I'd lived the nightmare, and continued to live it each day. I'd promised her I'd be careful, but there was no need. It was too late--her dream was not prophetic in the least.