From my journal in 2009:
Today I went to the apartment building where I was raped 28 years ago this month. It's more secure now, all locked up. A guy came out of his apartment and I talked my way in. There's now a fence around the pool, and I made a joke about it before the guy left me alone.
Took a few pictures. Stayed mostly calm, until I walked back out front and started shaking. It took all my self-control not to puke.
Got in the car and had a sort of flashback, where I knew where I was, but my body was feeling part of the rape. I kept trying to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. It was horrible.
I couldn't stand to be there a second longer, so I drove off. I shouldn't have, because I could barely pay attention. I started crying. So damn afraid. So alone. This was a big mistake.
I'm parked in the marina. I wish I could call someone, but I don't know who to call. This hurts so much. Why did I want to do this anyway?
It's so real. So horribly real.
Later I wrote this:
In a complete and utter panic, I decided the whole damn thing was unbearable. The only way I was going to be able to deal with the overwhelming pain & craziness was to literally run away. So I left my therapist a message telling him about the apartment and that I wasn't sure if I would be back in town Monday for my appointment. Then I drove down to the beach and decided that I would get a bunch of booze, hole up in a hotel room, and drink until I didn't want to drink any more, even if that took all weekend or longer.
About an hour later -- luckily before I went and bought out half a liquor store -- it dawned on me that I can't just disappear without an explanation. Somehow I've got to pull myself together.
At least I'm not shaking any more and not in a crazy panic. It just hurts so much. So damn much.
I still carry around digital versions of the pictures I took of the apartment building. I'm not sure why.
