Sam: in whose arms I only ever feel safe, when he’s holding me tightly, and my face is in his shirt, breathing in the faint scent of vanilla dryer sheets and Corduroy’s aftershave and Yardley’s cucumber soap.

Otherwise, I need to close my eyes, remember there are walls and doors and locks and panes to keep the bad men out.

As I lay petrified, shaking in his arms last night, I heard him say words I can’t believe. “You’re safe.”  I repeated them like a Catholic prayer, under my breath.

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

As I keep drafting resolutions here and in my journals, I can’t help asking myself, as I have so many times throughout my short years, what is it about this act, those moments while you’re struggling against them, and after, when you can’t anymore, that has put my safety and self-worth into so much doubt?  What did it take away, and what can I get back?  What can I reclaim?  And what do I need to learn to live with?  What do I still cry after so many years?  Why does it feel like it just happened?  What is this?  Why is that?

And a big question:

HOW DO I MAKE IT ALL STOP?

I know better than to think there’s an old me they destroyed and a new me that’s not as good as the old me.  I know better than to think the rapes were something I did to myself or that there’s something about me that made them do those things to me.  I know better—now.

But what happens after you realize all those things, but you’re still not okay?  Do you just work harder, faster, more efficiently?  Do you try to control more elements of your life to make sure you feel safe, protected, certain at all times?  To make sure no one ever victimizes you again?

Or do you let loose?  Do you accept your lack of control in this life and embrace yourself with understanding and kindness?  But this time, you don’t force it upon yourself.  You keep encouraging reminders all around you in the form of friends, family, and maybe not a few notes-to-self.  It’s what Buddhism suggests I do.  It’s what Sam and everyone I know tells me to do: be kind to yourself.  Be compassionate to yourself, above all others.  It seems so simple, so easy to put into action.

But I can only try.  Like I always do, I try the new thing.  I try the simple yet overwhelming suggestions I just don’t know if I’ll be able to accomplish, but I’ll try if it means stopping this pain and keeping back the hysteria.

Then again, maybe that’s the point of mettā, the loving kindness we show ourselves and others.  Maybe that’s the point everyone’s been trying to make to me, but I haven’t gotten it: stop trying, and just do.  Just live.  Just breathe.  Just love myself with the same kindness and patience I show others.

Right.  Okay.  I can do that.  I can do anything if I just—

And there it is, the problem: how do I go about this?  Is it a day by day thing?  Is it a minute by minute effort, the kind that’s usually more exhausting than effective?  My cultures are really good at extremism like commercialism, drinking, and arguing.  But loving?  Patience for my limitations?  How does one go about that?

Here’s the best question of all: how do you go about that?  Or don’t you?