That summer was 8 months post-attack.
I was 12 years old.

That summer I learned what flashbacks were.
Whether it be 3am or 3pm,
In bed or out at the store,
They would find me.
They would always find me.
I could feel his ice cold hands on my skin
Even through the warm summer sun.
I could hear his breaths over me
Even over the sound of my pounding heart.
I could see the shadows hidden in the darkness
Even with all the lights shining bright.

That summer I learned how to hurt myself.
Hiding bandages and knives,
Wincing at any touch,
The urges wouldn’t go away.
They would never go away.
Every cut to release something inside me.
Something broken.
Something raw.
Something… like guilt?
Every slash to remind myself that I was in control.
Not him.

That summer I learned about constant fear.
Triggers and frights,
Everything was a ‘bump in the night.’
The panic attacks would never go away.
They still haven’t gone away.
It’s huddled in corners,
Shaking all over.
It’s tear stains engraved onto my cheeks,
Not being able to wipe them away.
It’s gasping for air,
Your chest caving in on itself.
It’s numbness
And checking over my shoulders
And sleepless nights
And being terrified of being in the dark.

That summer I learned to pretend like everything was okay.
Even though the doctors said it was a mix of things-
Depression, anxiety, and PTSD.
Even though everyone knew I wasn’t,
I had to be okay.
Because I was only 12 years old.