No longer can I remain anonymous, just another girl checking in for her doctor's appointment.  The moment I tell them the visit is to be billed to the state, and present this voucher, which might as well be painted in bright red blood, dripping and leaving a breadcrumb trail for all, with a neon sign that reads "sexual assault," I become that girl.

I see the way their eyes change.  I see how they look at me.  The hardness of the day, painted in the lines on their face, softens, just a bit.  Their eyes, normally cold and focused, now try to melt my heart with their temporary concern.

I sit in the waiting room amongst the anonymous people.  There's the elderly couple across from me; the Hispanic family: three kids occupied by the mom while the dad talks loudly on the phone, his bulbous body exceeding the chair he sits on; the blonde woman with her adorable blonde-headed daughter in the white linen dress; and all the other anonymous people I didn't care to pay attention to.  I am no longer anonymous, though.  

The lady who checked me in is now talking about me.  I catch her glimpsing over at me as she speaks with the other receptionist.  They both sneak not-so-subtle peeks at me.  All the while, I find myself eyeing the door.  All I want is to leave and be anonymous again.

The large door to the back offices swings open and my name is called.  No longer am I just that girl, sitting there looking frightened.  Now they will know me as Jennifer.

The nurse is kind in greeting me and I wonder if she already knows.  She takes me back to get my weight and I see that yet again it is fluctuating wildly.  It's been doing this ever since that night.  I think that can't be healthy but really, this is the least of my concerns.  She takes me back to the exam room and directs me to sit on the table.  I follow her directions and immediately cross my legs, and then my arms.  It's a comfort to not be so exposed and I feel as if maybe I can be anonymous in here, just for a moment.

"What are you here for today?" she asks.  And there it is, the question that will make me expose myself.

"Just a follow up," I offer.  But by the questioning look she gives me, I can tell she's not satisfied.

"I was here three weeks ago…for sexual assault," I concede.  Immediately I feel the tiny room fill with my shame and I'm drowning in it, gasping for air to fill my lifeless lungs.  The nurse refuses to look at me now, and I wonder if she feels the shame too.

I continue sitting on the table, taking measured breaths, holding myself, and looking out the window.  I focus on the baseball field across the way.  There were children playing there just a moment ago, but they have disappeared and for some reason, this makes me feel even more alone.  Still, I focus on it, because I need to focus on something other than the thoughts that threaten to fill my mind.

The nurse takes my blood pressure and says it's excellent.  I must be getting really good at hiding behind my mask, concealing all my feelings, my fears, my drowning.  My pulse is good too.  Somehow I've managed to trick my body into believing everything's okay.  Why then won't my mind listen too?  Why can't I get it to just forget?

A few more questions and the nurse leaves me alone again in the tiny exam room while I wait for my doctor.  We are acquaintances and so she has taken a special interest in me.  I've always adored her as my doctor, but she feels like more of a friend now, especially as she enters the room with her warm smile and hugs me in the most genuine way.  With her, I don't feel anonymous, but I also don't feel like that girl.

My doctor and I talk.  When she looks at me, asking how I'm doing, there is genuine concern in her eyes, but I don't feel like she's trying to break through my shell.  When she speaks to me, it is a conversation, and I'm not given only pity to chew on.  When she hugs me again, she leaves me feeling like I will be okay, but if I'm not right away, that's okay too.  She accepts me and the fact this will take time.  Anonymous is not how I feel now, nor is it how I want to feel.  In fact, I think I feel like myself again, just a little sadder.

But now I'm off down the hall to the lab to have more blood tests done.  As I hand over the orders, I'm directed to sit in the special chair.  I dig out that state voucher again, the one that screams "sexual assault."  But when I try handing it over to the phlebotomist, explaining that they are not suppose to bill me or my insurance, I'm met with resistance.  I don't understand why they are making this so hard on me.  It says right here they are not to bill me.  I look at the words, bolded, "Do not bill the sexual assault victim."  I try getting them to listen to me, to read the words, but they don't.  I don't want to say it.  I don't want to come out of my anonymous shell.  Not here.  Not in front of everyone.

"It says right here you're not suppose to bill me!" I plead.  But she doesn't listen.  So I try again, reading right from the paper, "It says 'Do not bill the sexual assault victim!'"

Those words echo in the tiny room and out into the hallway.  I am no longer anonymous.  I am that girl.  I'm the girl that was raped and now they all know.

I sit silent in my chair.  I give up the fight and tell them to just bill my insurance and take my blood.  Might as well take it all, I've got nothing left.


--
<sup>6/16/2010

Copyright © 2010 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved</sup>