Yesterday was the third anniversary of the attack. I was certainly aware of the significance of the date, but I have actually given very little thought to it these last several days. Which is a nice change from last year, where I could think of almost nothing else and my thoughts were playing on a continuous loop inside my skull.
Though obviously his hold on me has loosened considerably, I still think about him every day. Mostly with a kind of wonderment. Wondering what made him into what he was.
I still harbor revenge fantasies: cutting his face open with my box cutter, not to kill him but to mark him, so that every time he looked in the mirror he would see that scar and remember who gave it to him and why. I must not have forgiven him, then, although I don’t think of him with anger, or any particular feeling at all. I have no idea what I would do or say if I were face to face with him now. I have nothing to say to him, and reacting with violence would solve nothing.
Somehow I managed to get through all of it without developing post-traumatic stress disorder. Of course it affected me quite badly at first (once the shock wore off, and that took awhile), but almost all my symptoms were gone within a month. By the end of the summer I was more or less okay again. A few signs have remained. Most notably, since it happened, whenever I’m awakened by someone or even roused from a drowsy state, even if I was aware that someone was coming, more often than not I’ll scream. Oh, and I refuse to board buses. But since I have a car, that’s not really an issue.
I can think of a few good things that happened as a result of all this. For one thing, I found out who my real friends are. For another (long story), as a direct result of what happened, Michael broke off relations with a “friend” of his own who had always hated me and made no secret of it.
Very few events are so horrible that nothing good comes of them, I guess. But how I wish this had never happened.