Choices Stories Archives

Emily Rooker grew up in Michigan, where she gained an affinity for staying busy through long winters with writing and music. She now lives in Memphis where you can find her singing karaoke, volunteering at CHOICES and adult coloring.

I talked a lot about how to write this story. I asked friends if it was worth it to share such a personal story with strangers. I asked myself if I wanted everyone to know the struggle with confidence and self-love I endured after I was sexually assaulted. I decided to do it because I don’t mind sharing this story now, but it took me two years to be comfortable even speaking with my close friends about what happened and my healing process. I just want to remind anyone who reads this: if you’re going through something similar, you are not required to share. Your story is yours. It might take you 10 years to become comfortable with sharing, and you may never get there. You may find sharing with everyone is the only way to cope. This is all okay.

I have historically been a self-assured person. When I headed off to college at Boston University, I was confident. I was conventionally pretty and thin. I spoke my mind, passionately and unflinchingly. I was confident in my sexuality, loved looking at my body, and loved having sex. I was working hard at a rewarding job as a real estate agent and appreciated that I was no longer working retail.

One evening at a holiday Christmas party, my boss sexually assaulted me. The details of the actual assault are standard and disgusting. However, the physical attachment I felt to myself deteriorated instantly. During the assault, the detachment was a coping method to distance myself from what was happening to me, but in the weeks following, it manifested further.

I spent the night of the assault crying in my bed so hard that the next morning, my eyes were swollen shut, pink and puffy. I could barely see out of them, and no amount of warm rags placed on them made the swelling go down. I couldn’t really get a good look at myself, and I didn’t want to. The next morning, when I tried to make coffee like I always did, I burned myself. But I didn’t flinch, didn’t verbalize the pain. I just stared at the little red spot on my arm beginning to bubble and grow.

That night, I layered my clothing instead of sleeping naked. I didn’t rub lotion on my legs because I didn’t want to touch my skin. I didn’t look at the bruises on my arms. I refused to look into the mirror. The feeling of sadness was so overwhelming that I began to, instead, feel nothing at all. I stopped eating and started drinking heavily every night. It was comforting to get so drunk that my limbs began to slow down, because it meant I didn’t have to think about them. The mornings I spent vomiting into my toilet didn’t bother me; I fought through them to get to a point where I could drink again. My body was not mine anymore. I didn’t love it and I didn’t want to live inside it.

After being questioned by friends for my abuser’s “side of the story,” why I didn’t file a police report, what I was wearing, what I had to drink, and when I was going back to work, speaking out was more of a defense of my story, my honesty, and my personhood. It grew difficult, tiring. I felt the few people I told what happened were growing weary of my tears and retellings. I refused to speak with the police; if my own friends doubted me, surely law enforcement would as well.  I decided it was easier not to speak. My voice was not mine any more. I didn’t love it and I didn’t want to use it.

I quit my job. I dropped out of school. I stopped writing music. The thought of sex or sexuality made me nauseous. I didn’t trust anyone I met, any stranger who walked near me on the street, any stranger who looked at me.  Riding the train became an exercise in disappearance, as I avoided eye contact with the men sitting next to me or across from me. I smiled only as a performance for my friends, a shallow act of theater to protect myself from questions. I barely left my bed, except to buy cigarettes or go drinking. I gained 50 pounds without noticing because I avoided thinking about, looking at, or interacting with my own body. I had completely dissociated myself from the body I inhabited.

In June of 2014, I decided that the only way I might be able to save my own life was to ask for help. My best friend drove to Boston to help me pack all my belongings, load them into a U-Haul truck, and drive across the country back to my hometown in Michigan. I melted into several weeks of sighs of relief. I hugged my mom. My distance from Boston made me feel safe. I never had to walk by the bar where it happened again. I got to sleep in fresh sheets untainted by nights spent crying or wallowing in fear. However, no amount of affection from family and friends could fill the hole in myself that self-love used to occupy.

I got a job to distract myself and unknowingly began my healing process. Working helped me remember that I am smart and dedicated. I spent time with my best friends, and even fell in love with one of them. I started to find my voice again. They listened to me. They believed me. They were angry with me. I made jokes, I laughed, I passionately stood up for other women.

After I remembered how to speak, I remembered how to sing. I started playing music again, I started writing about the assault, and eventually I started writing about falling in love with myself. I loved listening to myself sing. I finally started looking in the mirror again, but I didn’t recognize myself. I could see my eyes looking back at me from within a face I didn’t understand. My body was holding all the pieces of myself I was starting to love again in one place, but I still didn’t interact with it. Instead of taking bubble baths, I took showers and cleaned my body with my eyes staring straight ahead. I decided I had to make an effort to love my body. I watched soapy water slide down my breasts, belly and legs in the shower. I stared at myself naked, however uncomfortable I felt. I pulled at the places on my body where fat now existed. I counted the freckles on my arms. I looked at the different colors of my eyes. I held myself in my own arms. I started running in an attempt to feel energy moving through my body again.

In October 2015, almost two years after the assault, my parents convinced me to run in a 5K race. I wasn’t confident I was going to be able to finish it, and quite honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to participating in it. It was a cold, grey day. The run was through a gorgeous cemetery complete with rolling hills, flower gardens and small waterfalls. The whistle blew, and I started to run. I felt strong. I could feel my heart begin to pound in my chest. I could feel beads of sweat start to roll down the sides of my temples. Warmth started creeping through every bit of my body, starting at the center of me and finding its way through my legs, arms, fingertips and toes. My body was doing exactly what I told it to do. My legs listened. My arms listened. My heart listened. It pounded, and I loved listening to it beating, pushing blood through me. My lungs burned from inhaling cold air, but that meant I was still breathing. I crossed the finish line and felt tears starting to burn the backs of my eyes. I began to cry.

I went home and as I undressed from my running clothes, I stopped to look at myself in the mirror. I undoubtedly had weight in places that were new since the assault, and I loved the weight because it meant I survived. I looked at my belly, and loved that I was filling it with more food than alcohol. I looked at my legs, and loved that I was walking my dog with them. I looked at my arms, and loved that I was pushing my little sister on swing sets. I looked at my hands, and loved that I was using them to press piano keys. I looked at my toes, and loved that I was again digging them into the sand. I looked at my lips, and loved that I was using them to speak my mind, to kiss my loved ones, to sing songs, to laugh. I looked at my crooked nose, the space between my teeth, my bitten fingernails, the scars on my knees and fingertips. I looked at the curves and lines and bumps of my body – and I loved them all. Warmth grew in my chest. My body was mine again. I belonged to myself again. For the first time in a long time, I felt, at last, in love with myself.

Emily wrote and recorded this amazing song, “It was Cold” about this experience.

Author’s note: Guyssss! There is so much that I want to happen, but this chapter would be stupidly long. And it’s taken me forever as it is to write this part. So I hope this isn’t too boring, it would be fun to skip straight to all the drama of the wedding right? Next time!

Part 6.

[MASTERLIST.]

The day Lyla had been dreading had finally come around. Her wedding day. What should be the happiest day of her life, but instead left her feeling sick to the stomach with fear. Once she was finally married to Dean there was no telling how much further things would escalate, Lyla just knew she hadn’t seen the worst of him yet.

Her fingers twitched idly by her side, desperate to rake through her perfect hair and scrub away the make up a team of experts had spent the last few hours working on, the results less than exciting in typical Dean fashion. This was going to be her life from now on. She’d be expected to look perfect at all times yet understated still. She had to look pretty, but keep quiet and let her doting husband dazzle in the spotlight.

Lyla’s eyes rolled, a sudden jolt of irritation sparking up out of nowhere at the quiet sobs emitted from behind her. Why doall parents cry on the big day?We’ve already established this dress isboring as hell! As Lyla spun around on the spot, she was startled to see her mothers tiny frame crumpled over in a heap, body violently shuddering as she struggled to control the sobs wracking through her.

Lyla’s face settled into a look of pity as she struggled with the strong emotions evoked from seeing her Mum in such a state. “Come on Molly, don’t cry or you’ll start me off. Didn’t you just see those ladies waste an hour putting barely any make up on me? They’d be heartbroken if they knew you’d made me cry all their efforts away five minutes later!”

Molly managed some form of half chuckle, half sob, as she swiped at a droplet sliding down the tip of her nose. Plucking a handful of tissues from a nearby coffee table, Lyla’s fingers paused to stroke the soft, sumptuous tissues. Even the damn tissues here wereluxurious! That thought alone unsettled her, knowing that in a few short hours luxurious tissues would become the norm for her.

“I’m sorry love, I’m just being silly.”

Lyla squeezed Molly’s hand encouragingly, as she patiently waited for the sobs to subside.

“So what’s got you so worked up then?” She raised an eyebrow sceptically, noting the hesitancy as her mother dabbed at her eyes repeatedly.

“I just want you to be happy.” Molly choked, her voice wobbling, along with her bottom lip.

“We went over this before.” Lyla sighed, looking sideways on at her reflection in the mirror, eyes skimming over her sucked in tummy. Kinda regretting those chocolates now.

“I need you to know that I reached out to Zigmund last night.”

Fire igniting behind her eyes, she whirled around, anger bubbling to the surface instantaneously.

“Why would you do that?” Her voice betrayed her, coming out as little more than a squeak.

“I’m sorry Lyla but i’ve been married to your father for twenty years now and I know how stubborn he is, so it’s easy to recognise in you.”

“Mum.” Her tone was a warning.

“I’m asking you, as your mother, the one person on Earth who loves you more than life itself, to trust me.”

“You don’t understand, Zig he…”

Molly held one finger up, signalling for silence, before raising her voice slightly, cutting Lyla off. “Trust me, and do me this one little favour. Let’s play a game!”

Cocking her head uncertainly, Lyla took a moment to deliberate, before eventually succumbing, nodding her head cautiously. And herfather was supposed to be the stubborn one around here?

“Close your eyes sweetie.”

“Mum, this is dumb!”

“I’m two seconds away from phoning Zig up and really interfering.”

Lyla had to do a double take at the clear irritation in Molly’s tone. What kind of game was that important? Raising her hands in mock surrender, she scrunched her eyes shut before folding her arms across her chest. “Alright Molly jeez. There look. Done. Happy now? I can’t see a thing!”

“Thank you. Now then. I want you to breath in through your nose and out through your mouth five times.”

The sharp clicking of a tongue escaped as Lyla shrugged off the overwhelming urge to laugh in her mother’s face. This was ridiculous. But of course Lyla dutifully completed the breathing exercises.

“I want you to tell me everything you love about cats.”

One eye reluctantly opened to peer at Molly with clear confusion. “Have you lost the plot? Do you need medical attention?

“Please Lyla, for me?”

Unshed tears collected in Molly’s eyes, threatening to spill at any minute. Lyla couldn’t deny her this, she’d seen her mother cry more times in the last few weeks than she had before in her whole life. She complied, closing her eyes once more.

“Okay cats let’s see. Cute and fluffy obviously. Independent but still love a cuddle and fuss. Sometimes cats are better friends than humans. Tiny baby kitten meows melt me and those cute little teeth sinking in to your hand when they get excited during play time, although that doed kind of lose it’s charm once they get old. Cats are weird, and have you ever seen how stupid cats logic is? I’m saying cats a lot aren’t I? Is that enough?”

“For someone that doesn’t have a cat you sure do love them. Human logic.” Molly’s face lit up as she managed her first genuine smile of the day. “So we’ve got cats well and truly covered, let’s move on. What do you love about me?”

Scrunching her nose up and prising her eyes open, Lyla stared at Molly incredulously. “Is this all just a ploy to get me to shower you with compliments? Just come right out and ask Molly, you don’t need to make up weird games for that!”

Trusting silence to speak for itself, Molly took hold of Lyla’s hand, squeezing gently once, her eyes imploring.

“Fine, I’ll butter you up a little.” Lyla paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she took a moment to think. “What can I say? You’re my mum! You never complain when I call you Molly, that’s an important one! You’ve always been there for me through everything. You encourage me. You inspire me. You love me on the days that I’m not so keen on myself, and you pick me up when I need it the most. You have always put me first. In fact, everything you do is for me come to think if it. Working two jobs when Dad lost his, putting me through college. I just…I love you Mumma.” Lyla pulled Molly into a warm embrace, ensuring she clung on just a little bit longer than usual, heart swelling.

“I love you too Lyla. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you happy? Nothing” The reiteration, combined with the fierceness in Molly’s voice sent a strange tingling sensation through Lyla’s body. That was most definitely out of character for her mother. The thought unsettled her, and she gave a small nod, at a loss on how to respond.

Conscious of the trace amount of make up in place, Lyla carefully swiped at her eyes. “Is that it then?”

“Not quite. Two more rounds and then I’ll be happy. How about Dean?”

Her request was met with a deafening silence, as Lyla struggled to swallow, her mouth suddenly bone dry. As the silence stretched on she began to will herself to come up with something. Anything.

“He’ll always provide for me. I guess I’ll never have to worry about that.”

Molly’s face remained impassive as Lyla struggled for an additional loveable trait of Dean’s.

“His teeth are pretty…straight? Oh God Mum, I don’t know! This is weird, can we stop now?”

“Last question then. I don’t want you to throw your toys out of the pram when I ask this, just answer honestly. Once this is done I promise I’ll leave you to it, never raise the subject again. I just…can’t see you walk down that aisle without hearing this.”

Lyla picked at her French manicured nails uncomfortably, fully aware of what was about to happen. “Go on then Molly, if it means that much to you. Say it.”

“What do you love most about Zig?”

Taking a steadying gulp of air, she started off with the intention of keeping things light, not wanting to give Molly any satisfaction from her little game. “He smells nice. He has better hair than me. His smirk drives me insane in the best and worst possible way all at the same time. He has me cackling like a witch some days, he’s hilarious! He lets me steal his clothes and doesn’t complain when I give them back covered in make up.” She paused, smiling fondly as she reminisced, a reel of words flowing out of her now she’d started. “He’s the best cook, I’d have starved long ago without him around. I love how close he is with his family, it’s so sweet. The biggest Mama’s boy around and he doesn’t care who knows it. Those cute little notes he leaves on the fridge before he goes to work, or the texts half way through the day just to ask how I am. I guess I have been pretty lost without Zig. It’s been three days and I miss our tiny apartment already. We made it our own, you know?”

Lyla sighed, scoping out her surroundings. An oversized, plush dressing room, twice the size and splendour of their shared apartment. Yet she yearned for the familiar, worn in carpet and comfortable couch that, by now, was moulded to her shape. Nowhere else would ever come close to feeling like home for Lyla. A brief moment of hesitation passed, before she decided to continue.

“Zig’s my best friend. No matter what has gone on between us, there is no one else that knows me better than him, and vice versa. Like, he knows I say my favourite coffee is a latte, because I’m too lazy to learn all the fancy coffee names. But then every morning he’ll make me a salted caramel something or other, which is actually my favourite, but only when Zig makes it, with the cute little heart drizzle and…” Her words started to slow, until they eventually stopped altogether, suddenly aware that she’d been talking for far too long.

Molly’s lips curled upwards, a lopsided, knowing smirk slipping into place. Shit! Should have stopped after the first point right?

“That’s quite the list.”

Cheeks flushing a deep red, Lyla collected herself, adopting the rigid stance that was slowly becoming the new norm. “None of that matters Molly, not after he…” She stopped herself, mouth hanging open as she teetered over the edge of spilling all the details to her mother. There were a thousand different reasons why this situation was complicated, and something she didn’t want to get into right now. Or ever, if she could help it.

The look of confliction must have registered somewhere with Molly, as she gently ushered them both down to sit.

“I don’t know the exact ins and outs here Lyla, keep it to yourself if you have to. I do know you’ve just given me a list for someone you claim to hate and want nothing more to do with, that’s four times the size of the one you came up with for the man you’re about to spend the rest of your life with. Does that not count for something? I’m not saying run off and marry Zig instead. It’s pretty clear you two need your heads bumping together and a good talking to, but for right now, I just want you to concentrate on what will make you happy today. If you’re telling me that marrying Dean will do that for you, then I’ll sit back and watch with a smile on my face sweetie. You said it yourself, I’ll do anything for you.”

Lyla’s gaze flitted between Molly and the ancient looking antique clock that stood, neatly nestled between a tall vase of flowers and a box of tissues on the table nearest to them. The hands seemed to speed past at an alarmingly quick pace, the dress on her suddenly feeling skin tight and restrictive as she scratched her neck continuously.

“What did Zig have to say for himself?”

“He invited me in, he’s a sweet boy isn’t he?”

Lyla swallowed down the silent rage, incensed that her mother would sneak around behind her back. When she said she’d reached out to Zig, she hadn’t thought she meant in person.

“Does it matter what was said Lyla? Will it really change how you feel?” Molly sighed, pulling herself up slowly to her feet.

“I guess not. Did he…have a girlfriend there?”

Molly’s eyebrows drew closely together, a mixture of confusion and shock evident across her face. “No of course not, why would he? There was a lovely young man there though, i’ve forgotten his name now.”

“Aaron.” Her reply was flat, not even bothering to look at Molly as she responded. Lyla was fond of Aaron, she really was, but her stomach twisted at the thought of Zig needing to be consoled because of her cruel words and rash decision.

“That’s the one! I’m just off to powder my nose and make a quick phone call to Aunt Fran. She should be here soon.”

“Aunt Fran’s coming? Isn’t she like super old and frail?”

“Don’t let her catch you saying that. She may be in her eighties but that won’t stop her from clouting you!” Molly chuckled as she made her way into the adjoining bathroom.

Barely ten seconds had passed before the main door clicked open, with Terry trailing in, giving her a curt nod, their eyes never meeting. He held a thin piece of paper outwards, neatly folded in half. As her fingers gingerly curled around the letter he stepped back but didn’t leave, instead staying, waiting obediently to dispose of the letter no doubt.

As I said before I wouldn’t usually risk this for such a pointless letter, but where’s the fun in life without a little risk? And we did have so much fun with the last letter didn’t we darling? I’ll admit, the possibility of your mother walking in and catching you reading this at any minute is thrilling. The clock is ticking and I am counting down the minutes until you are finally mine to keep forever. This is a polite reminder to not try anything silly. Say those two little words I’m longing to hear like a good girl and i’ll make sure your parents financial problems are taken care of. I’ve recently become acquaintances with a lovely young lady called Jessica, who happens to be a colleague of your father’s. She had the most distressing story to tell me involving him. A lot of accusations of inappropriate behaviour and groping I believe was the term she used. Of course it is all just that, a story that i’ve concocted and won’t hesitate to run with should you choose not to go through with this wedding. Poor old Papa, you wouldn’t do that to him would you darling Lyla? I’d like to add, I know it’s tradition for the bride to be late, but don’t test my patience too much. I’ll have no problem disciplining you from now on, should you choose to defy me.

Striding forward purposefully, hand outstretched, Terry gave a tiny nod as she willingly gave the letter up, fuss free. Any attempts at making a scene were futile anyway. Terry slipped out, just as Molly returned. She stopped herself from reacting as she caught a brief glimpse of the back of his head, choosing instead to stay quiet. It was clear neither he nor Lyla wanted Molly to know of his presence. Meanwhile Lyla squared her shoulders as she collected herself, casting a final glance in the mirror. This was it. There was no other choice. She had to marry Dean.

***

Zig’s body jerked upright, teeth chattering to attention as freezing cold water splashed his face and torso. “Hey!” He snarled, before grounding his teeth loudly in irritation.

“Come on man, I’m not letting you do this anymore.”

Zig narrowed his eyes before pulling the soaking covers back over himself, ignoring the stream of water cascading down into a pool at the foot of his bed.

“I mean it. Don’t think I won’t drag you out of here. I know this isn’t cool but I’m worried about you Ziggypop.”

He just wanted to be alone, yet Aaron had fought his way in the night Lyla left and hadn’t been home since. His response came out muffled as he spoke under the covers. “Just leave it.”

“What are you doing Zig?”

“What does it look like?” He bit back sarcastically, temper starting to flare.

“Is that really going to get Lyla back? Hiding under your covers like a kid? Come on man, I thought you said you loved that pretty little chickadee?”

Zig bristled, suddenly finding himself enraged. Flinging the covers back harshly and standing to attention, it took every shred of decency within him to resist the overwhelming urge to punch Aaron to shut him up, barely remembering himself through the haze of rage.

“There’s no question about me loving her or not. Everything i’ve been doing has all been for her and she’s thrown it back in my face.”

Zig’s hands balled into fists by his side. Aaron cautiously closed the distance, patting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“We went over this already Zig, there must be a reason behind that. You said yourself she was talking crazy before, making weird accusations about you and Cherry. What if she wasn’t just acting jealous? She might have thought there was genuinely something going on between you two?”

“Why would she ever think that?” Flecks of spit escaped as Zig spoke, pacing back and forth angrily.

“She told me she’d barely seen you recently.”

Zig stopped pacing, raking a hand through his hair roughly. He knew he’d been neglecting her, but with good reason.

“Well maybe that’s true. But what am I meant to do? She’s blocked me from everything and she’s getting married in, what, two hours?”

“One and a bit.”

Zig winced slightly, Aaron’s words sinking in. This was reallyhappening.

“Right. And that’s a wedding she explicitly told me she did not want me at. So even if I did want to see Lyla, there’s no way I could.”

Aaron eyed Zig keenly, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. “Do you want to see her?”

“What? Aaron what’s the point in these questions if…”

“Do you want a chance to put things right or not? If nothing else comes out of this, don’t you at least want to explain that you did nothing wrong?” Aaron noted the thin line of Zig’s lips twitch, taking it as his cue to continue. “I’ve still got my invitation, and I do love a good wedding. Cars picking me up in twenty minutes, if you want to sneak in as my plus one. The choice is yours Ziggy my man, but whatever you decide, you’d better do it quick.”

As Aaron left, Zig found himself tracing the familiar tracks he’d just paced over, the worn in carpet still feeling warm to the touch as his bare feet repeated themselves. As his eyes squeezed tightly shut, he couldn’t stop the words from whirling around in his mind, the sound of Lyla’s voice etched into his memory.

You’re not listening to me. I’m in love with you Zig. And I’ll be in love with you even when the bubbles are gone and the hangover wears off.

A single bead of sweat trickled down Zig’s forehead, finding himself embarrassed and angered at her words. After everything he’d done for her this was how she treated him?

It’s you Zig, it’s always been you…I wore these for you Zig.

His heart hammered against his chest, a confliction of emotions twisting up inside him as he remembered her sweet words and her even sweeter lips. His head said don’t you dare, his heart screamed Lyla. Over and over again with every single beat.

Lyla had made her choice and now Zig had made his. Something they’d both have to live with from now on.

Tagging: @zigortega4life@emerald-bijou@littlegreenmoo@krsnlove@choicesthot

The gang - except Jake - is back at college; the main character (MC) tries to prove Jake's innocent in the arms trade affair - with the help of his friends - while he tries to stay in touch with Jake and manage this whole Long-Distance Relationship.
Meanwhile Raj moves in with Diego and Michelle, Zahra, Quinn and Estela have to find new apartments.
Just about their first few months back in the U.S.

* * *
Chapter 1: Prologue
As the title says: the prologue for the following chapters; showing what happened to the college students after La Huerta; how they're keeping up.
Chapter 2: Best Friends Part 1
Diego is thinking about falling in love with Raj, his platonic love for the MC, the behavior of his best friend during the previous weeks, and how everything has changed over the last year.
MC meets his ex again and decides to spend the afternoon with his best friend, rather than going to some boring classes.
Chapter 3: Best Friends Part 2
-------------------------------------
Chapter 4: A Friend Or A Foe? (coming out soon, 10% finished)
* * *