Just Two More Minutes

Content warning: sexual violence, trauma response, stalking/harassment, intrusive violent thoughts, family trauma.

Yesterday, we had an encounter.

I was cleaning the front yard because we had finally gotten a new outdoor broom, and I had decided that some things were important again. Maintaining the space. Making things look good. Taking care of what I could.

It wasn’t about me this time.

It was about keeping things looking tidy.

So when I finally had the broom, I told myself that one day, when he wasn’t there, I would go outside and do a quick sweep. I would time it well enough. I would get it done, go back upstairs, return to my other duties, and continue with my day.

And that’s what I did.

For a while, things were fine. I had my music loud. I was focused. Nothing else was happening.

Then I saw a blue car driving up front, and my body started to panic.

I told myself, It’s okay. We’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re safe.

Then the blue car moved, and I couldn’t see it anymore.

I got confused.

I thought, Okay. It was just me.

My body loosened a little. I kept sweeping quickly because I realized I only had a few more minutes left on the clock before I had to get ready for my therapy session.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw someone walking down and into the gate.

It was him.

I got confused again because I could have sworn the blue car had driven away.

But now he was there.

My body started to panic again, but this time, the panic was angry.

Because he has done this before — shifted his presence just enough to make me question my own sense of safety.

This pattern where he parks somewhere else, or drives away, or makes it look like he is gone so I can feel safe, only to appear again. To watch me. To manipulate the space around me. To make me feel like I imagined it.

And this time, I fell for it.

I kept going because I thought he was just going to walk inside.

But he leaned toward me while I was cleaning and said, “Is there a problem, neighbor?”

He was close enough that even with my noise cancellation on, even with my music at full blast, I could still hear him.

I could feel him beside me.

He didn’t have to do that.

He didn’t have to get close to me.

But he did because he felt he could.

I grabbed the broom tightly.

The first thing I imagined was using it to hurt him.

The second thing I wanted to do was throw up.

I could smell him.

It is a strange thing, smell. I have always had a sensitive sense of smell, but not like this. Not this intensely. Everything has gotten so sharp. So immediate. So physical.

I smell him from a distance now, and it makes me nauseous.

I smell him everywhere.

I couldn’t speak because the first thing that wanted to come out of my mouth was:

My problem is you.

My problem is that you violated me.

My problem is that you keep finding ways to violate me.

Instead, I stood there, pretending I couldn’t hear him.

He kept going.

I wanted to leave.

I threw the bag in the trash and almost ran, but then I told myself:

Two more minutes.

The timer hasn’t gone off yet.

Finish your task and then go.

Don’t let him get the best of you.

You’re still safe.

You still have me.

So I kept going until I heard the timer.

Then I ran upstairs with everything.

I didn’t finish the task exactly how I wanted to.

But I did the work.

The time passed.

And then therapy started.

I had to explain to my therapist what happened. I told her that this is getting exhausting. That I can no longer keep putting myself through this over and over again.

Yes, it is getting easier to see him from a distance.

But having someone force space to happen that way, having someone approach you because they know they can, and then not being able to retaliate because you have to think about other people, because you have to think about consequences, because you have to think about survival — it is exhausting.

And I hated that.

I hated the consequences.

Because I wanted to scream.

I wanted to call him what he is.

I wanted to make him feel what he made me feel.

And I couldn’t.

I didn’t have a choice.

I had to stay still again.

And that was painful.

There are times when I wish I could turn back time to a point where I had healed faster, done things differently, known better, left sooner, chosen myself sooner.

But I can’t.

I am here now.

So this is what I do.

I work on it.

I heal.

I fight against all the bullshit.

I feel what I have to feel until it hurts less, until it no longer owns me.

So that the next time he tries, maybe I can tell him to back the fuck up and not speak to me.

Or maybe I will continue ignoring him until the day I leave.

Until the day my brother can leave.

Until the day I can finally turn around and call him what he is to his face without fear of what it will cost me.

Right now, I can’t afford to.

So I don’t.

Because there are other people involved.

Because there are other people I have to protect besides myself.

And that is the tricky part.

When you are younger, you don’t always have the tools to get out of things in time. You don’t know what you are inside of until it has already shaped you. Until it has already taught your body how to survive.

Healing is strange that way.

It gives relief, but it also gives memory.

It gives clarity, but it also gives pain.

And maybe that is why the conversation with my brother turned toward family, too.

Because once you start seeing one pattern clearly, others begin to show themselves.

Once you start asking, Who taught my body to call unsafe things safe? you cannot always stop at one person.

My brother and I agreed that it would be better if I saw my parents less right now. Not completely. Not forever. But less.

A lot of these realizations have hurt both of us. He can drown things out better than I can. I feel too much. He carries it differently.

So maybe this is a kind of semi-no-contact.

I can’t go fully no-contact with them. They are older now. Life is complicated. Love is complicated.

But I also cannot keep surrounding myself with people who make the same mistakes every day while I am trying to heal from the damage those mistakes caused.

I am not trying to fix everyone anymore.

I am trying to heal myself.

And I think, right now, it is important that I am not around my mother or my father too much.

That hurts.

But what else can I do?

I can see them once in a while.

I can love them.

But I cannot keep loving them in a way that keeps breaking me.

Especially not now.

Not while I am trying to understand what this has done to us.

What this has done to me.

I was made into a strong person.

But look at the kind of strength and resilience I have had to carry my entire life.

Yes, I am grateful for what kept me alive.

I am grateful for whatever in me refused to give up.

I would not be here without it.

But it still isn’t fair.

And that is what I am learning.

No person should have to learn strength this way.