Over and over again, asked to rewrite and retell the paragraph that haunts my being. The beginning, the unclear middle and the aftermath of confusion and shock. I literally feel drained every time I have to write it out. What words do you use to describe indescribable horror. That a piece of me died, a piece of me was stolen and now an empty hollow nothingness exists inside me. How can I keep repeating that. I feel like I just ran 15 miles and on the verge of a heart attack after writing 5 paragraphs about the night I became a shadow of who I used to be. I feel as if I am actually reliving it. Fucking horrible anxiety, bouts of crippling depression overtake me. The fear is the worst because it’s the fear of not knowing what all happened to me. Only what I can imagine and what I can believe of what the assailant said. Of course he’s full of shit, why would he tell me what all he did to me. And I have to rewrite the nightmare that became my current night terrors that creep into my dreams and twist them into vulgar horrid versions of outcomes and things that could’ve happened and what would’ve happened as a result of such. So, pen wobbling from hand trembling, words scratchy and almost unreadable, hand cramping, pause to shake it out and rethink of ways to jot down the bad and the details of everything you can remember for sure. The pain, the confusion, the shock and the mangled clothing ripe with sweat that wasn’t mine. More pain and uncomfortable stature. Remembering is reliving and to feel again the insanity of uncertainty. Unclear, groggy recollection of the worst night of damn existence. 3 times now you have had to relive in detail script what you can remember. Holes in your memory like daggers and darts being thrown at you, your brain takes the opportunity to fill in those blanks with the worst possible scenarios. In turn, nauseous fits clutter your concentration. Trying so hard to keep your composure and not let it drive you. Regardless of past driving sessions where it wrecked you into a cement wall, over and over until nothing but shards remained. A hollow hole in the wall, blackness, nothingness and so on. I will not write this endeavor again, for I feel it might kill me. I have already had a piece die off, the rest of me isn’t well put together as of now. A pencil to drop or ink to spill is all that it would take make me eternally ill.