I don’t want to thank H. Instead, I say, “I’ve never really said all of it out loud.” H. does not say, “What are you talking about?” He does not say, “Really, eight years later?” Or, “At least you weren’t killed.” H. says, “I’m here to listen if you want to tell me.” And then, “If you don’t want to speak, I am still here.” “Will it help?” I ask. I want a definitive answer, even as I suspect that men with definitive answers about my body have something to do with why I’m there in the first place. “It might,” H. says. “Some people find it helpful. Others don’t.” I say nothing.
