McDonald’s and Trauma: My Night That Shouldn’t Exist

 I used to say with the confidence of a drunk girl holding her friend’s earrings:

“I wish a man would try to hurt me. I’d fight. I’d kill him before he even got the chance.”
Turns out, I was lying. To myself.

Because when the night came—when my gut told me this guy from Tinder was safe enough to meet at his house—I didn’t fight. I didn’t run.

I froze.

I remember staring at the brown half-wall with green paint climbing up to the ceiling, like if I focused hard enough, maybe the ugly color scheme would swallow me whole. Maybe if I memorized the layout of the house, I could find my way out… except I couldn’t even remember where the front door was. I thought about whether there were cameras recording, whether he planned to go further, whether there was some level beyond this in his personal hell.

But mostly, I was silent.
He was silent.

Except when he was reassuring me: “You’re doing a good job.”
Words that now fill my mouth with the taste of vomit.

And then, like a scene cut too soon in a bad movie, he just… stopped. Got dressed. Asked if I wanted to watch TV like we hadn’t just lived in a nightmare.

I made up some excuse to leave—I couldn’t even tell you what it was now—and drove straight to McDonald’s. Ordered food I didn’t want, the kind of meal I wouldn’t have touched even if I’d been hungry. I sat at the table staring at the bag for 48 minutes, watching it lose steam.
So was I.

Then I pretended nothing happened. I changed into pajamas, smoked a bong, climbed into bed, and filed the whole thing somewhere deep in my brain labeled “Do Not Open.”

And for the most part, I didn’t.

Not until life decided to remind me in its usual, wildly inappropriate timing. Because earlier this week, I lost my Nana—the most devastating loss I’ve ever known. My best friend had come to get me out of the house. She was holding me up by the arm, my grief weighing more than I could carry.

And then, mid-step, mid-blink… there he was.

Walking down the same street. Close enough to bump arms. Maybe we did.
I froze again.

“That’s him. That’s fucking him. That’s the guy that did it,” I heard myself say on repeat like my brain had only one button to push. My best friend squeezed my arm tighter and steered me to the car, whispering soft things to help me breathe, to keep me from falling apart right there on the pavement.

Because apparently, trauma doesn’t text first. It just shows up. Usually when you’re already on the ground.

Funny how the worst nights of your life never end. They just wait for a sequel.

S&S