Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [36]
A scream emerged from my throat, so loud, just a pure scream, no words, no “help me.” The paralysis of terror took hold. As I write this, I can feel the wave of adrenaline rushing through me, hear that sound I made so long ago. It was more of a reflex, a reaction, than a cry for help. A hand locked over my mouth to silence me. I felt a pointed object against my neck, and the man reinforced this action with words.
“Shut up,” he said firmly, quietly, “or I’ll kill you.”
Even if I’d been bold enough to defy him, I didn’t have the capacity to continue making any sound. My nakedness, my impaired sight, the fear that I might die all combined to render me silent, terrified, incapable of movement.
I wished I could be dead, that this man would kill me, so I wouldn’t have to live with this memory. The only act of self-preservation I could muster, as he raped me, was to beg him not to ejaculate inside me. To please not make me pregnant. There was no retribution for my daring to speak; he complied with my request. When he was done, he apologized. As he pulled up his pants and zipped them, he said he was sorry we had to meet this way, sorry if he hurt me, hopeful we might see each other again.
Then he left through the front door, as if he’d been an invited guest.
WITHIN A YEAR I’d accepted a position at a television station in central North Carolina. Moving to work in local news in a midsize market wasn’t exactly the career trajectory I’d intended. Yet a smaller city, a new city, a city that didn’t remind me of that night—all seemed like a good idea. My new job involved producing the eleven o’clock nightly newscast, which meant leaving the studio at just after 11:30 p.m. for the drive home. Perhaps it would kick-start me into making peace with the dark.
It was easy to walk to the parking lot with my coworkers, without seeming needy or explaining why I didn’t want to go outside at night by myself. But at midnight as I pulled into the parking space at my apartment building, the stillness, facing the quiet of the night on my own, would make me sweat. I’d dart out of the car, heart beating fast as I sprinted inside. Once I got safely inside, I’d turn on every single light and keep them burning until dawn, as if electricity would shield me. I’d rationalize: Wasn’t there a zone of protection offered from above to people who had been through a trauma? Just one trauma per person per lifetime, right? I couldn’t fully convince myself that this was the case.
As the months passed, I continued on with my double life. Most people around me saw a confident young woman, even if they couldn’t understand why I’d left a national network—CNN was starting to gain notoriety, by now—to work in this small city in North Carolina. One weekend night, I needed milk from the grocery store. I grabbed the keys, ran down the steps, and got into the car. On the quiet road that connected my street with the one leading to the shopping center, I stopped for a traffic light. At that instant, the magnitude of this simple act occurred to me: I did it! I left the house! It’s dark out, and I left the house! When the light turned green, I was so happy that I was crying. In the aisles of the grocery store, I didn’t even try to conceal my tears. I was reclaiming my life, my confidence, that feeling of normal we take for granted before the unexpected turns us inside out. That night before bed, I gleefully switched off every light in my apartment. I fastened the chain locks, but didn’t stick chairs under the doors. As I eased into sleep, I breathed steadily, softly: Now I could get back to life.
And twenty-two years later, here I was in a car in Thimphu on the way to meet a holy man, the Rinpoche. And in some strange way it is because of that night, not despite it, that I could be here.
Pink navigated into the rocky parking area, stopped the car, and we emerged into the darkness of the winter