She broke down between her first line and her second. The transition began when I just simply reflected, You're looking for a resource for sexual assault? Then it was almost as if the person I ended up talking to was not the person who called.
"I'm not crazy," she said, voice quivering, almost in a whisper. It seems like you're worried that no one would believe you. She was keeping a secret, and questioning if this secret was even real. A part of her probably wished that it weren't, and that she was just crazy. I would, if I were her.
"I'm scared, and I don't know what to do," she blurted out, between sobs. Just five minutes ago her voice came through the receiver loud and clear, with confidence. Business-like. I can hear that things are really overwhelming for you right now. She didn't know what to do; she felt lost, helpless. I was at a loss for words, frantically reaching for something yet touching nothing. Operating on some blind faith that had kept me going, I desperately wanted to just say that things will be okay, somehow. But from everything she had said, it didn't seem like she felt the same, so I couldn't say that. I didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry, I'm not usually like this," she apologized, embarassed, trying to contain her emotions. Trying to explain herself, or maybe explain to herself what was going on. Sounds like you feel that things are getting out of control.. that you're not entirely yourself, yet powerless over it. There's always this immense pressure to be okay with things, and it breaks us.
It stuck with me, the whole time, the difference between the first voice that came through the lines, and the voice that it turned into. I was angry, or sad, or, I don't know, hurt. Hurt to hear that she was hurting so much. Angry with the person who robbed her of her pride. Sad about the fact that people do things to hurt each other. Then frustrated.. with not having anything better to say, and maybe not being able to express any of that myself.
"Thank you," she said, calmer now, with a mix of exhaustion and relief that comes with that kind of breaking down. I could hear her smile a little through the phone. That's what we're here for. I felt a little pathetic saying that, a little undeserving of her appreciation. But I allowed myself to have that moment. I didn't know if she would end up okay, or even if she would, I knew it was a long way away for her. I wasn't sure if she would confront the same dense darkness again as soon as she put down the phone. But in that moment she felt a little better, if just for a few seconds.
Moments like this are the ones that keep me going back on the lines, because deep down I believe that enough of these moments would somehow add up to some sort of hope, and we all deserve it and deserve to be reminded of it in our darkest hours.