I fear, yes.

Some things lodge in your spine like fish hooks. The more these hooks are tugged at, teased; the more they twist your flesh.

I carry memories I cannot lay down. The old feeling comes at me from strange places: someone touching my hand, a man’s face too close to mine, when I reach down to put my arms about someone. These actions are unrelated, but the vaguest threat of being trapped, of being held against my will by someone stronger than me, brings sour fear to my throat.

I am practiced at putting such sensations aside. I must, I am a nurse; I come into close contact with male strangers every day. Worse, though, is when these hooks are snagged by loved ones. A sister slinging an arm over my shoulders before I see who she is. The sight of my husband in his boxers standing while I still lie in bed. A friend merely stepping too close. I need their love, I need their trust, and they have no idea how I’m feeling. So I push aside that sourness and remind myself, angrily, that they hold no harm for me. They have proven this over and over. I am angered at myself, for still feeling those hooks after so many years have passed.

And I fear, I dread, that these remnants of memory will hook and bleed in my soul for years.