My body had taken it upon itself to shake as if I were riding in the back of a school bus as it drove down a Michigan road. I was chewing on my nails so voraciously that I was afraid if I looked down, my fingers would be gone. When I remembered I wasn't supposed to be biting my nails, I forced myself to stop and focused my energy into observing the waiting room.
Colorful posters lined the walls. One sign reminded me to get my annual flu shot and another informed me how to recognize the warning signs of a stroke. My eyes glazed as I tried to read more, my mind unable to concentrate on anything other than my upcoming appointment. The small digital clock above the sign-in area taunted me.
When my name was called by a medical assistant, the oxygen in the room depleted. My lungs rejected every inhale I tried to demand. I wobbled as I stood, my legs uncertain that they wanted to support my stance.
My feet dragged across the floor to the medical assistant. He took me down a narrow hallway until we were at an open door. We entered an empty examination room, the smell of latex overwhelming me.
"Dr. Rodriquez will be with you in a moment, but first I have to ask you a few questions," the medical assistant said warmly. I knew I should have acknowledged him, but my mouth was glued shut.
The medical assistant had said something else, but I couldn't hear him. My mind was elsewhere, desperately trying to pretend that I was somewhere else. I wanted to scrub every inch of my body clean of the stale air, clean of the judgement, and clean of last night's events.
The medical assistant led me to the examination table. I gingerly took a seat, my legs dangling like I was a child. He asked me generic questions about my medical history and did a few basic tests. I could tell he was watching himself around me, afraid of my reaction.
Dr. Rodriquez entered the room with a tired smile. The medical assistant exchanged quiet words with her before handing her his clipboard and leaving, making sure to close the door.
"Hi, Miss—" Dr. Rodriquez looked at the chart before a frown spread across her face. "I'm sorry," she managed to say. She tried to catch my eye, but I was staring at my mangled fingernails
"How long will it take?" I asked, my voice unusually gravelly.
"A few hours, but we can skip some tests if you're not comfortable," Dr. Rodriquez answered. She explained what the tests entailed as she prepared for the examination.
"Are you ready to start the sexual assault forensic exam?" she asked.
And I was. Despite my anxiety, I knew I was doing the right thing. I had made the decision to take the first step of many in my recovery, and the first step is always the hardest part.