Another night passes, and I wake to the same disheartening reality—I have wet myself once more.
It has been three years since I was violated by someone I trusted deeply. The cruelty of that act left not only emotional scars but also lasting physical harm. The muscles near my uterus and bladder were damaged in ways that continue to affect me.
Since then, I have been blessed with a kind and devoted partner, a man I am proud to call my fiancé. His presence in my life is a source of strength and joy. Yet, because of what happened, I sometimes lose control during the night, especially after drinking.
The shame that follows is heavy. He grew up in a household where alcohol was a destructive force, and so he instinctively links my accidents to drunkenness. But for me, it can happen even after only two beers.
I lie awake, hoping the couch will dry before he notices. The silence of the early hours feels like a burden I cannot share.
I do not know how to mend this problem. I do not know how to speak the truth of the assault to him.
The fear is constant—that if I reveal what happened, his love and loyalty would drive him to seek justice, and in doing so, he might place himself in danger.
So I remain quiet, carrying both the memory of the harm and the weight of the secret.
Each night becomes a test of endurance, each morning a reminder of what I cannot yet say.
And still, I wonder how long I can keep this hidden, and whether silence is protecting him—or only deepening my own sorrow.
