In the summer a few close friends and I went to a cottage in the countryside.

Walks, cobbled lanes, beaches, food, music, dancing, silliness and drink: the perfect antidote to a year devoid of anywhere near enough of these things.

One evening I drank too much and went to bed an hour or so before anyone else. The next thing I can remember, a man from our group was in my bed. His tongue was in my mouth.

The following day, I pretended that everything was fine and that nothing had happened. I filled the day with daftness, jokes and surreally ordinary conversations. I hoped that if I acted normal, it would go back to normal and that I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I clung to distraction.

It was hard to talk to people about it. I was scared of being judged, scared of seeming overdramatic.

A ceaseless commentary from my brain permeated. I had just started seeing someone and I didn’t want him to be near me. I didn’t want to go out. I had recurring feelings of my life being out of control: that I’d been part of something that I wasn't sure – but I didn't think – I'd agreed to. That lack of control was pervading other parts of my life. I read a book about sobriety. I split up with the man I’d started seeing. I tried desperately to regain a sense of control.

Uncertainty. Confusion. Guilt. Embarrassment. Fear.  Anger. Frustration. Drowning in discomfort.

‍

I eventually found some respite from the overwhelm of emotion in stoicism. I know it can help me rationalise complex, confusing and seemingly insurmountable thoughts.

Stoics believe that we can build a positive mental state by being rational – by having a measured indifference to things that are out of our control.

And this helped. I knew I could not control what had happened, but I could influence my reaction to it.

I have been trying to accept that:

• I will never really know what happened.
• I cannot change what happened.
• Other people’s thoughts, behaviours and actions are complex, and theirs alone.
• I can be indifferent to judgements from people who told me what I should have done, or how I should have reacted. I heard from some that they would have had – so I should have had – the clarity and articulation of thought to immediately rebuke and chastise.

These things are not in my control, so maybe I could choose to be indifferent to them.

I have chosen to:

• Try to be objective.
• Separate emotion from the situation.
• Look inward.
• Try to understand my reaction.
• Speak to others and hope that shame diminishes when it's shared. When I spoke to friends, many told me similar stories. And many told me so much worse. It was heartbreaking and angering.
• Speak to him. Make it clear that I believed a boundary had been crossed, that it wasn’t ok.
• Try to be indifferent to his reaction and to expect nothing from that conversation other than some closure for me.
• Speak publicly about what happened. This essay.

I’ve relied on distraction a lot this year. Keeping busy, making plans, doing stuff. And that’s proved an escape from my spiralling thoughts.

But I know that distraction is just temporary, it just puts the complexity to one side. This year I've learned the importance of reflection – the importance of looking within to understand, rationalise and address difficult feelings.

I’ll never fully understand why what happened happened, or find answers to the endless questions that overwhelmed my thoughts. But I can now be comfortable with that. I can choose to focus only on the things I can influence and change. I can choose to find comfort in rationality. And rather than try and shape a situation I will never fully understand, I can choose to shape myself. These, at least, are things within my control.

As the year closes, I'm more comfortable being still.

‍