I made the decision last week to be open and honest with Ms. A as much as possible. No matter how painful or embarrassing.
That decision is one I was super proud of when I left her office on Tuesday. I shared a small portion of what had been on my mind for weeks. The shame was hard to overcome. I pushed it out of my mind. I tried to imagine she was not a real person.
The client / therapist relationship is a weird and sometimes confusing thing. Sometimes you like the fact that they don’t know anything about you and you can even be dishonest or omit truths if you feel it’s safer. Sometimes you like the fact that they are not a close friend and other times you resent the fact that you have to pay someone to listen to your real stuff. Sometimes you want them to have no reaction, and other times you just wish they would cry with you.
The other thing about therapy is that you have to be totally vulnerable and open if you want to work on the things that hold you back. On the other hand, the therapist has a free pass to escape that vulnerability.
Anyway, back to Tuesday. I shared a small portion of one sexual assault followed by my usual questions to her. Such as, “Why me?” and “How did he know that I was a safe target?”. Those two questions are probably my most asked questions in therapy. If I don’t say them, I am most certainly thinking them. How do I drop those questions and the shame that surrounds them?
So, the week since then has been filled with memories and nightmares. It’s so frustrating. Almost like I am punishing myself by allowing the memories to float to the top.
At the same time, I want to regurgitate all of it. Like getting all of the poison out at one time.
It still feels like I’m telling another person’s story and not my own. I keep thinking that eventually I will own my story and be proud of my survival.
Every Tuesday is story time. I have to make a decision to tell the story or run from it.
I’ve chosen Ms. A to be the one to hear that story. I hope she realizes what an honor that is because for 40 plus years, I didn’t tell anyone. I hope she values the story and my survival. I hope she doesn’t ever have to hear this story again. My guess is that it’s not the first time and it surely won’t be her last. She has probably heard worse stories. But this one is special. This one is from a broken soul who has made the decision to live and try to become whole.
It’s story time and I hope to live happily ever after.
Until next time – I am being MJ every day.