I’ve just told my Brain Lady that I was abused as a teenager. That’s true. I don’t think i’ve ever been able to just say it to someone like that before. So I feel kind of shocked.
At the last session I’d managed to say that there were more things than the sleep disorder and depression that I wanted to get help with. I knew that at some point I’d have to elaborate on the intricate obfuscation I’d woven and say something more. For some reason – probably the usual mental tricks
of deflection – I hadn’t clicked that it would be soon. So when my Brain Lady asked me about it today I was a bit flustered. I have thought about it a lot – but about going forwards and doing a thing, not about why I needed to go forwards. Dumbass.
I don’t think I could have prepared for it though. And it’s weird writing it again here – i’ve confessed the things that have happened to me on paper, and shared that with some of my loved ones, but to say them out loud… It took a lot. But once i’d said “i was abused as a teenager” I found I could talk about it a little. Knowing that we weren’t about to launch into details helped. Obviously it’s the missing link when I think about self-harm and depression and so talking about it makes more of my life make sense – even to me, who knows that already. The things we hide from ourselves.
I did feel obliged, as I always do, to state that it wasn’t awful – I wasn’t abducted or anything and millions have suffered far worse. But it happened to me and that is significant enough for me. The scale I always imagine is, I guess, a way of normalising, gaining perspective on my experience. But however minor it may have been compared to someone’s else’s experience doesn’t really matter. It’s a kind of self-denial – minimising the value and worth of how I feel.
Writing like this helps me to explore how I feel, and I get to see it. And look at it, as I would any other piece of writing and criticise it. (I’m not checking for spelling and grammar – sorry.) And as I write I’m starting to find the answers to questions I asked my Brain Lady and myself about the purpose of pursuing treatment for something that happened so long ago which I survived. The mere fact that i’m writing about it at all, and worse, scarcely managing to even fucking say makes it pitifully obvious why I need to take action. That is scares me, freezes my silver tongue, turns me instinctively – these are such clear indications to me.
I’ve hidden from myself for too long. I’m not sure I like it out here yet. I’ll allow myself a shudder of tears. I realise this is a big deal and has not been easy and i’m torn in my chest and I don’t know what this is going to be like.
But now i’ve got to go back to work.