My therapist has described my need or want to tell about my abuse as my desire to be my authentic self with people who are close to me in my life. It made sense but at the time I didn’t know how much impact it would have on me as I spoke out to family member, then friend , then another friend.
Yesterday I found myself sitting having my nails done talking to the beauty therapist I know well for several years and who knows I have been an inpatient in a clinic twice this year. “How are you doing?” she asked ” Have you cut off ties with your parents completely now?” Yes, I replied ” Is that because they just don’t understand the depression ?” she asked. And then I said it, quietly but matter of factly. No, it was because I feel they didn’t safeguard me when I was groomed and sexually abused as a child. She nodded but didn’t seem as shocked as I was having not planned to tell her, not planned to tell anyone just off the cuff like this. But there it was, the words out there. And her lack of surprise saddened me. She’s the same age as me, 41, and in her years she had heard other sad stories and mine wasn’t her first. It wasn’t the most shocking thing she’d ever heard and gently and calmly carried on chatting with me.
I found myself struggling for the rest of the day, cancelling my other appointments and now today, a work day I have had to call in sick. Because I am, PTSD is an illness and today I am not winning and feel scared and vulnerable.
What is so upsetting for me and unsettling is how my mood, my anxiety was affected so quickly by a few unplanned words and there I am again- in the middle of panic and memories I can’t box up or control. My hands are shaking and I won’t know until I reflect later whether this post has made much sense.