Yesterday was therapy again. I was reluctant to get into things again, being as I was still feeling the effects from last week. I was honest about my fears and tiredness and how my week had been a disarray of emotions and memories. Closer to the bone than ever before.
She asked me what my emotions were. I was able to identify old emotions and current ones. The despair and loneliness is old, it’s a childish feeling, it’s huge and overwhelming but feels young – confusing. The fear is current, belongs to the PTSD, the capabilities I know that people are of and the closeness of evil to my circle.
I found again stories floating to the surface, unspoken truths. I’m angry because no one else wants to hear it. No one else wants to know what I’ve seen. I tell her things, things that scare me, things that hurt. Things that seem unimportant to me, but are deemed huge to her. I tell her I’m broken. I’m tired. So much time has passed.
She tells me I need to tell my story – it deserves to be heard.
I tell her, it’s a story no one wants to hear.
I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed of all that I am and from where all that I come from. I’m ashamed that I’m not normal. I’m ashamed that my mental health is stunted. I’m ashamed I need medication and therapy. I’m ashamed I don’t have normal stories. I’m ashamed I live in fear.
I can’t build typical relationships.
I complicate things.
I’m not worth anyone’s time or effort. I’m ashamed that I’m just one big mess up.
I hate what they did to me. And I hate what I have become.
This is why sometimes therapy isn’t a good thing. Maybe something’s shouldn’t be picked at.