Friday’s therapy session didn’t go as I planned: I was hoping to dump everything and skip into a carefree future. When I had the opportunity to answer the question “what did I feel during the assault?”, I was defensive and dismissive of the very feelings I need to express. I just wanted to say it hurt, but what I did was question why should it have hurt. Double header, I was implying there is something wrong with me for having feelings and minimizing the situation at the same time.
OK, I am only human. I wanted to run off, end the session. But I didn’t. I am committed to working this through. Much to his surprise, I even told my husband what I was doing in therapy.
My whole life I have always hated how I dealt with it. I didn’t retaliate. My big defense was to pretend it never happened. As I look at what all I had to pack away to make it disappear I have a new respect for that little boy. The sheer ferocity and speed in which I smothered it used a strength I rarely credit myself as possessing. In the long term the strategy backfired, but in the immediate aftermath it was the best thing I could have done.
And now, I just want to tell him it’s safe to stop and let go. He did his job really well, but now it’s time to unpack it.