The Least Of ItI am in a new kind of therapy called Cognitive Processing Therapy. It works by having you write alot, and read your stories out loud, this works for me because many of these stories I've never actually said out loud. I was given my first assignment last week, to write how being abused effected my life.
At first I wrote about how my parents hatred of me led to my hatred of myself, how the physical abuse led me to being hand shy and nervous all the time, how the sexual abuse made me hate and be unable to trust anyone. These things were pretty simple, pretty obvious really. And I thought I was okay. As I wrote about these things there was no emotional response, there were no tears, it felt very matter of fact to me.
Then I started to write how being locked away effected me, and to my own surprise I began to shake and I felt tears threatening. The more I wrote about the long weekends of being trapped, the hatefully long summers, the lock on the other side of the door, the more emotion I felt, the more I cried. It was shocking to me really, the abuse that didn't involve any touching or hitting or yelling was the hardest to think about. The abuse that I had thought of as being the least of it did in fact touch me more than I had known.
When I was done writing I went for a long walk, almost three hours. Maybe to prove to myself that I could, that I could leave whenever I wanted, that I could feel the expanse of being outside, no walls, no doors. I came to realize that at almost forty, I was still acting like a prisoner. That in my head I was still trapped.