Tuesday I was asked if I felt like therapy was helping and if I or my therapist had an estimate on how long I would need to go. The job topic then came up again, and so did driving. “I don’t know” was my answer for a lot of it. Even if I spoke loud enough, I still received a “hm?”
Thus, most of my session on Tuesday was about time and what others are expecting therapy to do for me. Coping and recouping is not black and white. I explained how giving an approximate time (e.g. six months) would only disappoint them six months from now when I’m not in the state they expect. Asking if therapy is helping merely four sessions in (Tuesday was my fifth) and expecting a simply yes or no answer isn’t possible. If I say “yes”, progress is expected. If I say “no”, they may take it away. It’s such a loaded question with a personal answer. Just like that question, if the time doesn’t include progress they’d all like and they expect, they could take it away from me.
I endured [just about] sixteen years of abuse and then some. This entire blog is filled with posts about what it does to a person. And I’m sought to be one of the “good” ones! THE GOOD ONES! I’m a statistic, categorized into the group of abuse victims and survivors who made it out of an abusive lifestyle alive and not into drugs and/or prison. However, I’m also subcategorized into the group stemmed from the aforementioned category that suffers from severe trauma and major mental illnesses and disorders: PTSD, Major Depressive Disorder, anxiety, disassociation and psychosis.[1. I struggle with multiple personalities, or fragments, of myself. That’s disassociation. Psychosis is what happens when I cut and don’t even realize I have until afterward; it’s also been sought to be the cause of what happened when I was driving and about to kill myself last year.]
I talk about it so much online because it’s been the one place I could talk about it for the longest time. I still talk about it because talking about it once or twice a week for two hours at a time isn’t always enough. It’s never been enough for me. The last counselor I went to spent more time asking me why I wasn’t just super normal and wouldn’t move on than he actually helped. Plus, he was a guy. I WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! I want to talk about it to the people in my life so badly, but no one wants to listen.
No one wants to listen. No one. Everyone wants to worry about poor little Sarah in ways that they shouldn’t — SARAH DOESN’T EXIST ANYMORE. SHE DOESN’T EXIST. She doesn’t exist in the way that people think she does. She’s not in this body; I’m Liz. Probably Elizabeth. And I plan[2. Yes, plan.] to one day change my name legally so that I won’t have to have “Sarah” on legal documents anymore. Oh, how lovely that would be.
They worry about how “I, Sarah” am going to live life when I’m just “living in the past”. They don’t worry about how it makes me feel, how much they’re pressuring me, or how much they’re treating me the way I was treated as a kid: to keep quiet and just move on. They don’t let me share with them what happened, and they don’t make me feel like I can.
I’m done being shut up. My mom neglected me, and my stepfather abused me. I shouldn’t be buried down so low to the point that I feel ashamed for my life. This is my life, my story. I’m going to fucking share it. Eventually, I’ll share it offline. I do hope to get to an adequately stable state that allows me to do so.
In the end, no matter what amount of time I give to anyone, it wouldn’t necessarily please them. I can’t “get over” and “get past” sixteen years of my life in a flash.
Anyways, it’s officially Thursday. Yesterday was a very bad day for me.