Back to the psychiatrist’s office.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR LATER ON!!! SERIOUS TRIGGER ON CHILD ABUSE AND SEXUAL ABUSE! DO NOT READ!! Seriously, I may get graphic so please do not read if you are at all triggered.
I recently started seeing a psychiatrist again. About three weeks ago I decided that now was the time to sort out my issues. Now was the time to work hard and overcome depression, my personality disorders etc. I knew it was going to be hard for me. Firstly because going over sad, disgusting memories is never nice and secondly because I am a closed person so telling the truth is very hard, especially when it comes to emotions.
I see a psychiatrist once a week now and see a counsellor once a week. It has been hard, but I am really determined to do it. But now, Dr. Freud (not really her name, i am being derogatory) informs me that she wants me to go to group therapy or a support group. Now, my personality does NOT fit support groups or group therapy but my fucking genius psychiatrist keeps pushing me to go. Well I have put my foot down there and said no. I know that group therapy would not help me because I just freeze up and act like everything is fine in front of people but I still feel like I am refusing to do something huge. Like I am refusing to go the whole ten yards and because of this I wont get better? Idk, I rarely make sense with things like this anymore.
Anyways, on with my depressing rant:
Yesterday I had a meeting with my psychiatrist and no matter how often I tell her that the rape is no longer and issue, she decides to bring it up. “You are lying to yourself…this depression, this schizophrenia, it is coming from that BLAH BLAH BLAH”. Well, to be honest, she is probably right. In fact, I am sure she is right. It is not natural for rape to have no effect whatsoever on a person. So I am lucky enough (note the sarcasm) to describe my feelings throughout the ordeal all over again. Not just the actions I was forced to do; not just him cutting my palms (the right one lightly but the left one a bit too deep so I still have the ugly scar) so I could jerk him off until white liquid is mixed with red as he grunts in a way that makes me cringe more than the action. Not just watching the girl next to me sob and cry yank at her dirty blonde hair as the gun is pointed at her. Not just his ridiculously pale blue eyes that water and turn red with his effort as he attempts to be rough enough to hurt me as much as possible. “On your knees”. Which one of us? “The willing one”. The fucking willing one. WILLING? As if I wanted to?! As if I enjoyed it?!? Fucking sick. Fucking SICK SICK SICK SICK.
That wasn’t actually too bad as I don’t have PTSD or anything… but then she talks about my dad. Not my dad and me - which i am used to - but my dad and my sister. As soon as she mentions this I am having flashbacks. A little girl hearing the muffled confused whimpers and cries of her only slightly older sister.
“No daddy…no” as her innocence is taken by a sick fucking pervert. I told my mum of course, immediately but that didn’t stop the guilt, the fucking self hatred that has just sat, simmering on the inside for years. I should’ve told earlier, it is partially - no, mostly - my fault. Poor poor sister. The disgusting feeling that just hasn’t left ever since. That disgusting feeling that I have looked at the sickest vilest action on the planet. Everything has just seemed disgusting since then. The happy times are people being selfish and not helping others. The sad times, true human nature. This disease of a human race needs to die out…soon.
Anyway, the point of this rant was to ask whether going through the pain of therapy is actually worth it? will getting better be worth it? so i can be a happier member of this sick society? who fucking knows?