Not everyone is healed by medicine, not everyone is healed by therapy. Don’t get me wrong, it can do a great deal. Still it is alot like an addiction, being mentally ill. Unless you are ready to heal, all therapy will do is give you someone else to depend on. Someone else to expect judgement from. This is often more detrimental to self esteem than helpful. I have been seeing a therapist since I was nine years old. For me it was just something that I had to do. I have had some good ones, ones who could make me see them as human. I’ve had a few who abused my trust. To tell the truth, I have done more towards healing when I was not seeing one. I used to dissociate. For the ignorant among my readers, the term Dissociate is technical jargon for saying that I was multiple personalities. Twenty years ago I was a true mess. Nearly twelve personalities that we knew of. I was never sure where I would wake up, and how much time would have passed. One of my personalities was cutting. As stated, I was not in a good place. When I was in control, I was having nightly nightmares. I was terrified of being put in a hospital. Mostly because I figured I would not be let free. I am extremely claustrophobic. When I was little, I was molested. I finally got the courage and told him that if he came near me again I would scream. Well I guess he believed me… But he did decide to put one last scare to keep me from talking. He locked me in the trunk of his car and told me I would die there. I am not sure how long I was in there. But I was there long enough to scare me. I was nine. It took me four years to gain enough courage to speak. He said that I would never be believed. Damn him for being right. I was told that I was insane. I showed all the symptoms of a abused child. So much so that I was put in therapy. I was put on medicine… But I speak up… And I am insane. Fine. I am fourty one. I am finally one, not many. And I am insane. He raped me at five. He raped me until I was strong enough to say no. Then he raped my mind for the majority of my life. And if I had been believed he wouldn’t have been able to rape the girls after me. He wouldn’t have been free. He is in jail, but I check on occasion. I am fourty one and I am scared of a small man who ruined my life. I am not sure I will ever not be. Ask my family… I am a depressing poet who has always been crazy. Oh wait, many of them (not all) will not even Acknowledge that I write. I embarass them. After all, I was telling the truth. I don’t lie, because thanks to the dissociation, I often have a hard time remembering things. So why lie if I will only be caught. I am not crazy. I need no therapist to hear me. I am whole. I have good coping mechanisms. And I will not hide who I have become for anyone!
Speak your own truth. No matter what anyone else thinks of it.