Therapy

I started therapy on Monday. It was...surprisingly good. Ok, the summary.

1) Talked about family stuff- just sort of the iceberg, and what I could think of. She responded in generally sympathetic ("It sounds like you had to grow up really fast.") and useful ways. ("So it sounds like what this has lead to is some calibration issues in your own relationships, not knowing how you're supposed to relate to people." Which is exactly right. I hadn't pinpointed that exact perspective, but that's exactly right.)

2) Talked about being poly. She didn't respond in a way that was spectacularly awesome, but neither did she respond in a way that was unhelpful or derogatory. Plus, I'm not really conflicted about poly. I think it's unequivocally awesome.

3) Talked about kink. Talked about being kinked for hypnosis, which led to interest in BDSM, and she had VERY RIGHT things to say about the relation (the relinquishing of power within certain boundaries, whether they are explicit or implicitly psychological) and even knew the word scene! WIN.

4) Talked about eating. She said she had some ideas. Great.

So all in all, it was very good. Then I went home, called a couple people before a date with T, because I had a fair amount of post-stressful-incident energy, so I called folks and got some of that out. Then I went to A and T's place, where T was still exercising and sat on the couch and read- and at some point some of the stuff, specifically what my therapist had pointed out about 'calibration issues' actually hit me. It wasn't profound stuff. It wasn't really new stuff. But it hit me like a ton of bricks. I actually think I got kind of lightheaded.

I just get so angry when I think about this shit that I've gone through. (Oh, and by the way, yes, there are people who have gone through far worse than I have. This is my version of bad. And since it's my blog, you don't get to demean my version of bad.) I didn't deserve it. I don't deserve to still be dealing with it.

I didn't deserve to lose my childhood at age 10.

I think that's what gets me worst. That precocious, trusting, nerdy, bubbly little girl- who would have had a rough enough time anyway- got hit with this shit, never got to properly grow up, never got to be who she could have been. Instead she ended up me. And hey, I like me. But I'm bruised and broken and callused and hard and stupid and stubborn and fragile and uncertain- and she might have been some of those things too. But maybe not all of them. And yes, maybe she'd have missed some of the great things I am- and no, there'll be no dramatic list of those because thinking about the positive things I am is way harder than thinking about the negative things I am- 

But y'know what? I wish I could know what that little girl might have grown up like in a whole family with a reasonably sane version of normal.

I wsh that little girl had gotten what she deserved.