A Survivor of Abuse: My First Round of Counseling and a Few Years of Peace

I didn't know who to trust with this new pile of garbage I'd been forced to remember. Fortunately my parents knew of a semi-retired counselor in their church. Mom gave them a call and he agreed to see me, to see if we'd be a good fit.

I saw him on a semi-weekly basis for a few months. The first thing he told me was he believed me. I was honestly shocked. It had never occurred to me that someone wouldn't believe. I was telling the truth. I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH!!! While it was reassuring to know he believed me, it made me wonder if anyone around me didn't. 

Those first few months were not easy. I had a handful of memories return that were awful when they came, but the really hard part were the constant panic attacks. I hadn't really known much about panic attacks until my oldest started going through them. My attacks were different than hers, so at first I didn't recognize them for what they really were. I thought they were a form of "muscle memory", as if I was some how going through moments of my abuse from the past.

When the doctor told me they were simply panic attacks I made them stop. I know that sounds weird and probably not real, but looking back at it I think it was a way of "stuffing" that abused and frightened part of myself back down into the recesses of my mind. I put a lock back on that door and it would be years before it opened back up.

One of the things the doctor had me do was write a letter to my abuser, telling him what his actions had done to me over the years. No one should ever have to write a letter like that. Still, it felt good to finally put the thoughts down on paper. It was nice to say in writing exactly what I'd been thinking. I hated this man. I loved this man. I wanted him to be happy and despised him for using me in such a way that I would believe in my core I would never deserve to be happy. How do you put those feelings and more into mere words? And was I a bad person for wanting him to hurt?

Another day the doctor asked me to sit in my chair while he placed another chair right in front of me and imagine my abuser was sitting there. All of a sudden that chair was way too close. Did he have to be so close, even if it was only in my mind? I was supposed to talk to my abuser, to tell him what I wanted to say right to his imagined face. I went from the gut. I spoke as if he really was in front of me. It was terrifying, obviously worse than writing the letter. My doctor would occasionally prompt me by saying, "Tell him how you're feeling right now" or asking "What did that one action cause to happen in your life?"

Then I was asked to do the impossible. I was asked to sit in his chair and speak in his voice. While I hated every moment of it - never did I want to understand this man - it was a good thing. Not because I gained empathy for the man, but because trying to see things from that side of the situation helped me to understand on some level that no matter what I did or didn't do to or for my abuser, he was never going to be happy. He would never be satisfied. All of this really was his problem, not mine.

Too bad it didn't mean I would or could suddenly forgive and forget. I did gain a measure of peace for a few years. Little did I know what was brewing under the surface, frantically trying to scrape its way out from that locked door. I would get indications of it here and there, like sudden dizzy spells that in the past would mean a panic attack was trying to come on or a sudden vision of his face hovering over mine as he yelled and yelled at me. Like the moment I realized I didn't have to give in to those panic attacks, I would simply deny it all from happening, in essence putting a cork in a volcano.

In a few years time that volcano began showing signs it was ready to erupt.