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Little Girl Lost

Posted by missophelia , 19 February 2010 · 21 views

I would say that lost describes how I felt my senior year in high school. After my uncle tried to rape me, I was filled with pain and anger. The girl who I'd been was pretty well all gone. I would compare how I felt to how a child lost from her mother in a crowd would feel. Horribly lost. In my pain and anger.

And I found that I was very much still a little girl. I almost think I stopped growing after my mother molested me. I never grew into a healthy, happy teenager. I could never relate to my classmates. Not only was I a loner and a target for the bullies, I also felt I just didn't fit in.

I didn't have the confidence that the other girls in my class showed. I stumbled around those things that were common for teenage girls. I wore no makeup because the last thing I wanted was attention from boys. I never dressed in a way to make myself look pretty. I avoided any kind of school activities. I just kind of disappeared.

I was just different. I was that little girl who was hurting so very much that I couldn't grow or move forward in any way.

My urges to SI grew, and most times I gave in to them. I also started drinking more frequently, and drinking more every time. My grades suffered, and I raged with anger for myself. I contemplated suicide, but I always backed out of any plans I had set at the time. I find it amazing that I was able to find a part of myself, somewhere deep inside, that thought I was worth saving, worth fighting for.

So I went into counseling for the second time during my senior year. Through all of my pain and anger, I was able to reach out and call a crisis line. I guess the part of me that wanted to live, that wanted to find some shred of happiness, was stronger than I knew.

I started seeing Pam shortly after school started. For the longest time I hardly spoke in therapy. I just sat there and cried. She did a lot of talking, a lot of trying to convince me that I was worth the work it would take to save me. And every time I left her office, doubt and dread would fill my mind. I wasn't convinced.

Once I started talking, we spent a good amount of time talking about my parents' divorce. We talked about my problems in school. We talked about my problems with alcohol. We talked about my plans to commit suicide. We talked about a lot of things. But we didn't talk about the most important things.

I don't know if Pam ever sensed that I was holding stuff back from her. I always got the feeling that she knew there was more going on with me. But she never pushed, and I never spoke about those things.

The one thing the time in therapy with her did was get me through my senior year. The pain and anger were still there, though. Most of my nights were unbearable, because I had frequent nightmares. My days were filled with flashbacks and waiting to see her at the next session. Although I didn't discuss the stuff I should have with her, I felt like I had someone I could talk to if I wanted to.

In her office, I felt safe.

What I've written so far has been difficult for me, especially what I wrote about my mother and my uncle. But until I started writing my story, I don't think I knew how much the parts of my story I've already written affected the rest of my life. I think it's important for me to remember that I had some good times, and I think it's just as important to include them in my story. And I will.

But I can now see that certain things happened because of what I'd been through, and what I'd become.

I really relate to this, I know for me, even though I did not tell my therapist anything about the abuse, just going helped, it was a safe space to go to. And I think that helped save me.

you are so strong to be writing all of this, and I am also looking forward to hearing the good times. I think we do lose sight of them on here, and they are important.
Feb 19 2010 11:56 PM

Yes, I understand what you're saying. I think that I used that therapy to help me survive that year. It was so safe to be in her office, and I think you know how important it was to have that feeling of safety. It was like a refuge.

Thanks for calling me strong. When I started telling my story, the last thing I felt was strong. The past couple of days have been a little different for me. I've never felt like I could even think about my past, let alone try and deal with the trauma and everything that went with it. Now I'm feeling more capable of dealing with it. I guess that's kind of what it feels like to be strong.

And the good times are like another kind of refuge. They are something I think I can use to remind me that all is not lost with me, and that I was never truly, completely, lost. And that's a really good feeling, and it's a great thing to realize.

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