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The time of the first anniversary of the worst SI I've ever done to myself.
The anniversary of the confusion voiced to my therapist. I'm 40 years old and WHAT did I just do?
And the anniversary of the beginning weeks of the most painful relationship of my life.
He didn't "get it."
He wasn't a trauma therapist. He was still wet behind the ears.
His compassion was unparalleled. I absorbed it.
His method made no sense. I was never in crisis though thoroughly confused with copious amounts of SI and becoming anorexic.
One hour a week. He uncovered my mother's CSA of me.
And then he was gone. No warning.
I know where he lives. I know where he works. I know so much more than he thinks I do.
I have a new therapist. One who can do the job.
But I'm caught up in this cycle of pain and desire for retribution.
New T knows. He hasn't reported any of my thoughts. That must mean I won't do them ...