I didn't want to go back after the previous week and as I rang the bell there was a huge part of me that just wanted to run away. At least I would be able to say I tried. 'It's fine. I'm okay. Counselling isn't for me. I can get through all of this on my own' but I knew that would be lies. It wasn't going to be easy but it was something that I needed to do.
So I spent another hour skirting around all the issues that I so desperately wanted to talk about in depth but couldn't quite bring myself to. I wanted her to be able to read my mind and know exactly what it was that I wanted to say and ask exactly the right questions to ensure that I opened up. She didn't so once again I didn't say very much at all initially.
The main topic of conversation that day was my rocky relationship with my mother. I told Bernadette that I was angry with my mum but I loved her and that nothing was my mother's fault. She questioned this and I got angry. How dare she be so accusing of my mother's ability to parent me and safeguard me adequately? After an angry rant I crumpled in tears as I realised that I wasn't fooling anyone. I told her a bit more about the anger directed towards my mother and how some of the things she said about the past made me feel like she blamed me entirely. The weekend prior to this session I had been to my Mum's and had awoken the morning after a huge row to hear her saying to my sister "I just don't think she understands - it's not nice to think and talk about the fact that you're own daughter was sleeping with you're boyfriend. I mean, they fucked for God's sake". NO MUM, I DID NOT 'SLEEP WITH' YOUR BOYFRIEND. I DID NOT 'FUCK' HIM. HE TOOK EVERYTHING AWAY THAT MADE ME HAPPY AND REPLACED IT WITH A FEELING OF DISGUST AND GUILT. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU! Bernadette had hit the right buttons to send me off on a tangent, a highly fucking angry tangent. She tried to reign it in but I was off on one and slowly the anger once again became internalised. She suggested that I write a letter to my mother, even if I didn't wish to send it. I shrugged in agreement, not disclosing that the letter was already written and waiting within the pages of this blog. She asked if my mother had ever discussed police involvement and she seemed shocked with my answer that yes, she had and no, she wouldn't support me if I decided that was an avenue I wanted to take. We didn't really talk about anything else that day and I felt as though Bernadette had just stirred up a range of emotions that didn't need to be dragged off and in the process was making everything worse.
We touched briefly on the fact that my nightmares were horrendous and she suggested I keep a dream diary and bring it to the next session. I said that I would but knew that I wouldn't. I've been struggling with nightmares for years and have tried to write them down but it didn't help. There was also a part of me that realised that if she knew the details of my dreams she would be able to pertain the details of my abuse and consequently would realise exactly how fucked up I am.
As I left, the only thing on my mind was self harm. It took all of my power to not go and buy razorblades and hide in my room and rip myself to shreds. I needed to take the anger that I had internalised and externalise it again. I stomped home and spent some time throwing plates around the garden. It didn't help, if anything it made me even more angry. But I didn't self harm. I had arranged to meet up with a friend to go for a carvery later in the day so I text her to ask if I could go round earlier and as she was in agreement, I went round and smiled and nodded and said that counselling hadn't been great but that I was okay. Compliant, socially acceptable little me.
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