Archaeologist 

I just came back from my therapy appointment. It was perhaps the most productive and beneficial session I’ve had yet with her.

Firstly, she wanted to know how the last session went with my girlfriend. She could tell I was a little bit embarrassed then, as well as a bit introverted. I had felt as if my ribs and skull were cracked open- light shining down on all of my cracks and splits.

I told her about the conversation I had with my uncle. The more I discussed it, the more I realized how angry I felt inside my chest. I’m livid that he even threatened me… “I’ll have the neighbors watch out for her car at night and I’ll know if she spends the night.” I’m just so fucking over it. I hate being treated like an irresponsible teenager that doesn’t know right from wrong. The threats were completely unnecessary as well. I explained to my therapist that it especially hurts because I had finally felt like I was making progress with my uncle; we hadn’t been very close after we had a falling out. However, we were doing a lot better. I had confided in him and had some real, heart-to-heart conversations. Then, boom. he take 10 steps back.

I’m also pretty pissed with his son- the cousin I live with- for spending time with my other cousin. I had told him this past November about the rape, molestation, etc. When I told him that, he was so angry and protective of me. Finally, I thought, justice. He had given me validation that it was a fucked up situation and he would protect me from now on… yet, nothing has changed. While in the session, I could myself back up into my shell, sad and betrayed.

We began to discuss my habit of appeasing everyone else. It is my operating basis. It has become much easier for me to nod, smile, and agree then to convey my true, hurt feelings. A part of me feels that my feelings and opinions are worthless, anyways. So, why try to argue them? I’ve always suppressed my feelings. I think I just learned how to cope that way.

We talked about how I felt responsible for my molestation because I had asked my cousin at one point when I was 12, “Can I kiss you?” In my mind, I think I asked him because I wanted to make sure he knew I was human. I don’t think he loved me, or cared for my well being. But maybe somehow, I would be able to convince him, even for a second, that I wasn’t an object but a living, breathing, sentient human being. I mentioned to my therapist that I think Rogue was angry at me because in a way, I had given my cousin the key card access, I had given him permission. She brought up how Rogue reacted to my girlfriend a few weeks ago: Rogue grabbed my girlfriend and told her, “You don’t really love us.” It made a lot of sense to me and really tripped me out the more I thought about it.

I had a dream last night that I was being interviews about Rogue. The interviewer asked me, “Why do you think she’s so angry?” I replied with, “I don’t know.” Then, dozens of pictures ran by, similar to how documentaries are filmed. There was a picture of me as a child at a birthday party. I was smiling, holding a present and wearing a party hat. The interviewer asked me again, “You really don’t know why?” Then, he zoomed in on the picture. My neck was bruised. Yet, I was smiling, pretending everything was okay. all of the adults didn’t seem to notice anything else but the gifts and balloons.

My therapist made a note, “Your pain was invisible to everyone.”

I think Rogue must have shown me that dream. I had written a letter to her, asking her to please send me a sign that everything was okay. I think she’s hurting, and we want to help her. Oh… as I tear up writing this…

I came back to the office, settled in and noticed writing on my hand: 

  

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Archaeologist 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s