Appointments… And the conclusion?

Soo today, well technically yesterday but I haven’t been to sleep yet so for me it’s still Friday, I had my first appointment with my new therapist. Her names Sheila. She’s nice. She’s real. Not like I imagined her but real as she was totally straight with me. She actually wants to help, knows how to help and gave me another piece of myself while I was dishing out all my goodies for her to assess. PTSD. I never thought that what I’ve been through would warrant for that.

I always thought that it was for guys in the military that actually saw shit or like 9/11 victims. But apparently I have it. I mean being raped twice, having no one believe me and not having anyone to talk to about it (I’ll save those lovely gems for another day). I guess it’s coming out now. When I’m a scared, single woman, living alone in her own flat.

I’ve seen so many doctors. So many therapist. Never a specialist for mental illness, behavior issues, or borderline personality disorder. She listened. She felt my pain. She was someone who felt for me. She believed me, the first time. My mom couldn’t even do that. When I told my mom about me being raped when I was ten, she said “It didn’t really happen, you’er saying that for attention, right? And if it did, was it really rape, did it really happen that way, can you really remember all of it?” She’d probably deny it. I was so taken aback as a 12 year old telling my mother that that happened to me and her not believing me that I didn’t know what to say. I just cried harder. I never told her what happened to me my freshman year in high school. After it happened, I thought “what’s the point, she won’t believe me anyway. I don’t have proof it actually happened. (Side note: My freshman year, I went to my first party, I had never drank or done drugs until that point in my life, I did not do them willingly, someone drugged my drink. I woke up in the back seat of someone’s car, after being lead outside a few hours earlier, and he was putting his pants back on. I was sore but I was unconscious the whole time, so what proof did I have. And at the time, I didn’t think anyone would listen to a girl who couldn’t prove anything and couldn’t remember anything either). The same thing happened when I told her I needed to get help. I was suicidal and cutting really bad my junior year.
I guess as the years went on, from repressing so many horrible memories my brain did what it needed to somewhat survive. And I guess now it’s all unraveling. But at least I know where I’m at and trying to get help instead of trying to fix it all myself. I don’t even know how I’d fixed it.
PTSD, BPD, anxiety, bipolar and depression. I mean what more could be going on up there lol

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