Therapy. Day 2. 

Trigger Warning: Please note that post makes for some uncomfortable reading 

The road to recovery is incredibly hard, exhausting and at times, incredibly frightening. 

I attended my second session this week and I never knew my body could cry that hard. 

I was told I was “courageous” and “resilient” which only encouraged the tears. 

Truth is, I am courageous. 

I wake up everyday, I go to work, I make friends, I laugh, I read…I live life despite all the unnecessary shit and childhood struggles. 

Now, someone with a perfectly rationale mind might say that they too have dealt with unnecessary shit and that, sadly, it’s just life. 

My brain however, disagrees and I’m slowly learning that that’s okay. 

It’s okay that I’m sensitive. 

It’s okay that things have affected me more than others. 

“That’s just life” isn’t a good enough answer for me anymore. 

I wasn’t born into a happy marriage/relationship (I’m sure many can relate). 

In fact, being born out of wedlock was one of the reasons my grandparents treated me differently to my cousins. 

I was the black sheep of the family. 

An it. 

An embarrassment. 

At 16, it didn’t bother me as much as it does now. Well, if it did, I didn’t show it. 

My dad was an absent figure. 

That remains true today. 

Again, it didn’t bother me. Or at least, I thought it didn’t. 

My mum was…now, where do I begin? 

Lonely. Angry. Resentful. Spiteful. Sad. Unhappy. 

I’ve tried to make excuses for my mum growing up. 

Someone who, in my eyes, should have really known better. 

I won’t bore you with the stories of abuse, the smashing my face into a plate of food because I hadn’t finished, the slapping me in front of my school friends…but know that life was very, very hard. 

I had low self-esteem and depended on my friends for moral support, guidance, love…they became my family.

I now realise I might have relied on my friends perhaps too much. 

It was talking about my friendships that sparked a stream of tears at therapy. Not the abuse or my phantom father…but the love felt from people who started off as strangers. 

It made me think about being on Twitter. 

I’ve had more advice and genuine responses from people who I have never met than by my own “flesh and blood”. 

Ironic really that the catalyst for my depression is exactly that, my own flesh and blood. 

My aunt told me last year that she “pitied” me and that I’d “end up a very lonely, little girl”. 

I guess she missed the memo. 

Therapy was incredibly hard this week and I was surprised by how open I was able to be but for those who tweet me and send me inspirational quotes, a very big, big thank you. 

I guess the best way to end the stigma of mental health and to recover is to do it together. With people who genuinely understand (and want to understand). 

Dreading next week’s session but I know the recovery and end result will be worth it. 

2 thoughts on “Therapy. Day 2. 

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