The year was 2002. I was a student at Indiana Purdue University studying philosophy and anthropology. I was divorced with 4 children and in a relationship that was holding on by a thread.

On my way to campus one day, I suddenly had tunnel vision. It was like I was looking through a peephole. When I walked across campus, it was as if I were in slow motion. I thought the walls were caving in all around me when I stepped on the elevator. I could not breathe. When I finally arrived at the class, my whole body trembled from the inside out. It was bad. I couldn't hold a pen steadily because my hands trembled uncontrollably… That's pretty much how I ended up in therapy the first time.

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The funny thing about trying to get away from whatever you're running from is that the whole time you're running away, you're so busy looking back to make sure whatever you're running from hasn't caught up that you steadily run into new sets of misfortune. I have always been running.

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I felt consistently tired, tried, angry, disappointed, unprotected, unloved, suicidal, out of control, generally disgusted, and at the end of my rope for most of my 20s through late 40s (I am 53 now). I wore black on purpose back then. I mourned everything. I mourned what should have been but never was.

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The past resurfacing was the opening of a can of worms waiting for their chance to escape. Amid a severe bout of self-diagnosed depression, I was forced to look at memories I had buried on purpose long ago. I'd patted them down to suppress them. One thing ol folk say about pressure is it bursts pipes. One day, the pressure of everything I'd tried to forget exploded all around me and from that moment on, life was a daze. To eyes that didn't know better, I was well put together. Little did they know I was holding on by a thread that was dangling.

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My friend LaToya encouraged me to seek professional help. She said I needed help with processing my thoughts and feelings. Up until that point, I had never even thought about therapy. I never saw therapy as embarrassing. I saw it as a weakness, but I made myself go.

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I'm a proud woman, so the sign that said "Psych Support" real big on the door was a problem for me. I wondered who thought putting the words "PSYCH SUPPORT" in large font on the front door…real big was a good idea. In my world, no one wants to be seen going through that door. It made no sense at all. I sat in my car, willing myself to get out of the car and go through that door. Heavy tears hid behind my eyes as I opened the door. I walked through it, announced myself at the front desk, and was told to have a seat. I sat, willing myself to remember to breathe and not to cry. I looked around and noticed that something was off. People in the waiting room were rocking, tapping their feet or fingers, and making loud outbursts. Naturally I told myself that those people were way more worse off than me. I got to thinking that maybe I was in the wrong place Everything about this doctor’s office was dusty I wondered if I looked dusty too.

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I can't remember my first therapist's name. I believe it was Julie. She was a young white girl. Real laid back. She painted her nails during my appointment. I entered her office for the first time. I noticed that the office was bright and airy.  She introduced herself and asked me to come in and have a seat. She got right to the point,

 

"So, why do you think you are here?"

 

She asked, looking casually at me.

"

To fix me,"

 

I replied

 

"What do you think needs fixing?"

 

she asked.

 

"Me. I am broken from a lack of a mother's love."

 

I replied.

 

She straightened up in her chair and asked,

 

"Do you have symptoms?"

 

That's when I told her how sometimes I feel like I'm outside of myself watching and how I'd become detached and isolated, and about my experience when I arrived on campus that day. I watched to see her reaction.

 

She simply said,

 

"Well, those are symptoms,"

 

I told my therapist my story and confided how I felt when I told Gail what happened to me when I was a little girl and her cold-hearted response had been,

 

"If he never did it to me, why should I think he did it to you?"

 

I didn't speak to Gail for over a decade behind that statement. Gail was the one person I thought would always have my back. I was wrong.

I told my therapist how I tried to tell Dan what Jackal did only to have him say (twice),

 

"I don't wanna talk about that. I don't wanna talk about that."

 

I explained to the therapist how I can recount what was said and done like nobody's business…but I have never remembered the specifics of the molestation. I told the therapist how I had very few memories of being in elementary school. Most people I know can remember who their favorite elementary school teacher was. My first memory of my teachers' names is in middle school; even then, it's foggy. My therapist told me that in many cases, a person, especially a child, often blocks out memories they don't want to remember. I told my therapist how when my girlfriends and I got together and talked about our first sexual experiences, they all talked about how painful it was and how they bled. I sat quietly listening, not understanding why I didn't feel pain and didn't bleed. I took a deep breath. It was all too much. I sat, crying silent tears in front of a stranger. I cried from the most profound depth of my spirit. The deeper we delved into my story, the more she'd tell me,

"It's amazing how well adjusted you are, considering your unstable foundation