I used to get mocked when mentioning therapy, but I don’t care. Most celebrities see therapists weekly, if not more, they’re not ashamed so why should we be any different? I have a therapy session weekly, via Skype, and it has been so much help! Today was a breakthrough.
Today, I was explaining how when I ‘split’ or ‘self-destruct’ I always take myself to a room and sit in the dark, or if there is not a room available, I walk out of the house and sit on my own, away from everyone. My therapist repeated this back to me, telling me how she can picture me sitting in a dark room, waiting for someone to tell me it’s okay and to come back. Instantly, this flooded me with memories of my Dad sending me to my room (most of the time for something I hadn’t done) and leaving me to sit there, in the dark, for ages.
I used to sit against the door, listening to everyone else having fun, watching TV or Mum arguing with Dad about him sending me to my room. I used to sit there and wait. I’d wait until Mum came to ask if I wanted to go into her room, or if I wanted to watch TV with her. If this didn’t happen, because she hadn’t gotten through to my Dad, I’d write her ‘Sorry’ notes, most of which she has kept. The numerous letters of me apologising for what I had seemingly done or for ruining her night or for causing Dad to get angry. I’d sneak down and give her the note before returning to my dark room. Again, I’d wait. I’d wait till she came up and told me it was okay and she’d turn my light on and tell me to come down with her for a cuddle.
This sparked something in my brain, a connection. I am doing now what I used to do as a girl. When my brain tells me I have messed up, I take myself to my room and sit there in the dark, hating myself for messing up, even if I REALLY didn’t. I sit there, like that little girl, listening to everyone else carrying on, waiting for someone to come to me, tell me it’s okay. It’s like I need reassurance that I’ve not messed up.
Now that I can make that connection with my younger self, I’m hoping that next time my brain tells me I’ve messed up I won’t take myself to a dark room. Or, if I do, I can tell that little girl inside of me that I’ve done nothing wrong and that I can get up, leave the room and carry on.