I had a really intense session with my psychologist 2 days ago, and I'm feeling really shaken up. I don't really understand why, though. I wrote this (below) trying to make sense of what I'm feeling / experiencing. I'm wondering if anyone can relate, help me to understand?! 19 March 2015 Adrift I don't know why I feel this way. After all these years, nothing has changed. There is no new threat, no new memory, no difference in what happened or who I am. All I did was tell a little of the story. How can that have changed anything?... And yet I find myself adrift, lost in a sea of confusion. Tossed every which way by the constant shifting of perception. My heart beats loud in my ears, my sense of balance is gone, everything spins out of control, and I feel sick - bile in my mouth. My pulse drums against my skull, and the pain is too much to bear. My head aches, and the images around me assault my eyes. Time is distorted. Minutes last seconds, seconds hours. Things which held meaning yesterday are empty, without relevance now. My mind can't settle on any thought, any memory. I can't give in to sleep, but I can't bear to be awake any longer. I want to be held, but can't stand to be touched. Death beckons with the sweet promise of rest, of escape from this endless torture. My chest vibrates with suppressed emotion. I want to gasp in air, to scream. So I force myself to steady, to breathe long, slow and firm. But to do so leaves an ache so deep it brings a tear to my eye. And yet I can't shed any tears for the pain that started all this. Not for the confused, scared, hurt child whose innocence was dashed on the hard ground in the bush as he raped me. Not for the sad, lonely, bitter adult I've become - wrapped in a loving family I can't quite reach. Maybe one day I will be able to cry, but not yet. Perhaps I've fought too hard and too long to hold back the tears. Or perhaps I just know that I don't deserve them. I'm the one who chose to follow him, knowing that I shouldn't. And to hide my shame, to lie and pretend it never happened. Did it happen? Could I really experience such horror and pain, and no-one see that I was scared, scarred, hurting? Surely they would not have seen and joined in the pretence? I was a child and they were my protectors - they would have acted, wouldn't they? Did it never happen? Am I really that good an actor? Or did they see, and just not know what they saw- or even knowing, not know what to do? Still today the odd comment, a reference to that time, a name mentioned in passing, and I wonder if they are seeking reassurance, confirmation that they were right to believe my childish denials. Or perhaps it is me seeking to believe my pain was noticed, to make the injury as much their fault as mine? I wander through life seeking for my pain to be recognised, wanting to be held and comforted, yet rejecting at every turn those who try to help. I make living with me a daily torture for my husband and our children, as they try to understand what they have done wrong, how they have failed me. But the failure is all mine. I have failed to heal. Failed to let go. Failed to move on. Failed to love openly. Failed to accept and cherish the good things in my life. So I don't deserve tears. I still don't understand why I feel so lost. All of these things have always been there, a part of my story. Largely untold until now - but telling doesn't change the tale, does it? ...All I did was to admit that it was real.