Today, I see my therapist for the last time. I have been seeing mental health professionals for ten years. They have all been wonderful and very helpful.
Its a little scary to think that after all this time talking about the physical and sexual abuse I grew up with, I am now “normal.” When I first started, I hoped that maybe therapy would just erase everything and I could start over. I was very, very wrong. For a while I referred to what I was doing as “emotional chemotherapy” because, like real chemotherapy, I made me feel awful but I knew it would help in the long run. (It did take a couple years to make this connection, until then I was thinking “This sucks! Why am I here?”)
Now, I am six months away from turning 30. I’m recently married to a wonderful man and I am trying like hell to finish my bachelors degree in biology. Not bad. There is still a lot of work to do. Life doesn’t stop while you’re trying to get your act together, but now my past doesn’t control me. I’m not a helpless victim, but a survivor.