I’ve been thinking about my upcoming therapy session and I was mulling over my feelings of apprehension and resistance. I decided to try to write and see if it helps me work out why I’m afraid. The point of writing this is to be honest with myself so that I can be honest with my therapist.
I’m afraid of a lot of things it seems. I’ll start with what I oddly feel are the negatives:
I’m afraid that I’m a liar. I’m afraid that I’m just an attention seeker who disguises it with seemingly nice behavior and has everybody fooled. I’m afraid that deep down I’m more like my mother, which would mean that I just make up my own reality to make people feel sorry for me. How do I know that I’m not? How can I be sure that I’m not just like her? Even though I believe that she was raped by her brother, her denial when it comes to her treatment of me is an outright lie. Am I any different? Am I creating a dark past out of some sick need for pity? I’m afraid that the fact that I can fantasize about horrible sexual practices means that I’m twisted and sick. I’m afraid that I’m just a sexual deviant who’s managed to convince a group of nice people that I belong here with them. I’m even afraid of saying this because there are people out there who like to believe that stories of sexual abuse are made up and they may look at my words as proof of their disgustingly insane beliefs.
That’s just one side of my fears and it’s weird that I would view those fears as a bad thing, but I guess I’d rather not believe that I’m a liar and a bad person. Looking at the other side of fears, I come up with these:
I’m afraid that the feelings I’ve had are based on fact. I’m afraid that there are terrible things that I don’t remember. I’m afraid that much more than a “kiss” happened. I’m afraid that there’s a reason I couldn’t open my legs for the gynecologist. I’m afraid that there’s a more sinister reason that I had vaginismus. I’m afraid of talking about any of this. I’m afraid of looking into why I don’t like it when my husband touches my hair during sex. I’m afraid of thinking of the reasons I would have my rubbed myself against my stuffed animals when I was a kid.
It feels like I could come up with many more fears but I’m tired and I don’t want to write anymore.