I sat on the couch with my head down, numb with tears rolling down my cheeks. She patiently sat with her notebook and pen, waiting for me to speak. Her eyes were gentle and kind, and I wanted to trust her. But first, I needed her to understand that what I was going to share with her was just between us. I needed help, but I had no intentions of ever telling anyone else my story of childhood sexual abuse.
Truth is, I’d hidden my brokenness for so long, I certainly didn’t see any reason to ever share it outside of those four walls. It was too risky and much safer to just stay quiet and keep the secrets.
Besides, who wants to hear about abuse?
Who wants to hear about a darkness that is so dark it is blinding?
Who wants to talk about fear, blame, panic, guilt and shame?
I figured I would just go in on Thursdays at 10am, cry my eyeballs out for an hour and then spend the rest of my week smiling and hiding the pain.