There is a part of me that is suspicious anytime a therapist tells me your mother was ________ or your mother always _________ or your mother didn’t _________.
I think, how do they know?
I mean, I give them whatever I can. And I tell them the good and the bad. But not everything. There isn’t time for everything or I would tell everything because I have carried all of it for much too long.
I start to feel the way I do when I take eye exams. I hate that they are trusting my subjective opinion to make medical decisions about me.
Which is clearer, the top or the bottom row?
Is it better or worse when I do this?
Can I really be trusted to give them an accurate picture of the truth through my eyes?
Then I remember how we learned about soils in forestry.
When you are learned, you can look at the bark, the tilt, the way the leaves of a tree grow and know exactly what kind of soil it grew in and what conditions it endured.
You can look at it and know what it’s first winter was like.
How far into the ground it was planted.
If I had walked in there and told them that I had a wonderful childhood (I actually thought I had at first, the majority of people with childhood trauma have mental blocks in place to make them feel this way as well), it would not have made a difference. They would have known the truth.
Part of what came along with my childhood was a well programmed guilt-o-meter to prevent me from talking about it. I still feel it. But I do it anyway.
It’s not I who should be ashamed of my childhood or any of the ways that I responded to it.
And it’s still so hard for me accept that.