PTSD session

I was meant to go yesterday. I phoned up and made up some sham excuse about childcare so I couldn’t attend. That was a lie. To tell you the truth yesterday was one of my ‘bad days’. I woke up already crying, I tried to eat but was sick, I felt unable to show my daughter any love, instead I sat on the chair with my head in my hands, completely and utterly exhausted. I stayed that way for hours. My therapist barely took no for an answer and offered my a slot today at 12pm. I accepted because I felt like a burden, a time waster. I don’t want to go. I’m on the Thameslink train now on my way, why can’t there be an issue on the tracks or some technical issue to stop me getting there. I should feel positive about this help that I am getting, shouldn’t I. Instead I dread it. I resent the fact that I NEED to go. That this happened to me and now I NEED this help to get through a bog standard day. 

That is what offends me the most, you know. Of all this stuff, it’s that. The fact that for all intents and purposes I am the ‘victim’ here, I don’t like that label, in fact I detest it, but let’s face it, it is the truth. I am the victim yet I am the one with the life sentence. How is that fair? 

It should be him. IT SHOULD BE HIM. I did nothing except have my entire trust violated and broken when I was at my most vulnerable. He’s a real piece of shit for doing what he did to me, and the world needs to know it. It’s me that is living with this torture daily, him? Nah. Because he doesn’t have to live where it happened does he. He doesn’t have to see an innocent toddler sitting on that sofa does he. Nah. 

Lucky him. He has no clue just how lucky he is, does he. Nah. Not at all. 

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