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I’ve spent a bit of time considering my ‘story’. There are things I keep to myself. I suppose you could say I’ve curated the things I want to represent me. Not in a dishonest way, more just in a ‘let’s never ever talk about certain things’ way. There are a lot of things that I haven’t spoken about in a long time – to anyone – and that seemed to be working relatively well for me.

And yet, perhaps foolishly, I decided to start seeing a therapist this year. Me, who likes to keep things to myself. Me, who finds it hard to talk about things like feelings and emotions. Like I said, foolish. I’d like to say I was sucked in by the TV series, In Treatment. It made ‘treatment’ look interesting, challenging but interesting. Plus, I was convinced that I was nowhere near as fucked up as those people so my own ‘treatment’ would be much less dramatic, right? And it has been up until now.

Things had been going ok until today when my therapist decided to step things up a notch. I’m to write down my experiences, dredge up my past and talk through it in ways I haven’t done for maybe 10 years. Or maybe it’s in ways I’ve never done before (if I had, maybe I wouldn’t need to be in that room on that stereotypical couch). Yes, we’ve talked about some things that that made me angry or upset but nothing that truly made me afraid. Nothing that rose up in my chest and throat like a tidal wave waiting to spill out and destroy everything.

Is it really possible to talk about something so much that it loses its power? I’d convinced myself that I’d escaped unfazed, had healed myself and was wandering around the earth whole and new (as much as is humanly possible). I suppose what I’m most worried about is that I’m not fixable. That we’ll dig it up, set it loose and nothing will change. Except that now I’ll remember what I’d done so well to mostly forget. Or at least blur.