I started going to therapy after realizing that thing my cousin did to me as a child was sexual abuse and the repercussions were resounding in my life a decade later. I don’t know how the brain works or why memories resurfaced during a summer abroad trip in England, but they did, so I began my third year of college and first session of therapy in the fall of 2012.
I felt uncomfortable being listened to with such intensity. Shari – that’s my therapist – listened as I told her I didn’t have issues with shame. She listened as I told her I wasn’t angry about being abused. She listened as I explained it simply *wasn’t* in my personality to get mad. “I’m just a happy person,” I insisted. She watched my weight fluctuate up and down as I swore I didn’t struggle with disordered eating. She listened as I profusely apologized for crying in her office.