There is no witness to my suffering
The origins of my CPTSD have been one of the most heartbreaking things I've talked about in therapy this year. I've been going to therapy for almost a decade, on and off and with different therapists, and I'd never had the courage to talk about it as openly and brutally as I have now. Needless to say, it's been difficult.
During one of my sessions, after talking for a long time and feeling somewhat overwhelmed by desperation, I asked my therapist why it was so hard to overcome the abuse I'd suffered at the hands of my parents. I told her I was sick of still carrying so much hatred and resentment inside me despite my best efforts; that no matter how much time passed, one way or another, I kept coming back to what had hurt me.
The first thing she did was ask me what made me so angry.
My answer was that I thought it was unfair that I'd been a victim of abuse, that I constantly thought about how all the harm they'd caused had gone unpunished, and that I hadn't even received an apology from the people who hurt me.
But I never needed an apology, because I'd accepted a long time ago that one would never come.
Together, we came to the conclusion that my pain came from having lived through those years of abuse without anyone who could validate what I'd experienced, without a witness who could attest to my suffering; someone else who could say, "He's telling the truth. That's how it happened."
The loneliness, combined with the pain, was what ultimately made it so difficult to heal from the experience.
She told me that from now on, I could be at peace, because even though I didn't know it, there was a witness after all. That person was her, my therapist. She knew, she understood, she validated my pain and suffering.
Strangely enough, she was right. That was exactly what my strong sense of justice needed. From that day on, the burden became lighter. My soul found some peace knowing that the truth was out there.
That has made me think a lot about how valuable it is to put pain into words.