… I’m not sure all these people understand
It’s not like years ago
The fear of getting caught
The recklessness in water
They cannot see me naked.
.
Day one.
After months of eyeing the piece of paper blu-tacked to the wall in my therapist’s waiting room, I held back until my mother was turned away before picking up the leaflet and stuffing it in my satchel, where it sat among discarded tissues and half-empty lipglosses; a simple piece of paper with a few printed words. Just paper. Nothing to be scared of, after all.
Day eight.
For somebody so comfortable with words, the small act of sending an email to a complete stranger to enquire about a local childhood sexual abuse survivors group didn’t seem so small after all. In fact, it was terrifying. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, and ever will do… and I shied away immediately, leaving the reply unread for over a week. Even now, the idea of getting on a bus and walking into a room of strangers who all know my dirty secret is more difficult than I could ever describe. It’s a different fear, it’s nothing like day-to-day anxiety. It lodges itself under your ribs and forms a hard ball of every negative emotion you ever had.
.
Am I ready for this?
Probably not.
But then, have I ever been ready?