It's good to talk - right?
Over and over again we are encouraged to talk if something is bothering us.
"A problem shared is a problem halved."
What if the thing that is bothering you is too terrible to put into words?
What if it is so disgusting that you could never bear to look at someone and tell them what happened to you?
How can I speak, even to my trusted therapist, about those things I have long ago decided never to speak about?
How can I say the name of he who hurt me so much that I never want to utter the word that represents him?
How will it sound when my therapist repeats his name or mentions the nature of the abuse that was hurled at my body?
How will I select words to describe that which is only vague pictures in my mind and heavy imprints on my body carried with me since my youth?
What if the things that happened are way too biological to talk about? Talking about them would need some big time describing and those intimate body parts involved would need naming.
Sam left for a conference and set me the task of writing an updated list of the incidents and events that were still bothering me.
It took me 2 days to summon the courage to write that one painful word at the very top of my list.
Half a day longer to make it plural.
I messaged my list to Sam and knew the decision was made. I would have to talk about the unspeakable.
I needed to talk about the unspeakable to move on with my life.
Sam knew it. I knew it.
I practised in the mirror. In the car. Anytime I was alone I was thinking about those terrible times.
Trying to imagine how I would describe the abuse.
Selecting the names that I was least uncomfortable with for the private parts involved.
Daring to whisper my abuser's name.
Trying, but failing, to say that one word which summarised all of my pain.
Too soon, the day arrived for the next session with Sam.
He went straight in.
Calm faced Sam owned the situation.
"I've got your new list and ..."
now, with surprising ease and confidence, he said it, he said out loud that word I couldn't say:
"I see that there is rapes, written at the top. We haven't mentioned them before."
Shame held that word inside me. I was ashamed of being raped. The shame held me back from talking about, even thinking about, the incidents.
But here's the thing, the shame wasn't mine to carry. The shame was entirely the property of the abuser, he who had acted indescribably shamefully.
The opposite of shame is courage.
I gave Sam my permission to help me through these most painful memories. He gently began to ask me some general details: where, when, how many?
Then, using his already established method of unpacking traumatic incidents, I did it. I actually did it. I began to talk to Sam about the details of my rapes.
In talking to him, I am talking to myself. I am letting go and unburdening myself of those long buried secrets.
Sam. Dear, calm faced Sam, simply sits there, watching and listening and saying those 4 words that I have needed and had feared for so very long:
"Tell me what happened"
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