Do they believe me?

They say that group therapy is a mini version of our personal World. The encounters we experience on the outside will mirror those we have in the group.

I shared a little about my experiences with sexual abuse at a group three weeks ago and included the story I told in my last post. That was actually the first time I had referred to it during this therapy programme, not because I was in a state of avoidance, but it had somehow become lesser than the trauma I endured at the hands of my parents. I erroneously assumed the Therapists already knew my history. Is this why they doubt me?

Years ago, I would talk loosely about the sexual abuse, but could never utter a sound about the trauma associated with my parents. During the course of the last few weeks, I’ve come to realise the influence these unnatural sexual experiences had on my childhood and it’s now so easy to identify the psychological effects that rippled through my World.

The first time I ever told someone about the sexual abuse was at the tender age of eighteen and I’ve revealed it to a few other people since then. At no time did it ever enter my head that someone might disbelieve me, which makes this recent experience with the Therapists even more mystifying. But, why now?

When I blurted it out to the group, the Psychotherapist, Frankie asked, “Why have you not mentioned this before?” For a moment, her tone sounded incredulous. Surely, this is no surprise to the therapy service.

The following week, I broached the subject again at group and Frankie does not appear to take me seriously. I imagine this is how a victim feels when no one is listening or believing.

I take it to my individual Therapist, Paul, last week and he said it is the first he ever heard of it and I cannot understand why. Paul seems to believe everything I say, but I cannot trust his words, he would only be playing the good Therapist role.

The next group therapy was two days ago, Friday. During the “Check in,” I was the only person to raise something I wanted to talk about during the group. As soon as I said, “It is about the sexual abuse,” that familiar bad smell of doubt came wafting through from Frankie. It has taken years to find my voice and I couldn’t help but wonder if I will ever be able to trust her again.

The entire group felt like a social gathering down the pub, some were chatting about telly programmes, others laughing over someone’s excommunication from a church. As each single_one_of_the_ninety_minutes_dragged_on, my world was collapsing in on me, as if I was literally melting into the child within, even the chair felt far too big for me.  My eyes were glued to the floor.  No one noticed.  I felt invisible.  Vulnerable.  How can I tell anyone about the abuse? No one is listening. I have no voice.