S is for Skin

I had a horrible session in therapy on Monday. Sometimes I wonder how this is all related back to Ex, and then I remember that I had myself together before I met him. Sure, my childhood abuse had already happened and was in no way connected to Ex, but I had managed to suppress it deeply enough that it didn't bother me. Then Ex came along and almost killed me, and now everything is over my head and I can't take much more of this.
                               
Monday. My therapist had me imagine my nine-year-old self, and picture my adult self sitting beside her while she read. I did. Then she said talk to the nine-year-old about what she was reading. I did. Then she said to rub her back.

Oh, hell, no.

I won't go into the details here because, well, frankly, I have never told anyone, and I don't intend to start here. Although, what better place than an anonymous blog with a pseudonym to die for? Still won't. Okay. Anyway, that suggestion brought up horrible - and I do mean horrible - memories of childhood abuse. I ended up in the fetal position on my poor therapist's floor, sobbing uncontrollably. So much fun I'm having these days. I can't get the ick of memories off of my skin. I have tried hot showers, cold showers, tight clothes, loose clothes, compression, avoidance, and just attempted to scrape it off with one of those gray sanding blocks. Nothing works to cleanse my skin. Nothing.
                                      
If I believed God answered prayers, I would pray for a train to hit me tomorrow on my way to work. Wishful thinking. If wishes were horses, Christy would get run over by a stampede.