What a Difference It Makes to Believe

I’ve spent years–and I mean literally years–telling myself and my therapist that my memories probably weren’t real, that I “must have made it all up,” that there is something perverse and bad about me that I would imagine that someone in my family would sexually abuse a little girl. I’ve harmed myself many, many times, as a way to convince myself that I don’t know what in fact I do know.

And then for some reason, I recently decided to stop doing that. I decided to start believing that little girl. After all, if a little girl, maybe eight years old, maybe only seven, came to me now with a confused and partial story like my story, I wouldn’t think she was perverse. I wouldn’t think she had made it up to get attention. I wouldn’t try to persuade her that no one in her family would do such a thing to her. Of course not. Instead, I would be outraged. I would spring up to defend and protect her. And most of all, I would treat her with compassion and care.

Naturally E, excellent therapist that she is, has been promoting a stance like this for I don’t know how long. But I guess I had to resist and resist until one day I didn’t anymore. And I don’t want to claim that “ok, everything is fine now,” because that just wouldn’t be true. But something has shifted. I feel like believing myself will now actually permit me to get the comfort and compassion and ultimately the healing that I have been needing ever since I was that little girl.


  1. I have blocked out the fact I was raped totally, yet I know I was. That at 62 my mind won’t allow that memory means it had to have been atrocious. I know all the events surrounding it, and exactly what he said before he committed it, then nothing except screaming in the tub because it stung down ‘there.’
    And later in life I outright asked Danny what he did, which he responded with, “it’s better you don’t know,” so confirming it. So fuzzy details are truths, unfortunately.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Hope you can hold onto this truth and work through it with compassion. My T was like yours when I found compassion for my 23 year old self which didn’t last long as I got scared of who she had become. It should be so simple to hug ourselves and love ourselves….
    Take care

    Liked by 1 person

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