Facing the Abuse Head-On in Therapy

About two weeks ago I decided to process some of my trauma related to my dad. My therapist told me I should decide for myself if I wanted to work on this hard subject. A part of me wants to recover really badly but my other half wants to avoid any kind of difficult situation. I felt kind of lost when the question was asked. I want to heal. I want to recover from my traumas but it’s so hard to face the truth—face everything that can’t be there. My brain is telling me to face it all while my body is spastically trying to hold me back.

I guess that’s what PTSD does….

I told my therapist I'm having a hard time hearing my dad’s name, thinking about him being part of my life. Since he died, I erased him from my life, from my memories and past. I know I started that process a looooooong time ago.

I denied having a father since I was six years old. I always prayed to God, “please let him die.” I destroyed pictures I had from him. When people talked about him, I spaced out of my body in order to not feel the pain. But I know I can’t do this my whole life; I know it shouldn’t be the way I'm dealing with my traumas. I should face the truth. He is my dad, and he has hurt me and my family. And at some point, I even have to admit that he probably didn’t mean to do all of this. I hate saying it but he probably tried to love me…

In my therapy, I decided to literally face my dad. My therapist asked me to search for some photographs. Even the thought of looking at him, was intense to me. I haven’t seen a photo of him since I was 12 years old.

I took some old photo albums, which I had never looked in. Only two I knew, but in my memory there were no photos of him in it. My therapist agreed to look in to one of these first. We opened the album and really, the first photograph…

My mom was giving birth to me and there were some doctors and nurses surrounding her. They all wore blue, except for one—he was wearing grey. It immediately made me realize the person in grey was my father. I got kind of sick realizing that. I'm not sure but I guess I never saw him in the picture. I don’t know how that’s possible, he’s clearly sitting there. In the second picture he was there as well. I didn’t know he was in the picture. I really didn’t!

My therapist told me I probably wasn’t ready to see it. That’s how our minds work. If we’re not ready, out minds protect us by blocking the shit away. And that’s exactly what has happened to me. I didn’t see him for years because I couldn’t.

I never thought that I would be so affected by looking at pictures. But I guess my mind wants to protect me. I decided to face the truth. Picture by picture. Because he is dead and my mind and body has to move on. I don’t need to protect myself anymore. I'm 20 years old, and I can handle the truth. It’s time to know the truth. Before I can heal, I literally have to recognize him as my dad, as a human, and as my traumatizer.

I think it was easier for me to see him as an evil force than my dad—the person who should love me, the person who should protect me. Yet he didn’t and that’s the reality I need to live with.