The eve of therapy

I last had therapy eleven years ago. It was the summer of 2001, the summer before university began. For months I had been struggling with nightmares and flashbacks from my childhood. I sought help in self-help books, I read up on "people like me". But it was not enough. I was near breaking point. I felt it, and it weight heavily on my shoulders...

I asked a dear friend, who herself was a therapist, and for many years cared about my wellbeing when my mum moved away for a referral. Within a few weeks, I began.

I didn't know what to expect, but I remember the sessions were intense and left me crying. Mozart's Jupiter symphony empowered me. But still I had to grapple with the pain and hurt caused by memories of abuse and face terrible images and moments of the past I wanted to dispel. But nothing could be dispelled or discarded unless they are unearthed...
That was what that therapy was for.

And it helped. I felt stronger, somewhat, more confident, a bit at least, and I cold go about my daily life without feeling like a failure or like I'm failing... It carried me far. Till now.

And now, after all the noise and troubles dealing with deaths and loss of a relationship that seemed so promising, I need help again. Desperately, urgently.
Need it before I collapse and kill myself, in one way or another.

And tomorrow is a new start, even though I don't know what to expect. All I know is it will not be easy, it will not be easy at all. But dealing pain and hurt never is.

I just hope I have the strength to deal with it all and cope on my own.