COUNTDOWN TO PENTECOST

Six years.

Six years, on this very day, I reached out to someone I thought was a God-send and I delved into the heartbreaking journey of therapy with a corrupt, narcissistic counselor.

Four and a half years.

The amount of time I spent, thinking I was working towards healing while I was instead feeding the ego of a sick man; becoming his puppet.  Listening to his advice, allowing him to isolate me from my friends and family, to imperiously pick and choose the people I spent time with and the career path I would follow.

Eighteen months.

The number of days since I walked out of his office in tears, wielding massive amounts of power yet feeling as weak and lowly as a slug.  The amount of time I've spent deprogramming from his brainwashing.  Eighteen months of hearing his voice in my head, telling me that nobody has to know; that he’ll keep my secret for me.  What a gentleman.

I’ve spent eighteen months in a therapist-induced trauma which I can’t undo with the therapeutic techniques taught to me by that same person.  And I’m done.  I can’t spend my days and nights in utter exhaustion, in memories and nightmares.  I can’t rehash every single event, attempting to figure out how I could have escaped any earlier, when I know how mentally ill I was—and still am.

So I’ve decided to delve into therapy again.  Because I know that therapy itself is good, even if my experience thus far has been distinctly traumatic.  I know that as I help others, I can’t legitimately encourage them to face their fears and see a counselor if I haven’t done it myself.

Except…

I’ve been rejected for ongoing counseling by every viable office I've contacted within an hour’s drive of my home…because they don’t feel capable to handle my level of trauma.  How ironic that my incompetent counselor was skilled enough to damage me psychologically beyond the bounds of ordinary care.   I’ve been schlepped from one office to another, each one expressing their ineptness; yet referring me on…until I have nearly collapsed in despair.

Fifty Days.

The time allotted until I fly into the unknown, carrying faith and hope on my shirttails like feathers on a wing.

Because I stumbled upon a place; a week-long intensive recovery group led by a man whose views about childhood sexual abuse have been mind-blowing to me.  Whose books have allowed me to begin healing. And I never imagined that I would be allowed to go there and be in this group.  My abusive counselor had consistently told me that I would not be healthy for groups; that I would traumatize others around me.  But here I am; accepted.  I am going to learn real and healthy ways to improve.  I am going to belong.  I will transform.

I count the days.  50.  My personal Pentecost.