Scabs and peelings

I have no idea what I am doing with this blog - it's all new to me - I guess I'll be lucky if I can even find my way back here!

Why the name? Because that is what it feels like - my life at the moment. I have been seeing Susan, my psychotherapist, for over a year now. And I still feel lost. This process is like having layers of skin ripped off bit by bit - you know what it's like when you've ignored how hot the sun is and got so burnt you peel? Some bits just peel right on off - they're ready to come off, they serve no purpose and there is new skin underneath, a bit pink still but not raw. Other bits you start to peel off and they're not ready and it hurts but there's the urge to keep going, to get rid of that scabby bit of skin in the hope that underneath might be better, nicer.

I worked so hard for so many years to justify, to minimilise, to forget what happened. I was so determined that it hadn't affected my life. I didn't/don't believe that I have the right to feel so fucked up about it - so many have suffered so terribly at the hands of others. What gives me the right to feel so bad, so worthless when my story seems so trite by comparison?

So, as I peel back the layers, I face the reality that actually what I'm finding isn't nicer, in fact it's a pretty fucked up picture underneath the carefully concealed scabs. And that scares me. What else will I discover as we keep going? Who will I be at the end? Who am I now?