My Broken Bowl

Healing Is Hard

I had to do that whole report thing to Child Services and the institute that the half brother went to. I had to step up and report the abuse that had been happening my whole life. That was not easy at all. There was so much for so long and I had to talk to strangers.

It was tough to say those things to a stranger. For one thing, I was terrified of strangers and I mean it. They could have been holding a knife to my throat, I was that scared of them. They weren't but that was how I saw them. I was so terrified of people I didn't know and scared of the people I did know. I was afraid of people. I had become almost mute. I didn't talk to anyone and learned to hide from everyone. I learned to be invisible.

Sheila worried about me because I didn't talk. I held small conversations with her sometimes but I trusted her. She was the first person in my life that I trusted. She told me that Hank knew about the half brother too. He never treated me differently and I loved him too.

This was a different world for me.

Fifth grade was a big year for me. I began going to therapy that year, which terrified me.

Sheila was worried because I wasn't talking to people. I mean, I couldn't even go up to the counter at a fast food place and ask for ketchup. The thought of that paralyzed me. I lived in constant fear that someone else would hurt me and I couldn't trust anyone enough to talk with them.

Through therapy, I had various assignments; simple things for normal people. I would have to answer the telephone at the house whenever it rang. I was scared of talking to people so the phone was a nightmare.

I had one assignment that I dreaded. Whenever we ate out, I was the one that had to order the food, ask for ketchup or napkins. If we were missing an item, I was the one that had to go up to the counter and ask about it. (My dad still paid for the food but I had to talk to the people.)

I had to make my own therapy appointments. I had to change them around or whatever. It was my job to call the office.

I had to talk to at least ten people at church every Sunday. I had to talk to ten people every day at school, not including my teachers. It was a real assignment and they had to sign my notebook that I kept.

I had to raise my hand in class at least once a day to answer a question. I sweated through school. I was terrified to speak in large groups so that one was so hard for me. I couldn't do that one in fifth grade at all.

So we were seeing a therapist... In hindsight, my therapist had met with Cady. She suspected that we had DID. I missed a few appointments... I mean I missed a lot of them without realizing it.

Cady told me later that she met with the therapist the first session, so the session that I thought was the first session was the second session. Cady had already talked with the therapist and hated to color... I met with the therapist and barely talked to her while I colored... because I loved to color and hated to talk. Whoops.

The therapist noticed the differences. I was so unaware that there was a first meeting so when I walked in, I was afraid to talk with her because she was a stranger and Cady was thrilled to be out and talking to someone. Cady and I were very different. I was damaged and Cady wasn't...

In therapy, we had assignments and talks with her. Cady had a long conversation about whatever, she never disclosed that to me... she was always a very happy unscared person.

I had another assignment from the therapist. I had to begin a journal. I cried for a long time during my third session out of fear. I had to confess to this woman, a stranger, that I didn't know how to read. It was excruciating and super embarrassing.

I was so scared to say it out loud. I could read a little, enough to get by but not well at all. I was so far behind in school. My reading level was probably first or second grade. I didn't know why back then but it was because Cady was doing all the school stuff and I was missing my education. I was absent from school for three years.

I had to tell my therapist that I couldn't read but I couldn't tell her why because I didn't know why. It was terrible to admit and I felt so stupid. I couldn't write in a journal because I couldn't read it. Well, the therapist talked with Sheila and my extra tutoring began. Sheila helped me and never once judged me. I loved her. I think she became my trusted friend before she became my mom.

Because of my therapist and my new mom, I learned to read. I was a quick learner and within a couple of months, I was caught up.

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A/N: Question: How is this going so far? Any thoughts or suggestions. I'm not altogether satisfied with this version of this story!