The therapists were very laid back and allowed us to lead the sessions and come up with topics of interest. They simply guided the sessions and asked questions to make us think more deeply about what was being discussed. It felt odd for the therapists not to be in control, as they had been when I had other talking therapies. The lack of structure made me uneasy at times and made me question whether talking about all this emotional baggage would really help me. In my head I had aired these emotions out again and again. Surely I would have nothing left to talk about? I had decided that my past wasn’t unhappy or traumatic; just the usual misery we all go through. I heard the stories of the girl’s around me and I felt like my pain was nothing compared to what some of them had suffered. I was more than happy to ask questions and give them support, but when it came to myself I preferred to keep quiet.
Three months had passed and I found myself growing attached to the people around me. I felt I knew more about my fellow group members than their nearest and dearest. Despite my worries about letting my emotions out, I continued to try and relate my experiences with that of the others. Sensitive topics would come up and I would find myself straining every muscle in my body to stop all the emotions from pouring out. I had learned to push it all deep down as a child, but as times got harder I started to run out of room. After particularly stressful events I would find myself becoming overly emotional and self destructive in order to cope. The pressure would build until eventually something explosive would happen and temporarily decimate my ability to look after myself. After years and years of this happening I had developed a fear of this happening in front of other people. So in a way the group was a minefield for me, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
I was relieved when it finally happened. One of the girls had been discussing her relationship with her dad and his narcissistic tendencies. It touched a nerve in my own experience and I began to feel the void in my chest opening up. I could feel the dark clouds moving in and I felt myself panic. I gripped my arm, digging my nails in too hard. The therapist noticed my struggle and asked me to open up about my relationship with my dad. I think I made it about half way through a sentence before I felt my voice break and a wave of emotion that I thought would drown me. I don’t know how long I must have bawled my eyes out for. I was so embarrassed, but the group and the therapists seemed pleased with me. They had noticed me holding back all this time. I confided in them that I was always afraid if I started crying that I wouldn’t ever stop. Not little tears, but that full on ugly crying where you sob until you can barely breathe. Although small, this was the turning point for me engaging properly in therapy. Now the girls had seen me cry, it was less scary.
As the weeks went on I began to realise that my pain was valid. I learned my childhood had been traumatic and confusing for me. I learned the misery I just assumed was part of life wasn’t nothing because others had it worse. I recounted hurtful moments that before I would’ve thought would kill me if I ever spoke about them. The girls around me kept me strong enough to relive those moments and to really be allowed to grieve, as I hadn’t ever. We became fiercely protective of each other and were always supportive. It was different from being friends, it was more than that. I can’t think of a proper word, but it was like we had been through so much together, like we’d known each other for years. I finally started to fit in amongst the others and felt free to discuss my true feelings.
