Getting back into one-on-one therapy was quite difficult for me at first. I wasn't sure of what to say or how to respond to my therapist's questions, even though I had known her for a few months through the group therapy sessions by that point. Thankfully, she was very kind and understanding, so we took it slow. Within a few weeks, I finally relaxed and believed that I could trust a one-on-one therapist again. So far, nothing bad happened, and none of my personal information was compromised. My therapist wouldn't even tell my mom what we were talking about if she asked, and would only talk to her about it if I was completely ok with that.
Before, many of my therapists, especially my previous therapist, believed that my parents had every right to know what was going on with me. But the oldest and most experienced therapist I ever had believed otherwise, saying I, even though I was barely 14, had every right to have secrets and feelings my parents didn't know about, and it was perfectly normal and healthy for me to have them.
On top of that, my therapist had been watching me closely from the first day we met. She could tell I had a lot of trauma just based on the way I carried myself, but I was still very stable and mentally strong. She knew of a handful of other therapists who specialized in PTSD treatment, and agreed to give my mom a list of therapists to get in contact with who could help me. She could tell that my PTSD was pretty detrimental to me, even though I didn't notice it.
My PTSD didn't show up in cliche ways. I rarely had nightmares, even though they were always intense when I did have them. I wasn't easily scared or disturbed. I could sit through horror movies and gory movies easily without having any adverse reactions to them. I was just very wary of people and hyper-aware of the world around me, and built up walls around my emotions almost nothing could get through by the time I was 15 years old. This made it much more difficult to treat my PTSD, especially since most of my childhood had been blocked from memory. I only knew bad things happened to me because I was told bad things happened to me, not necessarily because I consciously remembered bad things happening to me.
My therapist could tell I lost a lot of hope when she told me this, so she quickly told me to not worry so much. My PTSD could be treated in other ways. Just because EMDR and talk therapy didn't have much of a healing affect on me, didn't mean there wasn't something out there that could have a healing affect on me. I just had to do a little bit of digging and perhaps get creative. My therapist told me to start investing some time into religion, adventures, productive hobbies, and social relationships, and perhaps then, I'd find healing.
I came home later that night, and once again, made a deal with God. I didn't necessarily disbelieve in God, but I was very suspicious of Him. I lived under the assertion that God was a sadistic being, Who enjoyed inflicting pain on His creation just to heal them, and then hurt them again. I more or less challenged God to prove to me that He wasn't just hurting and healing me for fun. Perhaps, God could show me that He was the ultimate embodiment of mercy and love, in a way that I'd get the message. At the time, I thought I'd cornered God, and finished that prayer with a heart full of triumphant pride. Surely, God couldn't get out of this one, and Christianity would crumble at my feet!
