Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Nipples

A room full of women gathered specifically because we all have experienced some sort of trauma in our childhoods. A trauma significant enough to us that is stands as the central organizing principal in our lives twenty, thirty, forty years later.

After being introduced to the therapy that is being offered we are asked to speak our minds. To ask questions.

Immediately one woman, who is the shape of a dollop of whipped cream pipes up.

“Yeah. I resent how these forms you have us fill out all basically ask if we have a support network. ‘Cuz see, my problem here is that I am anti-social. I don’t like people. I don’t have some fucking long list of people I can cry to all day long.”

Psychiatrist: “I can understand that totally. Is there maybe just one-“

“Look. No one wants to hear my problems. And I can’t lay it on them. Everyone has problems. I been in therapy since I was eight, nothing changes.”

(Another, horse-faced older women): “She’s right. No one cares.”

At this point I am nearly nodding off. Not so much out of boredom honestly, but in protection. The beginning of the meeting, when they outline the stages of working through a trauma and I start to think about my father and my time with him and then my mother I almost cry. That is the shitface stage I am at. Plus I am ashamed to be here. Full of shame so deep and broad it takes all my energy to look up from the table at people. But I do.

But these hopeless women make me think. I look across the table at a woman who looks more like me. She is young, tall – taller than me. Pretty with long red hair and pale skin and eyes. She has a terrible wounded look about her. I wonder is this how I look? Is it so terribly obvious? If I don’t fix myself will I end up like these other women whom nobody can tolerate. Because now people will listen to me. But is it because I am presentable and know how to dish it out in appetizing ways?

Then I imagine kissing the red head in the elevator. Rubbing her large breasts with my small ones.

I look at the psychiatrists – two older women themselves – and feel caught between them and the women they are trying to convince they are wrong whilst also being supportive. What a terrible task.

Government cuts is why we are here. The waiting lists are so long for people needing this kind of help. I still don’t think this is good. Asking people who look at other humans as predators because of experience to gather in a group and be comfortable and honest is odd.

I am first to leave. I hand in my paperwork and I am asked if I have any questions. I say no, it is exactly what I expected and then I run, run to the elevators and hold my finger over the down button for longer than necessary.