Seeing a therapist is nothing like you'd probably imagine. You don't get to lie on a couch, you don't talk about your problems getting them solved right away. Actually it's hard work. You go to a person you don't really know and are expected to unfurl your soul, your most secret desires, your thoughts. Speaking about intimate things is difficult, especially when it comes to topics you usually never talk about, for example rape. I got raped a few years ago from someone who should've cared for me but instead decided to satisfy his ravenousness. So, once a week I'm sitting on this old red armchair trying to choke out words that hurt under my skin like fire just to realize after the session that nothing's changed anyway except for the fact that I feel like spit out.
Sometimes I think it'll never get better and the scars on my wrist seem to agree on that. But I know it takes years to finally get over it and maybe it's enough for a start to stay alive, to not give up.