A more recent therapist I saw in 2015 says that I should've expected as much. No one in grade 10 was able to help me and I shouldn't've asked them to be my parent and help me. This was from a THERAPIST. I'm telling you this now so you understand why I hate most therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists, and so that you know what a 'professional' thought of my situation.
As I said before, I'm going into more detail in my story later, however, for now, I'm only telling you what you NEED to know so everything makes sense in my timeline. If you listen to the more detailed story you will also understand why I couldn't ask for help from my stepfather or my mother. The people most people tell me I should've told first, but to this day they still don't really know what happened... I don't believe they'll ever TRULY know, or understand, and I don't even know if I want them to...
After Max's denial I stayed with John, and with his obsessiveness over me I spent almost every hour with him, separating me from my so-called FRIENDS and from any chance of reaching independence. He chose my classes, my next school, the names of our future children, where we would live and my future career. I was his sex slave, his tool, his trophy, and his dream-wife. Most importantly, I was HIS. No one elses'. From when I woke up at 5 in the morning to walk to his house, to when I was sent home from his house, I was his. In my dreams I was his, in school I was his and I will never forget the determination I had to never let him down. I did it all because I believed that he was the only one who actually cared. He was the only one who payed attention, the one who saw my potential and the one who never failed to point out my flaws. He was my Master, or my 'Muffin' as he preferred me to say so no one knew what was really happening. No one was there to care for me, except John. My parents, my family, my friends, Max, no one. I hate John for his abuse, but I still can't help but to stop to thank him for his love and dedication to me every second of every single day. One of my psychiatrists called this Stalk-home Syndrome, but I don't care what label you give it. I still hate and love what happened at the same time.
I must admit that I do believe that life was so much easier when I didn't have to decide what to wear, what to eat or to make the hard decisions for myself.
No physical pain could ever outweigh the love I felt from him... Not until it was too late to reverse the effects it had on me.
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