Another thing I didn't know at the beginning of therapy was how many boundaries I had. My gut and head pleaded for him not go to certain areas, and not to push too far in others. Funny how he had the knack of listening to what was never said. I sensed he could easily give me night mares for a month, or drop a bomb I couldn't cope with.

I wasn't the type to grab for tissues, or expect the front row forward, six foot something of a T to wipe my tears away either. We were more like business partners with a respect for each other that was going to get the job done no matter what.

Therapy was all about me, not him.

If I wanted to distract, deny, avoid, or walk out the door, I did. I was permitted to speak over the top of him to silence his thoughts over mine. He gave me all the control I could muster to lead the way into depths unknown to both of us. Up until the point of therapy control was something I had very little of. I was used to others thinking and doing for me. I was forever the baby in the eyes of my family, and my dependence on them prevented any real sense of me from being.

I figured because this man had a degree in psychology, wore a suit, and had a brief case he was one up on all my family. He knew his stuff and no one, including me could argue with him. And for the first time in my life I began to feel safe.

We started at the end and headed back to the beginning.