My Psychiatrist says that I am schizophrenic, that I show symptoms of dillusions, and that my memories of being raped are made up dillusions.

He has given no further explanation than this, and when I press it, he doesn’t really give me an answer. I know it’s time to get a new doctor but because of my bank account I cannot actually afford a new psychiatrist, so the one I am working with comes from the local Mental Health organization provided by the government.

I know that I have physical and emotional scars because of what happened to me, I know that I have memories that are false, and memories of being raped that are true. I know what I know to be true, but it shakes my confidence every single time I see it in writing, that he doesn’t believe me, and I can’t understand why.

I am choosing to believe he is making the choice not to believe me because it’s the easy choice. It’s easier to believe that a woman is making up stories than to believe she’s telling the truth, because believing that she is telling the truth means you have to actually work for a living.

You’d have to investigate, you’d have to actually talk to rapists and deal with the horror of her experience. It’s just easier to call her crazy and sweep it under the rug than it is to actively search out evidence and witnesses to the abuse, which I have…I think.

There is at least one or two people who might come forward if pressed, but even if there is not, calling me crazy is just fucking easy and it’s sad. It hurts my heart, because I know that it’s not true.

Part of me feels bad for not coming forward sooner, for keeping the secrets of what was being done to me for so many years that I had to unravel it one lie at a time until I could remember it all. Part of me thinks that I am losing my fucking mind, but I know that it’s the itchy part of healing that hurts so much.

I know one day I will look back at my life and be okay again, I still wonder how I made it to thirty six in mostly one piece, because I really shouldn’t have. Statistically speaking.

But I am alive, and I like being alive, and I want to keep being alive for as long as I can – even though I smoke about a half a pack a day which might argue the contrary.

I can explain what happened to me with great detail, with more detail than I’d like, this is not something I have made up this is stuff that actually happened, and yet if someone makes the choice not to believe me there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

All I can do is take what they teach me and use it to heal from the pain and trauma of being raped, sexually abused, tortured and raped again. I can do these things, I can heal from this, and I will, despite what others say, but no it doesn’t change the fact that it hurts to know people think I could make this up and yet I understand that, because people do make these stories up.

It’s okay. Today I am okay, the last few days have been rough, but today I am okay and I’ll take that as far as it will let me because today is all I have.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

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