That 'H' of course being hiding, or hidden.
All this week I have been being supported and guided and damnit downright cajoled into being around people at school and in the evenings in the probably correct thought that 'it'll be good for me'. So I did it. I stayed for all my classes, I did all my assignments and I gratefully accepted at least 10 hugs a day to keep me together, literally.
Until Friday. Friday I woke up and couldn't do it. Friday was a day no matter how many hugs I was going to get I couldn't be with people; couldn't be me, couldn't be who I am for them. So I stayed at home all day until I went to my psych appointment, which I have also been avoiding.
We talked, for the first time since we met three years ago in A&E, about my Dad. About his violence and his abuse and his alcoholism and his friends and...things I cann't write down even now. I sat and I spoke to my hands and cried into my skirt for an entire hour. I poured out every bad memory which had been plaguing me at night for weeks. I talked; not about my mood over the past week as I've spent every other session doing, or about whichever medication he thinks would be good for me. I talked. I don't know if it's wise but I asked to stop medication, so I'm now working on that.
I went to Dr H on Friday with a view to get myself withdrawn from his care (ironically he said I wouldn't have been allowed anyway) and came out from what was the first useful therapy ever. It made me sad and it made me cry but it made me stare in the face exactly one of the biggest things I've ever had to come to terms with.