My obsession about being **

According to my therapist, my thoughts and angsts are because my father left us. By the time I was fifteen I was having very ** dreams, I was always the victim, chased, **, sort of thing. I also had a mouth, curse words and potty talk. Instead of saying I need a restroom, I would say I need to take a **. Not becoming of a fifteen year old girl. That's why my grandmother had me in therapy.

The dreams never left me, I have ** dreams all the time, I'm always the victim, carried away by a motorcycle gang, trapped in an elevator. Always **, it's real, I wake up wet from sweat, my heart pounding. They don't stop. My potty mouth is better, unless I'm with close friends.

At work I have a man who was assigned as my mentor. He worked with me, sent me back to school for some additional classes. We got closer as time went by and he was curious why I didn't have a boyfriend, and never had one. One night, we were alone in his office, and I confessed to him about my dreams. He listened. When I was done he walked me over to his work table and sat beside me and asked me in a very patient voice 'have you been **?'

It took lots of conversations, over a long period, more than a year. I didn't like talking to him about my dreams, but my dreams were getting more often and now he was in my dreams, saving me from the **. One day, I was shaking, I had my head in my hands, he told me he loved me and I was with him, nothing could happen to me again, 'now what was it?' 'You can tell me.'

That's when I told him about my father, I was starting puberty, when he came into my room. That's why he left. I don't know really how long I sat with his arms around me, rocking me like a baby. It was a long time, that much I know.

When I sat back, I couldn't cry anymore, he told me that he loved me, and no one, ever again was going to hurt me.

I have my dreams, when I do I tell him, we talk about them. Triggered by who know who, or what, they come in a random fashion. Some violent, others college parties and taken to a room. But always no face, no name, the ** is unidentified. Sometimes I go to him for him to hold me. It's wrong because it is, you are not supposed to become attached like that to your boss at work and mentor. But I am, he says he loves me and he holds me and I tell him I love him and I hold onto him. And we talk about my dreams.

My mouth, well its still a potty mouth, but never in front of him. At work people know me, but it isn't right, I know that. I can't help it comes out, like 'he ** you a new **'. I talk about ** a lot with this other girl, she's a bit of an introvert to my extroverted style. But we talk about **, what would it be like if you were at the beach and this man took you behind the dunes and ** you? Think about it. We talk about ** a lot. A lot about **. She likes to talk about ** a lot. She grew up in a small house and she was around ** with her parents, and later with her older sister.

I haven't told my mentor, it's my turn to help her, to get it out of her. What deep dark secret is there? I hope she can tell me.

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