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03 April 2010

I am... afraid.

I am afraid that you are going to find out the truth about me. I need to ask you for help, but I am afraid that you are going to ask me why I need (or deserve) your help. I am afraid that I am going to have to tell you what my issues are, and then I am afraid that you will not understand. When you do not understand, I am afraid that I will have to explain why I am the way I am-- and then you will know the truth, and you will have a choice to make.

You may decide to help me because you respect what I have been through, even though you may not understand it completely. This is what I want, and this is the best outcome I can ask for.

You may decide to help me because you pity me for what I have been through. I don't want your pity, but at this point I will do my best to swallow my pride and let you help me for this reason. It won't be easy to do that. Please don't tell me that's why you're helping me, even if
you are. This isn't the best outcome, but I'll take it.

You may decide that helping me is not the right thing to do. Maybe you think I need to learn a lesson, or that this type of help is not your job. Or you do not understand, and do not want to be bothered with trying to understand, and so you just don't care. This is the worst outcome, and the one I am most likely to expect from life. I do my best to remain optimistic, to look back on how far I have come and how much I have accomplished. I always have to overcome this feeling that you won't care, because I have felt it so often that it scares me to ask anyone
for help.

That's why I didn't talk to you about this sooner.

Because I am afraid.

This week, I have to talk to *all* of my professors and ask for time dealing with assignments. I still don't know exactly how much to tell them about PTSD.

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