The sexual abuse I suffered was mild; fondling by my child psychologist who diddled me via hypnotherapy. The hypnosis did not work and I watched through lidded eyes as he pulled my pants down and played with my junk.Twinned with that was the physical and mental debasement suffered 'neath a posh veneer.Child abuse stories make me sick. I will see a headline about a story then judge whether I go in—I owe it to a victim to know their truth but against the shit of my own lest I trigger.More often than not I bail once in because it just fucking rips me. Even a positive tale—where someone lauded is now undone—are a risk.It was the universe at its best then when I triggered to just such a piece then started angry crying and yelling before ending up on the patio in heaving, chocking sobs in a fucking fight pose, fists cocked, ready to punch out whatever was there.I stood, battle-panting, scanning for threats or weapons.It was completely instinctual, animal. There I was ready to kill though there was nothing and no one there because I was fighting ghosts only I could see. Trauma: it's the gift that keeps on giving.