There seems to be something peculiar with this: 

Mum told me to go with this woman and I'm lying here on the table; I'm not sure if I should close my eyes or not. I'm lying on this table and it's peculiar is the only word coming to mind. She touches me and it hurts. - Not where she's touching, but there's pain all over, I seem calm though at the same time. 

I can't quite make out what she's doing. 

I'm thinking about what I'd been doing earlier that day: Mum and I had gotten up and had breakfast at the outside area near the pool, of the hotel. We had been discussing what we thought might happen when we went to see the woman. - Mum had said that someone had recommended that she take me to see her; that she might be able to help me. 

It was finally Bastille Day, the day of my appointment with her; we'd driven down the night before, and stayed in the hotel recommended by the woman. 

I had wanted Mum to come into the room with me and be with me when the woman did whatever she was going to do to me. - mum had been instructed to stay outside, in the living room. It was a simple room, with a majestic view of the Pacific Ocean; you could see for miles and suddenly, the ocean met the sky, as the horizon inevitably occurs, when one is looking out at the ocean or sea. 

As I lay there, I kept a mental note of where I felt the hands on me, and of what it felt like she was doing to me. I found it difficult to concentrate and suddenly I felt pain. I winced and spoken; informing the woman that whatever was happening was excessively painful. 

"Shh Shh, it's alright. You can tell me what you feel, but it's not necessary, if you don't want."

How would she know if what she did hurt me, and where, if I didn't tell her; if I didn't speak, surely then It'd be on me that I just let myself lie here on this table feeling pain. That doesn't seem right, surely, not