For years I've believed that my PTSD was the result of parental abuse. A recent broken tooth brought to mind the terrible times in the dentist chair. Every year for seven years, starting at age six, there was, conveniently, one and only one molar with a "pinhole" cavity in it. The dentist then proceeded, without anesthetic, to drill out the entire core of the tooth, as in the movie Marathon Man. It's clear, now, that this was nothing less than sadistic torture by a man who should have been in prison, not practicing dentistry.
I've carried around a virulent hatred for the man my entire life and for the parents who trusted him rather than believe their own child. He's now dead. It's time to feel compassion for myself, for the horror I endured as a helpless child, and let go of the hate that's hurting only me.