Another therapy crisis

From October 2009:


A few months ago, I came very close to quitting therapy. I just couldn't handle the fact that I had disclosed my deepest darkest secret to my therapist. I wanted to run away. Somehow I managed to stay, and we worked through it.

Recently I remembered something else, which I disclosed during my session last Wednesday. That was horrible enough. But Randy asked me to journal about what I had disclosed. I tried. I sort of succeeded, although there are parts that I could not write about. Writing about it --- just thinking about it --- made me want to throw up. Sometimes I found myself actually gagging.

So I wrote in my paper journal:

OK. I'm done. There is no way in hell I can read any of this to Randy. I can't talk about it. I wish I hadn't said anything. This is way too awful. I don't see the point. I don't want to do this any more. I want to go home and get drunk. Want to have angry, semi-rough, meaningless sex that is purely physical. Then I want to drink some more. Then I want to do the same thing again tomorrow and the next day, until all this doesn't seem so fresh and raw and painful, until I can just stop thinking about it.

Fuck therapy. This time I really don't think I can go back.

Somehow I managed to avoid the drinking and meaningless sex that night. But the next morning I wrote in my journal:

I decided that I was going to write Randy a letter, thank him for all his help, and then tell him I'd hit a wall --- reached the end of what I felt I could work through.

Then I wrote about what I thought was every possible thing we could talk about in our next session: this new disclosure, the stuck point journaling we're working through, the next two stuck points on my list, etc. I felt strongly that I simply could not handle any of those things, that I had reached the end. I actually started writing my "Dear Therapist" letter in my mind. But then I began to feel conflicted about that, so I wrote:

What am I going to do? Part of me wants to write that letter, but Randy won't let it go at that, and I wouldn't feel right about ignoring his calls.
Maybe I should just sit in his office and tell him face to face that I am way too scared to go on. And then cry my eyes out.

So that's what I'm going to do. Maybe not the crying my eyes out part... But I want to see this through. I've invested way too much time, effort, pain, money, etc. in therapy and I don't want to run away now, just because I feel scared, paralyzed, and stuck.

Randy and I have worked through difficult things before. One of my previous disclosures was so difficult that I couldn't bring myself to do more than hint at it, and he had to ask me questions to find out what had really happened. It was kind of like an extremely painful, therapy version of 20 questions. I've fallen apart during sessions. I've said things that I felt I was incapable of admitting to another person. I've sat curled up in a tight ball, session after session, face hidden, shaking and trembling. I've told Randy things, and done things, that I was so sure would make him gasp and say, "This is more than I can handle! I need to refer you to Dr. Supertherapist, who takes only the most disturbed and deranged clients, although you may be beyond even his capabilities. Perhaps a lengthy stay --- a few years or decades --- in a mental institution might help." Once I was convinced that something I told him would make him so recoil in disgust that he would throw me out of his office or, at the very least, clamp his hands over his ears and exclaim, "Never have I heard such vile filth! I really think you are beyond help!"

OK, so he doesn't actually talk like that. But the point is, when I have most feared that he would react strongly, decide I was too far gone for him to help, suggest I check myself into a mental hospital, or just look at me with disgust, he has never done any of that.

All those sessions that I thought I could not drag myself into his office for, the ones that I thought were the final thing that would make me snap and lose my mind completely --- I've survived them all. So I think I'll survive this too. Somehow.


And I did.


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Therapy can be rough

From my journal, September 2009:


Today was one of those rough, rough sessions. We're working through what I think is my most difficult stuck point. Last week, I read a detailed account of that part of the rape, and some of the effects it has had on my life since then. At the end of that session, Randy said that we would start working through what I'd written, sentence by sentence.

I'd been dreading that all week, and that's what I told him at the beginning of this session. We joked a bit about it and then dove right in. Somewhere in there, I mentioned the stuff I'd read about the power rapist and how a lot of it applied to the older of my two rapists. Randy agreed, and kept pointing out that I was in a lose-lose situation: begging and pleading had not worked at all, and any physical resistance would have only made things worse and escalated the violence. (OK, it's really hard for me to write the word "violence" in connection with my rape, because I've always tried to pretend, until therapy, that as far as rapes went, mine was nonviolent and almost "nice"...maybe it was just sex gone bad, some sort of misunderstanding...stupid, I know...)

So we trudged through, discussing sentence by painful sentence, and it was truly horrible at times. Then we got to one of the worst parts and I kind of freaked out. It was weird. It wasn't my typical flashback where --- boom! --- I'm suddenly there. And it wasn't like when I'm triggered and I purposefully make myself small to avoid the pain. (I don't know how else to describe it.) I felt the physical sensations of that part of the rape, yet I knew where I was. Then it was like something grabbed hold of me and was trying to drag me off, back to the rape. It was really scary. I think that at one point, I was curled up with my face down on the couch. I begged Randy to talk, because I thought the sound of his voice would keep me there, in that room, in the present. I'm not sure what I said, just that I desperately begged him to say something, I needed to hear his voice, I didn't want to go away. It felt as if I was about to be dragged down into a deep dark pit. His soothing voice was kind of like a beacon drawing me back, or like a lifeline I could cling to. It took me a while to be able to make out the words, to understand them, to feel like I was fully back in that room again, and to feel that I was safe.

Then I thought, "Oh, great. I went crazy in front of my therapist again." I think I made some joking comment to that effect, once I was fairly calm again. Randy assured me that I hadn't gone crazy.

I told him that it is hard for me to accept how physically rough the rape was because the way I'd coped for years was by telling myself it wasn't that bad. Now the rape seemed much more scary and awful. I wasn't sure that I could cope with that. Randy told me that I am coping -- every time I walk up the stairs to his office, every time I process things in therapy, every time I journal, etc.

During all this time I was trembling and feeling more and more scared. So I started saying, almost like a mantra, "Maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe I'm remembering things wrong." Randy told me that was bullshit, I knew it was bullshit, and he wasn't going to let me lie to myself. He reminded me that the truth will set me free -- but first it will make me miserable. It's that miserable part that most people don't want to think about or talk about.

Then we talked about a few actually happy things in my life, and I felt much better: relieved, and like the session had been really cathartic. And I felt grateful to him for helping me find my way back from such a dark place.

He usually walks me out to the front desk and sometimes, if I'm feeling especially brave, we do this sort of cross between a high five and a hand-clasping sort of thing. But today we suddenly did one of those sideways, standing next to each other, arm and shoulder semi-hugs. It surprised me...and it surprised me even more that it felt right in a way, and I didn't get all nervous and twitchy like I often do when I hug men. I think I really needed a hug...and I was thankful for the brief semi-hug because it's all I can handle.


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Visiting the apartment

From my journal in 2009:

Today I went to the apartment building where I was raped 28 years ago this month. It's more secure now, all locked up. A guy came out of his apartment and I talked my way in. There's now a fence around the pool, and I made a joke about it before the guy left me alone.

Took a few pictures. Stayed mostly calm, until I walked back out front and started shaking. It took all my self-control not to puke.

Got in the car and had a sort of flashback, where I knew where I was, but my body was feeling part of the rape. I kept trying to scoot away, but there was nowhere to go. It was horrible.

I couldn't stand to be there a second longer, so I drove off. I shouldn't have, because I could barely pay attention. I started crying. So damn afraid. So alone. This was a big mistake.

I'm parked in the marina. I wish I could call someone, but I don't know who to call. This hurts so much. Why did I want to do this anyway?

It's so real. So horribly real.

Later I wrote this:

In a complete and utter panic, I decided the whole damn thing was unbearable. The only way I was going to be able to deal with the overwhelming pain & craziness was to literally run away. So I left my therapist a message telling him about the apartment and that I wasn't sure if I would be back in town Monday for my appointment. Then I drove down to the beach and decided that I would get a bunch of booze, hole up in a hotel room, and drink until I didn't want to drink any more, even if that took all weekend or longer.

About an hour later -- luckily before I went and bought out half a liquor store -- it dawned on me that I can't just disappear without an explanation. Somehow I've got to pull myself together.

At least I'm not shaking any more and not in a crazy panic. It just hurts so much. So damn much.

I still carry around digital versions of the pictures I took of the apartment building. I'm not sure why.

2009: My first attempt at therapeutic journaling

It was April of 2009. A family crisis had brought us into the therapist's office. During one of the first sessions that I attended on my own, I had a PTSD meltdown and, to explain it, mentioned that I had been raped years before. That led to me, finally, entering therapy myself to deal with that painful part of my past.

This was my first attempt at journaling. At the end of a session, my therapist offhandedly mentioned that it would be a good idea for me to start keeping a journal. So this is what I ended up writing, somewhat condensed and edited for clarity & anonymity:


I guess I'm officially in "therapy", with all the horrid introspection and "soul-baring" that entails. And Randy suggested a journal today. Of course I balked, immediately thinking:

1. My mother would disapprove of the subject matter being put into writing.
2. It will fall into the wrong hands, which would be any hands but mine.
3. Yuck. Why are therapists so obsessed with journaling?
4. Who wants to write down this garbage anyway?
5. What am I supposed to write?
6. When do I get to burn the horrid journal?

Ha, I thought, there will be none of this journaling nonsense. Not from me. There will also be no stupid gestalt chair exercises in which I pretend to be me and then pretend to be the two guys, and we all pretend to forgive each other, after which we live happily ever after -- except for the old guy who is most certainly already roasting in hell.

I question the wisdom and the therapeutic value of writing any of the above.

Although I did have some brief fun imagining my version of the chair thing. Instead of the suggested eloquent, poignant, conciliatory words I read in an at times annoying book, I kept imagining myself shrieking curses and screaming, "I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Which of course I would never actually shriek and scream in real life...and I can't believe I just wrote.

My mother is right. Nothing good is coming of this. Although it is amusing.

So I guess I have PTSD. Which is also oddly amusing at the same time that it is annoying. And I don't get to tell funny stories like my old Vietnam vet friend about shooting up the backyard and having my grandfather ask me, "So, did you get them?" Mine is the less fun version. But at least no I'm not, depending on the day, thinking I'm normal...or crazy.

So (let's start every paragraph that way and then I can mock my own grammar and include enough distractions to render any journaling attempts completely therapeutically worthless) in true Annie fashion, I dove headfirst into my homework assignment of "google PTSD and let me know what you think". I listed all the symptoms from the Mayo Clinic site and made notes about which ones did and/or still do apply. then I downloaded a PTSD book to my Kindle and raced through it, taking some more notes.

And freaked out.

Aside: wish I'd been this driven in college.

Back to now:  note-taking became desperate scrawled questions. The memories smacked me upside the head. Couldn't sleep. Could barely eat. It was like way back then. All twitchy. A wreck. Amazingly, though, I could hug Sheldon and it felt good.

But I felt crazy. Hurt. Angry. And like the strides I thought I'd made all these years were nothing, just treading water. Felt like an idiot for not being over it. Felt hopeless. But also dared sense a tiny spark of hope, that maybe things could maybe just maybe some day get better. Maybe.

But the road there scares me. A lot.

So there I sat, feeling drained and exhausted and scared and filled with dread and with my guts churning, in Randy's office, which suddenly seemed way too small, like it shrunk since my last visit. His chair was definitely NOT at a safe distance. I was going to take the other chair, instead of my usual seat on the couch, but I was too exhausted to ponder the significance of that and decide.

I'd been rehearsing what to say. I'd even considered taking my daughter's lead and writing it all out, but I couldn't. Way too hard. In my rehearsals, I always got stuck at the beginning, at my role in it. I kept practicing the words, hoping they'd get easier. They didn't. In my rehearsals, I got all emotional and usually ended up weeping, "No. No. No." and "Make it stop!" and "Why? Why? Why?" in a rather hysterical fashion.

But there, in the office, I wasn't hit with a train load of pain and emotion. Sure, it was hard. Especially when the words just wouldn't come out and I kept trying to approach saying it from different angles. I almost felt like saying, "Can't you figure it out without me having to say it?" But I thought it might be better to speak it myself. Somehow the ordeal of telling what I think is all I know...at least what I could bear to tell about it...was not as horrific as I'd feared. I was almost disappointed.

Afterwards, I went home and fell asleep.

Randy recommended two books for me. When I checked them out on Amazon, it turned out they were about childhood sexual abuse. Somehow I must not have communicated how old I was when it happened. Maybe it's because no sane adult would act like such an idiot. Or maybe it's something I babbled today about being so little, when what I meant was that I was so...well, scrawny. I think I need to clarify that.

Yesterday when I was going hysterically crazy, weeping all collapsed in a heap on the shower floor, which was after my earlier breakdown, I sent an urgent prayer request text (with "Don't ask") to one friend and an email to another friend, the one who had recommended Randy. I told her I liked him until his homework assignment turned me into a complete nutcase.

She responded with, among other things, "While it is sometimes easier and more comfortable to keep your soul locked in the darkness of denial, eventually it tend to bite you in the butt, as you are experiencing."

Oh yeah.

But this afternoon, I felt actually good. So much so that I joked back via email, "I'm sure I'm completely cured and will live happily ever after. Especially since I'm a Christian and supposedly have no reason for worry. Or stress."

Then I asked her about journaling: "I think it's supposed to be some sort of deep, torturous self-examination, full of painful truth and deep insights that we will explore in future session. Mine was actually funny in parts. Apparently I'm doomed to lifelong insanity and denial."

In the meantime, my guy friend sweetly offered in his texted reply, "Need me to fly out there and beat the shit outta anyone?"

Good friends are wonderful.

And so I was actually...happy. Relieved not to be locked in crazymaking painful anguish. And all was peachy keen and goodness and light and sunshine and roses until suddenly, for no obvious reason, a cloud of heaviness and sorrow cast its shadow over me. And I knew that today I had a few hours of respite. Hopefully I won't descend back into complete nutcase-ness.

I have this ache in the middle of my chest. A nervous sort of ache. Or maybe more anxious and worried. Sad too. Thought I should write that. Seems like the introspective get-in-touch-with-my-feelings stuff that would be appropriate.

Maybe I'm just dreading trying to sleep.

For someone who was going to refuse to do any journaling, I sure wrote a lot (even more than what's here!) over the course of one day. I don't think I read any of this to my therapist. At the most, I may have read a paragraph or two.

It's interesting to read this and see how far I've come since then. For one thing, I got to the point where I can actually write the word "rape". For another, I am no longer filled with such a degree of self-blame and self-loathing.

At the same time, my journal entries don't see quite as amusing these days. I'm not sure what that means.