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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Waking up from denial

It was in the summer of 2009 that I disclosed the incest to Randy, my therapist. He was incredibly gentle with me, most likely knowing how fragile I was at the time.

Immediately after the disclosure, I felt relief. Only an hour or so later, the panic set in. I was convinced there would be horrible, frightening consequences from my telling. It felt as if I had done something terribly wrong. I had betrayed my brother...in fact my entire family. Even though I don't believe in the dead coming back to haunt us, I couldn't shake the fear that the grave was not enough to shield me from my brother's wrath.

I didn't feel like a rational adult. I felt like a 13 year old girl, a very small and frightened one at that.

Randy continued to be patient and gentle with me. As I grew more comfortable with him knowing my secret, and less panicky, he began pushing me a bit to face the truth and stop minimizing and denying what had been done to me.

That wasn't easy, and it didn't go too well, especially at first. I argued every time Randy used the word abuse. I would go home and scour the Internet for information so that I could "prove" to my therapist that sibling incest wasn't necessarily abusive nor traumatic. I didn't find anything I was willing to show him.

Months later, I had faced enough of the truth to be able to email this to a new member of my support group:

I buried my incest for years and was convinced that it didn't bother me. Even when it was happening, I was convinced it wasn't at all traumatic. It was just "that weird thing" and was completely separate from the rest of my life.

But then the memories surfaced, but I still thought it was no big deal, not even worth bringing up in therapy. After all, we were dealing with real trauma, and not some harmless stuff from years gone by.

Turns out I had been hiding from the truth for years. The incest had a profound effect on me, everything from sexual fantasies to my ability to trust men. We are shaped by our earliest sexual experiences. When those experiences are incestous, it makes sense that our shaping is not as healthy as it should be. I just never realized that, in a way, I had been "acting out" and reacting to the incest ever since it first started.

I'll warn you. It is not an easy thing to face this stuff, especially if you still love your abuser. (I have a hard time with that word.) I'm filled with a lot of confusion and unresolved questions...and a deep sense of sadness. But I'm still in the middle of trying to face the truth of what happened.

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.

Disclosing to my therapist

After a few months of therapy, something I had refused to think about suddenly refused to stay buried. I agonized over whether or not to tell Randy, my therapist. I even went so far as to tell him, "There is something I haven't told you and I'm afraid to tell."

Before that, my family of origin was off limits in therapy, except when I would describe how supposedly incredibly wonderful my brother Damien was. If Randy probed for the slightest detail of my growing up years, I grew angry and clammed up. Anything before the year I'd been raped was not up for discussion.

Needless to say, this was a major red flag.

Finally the burden of my secret grew too much for me. This is what I wrote to my support group for sexual trauma survivors. I couldn't even bring myself to mention what my secret was:

Last Friday morning, I somehow got up my nerve to tell my therapist what I think is my deepest darkest secret -- something I had so successfully buried that I hadn't even thought about it in many years, until recently. I was torn about telling, because I was convinced I was so "over" this thing, that it didn't impact my life today, etc., etc., But then I started wondering why, if I was so untouched by it, did I keep questioning as to whether I should tell, and why did I keep coming up with millions of reasons not to tell?

The only other person I'd ever told had been Dr. X, a therapist I saw briefly during college. We had been going around in circles during therapy. I wanted to talk about inconsequential things and she wanted, I suppose, to do something therapy-like. So I thought, aren't you supposed to tell your deepest darkest secrets in therapy? Before that session, I walked endlessly around campus, getting up my nerve. I may have even smoked a cigarette. Then I walked in, told her, made excuses, and walked out, never to return.

I told Randy, my therapist, that I was afraid I might do the same thing again.

Before Friday's session, I had tried to write it out in my journal. But all I kept doing is writing the prefacing remarks over and over again until they started sounding more and more polished and semi-eloquent. On Friday, I read them out loud. Got almost to the end of what I'd written and couldn't say the last few sentences. Randy assured me that he wanted to hear it, but didn't want to coerce me. Didn't want me to leave, either.

So I read the last little bit -- that only vaguely hinted at my secret -- and then I said, "That's all I could write." Suddenly even that had seemed way too much, and I put my arms on my raised knees, and buried my face in my arms.

Randy asked if he could ask me a question. He then guessed correctly at my secret. Pretty much the way we handled the telling part is that he kept asking questions and I answered them, with my face buried the entire time. Sometimes we would stop and he would ask how/what I was feeling, and he would reassure me. At one point he asked why I was hiding and I said, "I just can't look at you." But that wasn't all of it. I didn't want him looking at me either.

Towards the end, I felt much safer and was able to lift up my head. By the end of the session, I felt relieved that I had told.

As I left, I thought that if I was going to pick the perfect way for my therapist to react -- well, that's exactly how he reacted. I really thought it would not be some sort of nightmare to face him again. I felt drained, mostly relieved, and surreal.

Then, a few hours later, seemingly out of the blue, all that relief disappeard and panic washed over me. I felt like I could barely breathe, like my pounding heart was going to burst out of my chest.

It hit me: I told. Randy knows. Sure, he was all wonderful and everything, but there was no way I could ever face him again. Telling was a big mistake.

I felt overcome with guilt. My secret involves someone else, and I didn't have their permission to tell. I felt that I'd betrayed them.

Randy called on my cell phone, while I was driving down the freeway, to see how I was doing. I told him how much I now regretted telling. Told him I wasn't sure if I could ever come back. But I did promise that I wouldn't just disappear; I'd let him know what I decided. He, of course, kept telling me that I'd done the right thing in telling. I kept thinking, how therapish of him...

Since then, I've felt so confused and torn. One minute I will decide never to return to therapy with Randy again. Then I'll decide to return if he agrees to pretend Friday's session never happened. An hour later, I'll decide that we need to look at why I am so distressed over this. Then I'll decide to cancel my next appointment (on Wednesday) just so that I can have more time to sort through what I want to do.

I keep waking in the night, and the realization that I told hits me like a club.

I've told Randy some things that were really hard to admit, very painful...but I've never regretted telling him anything until now.

This hurts. And it's so confusing. And I don't know what to do.

Forgiveness

This is getting way ahead of myself, but I felt a sudden urge to post it.

I know what it's like to hate your rapists. My brother and I even tried to kill one of them. Yes, it is extremely ironic that my former longterm sexual abuser would attempt to murder my rapist.

I think there are levels of forgiveness. I also see a difference between forgiving someone and restoring them to full relationship. There is no way I'd ever want to hang out with my rapists, even if I could. I don't think forgiving my son's sexual abuser means I should ever give him free access to my hypothetical grandchildren. Forgiving someone does not make them worthy of our trust.

My therapist has said that he sometimes wishes my brother had pulled the trigger when he had the older rapist at gunpoint. Rationally and morally he disagrees with revenge killings; he even thinks that it is wrong for him to wish such a thing. But his outrage at what my rapists did, not just to me but to other women, cries out for justice and vengeance.

I used to feel the same way, not that long ago. Many times my rapists were my imagined target for kicks, punches, large wooden sticks, swords, arrows, bullets, etc. Sometimes I wondered if my anger at them fueled my more violent hobbies. I believe in hell, and I'm ashamed to say that I took pleasure in the thought that my older rapist surely must be roasting in eternal torment.

I'm not sure what changed that. We haven't really talked about forgiveness much in therapy, and never in connection with my rapists. If anything, since I'm realizing and admitting how awful the rape was, and how I am still scarred by it in every way but physically, I should be more angry at them. And I have been angry, almost frighteningly so.

But recently I found myself, through no effort of my own, free of the desire for vengeance. What they did was horrible beyond words and almost destroyed me. But I have survived. I have experienced love and joy and the births of my adorable babies. They didn't steal everything from me. And it dawned on me that I would never ever want to be them. To me, that would be a sort of hell in itself. I surprised myself by praying for the older of the two, now most surely dead, "God, please have mercy on his soul." That was surprising on a number of levels, especially since my faith tradition does not include praying for the dead.

But, to me, that's forgiveness. I've tried to will myself to forgive them before, but it never worked. This time it happened without me noticing until it was a done deal. And it feels good...surprisingly freeing.

Getting rid of the hate, anger, and frustrated desire for revenge hasn't made the memories of my rape any less painful. It's just made me feel somewhat cleaner and lighter inside...and part of me is more free than I've been in way, way too many years.


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Protective or controlling?

I completely bought into my mother's stories, that became family lore, of how wonderfully protective my older brother was of me.

Sheldon was the first to burst my bubble. For years, whenever I would tell some tale of supposed protectiveness, he would say, "You'd get angry if I did that." His words baffled and annoyed me. I thought it was a lame excuse on his part for not being protective -- by blaming it on me.

Finally, after I'd been in therapy for awhile, Sheldon spelled it out for me: "Damien was not being protective; he was being controlling." He re-interpreted some of my favorite stories in that light. It made sense.

Randy agreed. He even went further. "He didn't protect you from himself. In addition, when he should have been protecting you as an older brother, he insisted on getting you involved in porn, cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs." He told me a story of an older sibling protecting him when they were in their teens as a way of offering contrast.

It was painful to give up that nice fantasy.

Recently, I had to face the same truth about my mother. She prides herself in her "over-protectiveness" of us. It finally dawned on me that each example of that involved her not allowing us to go places or do things, often because she would worry. It seemed more about protecting herself from worry. But it's not just that...every instance involved her controlling us, especially me.

She didn't protect me from my older brother's bullying, even the times she observed it directly. She didn't protect me from being controlled by him. When I was bullied and teased at school, no motherly protective instinct kicked in; instead, she found it either amusing or too trivial to bother with.

Worst of all, she had no qualms about sending me back to live in the same apartment building as the men who raped me when I was 23. It didn't trouble her at all that every time I looked out my window or walked to and from my apartment, the apartment where I'd been raped stared me in the face. She didn't care that my rapists lived so close to me, that we couldn't help seeing each other, running into each other at the mailbox or in the laundry room. In her defense, maybe she thought they had lost interest in me after raping me and thus no longer posed a threat...or maybe she naively thought they only raped women they lured into their apartment. But she saw no need to protect me from the anguish of seeing them again.

Years later, when I asked her whether she worried about me living there, she waved her hand dismissively. She claimed she thought the older one had left immediately, rather than a few weeks later. She wasn't at all worried about the younger one. Why was I making such a big deal about it? After all, they left me pretty much alone after the rape.

Protective? No. Controlling? Yes.

Not that long ago, she was telling some stories from my childhood. "I was so protective!" she said. "People always said I was over-protective!" Then she told me about all the things she didn't let us do...normal kid stuff that, as a parent, I delighted in letting my kids do. I wanted them to experience exuberant play, even if it meant getting dirty, some messes, a few skinned knees, and a few rips in their jeans. My face must have betrayed my feelings because my mother said defensively, "I did let you talk in your rooms!"

Oh, wow, I guess she wasn't a complete tyrant then!