The search continued. It had to. Canāt ALL be so unaware, so aloof, disinterested, re-victimizingā¦could they? Even if you suck at what you do you STILL have experience. They said they had experience with childhood trauma. Hmmm. With limited awareness and clarity with your own process, how can we expect you to properly assist another person on their healing path? Having been exposed to these well meaners compounded my lack of faith in humanatee. A big fat sea-cow in an ocean of disdain.
Confirming my, āI am irreparableā notion, all due to people not doing their āworkā. My expression of graphic truth touching their darkness resulting in their shut down, perilalysis, or disASSociation. Say, for instance youāre in a restaurant. The person next to you clutches their chest in pain, maybe a heart attack. You want to help but as you rise from your chair YOUR chest also begins to hurt, you go into a full-blown panic attack, rendering you useless to the other person. -A simplistic depiction of countertransference. Trauma triggering trauma. Emotional entanglement/meshing/merging/fusing with the client, which negatively impacts a therapistās ability to lead.
Enter Paul, my next psychoterrorist. A charming Victorian third floor office. Beautifully decorated. He came highly recommended with much experience in the area of abuse and womenās issues. Finally! This would be IT. Fingers and toes crossed. Paul, a bald, middle-aged and deeply baritone voiced gentleman, welcomed me, with open harms, to his practice. We began. Small talk. About where Iād been. And his experience with clients of my gripe. Lol. Nice enough.
Writing feverishly…enter the million dollar question.What brings you here… I got into it, hard. Havenāt I wasted enough time with the other do-gooders? He began smiling, like I was telling him a joke and he was anticipating the punchline. He added some āyes, go onā and āoh, really?ā scripts every client expected from a paid listener. āTell me moreā and āTell me againā with what sma-hack-ed of enjoyment and entertainment on his creased face. Like I had just delivered some juicy gossip. āThat is fascinatingā and āAre you sure this happenedā? Actually escaped from his jagged smile. Any minute now, I expectorated him to pop up and put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. His affect clearly needed a tune up.
Shifting in his comfy seat, I got a peak of his legal pad ā he had drawn a CAT!! Silly me, I thought I was saying something worthy of recording. Thought he might be taking notes. I felt completely deflated, invisible and devalued. If THAT wasnāt rea-dick-a-less enough ā¦nearing the end of the session, I offered some disgustingly graphic trauma piece as a last bitch effort to get some authentic reaction. (Which I am incredibly good at – thanks Mom). For what seemed like a minute, his mouth dropped down and gaped open, eyes wide. His body, except for his neck, froze. He slowly turned his mannequin head to the right and stared out the window for a very uncomfortable miNUT. So, remember the THIRD FLOOR thing? Nothing out there except sky, lots of sky guy. I actually got up and looked too, his stare was that intense. Dude, thereās nothing out the window, nothing. He sat, lifeless, no blinking, no swallowing. Nothing. And just like that, he returned from his long strange flip. T-why-light groan. Holy weirdness. Another disaster.
So this tiny little blurb about a Sexual Abuse Support Group caught my I. Beyond excited. All women in the group. Perfect. Group of 5. Harold introduced me to the group and all of the women shared a blurb. Very lovely women. I was the youngest member. All very charmed by Harold, giggling when he spoke. A dandy guy. Harold offered his background. He expressed his special brand of wisdumb, āAfter all, men are idiots. We should cut off all their penises and ship them to a deserted islandā. Godās honest truth! His exact words. Later that night, Harold offered more creep… āYeah, you know, I touched my sister and it wasnāt a big deal, so thereās nothing wrong with thatā AYFKM? He looked around nervously to see how he was being received. Eyes bouncing from one participant to the hexed. Harold, poised on the edge of nervous laughter and arrested exhale. He excused himself, apparent worry broke out amongst the group mates. Come to think of it, Harold excused himself at least 5 times during the 2 hour group – just adding to an already bizarre situation.
In his absence, I questioned the other women, asking how long theyād been a member. The responses were between 2 years and 7 years. What? After that night, I never returned. But Harold wasnāt done tryin to work me into his gig, his magic act. He wouldnāt let go. He sent me a letter, āYou need this group, this will help you. You really need to return for supportā. THIS is straight up cray-cray. Of course, no response from me. Another month went by and he sent me another postcard, reminding me of the group āyou should be hereā Now I was pissed. I wrote him back. āHow dare you try and take advantage of the most tender, most vulnerable population by insinuating that I could not make it without youā āYou call yourself a therapist? You are basically pushing your agenda onto me and scolding me for not complyingā āThatās abusiveā āI put a boundary and you are not honoring thatā. I should have reported him but I would have been cast as just another crazy patient.
The final crazy encounter, with a physician, occurred when I was seen for a panic attack visit in 2000. I was new to the panic world and, just like everyone else, was convinced that it was something else. Anxiety couldnāt possibly make me feel like I was gunna dieā¦. So this well-meaning, lovely Indian Physician listened to me as I talked about my long history of anxiety stemming from a dark childhood. When I told her about my abusers, her āhelpful adviceā was the following. āWhy didnāt you punch them? or tell them that you didnāt want that to happen to you? You have to tell themā
Ok Dr., like itās as easy as telling them to hold the onions on your burger at McDonaldās. Excuse me, yeah, no onions please, ok, thank-you. I so desperately wanted to live in her world where all you have to do is tell someone to stop and they do. Wow, whammo, why didnāt I think of that. Holy mind fuck. Blame the abused. Thanks a bunch. LOL
Kinda hard when your abuse began when you were pre-verbal. Maybe you were older and when you said no, it was the same as yes. I donāt really think a 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9, 10-year-old girl is any strength match to male teens and adults, hmmm, you? What a bizarre suggestion (punch them). Most likely our first abusers are family members or friends of the family or someone entrusted with our care. We rely on them for safety, a roof, food in our bellies and love. When you are reared to believe your privates/body belongs to others – where does the protest fit in there? The trickery, convincing and games fuck a childās mind.
Is it the responsibility of a child to keep her/him self safe? That’s an awful lot of burden to shoulder. A tiny little girl. A Dr. offering āhelpā sprinkled with the nasty energy of blameā I should have done something, I should have stopped it, I should have protected myself and ultimately, I could have done something but I didnāt ā¦ā¦ā¦ā¦ā¦ā¦. Today I would tell her that sheās got a lot of clean up to do on herself. Her nasty is showing. And that my little girl knows Iāll protect her.
Letās do our inner work DO THE INNER WORK. So we all can be there for each other. Without our fear or anger or frustration or judgement coming at the person and overshadowing our HELP we intend to give. So we may hold each other/clients/patients in the way they truly deserve ā in love, compassion and understanding. If nothing else, at the very least, validate how hard it must have been for that person to grow up in that atmosphere. So very powerful. Validate, listen.
Maybe some of thisā¦āWow, Iām so sorry. That must have been really hard for you. You must be so sad. What can I do to help you? You are so strong. You are doing amazing seeing all youāve been through. Do you have someone to talk to/confide in? Would you like me to refer you to someone who knows more about this? You must have been so scared. Do you feel safe now?ā
Born into a family of dysfunction, I navigated my world the best I could, hoping to be loved, cherished, valued, held and heard. Instead I was met with disregard for my life, repeated, long-term invasion of my body, my innocence, violence disguised as love, safety/security masquerading as control. All at the hands of my parents and male siblings. I was doomed. A shell of a human. Existing in the dizzying cycle of being tossed around in the surf of life – only occasionally able to take a full breath, surface. Pieces of my personality chipped off, the tide taking them far off, away. Never feeling the ground beneath my feet. Becoming dead inside, broken. Accepting the abnormal as normal. As violence, invasion came over me again and again I became familiar with rage. The rage that was growing inside of me. Rage that would never be recognized. Undercover. A secret rage, thoughts of revenge that would bring a sweet, savory smile to my perfect little-girl face. 
Iāve caught myself red handed. Reaching, expecting someone to fulfil deep core deficits, gaping holes in my existence. 
A Fish Named Karen 