When I met Chris, she had a demanding job, hobbies, friends, and a large extended family to tend. I loved that she led a full and active life, yet I also viewed it as a threat. I needed to be Chris’s numero uno. Truth be told, in order to feel secure, I yearned to be the only person in her life. Anyone who’s ever dated someone codependent (or is codependent) knows the kind of conflict that ensued. I would pout when Chris tried to leave the house, even for work. I would whine when she tried to make plans with friends. I would demand that she take me to after-hours work functions. I needed to keep her close. I had to know she was mine, mine, mine.
Even after nearly three years together, I remained intensely insecure and demanding. Things came to a head one Memorial Day when Chris went to a family barbecue. We had fought about her family many times. It was large and close-knit and prone to constant gatherings. Chris was not out to her family yet, so there was no way she could bring along her girlfriend! Instead, I tended to stay home alone while she fulfilled an endless stream of family obligations. This particular weekend, I’d had enough. Chris had already spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and even New Year’s Eve with her kin. I didn’t feel she should spend Memorial Day with them too.
Chris needed to cut some apron strings, no doubt about it. But that’s not the point of the story. The point is what happens when a person with abandonment issues flies into a psycho rage. After Chris left our apartment on that holiday morning, I felt so angry and helpless that I went into her closet and wildly started ripping at her clothes. Screaming and crying, I tore everything she owned off hangers and left it all in a giant heap on the closet floor. I probably would’ve set fire to the pile, burning the apartment and myself in the process, but Chris came home early and stopped me.
She was very upset about her clothes.
But she was relieved that she didn’t own a bunny.
—
DESPITE MY CONSTANT DRAMA, Chris and I stuck it out. I give her all the credit. She’s the most loyal, thoughtful, dependable, generous mate imaginable. Right from the start, Chris was sympathetic to all I’d endured. She understood the rotten hand I’d been dealt in life and how it handicapped me emotionally, socially, creatively, and financially.
Chris’s love couldn’t fix me, though. Nearly thirty, I was becoming increasingly frustrated by the problems in my life that never seemed to get better, like writing regularly, building a career, or learning how to get along with people. My emotions were a nonstop roller coaster of depression, anxiety, manic enthusiasm, and rage, and I always seemed to be in some kind of crisis or fight. The ups and downs drove those who loved me crazy. I was so unpredictable that Chris often joked that I must have multiple personalities or something.
I drove myself crazy too, because no matter how hard I worked or how much I accomplished, I never seemed to achieve any traction in life. Anytime anything good came my way, I managed to ruin it. In time, I began to feel like a real loser and lost all hope that I’d ever reach my potential or find lasting happiness.
In hindsight, it’s easy to see that my inability to move forward was the result of not dealing with my past. I spent so much mental energy running from my memories and feelings that I had nothing left over for the present or the future. This is common in people who have endured childhood trauma. In order to survive, we become so adept at hiding our feelings that denial becomes a way of life. But over time, the denial of our true feelings and experiences prevents us from growing and moving on. We stay stuck in the past.
This all sounds very obvious, I know. But it’s not so apparent when you’re in it. Every day in my practice, I see clients who feel frustrated and hopeless. They’ve been repeating the same unhealthy patterns over and over again, sometimes for decades. But they can’t see the patterns that are holding them back—nor can they accept that their problems might stem from some long-ago trauma like their mothers’ neglect or their fathers’ alcoholism. All they can see is that they are unhappy. Nothing ever seems to work out for them, and they sincerely don’t know why.
That was me in a nutshell. I was constantly trying to find happiness by changing my circumstances—new jobs, new friends, even new houses (I moved ten times in six years!). But the problem wasn’t with my circumstances; the problem was with me. I didn’t know who I was. How could I? I didn’t even have full access to my memories! The fear of facing my past kept me from facing my feelings about it, and it kept me from recognizing all the ways I’d been damaged mentally and emotionally.
To quote Dr. Phil, “You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge.” I wasn’t acknowledging anything! Not the extent of my abuse nor my feelings about it. Not insane behaviors and mood swings. I didn’t acknowledge how badly I treated people, especially Chris and Steve. I didn’t own any of my own shit, but I sure as hell was outraged that the world kept shitting on me!
—
DURING THESE DIRECTIONLESS YEARS, I drifted in and out of therapy the same way I drifted in and out of jobs and apartments. It’s a testament to my low self-esteem that the therapist I chose to see was Javier, the guy who callously told me to come back when I could pay. I did go back to Javier, on and off, for about six years. We talked about my love life, my creative aspirations, my personal problems with friends and coworkers. We talked a bit about the memories I’d had and the rage I felt at my parents, but we never did very deep work. Part of the problem was me; I didn’t yet have the courage to fully face my demons.
But after six years, I’d have to say a lot of the problem was Javier. He simply lacked the Right Stuff.
The Right Stuff for a therapist is the ability to create a therapeutic environment where the client feels safe to expose their true self in order to heal and grow. To achieve this, the therapist must be open and genuine, empathetic and nonjudgmental, and treat the client with unconditional positive regard. Seems simple, right? Well, it’s much harder than it sounds, which helps explain why most therapists overrate their abilities.
I think Javier overestimated his abilities. At the time, I overrated him too. He seemed friendly and warm, knew some things about child abuse, and was generally a nice fellow. That made him better than any other therapist I’d seen. But looking back, I realize that I never fully trusted Javier, probably because I sensed that he didn’t trust me.
In order to help people overcome trauma, it’s imperative to believe that they can do exactly that. I know I sound like Captain Obvious. Yet it’s sad how often therapists don’t believe in their own patients, especially if they appear to be all-out crazy like I was back then. I was impulsive, moody, anxious, angry, unpredictable—all the qualities that spell i-n-c-u-r-a-b-l-e to many therapists. These were symptoms of the abuse I’d suffered, but Javier made a common mistake. He assumed my symptoms were me. As a result, he was often patronizing, judgmental, and disrespectful of my choices. For instance, he assumed that both Chris and Steve must be bad for me despite any evidence. In Javier’s mind, I couldn’t possibly attract loving, healthy relationships. Despite all that I’d already survived and overcome, the guy had no faith in me.
A therapist who secretly doesn’t believe his client can heal is like a teacher who doesn’t believe his student can learn or a coach who doesn’t believe her athlete can win. For the client/student/athlete trying to succeed, their guide’s pessimistic attitude is poisonous. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see things so clearly back then. If changes weren’t happening in therapy, my lack of self-esteem made me believe that the problem must lie with me. Javier didn’t dissuade me of this opinion. Like many arrogant therapists (and teachers and coaches), he believed any lack of progress was due to his pupil’s unwillingness to learn his valuable lessons.
Those who loved me didn’t see it that way. Over the years, both Chris and Steve urged me to find somebody new. Eventually, I gave in and made an appointment with a marriage and family therapist I found in the Yellow Pages. She was in her midthirties and newly out of school. S
he had a simple, pleasant office and a simple, pleasant mind to match. Before every session, she would pour herself a cup of hot tea, curl up in an armchair, and sip while I laid out my problems, as if we were having a sisterly chat. She was nice enough but not very bright. In grad school and internships, I’ve met lots of therapists just like her: well-meaning people from humdrum backgrounds who have never experienced much of life and certainly don’t think philosophically. As a result, they have no wisdom. This might be fine for some clients, but it definitely wasn’t right for me.
For anyone counting, that was the end of Therapist #6.
—
I KNOW I’M HARD on my profession, and I’m probably ruining my chance of being crowned prom queen at the next convention of the American Psychological Association. But after seeing six therapists over the course of fifteen years, I think I have a right to be angry at a string of helpers who didn’t help! I’m sure my former therapists would blame me for the lack of progress. We shrinks like to point out that people don’t change until they’re ready, which is true. But I think being in the presence of a brilliant, dedicated, passionate therapist can also make a person ready. Great therapists, like great teachers or coaches, inspire people to want to learn and grow.
Think of the movie Good Will Hunting. In it, a young man named Will cannot reach his full potential because he is plagued with symptoms from a traumatic childhood. A foster kid who was frequently beaten, Will grows up suffering from low self-esteem, fear of the unknown, generalized rage, and a severe inability to trust. Forced into therapy, Will demonstrates his unwillingness to change for a string of therapists who all throw up their hands. Then Will meets Robin Williams’s character, a psychologist who not only recognizes Will’s resistance as a symptom of trauma but also cares enough to push him to change.
Thank God entertainment is ripe with stories of passionate therapists who are able to save tortured souls. If not for these fictional depictions of therapist as hero, I might have given up hope. Instead, despite the string of mediocre shrinks who made me feel incurable, I knew that someday I’d get my Hollywood ending. I just had to find the right therapist—the one who would be skilled enough and smart enough and dedicated enough to pull me back to health.
I had a vision in my head of this perfect therapist. It was Judd Hirsch in Ordinary People. I saw Ordinary People as a kid, shortly before my first suicide attempt. The story of a teenage boy who is suicidal after the death of his brother resonated. I could relate to his pain and the loneliness he felt inside. In the movie, Judd Hirsch plays the boy’s therapist—an intelligent, extremely kind, but no-bullshit kind of guy. I was immediately struck by his skill and empathy, but what really sold me was his dedication. Near the end of the film, when the boy is desperate, he calls Judd Hirsch after hours. Sensing the boy’s distress, the therapist doesn’t stand on protocol. He doesn’t tell the boy to call back during office hours or go to the nearest emergency room. Instead, understanding that the boy really needs him, Judd Hirsch cares enough to meet with the boy in the middle of the night.
At thirteen, I didn’t know anything about therapy, but I instinctively understood that in order to heal I would someday need a therapist who was as dedicated as Judd Hirsch. My secrets were so dark, my suicidal tendencies so strong, that I’d never be able to face them without a therapist I could trust with my life.
—
UNFORTUNATELY, WE DON’T ALWAYS get to choose when we’ll face our demons. Shit happens. And in 1997, it happened to me. I got a call one day from my mother. We hadn’t spoken in more than five years.
“Shell?” she asked, in a tentative voice.
“Yeah?” I answered warily.
“I just wanted you to know that Gary’s dead!” I could hear her breaking down in tears.
I thanked her for the call and got off as quickly as possible but not before learning he’d died of a stroke at the age of fifty-four. Gary had a long history of diabetes. I would later learn that in the years since I’d last seen him he’d lost a toe, then a foot, then a whole leg to the disease that eventually killed him.
Getting the call was very strange. I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel. Throughout my childhood, I’d prayed for Gary to drop dead. Now he finally had, but I wasn’t sure how or if it even mattered.
One thing I knew for certain: Hearing my mother cry for that man, mourn that monster, sickened me.
—
EVEN THOUGH I HADN’T had much to do with him in more than a decade, the death of Gary Lundquist pried open a dusty crypt in my mind. All the memories and feelings I had walled off for years came pouring out. It was like the Days of Our Lives days all over again.
I guess some people might wonder why my abuser’s death created an emotional crisis. I mean, the guy was a monster; I should’ve been celebrating. While I was certainly relieved that Gary was dead, that relief was indicative of the problem. Even though Gary hadn’t been in my life for years, I still feared him and what he might do to me someday. That fear stood like a sentry over my psyche, keeping all sorts of sordid memories at bay. Now the fear of Gary was gone. There was no longer an outward threat to remembering the past, and that was the greatest terror of all.
Frightened of my own mind and all it had to show me, I became gripped by debilitating anxiety. For the past several years, I’d been living with Chris at her Studio City condo, and we’d been quite happy there. After Gary died, though, everything changed. The neighbor two floors below liked to practice guitar during the day. He’d been doing it for a while, but it suddenly drove me crazy—so crazy that I couldn’t stand to be in the apartment and would prowl the halls waiting for the noise to stop. In the evening, I began to hear the television of the neighbor beneath us. Then I noticed that his dog barked in the middle of the night, suddenly ruining my sleep. The insomnia got so bad that I demanded we move our bed from the recently redecorated master bedroom to the tiny guest room down the hall.
My instant, and seemingly nonsensical, hypersensitivity to noise made no sense to the all-too-sensible Chris. She’d never seen my PTSD in full swing and couldn’t comprehend why I was suddenly so jumpy. In order to avoid noise, I constantly demanded that we change rooms or turn on white noise or leave the apartment, which made her think I was a crazy person.
I was crazy, although I couldn’t understand why. I didn’t realize that I became frightened and anxious every time my memories saw an opportunity to emerge—when I left home for college, when I moved to LA, and now when Gary had died. Since the first memories of Gary and the abortion had overwhelmed me seven years earlier, I’d worked valiantly to keep the rest—the S/M, prostitution, and pornography—under wraps. This wasn’t a conscious choice. You can’t consciously choose to block memories if you don’t know they exist. But my subconscious mind knew they were there. And just like Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men, it knew I couldn’t handle the truth.
So my subconscious sent me constant fantasies instead, much like the fantasies I’d experienced in my youth. The nature of these fantasies was always dark and sexual with detailed, unchanging plots. In one plot, I was taken to a remote cabin where a deer head hung over a fireplace. The cabin had a basement where I was subjected to all sorts of S/M tortures by various men. In another fantasy, I was imprisoned by a mad scientist who kept me in a cage and used me for painful experiments that included the use of needles and electric shock. A third involved a group of men who abducted me, held me captive in a motel room, and gang-raped me repeatedly.
Obviously, these “fantasies” weren’t fantasies at all, just thinly veiled memories. They remained veiled because I wasn’t strong enough to face my past. Still, I understood that the stuff running through my mind wasn’t normal. I mean, as far as I knew, I’d never had any kind of kinky sex or even watched a porno film. So why was I always thinking about such nasty stuff? I figured I must be some kind of pervert.
Unable to function, I had to seek
help, and the person I instinctively turned to was Javier. I’d seen him the longest; he knew me the best. I was in crisis; I had no time for shrink searches or backstory bullshit. Right away, Javier and I got to work.
I told him about my daydreams—about the cabin with the deer over the fireplace and the basement used for torture. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. I remembered that Gary’s old house had a fireplace with a deer head over the mantel. I remembered it had a big basement! For the first time, it dawned on me that my “daydream” must be a memory.
The vision of a torturous tool kept popping into my mind during this time. I could see it, and I knew I was afraid of it. But I didn’t know what it was. Javier asked me to draw a picture of what I was seeing. I drew a rectangular box with two spikes on the end. I told him that when the spikes touched my skin they caused unbearable pain. Looking at the drawing, Javier immediately recognized it as a Taser, and it made perfect sense. As a child, I knew Gary owned a Taser. I had heard the word Taser, but I’d never heard the word used in relation to the dreaded little box. Now, through therapy, the word and the image and the memory all blended together to make sense.
This is the deep work of trauma-focused therapy. The therapist and patient work together to process all sorts of images and feelings and thoughts as they arise in order to establish the survivor’s story and help her make sense of it. In a case like mine, where there is dissociation and a lot of painful abuse involved, the process is slow and agonizing. Given my history of suicide attempts, it is also incredibly dangerous.
For the therapist, the main focus during trauma work has to be safety, which is achieved by containing the patient’s emotional reactions. If the memories start coming too fast or the feelings get too strong, the patient is likely to get overwhelmed by the pain and be retraumatized. The therapist’s job is to constantly monitor the patient’s emotional temperature and teach her how to cool things down when they get too hot. This is extremely difficult to manage when one is dealing with volatile memories, which is why trauma work is sometimes likened to waking a tiger.
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