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The
nun in her black robe appeared like an ink spot in a room of white
walls, white beds, and white sheets. You could barely discern the frail
body of a little girl, her arms stretched above her head, her hands
tied to the head board. She looked lifeless. I escaped the inhumanities
inflicted on her and from a safe distance I witnessed what I thought
was the death of a child. It was November
1942, and I was seven years old.
Out of
Body Experience is a
phenomenon that we talk about in hushed voices, even in today's modern
times. For a seven-year-old child of Catholic Upbringing, separation of
body and soul occurred only at death.
In my mind, the
little girl on the bed really died that day. It was
more than thirty-five years later when I found out
that the little girl on the bed and I were the same. It was a shocking
discovery, but not an unhappy one at first. "She did not die. She is
alive. The little girl on the bed, she is alive. Oh my God, I am
alive." These were my first words upon coming to the realization that
the little girl was actually me.
What follows is
only a brief outline of the road leading to the
recovery of a life time of amnesia and repressed memory and dealing
with post traumatic stress. Sadly, the more difficult times were caused
by other's ignorance and misunderstanding of amnesia, repressed memory,
multiple personality, and post traumatic stress.
In
Her Words
During my life
the image of the little girl on the bed flashed on my mind several
times – hundreds, perhaps a thousand times, but I never questioned the
image, and I never spoke to anyone about it, or any other childhood
experiences, for thirty-five years.
I survived
childhood traumas with the help of amnesia, the
compassionate tool often used by severely traumatized children. Blank
years, were creatively explained. Years lived in fear, afraid to sleep,
even afraid to breathe at times, were completely forgotten. Life was a
challenge. Reminders emerged at most unexpected times. I
learned to handle emergencies as smoothly and as painlessly as
possible. Amnesia, the compassionate instrument of my childhood, was
utilized to perfection.
Even in
adulthood, traumas were pushed aside to be dealt with later. In
1958, six weeks before the birth of my son, I walked into a drugstore
and as I was paying the cashier for my purchase, I glanced down at a
stack of newspapers to my left and I saw something very upsetting. My
whole body began to shake as I stared at the large picture of my father
on the front page of the newspaper. I picked up and paid for the paper
without saying a word to the puzzled cashier. My father, a respected
business man in my hometown, had died tragically the headline said.
This was an
emergency that was difficult to handle. I was 700 hundred
miles away from my hometown and about to give birth. Somehow, the
newspaper disappeared and I stored everything out of my conscious mind.
It was so much easier than to deal with painful memories. I had a
family to raise after all, and it was not a good time to take
a break. Eighteen years later, I nearly paid with my life for that
unconscious decision.
Running away
from the past, moving away farther and farther became an
instinctive pattern.
Subconsciously,
I think I knew I was headed for a violent awakening and
I probably prepared my self for the occasion.
It happened in
November 1975 when a simple disapproval from my
supervisor triggered something in my mind. My right arm paralyzed and
it hanged heavily on the side of my body. All suddenly, I felt very
tired. I could not do anything anymore. All energy seemed drained from
my body. I was at the end of the road. I had nowhere to run and nowhere
to hide any longer.
Today, we have
yet another name to describe survivors
of severe traumas: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But in 1975,
amnesia, dissociation, repressed memory, multiple personality were the
labels used to identify adult survivors of severe childhood trauma. The
aftereffects of childhood trauma was not well understood by
therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists. The possibility for
mistreatment was
high. It was not until 1989 that careful research and documentation of
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder began after many Vietnam Veterans
experienced
the disorder at some point after returning from Vietnam. The National
Center for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) was created within
the Department of Veterans Affairs in response to a Congressional
mandate
to address the needs of veterans with military-related PTSD. (
http://www.ncptsd.va.gov/ )
However, an adult person looking for help with
repressed memories,
showing symptoms of PTSD, is still mis-diagnosed, mis-medicated and
mistreated by professionals. All too commonly drugs are prescribed,
masking the inner conflicts, therefore, the underlining problems are
not addressed. And this is what this paper is about. How do we, in
America, treat adult survivors of childhood trauma?
Looking back, I
am still puzzled that no one identified my symptoms.
There were ample clues right from the beginning. I
knocked on doors of the best in the country, again and again. I was
mis-diagnosed, mis-medicated and mistreated by the experts of the mind.
My experience was so brutal that I still feel the after-effects today.
When I finally
gave up on the experts, I found myself
alone and fortunate to be alive and living among the free society.
Without physical
reason for my paralyzed arm, my family doctor referred
me to a psychiatrist. My first experience with psychiatry was a session
with a specialist in hypnosis, Dr. Louis Boswell of San Francisco, and
soon after, I began talk therapy with a local psychiatrist that was
referred to me by my family doctor. However, it was the control session
of hypnosis with Dr. Boswell that began repressed memories to surface
and that was a positive experience.
Although I had
no conscious memories of tragic events, the memories
were there, stored in my subconscious, the part of the brain that
controls everything we do. As if the subconscious knew how much
information to release, memories usually came a little at a
time and I had time to process the information before the next memory
arrived. As I became accustomed to the process, I learned to detect the
warning signs of upcoming memories.
"Heavy" memories
were hardest and most difficult to process. Sometimes
it took months or years before another memory surfaced. At times, due
to unpredictable circumstances, (like EST Training) information was fed
too quickly, or the information was too powerful, then the
conscious-self needed to take a break to absorb the overwhelming load
of information. From the healer's point of view, I find the process
fascinating.
One fall day in
1985, I was in my family doctor's office waiting for my
turn when the heaviest memory came to me. The signs had been there for
sometime. I remember how calm I was when I received the memory. And
then I felt the panic mounting – It was terribly difficult to accept. I
was afraid to pass out and I remember thinking that it was not a good
place to make a fool of myself. Other people were there also waiting to
see their doctors. I found myself in the bathroom, splashing water on
my face and the back of my neck. I had a really hard time.
When I went home
that afternoon, I was in a state of shock. I sat in a
chair for about thirty hours, my hands clutching the
arms of the chair, afraid to move, and afraid to sleep. Afraid to
lose control. I needed help.
That is how I
ended in a Marin County psychiatric hospital and found
out how adult survivors of severe childhood trauma are treated and how
easy I could become a permanent patient or even a dead patient.
The trip to the
hospital was good for me, although, I
did not know where I was going at first. Talking to someone felt
good and that brought me back to reality. I was dehydrated, tired
and hungry.
The hospital
attendant guiding me to my room had a glass of water and
some pills that I was expected to take. Without seeing or talking to
any doctor, he had prescribed some drugs for me. Previous experience
with prescribed drugs proved disastrous, therefore, I was firm. I did
not want to take any drugs unless perhaps a mild sleeping pill. And I
would have appreciated some food. But, before I realized what was
happening, a syringe was out and two other aides, a man and a woman,
appeared from nowhere.
Startled, I begged, "No, please . . . I will take
the
pills. Please don't . . ." But they paid no attention to my pleas. They
grabbed me, lay me on the bed face down. Someone pulled my
panties down, and I felt the needle break the skin and enter the flesh
of my buttock spreading strong chemicals into my body. They talked
to each other while handling me but they never said a word to me. It
was done very quickly and very efficiently. They were professionals. It
was clear that I had no more value to them than a 100-pound bag of
potatoes. They turned me over on my back and I heard the straps hit the
underside of the bed and the click of the buckles. I was tied to the
bed. Just as mechanically, they left the room.
I tried to slide
out of the restraints but I could not. There are no
words to describe the terror, the pain and sadness
I felt. Suddenly, I knew what the little girl felt in 1942, when she
was tied to the bed and abandoned by everyone. Her picture appeared on
my mind very clearly and for the very first time, I wept for her, and I
wept for myself before losing consciousness.
According to my
dossier, they pumped more drugs into me as I laid
unconscious. When I awoke the following day, the restraints were gone
but it did not matter. I was numb. I was not sad or happy. I did not
feel any emotion. My face was twitching, grimacing. My mouth was dry
and contorted, my vision blurry. I remember my tongue would not stay in
my mouth and I pushed it back with my fingers when I tried to speak. I
did not feel embarrassment. I had a condition called extrapyramidal
symptoms (EPS) a condition induced by drugs used in
psychiatry, a condition that is sometimes irreversible. I wore a
chemical straitjackets for the next many hours.
When the drugs
began to wear off, the enormity of the
situation hit me. I was terrified. I wondered if they would stop
me if I tried to walk out. The alarm sounded off when I reached a
certain point as I walked down the step to the back patio. So rather
than to risk being-forced drugs and tied to a bed again I gave up. I
was a prisoner. The world seemed turned upside down. Murderers
were let out of prisons, wife beaters and child abusers went unpunished
and I, who had never been a threat to anyone in my life, I, whose only
sin was that my wounds were a little deeper than the average person,
I was a prisoner that needed restraining like a violent criminal. If
this
was sanity I thought, then, I'd rather be crazy. I waited them out.
Three days later
when they finally decided to let me out, they opened
the doors and I walked out with a broken soul, swearing to never forget
these days of terror. I felt as if they had poked
a knife into my opened wounds and twisted it. What kind of sadistic
people were these?
The doctor wrote
in my dossier that I should continue
to take the drugs he prescribed and if I refused, the shots will
be available for me. He felt that I will not function in society
without prescription drugs. The man knew nothing about me, yet, he was
determined to take control of my life. I often wondered if he would
have been interested in me if I had not had good medical insurances. He
wanted to keep me
in the hospital after 72 hours but he was voted down. I
know that I was very lucky that day to be out of there. I
know that had they kept me in I would not have survived. This was
the most frightening experience of my adult life and probably of my
entire life.
Once at home, I
threw away the drugs and a few days later I went back
to work. I stopped looking for outside help with repressed memories and
post traumatic stress. My dogs, my Afghan Hounds became my
therapists. I talked to them and I grieved with them. I trusted them with my life. I could swear they understood me as they
rested quietly by my side. They never tried to harm me.
They offered to me something that no human could learn in the best of
school: Respect and kindness. My Afghan Hounds replaced the best
that California psychiatry had to offer. I am so proud to have survived this.
When I think of what Victor Hugo wrote so many
years ago: "Certain
thoughts are prayers. There are
moments when, whatever
be the
attitude of the
body,
the soul is on
its knees." When I
think of that I think of my life. I worked, I prayed, I
cried. No matter what I was doing, I think my soul was always on
its knees because I never stop thinking of the little girl left behind
so many years ago. A little girl that refused to die.
In September
2003, I drove from California to Maine to go and pray on
my parents' grave and to forgive them for my unfortunate childhood. I
felt peace within me when I left the cemetery that day. It had been
almost thirty years since the first memory surfaced, and there I was,
an old woman, standing proud, alone and happy. Proud of
my accomplishment, happy to be here. When tears dripped down my face,
they were tears of solacement and tears of relief. I knew then that I
made it - despite the extensive damage caused by the "experts."
| This
article is the structure
upon which I will assemble my life on
paper, word by word, sentence by sentence. It is too important a story,
too serious and too costly to keep to myself. |
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