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. These are the chemical straitjackets. 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. 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. I had the perfect team of support right in my home: My wonderful dogs, who loved me and were always there for me, and never once attempted to harm me. My Afghan Hounds replaced the best that California psychiatry had to offer. Pet therapy saved my life and my sanity. 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. 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. Copyright © by Marcelle Guy, Ellevie, 2006

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Introduced June 11, 2006
Last update October 22, 2006