Untold II

“Thank you for seeing me for an extra session this week,” Peter begins.

“No problem.”

“I haven’t been able to think of anything else but what you said, that by not talking about my priest abusing me I’ve done exactly the opposite of what I intended, I’ve let him continue to control my life.” Pause. “That makes me sick. But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“And feeling …?”

“Sick. Angry! Scared. I keep remembering what he did to me. I try to figure out how many times it happened. I wonder why I never told my parents, anyone.” Pause. “I guess I know the answer to the last one, I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”

“Do you feel sad for you as the abused child?”

“I hate when you put it like that! That’s not all I am!”

“That’s true. It would have been better for me to say, do you feel sad for the child in you who was abused?”

Peter’s eyes well with tears. “You’re amazing. You listen and understand and take responsibility for even a little mistake.”

“Unlike the priest who took responsibility for nothing.”

“Unlike the priest. Unlike my parents who could never understand.”

Silence.

“Would it be helpful if you told me what actually happened between you and the priest or do you feel you’re not ready?”

Silence.

“He’d touch me. Usually until I climaxed. And then he’d make me touch him. Sometimes – I don’t know how often – he’d tell me to kneel – Catholics are good at that – and then he’d… he’d, you know, he’d make me use my mouth. I hated that. It was disgusting.”

“Thank you for telling me Peter. I know how hard it was for you. How do you feel now having told me?”

“Relieved. I knew I’d have to tell you. It feels like a relief to have it over.”

Silence.

“Can I ask you what you’re thinking?” I ask.

“I was actually wondering what you’re thinking. I was afraid you’d think I was disgusting.”

“You’re not in any way disgusting, Peter.”

“I was afraid my wife would think that too. I wonder if she thinks about it when we make love. I wonder if a part of her recoils from me.”

I wonder to myself if Peter thinks about the abuse when they make love, but decide it’s too soon to ask that question. “Does she seem to recoil from you?”

He shakes his head. “No, not at all.” Pause. “But, but it’s hard for me to have … to have oral sex. Either to give it or receive it. I know it’s because of the abuse. Sometimes I force myself because I know she likes it, but it seems kind of disgusting to me.” Pause. “Actually, when she does it to me it feels good at the time, but then, then afterwards I don’t feel good at all.”

“You feel guilty?”

“Definitely.”

“And you felt guilty with the priest as well?”

“Yes. Guilty and ashamed. I was afraid someone would find out and think I was disgusting. Afterwards I’d come out from the church… If it was sunny I’d wonder how that was possible. It seemed so dark where I’d just been. I couldn’t understand how the sun could be shining. I didn’t want it to be sunny. I wanted to hide.”

“Peter, very often the hardest thing childhood sexual victims struggle with is the pleasure that they themselves felt. Like how could I have been abused if part of me enjoyed it?”

“That’s exactly right! How can it be abuse if I, if I climaxed?”

“Because your genitals were being stimulated and your body responded just as it’s supposed to. You were also a frightened, lonely child and some esteemed authority figure was paying attention to you, making you feel special and bringing you pleasure.”

“No, that’s not completely right. I didn’t feel special at all. I felt I was being singled out because I was disgusting and he knew I was disgusting. Don’t forget he was my confessor.”

“And what had you done that made you feel disgusting?”

“I touched myself.”

“You masturbated just like every child. I’m sure the priest made you feel guilty and ashamed of doing what was entirely normal, but the horrible irony is that he was the one who was doing what was horrible, illegal, destructive. That’s enraging. I feel enraged for you.”

“I feel as though I’ve been in a trance this session. Like I want to shake myself and come back to reality.”

“I think what you’re saying, Peter, is that you’ve been back being your child self. I’m sure that will be helpful to you - and to us - because it’s that part of you that was damaged and needs to heal.”

Gifts

This is the beginning of Marjorie’s fourth month of therapy. She’s a reserved 45 year old woman who finds little meaning in her life as the third wife of a rich, older man who was born into money. Her days are spent attending luncheons, galas, and fundraisers. 

She hands me a check for last month’s payment, then reaches into her Gucci purse and pulls out a small oblong package wrapped in stripped red and gold paper, tied with a gold bow. I groan inwardly.

“Marjorie …” I begin.

“I know, I know,” she interrupts. “I’m not supposed to give you gifts. I’m supposed to talk about why I want to give you gifts. But I know why I want to give you gifts. I don’t want to just give you your check. I want to give you more. You’re finally someone I can talk to, someone I can really talk to as opposed to all the ridiculous chatter I do every day.”

Marjorie and I have been discussing the issue of gifts since her second session. That day, when I went to greet her in the waiting room, she had placed a flowering plant in the middle of the coffee table, carefully rearranging the magazines to either side. I was taken aback and suggested we go to my office and discuss the plant.

“I just thought the waiting room needed a plant. I felt more alive after our first session than I had for years and thought a living plant was the perfect thank you.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, Marjorie. And saying just that without actually bringing the plant would have been more than gift enough. That’s what we do here, we talk about our feelings, we don’t act on them.” 

Many thoughts and feelings went through my mind: What if I can’t keep the plant alive? I remembered years ago when I practiced in Ann Arbor a patient saw the plant in my office as one or the other of us and how that plant fared took on huge significance. I also felt intruded upon. Was that a feeling born from the present interaction with Marjorie or was the feeling tainted by my childhood feelings about my parent’s intrusiveness? What if I didn’t want a plant in my waiting room? 

For the moment, Marjorie and I agreed to disagree. 

Following a particularly difficult session when Marjorie told me her life-long secret, namely that she had been molested by her uncle as a child, she brought me a crystal blue paperweight. “I know I’m not supposed to give gifts, but there was no other way I could thank you for allowing me to unburden myself from my lifetime of shame, for your accepting me, when I was sure no one ever could.”

That time I felt more compassion for Marjorie, experiencing her gift as an expression of her feeling that she herself wasn’t enough, that she had to offer more than herself to express her gratitude. “I appreciate your kindness, Marjorie, but I want you to realize that you, yourself are enough. I don’t need a gift. Your presence, your trust in me, your thank you is gift enough.”

“But I don’t feel that,” Marjorie said.

“I understand that,” I said. “We’ll work on it. But no more gifts.”

So this time, when Marjorie extends the red and gold package towards me, I feel my anger rise. Shaking my head, I say, “I’m not taking the gift this time, Marjorie. My understanding was that we were going to work on you and your words being enough.”

Marjorie looks stricken. “You’re not going accept my gift?”

“I’m not rejecting you, Marjorie. I’m rejecting your insistence on devaluing yourself.” I hear my choice of the word ‘insistence’ and realize that I’m not being completely honest, I’m not dealing with my feeling of Marjorie thrusting her gifts on me. And then I understand.

“Marjorie, I’m going to say something that might be hard for you to hear, but I do think it’s important. I know you give me gifts because you don’t think enough of yourself. But I think there’s something else as well. Your uncle. He presented himself as if he was giving you a gift, giving you something pleasurable.”

Marjorie gasps, covers her mouth with her hands, “You think I’m molesting you?” she says in horror.

“What I think is that you’re helping me to feel how you felt as a little girl. Your uncle was literally intruding on you, abusing you, but he was also giving you pleasure and that’s always what’s most difficult for childhood sexual abuse victims.”

“I feel so dirty,” Marjorie says. “I never wanted it to feel good.”

“I know,” I say, compassionately, “but it’s hard not to crave the attention and your body can’t help but react.”

Barely audible, she adds, “And, each time, he brought me a gift.”      

Unspeakable

“I really appreciate your seeing me again. I didn’t know who to turn to. I’m so scared, so, so scared.”

Across from me sits Jennifer, a patient I have not seen for over eight years. We’d worked intensively for a five year period, until Jennifer gave birth and decided that she’d like to try it on her own. I’d questioned her timing. The victim of childhood sexual abuse by an uncle she’d kept secret from everyone but me, I’d wondered what feelings might resurface with the birth of her daughter. But she was insistent and I had to respect her decision.

“I saw Samantha masturbating in the living room a couple of weeks ago. It freaked me out, but I talked to myself, said it didn’t mean anything happened to her, just a kid exploring her body. So I told her those were things we do in private. She seemed to accept that and I let it be. It still bothered me – I even started to have my scary dreams again – but I dropped it with Samantha. Then it happened again and I got more scared.

“So I tried to talk to her about it. I reminded her what I had said before about that kind of stuff being private, but this time I asked her if anyone else had touched her down there. She didn’t say anything, just looked away from me. I panicked. I told her I wouldn’t be mad at her, but she needed to tell me if anyone else was touching her. Then she nodded and I thought I would die. Not again I wanted to scream. This can’t be happening to my daughter too,” Jennifer says, crying, tearing at her hands. I feel my own anxiety rise along with hers. 

She continues. “I asked her if she could tell me who it was and she pointed to the house next door. That confused me because there’s no man next door, just a divorced Mom with kids. She has a daughter, Emma, who’s the same age as Samantha and they play together sometimes. Then I thought maybe the Mom was dating someone, or was it the Mom herself, all these thoughts racing through my head. Then she almost whispered, ‘Howie.’ For a second I didn’t even know who that was and then I realized that was Emma’s brother who’s probably ten. Is that abuse? He’s ten. What were they doing? Was anyone with them? Where was Emma? I asked the last question. Samantha just shrugged. So I stopped. And I called you.”

“I’m glad you called, Jennifer, I know how very difficult this is for you. It would be difficult for any Mom, but it sets off so many old terrors for you.”

Jennifer’s tears cascade down her face. Her agitation decreases. “I knew you’d understand. I talked to my husband, Bill. He said I was over-reacting that they were just kids, doing what all normal kids do. Maybe he’s right. I don’t want to terrify Samantha. I don’t want to give her the message that sex is bad and dirty. I’ve had more than enough of that to deal with myself. Please tell me what I should do.”

Thoughts have been swirling through my mind during Samantha’s panicky recitation. I always believed that her daughter’s sexuality would present problems for Jennifer, but the possibility of sexual abuse raises those issues a hundredfold. On the other hand, Jennifer comes in with a good deal of insight. She knows she has to rein in her fears to avoid terrorizing Samantha, although children easily intuit their parent’s underlying and unspoken feelings. And there are the practical questions. What should Jennifer do? What did actually happen? Although the facts do matter in a case such as this, how one understands those facts will vary greatly depending upon the lens through which they are viewed.   

“There a lot going on here, Jennifer. Are you asking me what you need to do about your feelings, about how to deal with Samantha, about what actually happened?”

Jennifer stares at me. “I don’t know. I can’t even think straight. All of the above, I guess.”

“You’re feeling overwhelmed by your feelings and you can’t think straight. Is it possible for you, for example, to talk with Bill again about your feelings, to talk with the Mom next door, have the two of you talk with the Mom?”

“I can’t,” Jennifer wails.

I remember that forlorn cry. “You still haven’t told anyone but me about your abuse, have you?” I ask.

Jennifer shakes her head sobbing.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you still feel so much shame you can’t speak. Let’s see if you can come in again tomorrow. I don’t want to leave you feeling so distraught.”