First Session

For those friends and family who read my blog, the following is a truly personal journal entry. It really isn't intended for an audience. If you do continue reading, please refrain from commenting on it to me. Its too raw and I'm still sorting it out in my head.

"Adjustment difficulties, unspecified" is what my therapist is noting in my medical records. She said she would prefer to avoid the "post-traumatic stress" label, as she is aware of the possible consequences that making such specific notations on medical records can mean. Fine with me, I answered, so long as my insurance will cover sessions for treatment of "adjustment difficulties, unspecified".

This was my intake session and it was very through. The questions she asked were a quick and dirty review of my past, my current thoughts and mental habits, my assessment of myself, etc. The past as laid bare by her questions is pretty bleak. I listened to myself and was amazed sometimes by how neutral I sounded, and by the sheer awfulness of it. Someone really did survive a childhood like that and manage to be a productive person. Me. Astonishing.

Delve and delve again. The fencer in me so wanted to parry aside her questions, to derail her efforts, but my commitment to healing wouldn't let me. So I rummaged around in the basement of my psyche, and pulled out Truth in all its luminosity, with its ugly neon scratches and flourescent patches, the rents and tears and deliberate mutilations. It was excruciating. Just speaking of it made my neck and throat tremble, I had to force out the words that my mind and body were trying to hold in, to close around.

I was asked for brief descriptions of my parents.
What do you think of your father? Greg is not a good man, though in fairness to him, my mother did say that the man who returned from Vietnam was not the man she married, so perhaps he was a good man, once. And how was your relationship with him? Emotionally combatative and very phyiscally abusive. Any other type of abuse?He was physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive, but he did not sexually abuse me.
And your mother? I have always thought that she was mentally ill, and as I did not know her very well, I cannot say which type of illness it was, save that I thought it was a personality disorder originating in her angst over being adopted.
And your step-mother? An addict and a nurse, with twin daughters. She did try to be a mother, but she really wasn't equipped.
And your role in your family? I am the eldest of five. I was the enabler and the mother, I raised four sisters and two parents.

Do I have feelings of guilt with regards to the abuse, she asked. My expression was wry, I knew, as I answered affirmatively. What, specifically, do I feel guilty about? My sister, I said, the muscles in my throat and jaws trembed as I explained about Tess, and my understanding of cause-and-effect; that my leaving lead to her being abused, which lead to an entire string of events that would not have happened if I had found a way to remain, or to take her with me. And the sexual abuse, she asked.. Ah such guilt, to be the grandchild of evangelical ministers and know the lesson of a survivor: that to endure the unendurable, one learns to find pleasure in it.

What happened, she asked. I just couldn't go into details. My mind balked. I would rather have sat through one of Steve William's two-hour molecular bio exams at that moment than answer that question. It was a woman, I answered, watching her expression. There was no change. She met my eyes and nodded for me to continue. A friend of the family who moved in with us and slept with me for 6 months. She waited for more but I couldn't say anything. I remember that my hand was around my throat, and I could feel the strain in the muscles there.

Did you tell anyone, she asked. About the sexual abuse, I clarified. Yes. By the time that happened I had learned that I would not be heard, and what good did it do if I was believed and then made to recant, as before? And there was someone else involved, and it didn't seem right to tell anyone and expose him. What was your relationship to him, she asked. My throat tightened up again, and I could feel my eyes starting to tear up. I mentally kicked myself for adding the last. But I told her. Ryan was just a couple of years older than me, he was like a brother. I had known him all my life and I loved him and hero-worshipped him. And she...liked both of us. He's dead now, I told her, so I feel strongly that it isn't right to talk about him. I didn't tell my therapist about the fact that she had gotten pregnant and moved 'home' her parents, and that she had named the baby Timothy Ryan. Ryan's child, I have always thought. But he could be my father's. Who knows? I've never seen him, and she was not discriminating in her sex partners.

And my sexuality? Fairly healthy, I told her. I have a healthy libido, I enjoy sex, I have orgasms. I am neither avoidant of nor compulsive about sex, though the past couple of months I have been masturbating rather compulsively and have committed to being celibate for at least another 3 months. I have a male attitude toward sex, in that while I enjoy intimacy in foreplay and sex itself, I really don't like it when people say things in the heat of passion (like I love you, marry me, stay with me, etc) and I rarely like to cuddle after sex. I am aware that I don't like to put myself out there emotionally when I am having sex, and that I am aware that it is a defense mechanism relating to trust and fear of being vulnerable again.

What do I see as my strengths?. This question caught me off guard. I am compassionate, intelligent, and articulate, I answered. I couldn't think of anything else to say.

I have written until I can write no more. I am exhausted. Hopefully I'll be able to continue tomorrow. I've got a blood draw in the morning.