As I embarked on my chosen experience of being reparented I kept a close watch on the behaviors of both my psychiatrist and my psychologist. They were each male and exhibited great professionalism. I’ll refer to my psychiatrist as Dr Dad, my psychologist as Dr Ballbreaker. Dr Dad put everything in motion. He had his contingencies as did I. He agreed to mine and his were that I be honest about my physical state at all times, that I show up at least once a week for behavioral therapy, every three weeks for an assessment by him and that I promise not to attempt suicide. If I missed one session with my therapist or Dr Dad all bets were off. I had been able to respond well to structure for my mere survival so this was easy for me to adhere to. Suicide was not an option. There were several times I knew I was likely going to expire and a handful of times that I wished I could die in those moments for the physical relief it would bring but suicide just isn’t my thing. And so we began.
My first session with Dr Ballbreaker was quite irritating to me. He was mild-mannered and quite intelligent. He was also a bit smug. He assumed by the way I looked (many marks from pulling at and picking my skin on my face, neck and hands to self-soothe and of course the ever attractive missing teeth) that I was out of my mind for laying out my plan for therapy with precision and determination. I also had a strong feeling that he resented being the one guy in the practice that had been assigned to me as there were several doctors on staff. No matter, we were stuck with each other. He began asking questions along the lines of, “How was your day”. Really? Dude, I’ve got work to do. I began by telling him about the very recent death of one of my dogs. That Moishe’s death had left me feeling utterly hollow. Dr B was an animal lover as well so we were able to meet there. Then he moved into what brought me to therapy. I froze, shocking even myself. What if I tell him and he decides to intervene after all? I would be dead in a matter of hours. So I became silent. He tried other ways of prodding. I sat there giving him the ‘fuck you’ gesture with my middle finger. I simply held it there for about 20 minutes. Staring at him, trying to intimidate him. He wasn’t having any of it. Dr B just kept asking questions as if I was answering them in tandem. Finally I said, “I think the session is over”. He replied, “Okay, see you in a few days”. Fuck! There was no way out of this now. I couldn’t imagine if we would succeed, all of us together. I was afraid that they would feel compelled to intervene. I trusted no one. I was fucked. I went home and played the obedient wife as if nothing was in motion because at that point I couldn’t see what was already beginning to transpire.
My next two sessions with Dr Ballbreaker were more contentious. He decided to fight back. I told him I felt he lacked the competence to get me where I wanted to be. He responded by telling me that while I was clearly intelligent enough to work this through he doubted I had the spine for it. Very good move on his part. But I wouldn’t budge. He decided to give me a test to take home. It would take maybe 1.5 to 2 hours to complete. He said it would help him see exactly what level of psychological damage I may be presenting. I agreed to take the test. I love tests. That was the only motivation I had. He handed it to me, I told him to go fuck himself and he said to have a great few days, “Jen”. The balls on this guy!
The day came to reveal to me the results of the test. We had scheduled a long session. I sat there as he read me the entire thing. Every now and then he would look up to see my reaction to the devastating information I was hearing. I held it together for a while knowing I would begin to sob at any moment. He could see that, and kept going. Wise man, indeed. According to this test I was the fucking personification of meshuggeneh. Toward the end Dr B gave me his summary. He said he wasn’t sure if I could get beyond the damage to my mind. I was incapable of trusting anyone, I was lost in the confusion of having been the sole target of a madman’s rage while all along knowing it wasn’t personal. Nothing made sense and yet I was functioning as if it did. There was a lot to break through and break down. Dr B stopped speaking. My tears came on. Full force. There was no fucking way I was going to accept permanent damage to my mind. It’s all I had. Throughout the entire ordeal, years of beatings, unspeakable torture and even bringing his friends in for rape fests, the one thing in my body that didn’t betray me was my mind. I fucking love my brain. It’s the best one ever. No disrespect to all of you Mensa members out there, but I have so much fun with my brain that I can’t imagine a better one. I wasn’t going to give it up without a mother fucker of a fight. Dr Ballbreaker had finally broken my balls. He hit the one thing I cherished more than anything else. He strategically threatened it. He asked why I was crying, as I explained, he welled up with tears too. He gets it. I now trust him.
Over the next several months I filled my weeks with dental appointments, therapy appointments, consults with Dr Dad and writing my contemplations down almost daily then mailing them to Dr B for safe keeping while continuing to convince my husband that nothing was changing. The double life aspect was truly exhausting although well worth it.
Dr Ballbreaker and I just kept climbing. One day when I entered the office to sign in the receptionist began to weep. I was confused and said as much. Dr B came over and conveyed to me that the staff were truly amazed at the transformation they had witnessed. None of them knew any of the details of my experiences but he assured me that the physical changes were dramatic. I didn’t see it but I believed him. Anyway the receptionist was fucking crying. That’s telling. Am I right?
There were several times when my husband took a fleeting notice of something changing in me. He was turned on by the physical changes but I chose to take the hits over the rapes. Fuck him. It didn’t always work but I felt right about my choice. He also continued his spontaneous and unexpected physical attacks. One day I turned around in the driveway coming back from retrieving the metal trash cans left on our street. He grabbed one of the lids bouncing it hard off of my face. I just kept walking. Bleeding the whole way back into the house. Washed away the blood, applied pressure to the wound and went on with my day. These days were coming to an end. And I knew it.
In therapy we covered everything from my childhood on up. It was interesting to observe my perceptions changing over time. Some from maturity others from experience. Revisiting things that made me happy or sad in the past was a worthwhile effort. Being able to watch the event again in one’s mind but this time with a wisdom unknown back then affords us the opportunity to wrap the experience in another package. That exercise can relieve us of so much weight. I highly recommend it. Dr B and I worked hard every session. He moved my appointments to the end of his work day. Poor guy. I definitely took him on a ride. Each session I showed up with a list of 3 things I wanted to accomplish before our next meeting. I demanded it from myself and he helped me to set up a structure in which to achieve my goals. I wanted to feel confidence, worthiness and fearlessness. There were a few mental obstacles standing in my way, PTSD being one with its many manifestations. I needed to learn how to manage it all. I had to give it my best shot.
Down the road from all of this work the escape plan began to develop. I met with a few ethical challenges during this time. I plan to describe all of that in my next post. Oh, and god nor faith had any influence on this experience. Reason being, they’re bullshit. Amen.