We all know that ending a secreted abuse and getting public support is an important element of healing. Indeed, it is nice when society comes to the rescue as they did to victims when the world trade towers fell. When victims sense they are supported there is more opportunity for resilience, heroism, and healing.

But alas, many of the people I work with on an Outpatient Psychiatric Unit do not enjoy such support. Many lead lives of poverty and neglect due to what is presumed to be the medical illness of the mind. Many have done stints standing on the corner with a cardboard sign and are used to be seen in a negative light. Imagine the constant digs or exclusionary put-downs they may receive from their community of origin. Many choose to withdraw from the world. It is as if society has managed their crisis by tying them down to their beds like African-American, male Katrina-victims. Progress toward healing is slow.

As a worker in the system, I have come to feel that many of our clients get dehumanized when we focus on behavioural control rather than freedom from abuse. Focusing on behaviour can point out what is wrong with the person and make it unsafe to talk about the ways they have been hurt. I feel weeding through hurts helps a person gain acceptance and healing.

Perhaps this focus on behaviour happens because of the way our institutions define human suffering as being part of a medical mental illness. Thinking you have an illness may feel good at first but often make problems worse down the line. Some who suffer may feel, they have been born with a diseased mind all along. They may feel this way, for example, with a label of schizophrenia because many people with a disease model mentality may treat them that way.

I believe that when trauma is hard to detect or complex, the mental health system assigns blame inside the scientific sanctity of the individual. This can result in things like multiple diagnostic labels, use of forced medication as a punishment, restraints, solitary confinement, psychiatric incarceration, and, eventually, permanent warehousing.

As a psychotherapist, I have found that understanding these problems as signs of micro abuse that accelerate with stigma and exclusion to be vital to being able to connect with participants in our program.

Understanding the Role of Sexual Trauma in my own Life:

Like many psychotherapists, my first client has been myself. I admittedly have lived experience with a long list of psychiatric labels including recurrent depression, anorexia, bulimia, ADD, dyslexia, schizophrenia, and now that I have recovered, schizoaffective disorder.

I have spent decades in therapy and received care that emphasized the illness narrative. I have taken pharmacies of detrimental pills even though I have come to a place where I believe I get some help from small doses. I have even been referred to as permanent warehousing in a state hospital in Montana.

I am writing to demystify the role that complex trauma has beneath the surface for so many of our most defamed, dehumanized, and marginalized people.

How Controlling Behavior May Lead to Re-traumatization Instead of Help:

It is true I have had an ongoing suspicion that I was sexually abused. Particularly when locked up for extended periods of time for an eating disorder, and most recently for schizophrenia, my suspicion that my suffering had sexual abuse behind it escalated. I went through a phase of clothing myself while bathing post-latency that was always hard to understand. My sense of shame associated with my body was suggestive to me.

Yet, I once had a female therapist confront me about secreted accusations I had made against my mother on an inpatient unit. At the time I was confronted, I could not remember the real incidents of sexual abuse that I experienced. I just stopped confiding in the therapist in any meaningful way. This really added to my sense of shame. It’s true I recovered, but I lead a limited life of work and torment.

Without knowing that I once was abused, it becomes that much harder to discern triggered re-traumatization, from abuse. People who don’t realize that their suffering is due to trauma are often unable to do this. They may repeatedly feel abused a gazillion times and it becomes hard to see how the community might come to the rescue. Instead, we get cast as not taking responsibility for our own problems that are generated by our defective genes.

The Importance of Vigilantly Assessing for Disassociation:

I have always been aware that I disassociate. I think it is a good idea for therapists and mental health workers to assess for disassociation. It is a simple question but may need to be teased out a bit to accurately assess for it.

Though I had been in therapy my whole life, I only had one therapist take note and get suspicious about the disassociation I described. What I have come to realize by listening to others is that if a person has experiences of disassociation, there is the possibility of incidents of distressing events that they may have forgotten.

An example of a disassociation I experienced was when I was alone scouting a trail. I stepped within six inches of a rattlesnake, a childhood obsession of mine. The rattle made me run even though I knew better. Then I became aware that I lost track of time. Finally, one of my peers on the Outward-Bound course came and found me staring off into space and I grounded myself.

Another time, my best high school friend made a pass at me after communicating in metaphoric manners that were suggestive that he might have been tripping on acid. I came to at several points to find myself hiding in the house. At one point I heard him talking to my mother when she returned to the house. He was talking about gay marriage and, somehow, I had gotten down into the basement again.

And, finally, after being teargassed at the WTO Protest in 1999, and pepper-sprayed directly in the eye, I took a walk and lost track of where I was and what I was doing. Suddenly, I realized I walked past my destination and had been out.

I am now at the point of arguing that these seemingly inconsequential incidents are faint traces that there is a need to explore more. I emphasize that I advocate doing this to help understand oneself instead of vilifying others. For example, my best friend does not deserve to be vilified, and yet the disassociation was real. Though disassociation experience may not seem significant to the daily suffering that gets experienced, I think it is an important indicator of trauma that may accelerate over time if it goes unaddressed.

How I Broke through the Wall:

I took it upon myself to write about starting to disassociate in front of my nephew when he was a bathing cherub in a tub in front of me. I did not fully disassociate and I considered the experience a flashback. I was going outside my body but didn’t leave all the way. This had been happening to me on a few occasions when I was working seven days a week trying to get back on my feet financially after my post-state-hospital period of homelessness.

As I was editing the scene suddenly I got a vague flash of being molested in a bathtub. The girl, my best friend’s sister, was only one year older. I would later remember that she ordered me to take my clothes of and get in the tub with her while our parents were out walking on the railroad grade.

I still don’t remember my response. There is a story that I ate a mothball thinking it was a marshmallow necessitating poison control to be contacted. I was a little old to make such a silly mistake. It’s true I could be wrong, but I connect that action to my response to the tub incident. I do believe that that was the summer I started bathing in my trunks.

When I took this story to my mother, I got an additional answer. “No, you are thinking of the time we caught the babysitter touching you,” she said.

While I continue to have no memory of this incident I remember several occasions when I was around this babysitter later in life. Before I hadn’t been able to understand my piercing feelings, behaviour and memory of those occasions.

“Thank you for telling me,” I stated to my Mom.

“I probably shouldn’t have told you,” she said, “Now you are going to think you have been abused a gazillion times!”

When Hypervigilance and Numbing Seem Like They Are Normal:

Just like the bath with my step-sister might not have been distressing to many untraumatized young boys, there is the possibility that memories of intense hypervigilance may not always be indications of sex abuse. Not all intense memories I have led to recovered memories.

Before I broke through the wall disassociation I could never understand why I got such strong intuition and suspicions. I didn’t realize that I was doing this for a good reason. I often presumed there was something wrong with me. I had to learn to numb out to prevent embarrassing myself worse socially.

I also have a hard time defending myself when I get attacked. When I do defend hypervigilance, I come off too strong and the results never go well. Then, when I am called on to defend myself during a test, I often fail to act because I think it may be hypervigilance.

People who prey on others can see these signs and chose people they can hurt without getting in trouble. This can open a body up to bullying that can become institutional when labels get attached. Powerful mental health administrators have done this to me and I remain marginalized in the county in which I work.

More Meaningful Memories:

When I found out that her brother had sexually abused a childhood friend, I suddenly had a flash and an image. I saw him rape her, became paralyzed with fear and fled. Had I really behaved like that? It seemed like more of an intuitive dream, that a solid reality.

Typical, I thought, for a schizophrenic to hear about sex abuse and think it is all about him. Perhaps some of the readers may think so as well.

However, I do remember visiting the two of them alone in a vacation cabin along the Chatooga River in the Adirondacks. They were skinny-dipping, she with just a shirt on, he in the nude, and me, very attached to my bathing suit. My last memory of the evening involves him standing behind her wrestling her around.

The distinctive flash of a rape and an overwhelming feeling of cowardice and helplessness that overtook me when I should have protected the victim is unconnected to any other part of the evening.

The brother has only admitted to inappropriate touching. So, I acknowledge that even saying the word rape may be inappropriate and unfair. If I considered these flashes reality, there are several other incidents in my life to talk about with other adult men.

Years later I had rescue fantasies and psyched myself up to respond to rape scenes. This happened at a time when I took a job in a lawless section eight housing project; and used community activists and the press to fight the management company, the police and the black market dealers against all odds. This is an action that caused the police and my parents to attempt to institutionalize me in a state hospital.

Is it possible that my objectionable behaviour of using the press to out real murder and mayhem was simply an unconscious expression of ongoing existential guilt from unrealized events? Is it possible that some of my schizophrenia was exacerbated by real government monitoring? For a year the only job I could maintain was an arranged job at an Italian Deli through which I thought I was being persecuted by the Italian Mafia. When I stopped acting persecuted and started being thankful for a nine-dollar an hour job, I was able to return to professional job opportunities.

“The first question that gets asked shouldn’t be what is wrong with you, it should be what happened to you?”—Jackie Dillion

I think therapists have a responsibility to assess for incidents of abuse. This is not about potentially wrongly vilifying people like the brother above, it is about healing and changing behaviour. For healing, even heinous acts need to be emotionally accepted, yet never forgot. It involves constant intuitive listening and questioning and remembrance of patterns on the part of a psychotherapist. What is far more common in psychiatry these days is the focus only on symptoms and behaviours associated with mental illnesses. It becomes easy to become part of the problem for many when blame is assigned within the genetic codes and neurotransmitter cocktails of the individuals.

Overemphasizing these concepts without acknowledging the role of trauma promotes stigmas and generalizations. This not only orients us towards not considering traumatic occurrences, it makes it highly likely that we will re-traumatize sufferers and further marginalize them.

I believe that when therapy is governed with an illness narrative mentality, money gets made, and many of the recipients lose support and wind up deprived, impoverished and defeated. The mental health system becomes much more a system of control and ongoing abuse when things are as such.

I would advise someone who is suffering and receiving psychiatric care not to underestimate the role that trauma may have in their suffering. Learning about this and honouring it yourself can help you make meaning of your suffering. Unfortunately, if our communities don’t understand or teach us about trauma, we need to do this for ourselves. I believe this is when psychotherapy can be helpful. However, when psychotherapists maintain the psychiatric illness mentality, therapy can go on for years without understanding underlying complex trauma.

The post Demystifying Complex Trauma for Therapists appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

What was emerging now was different than anything I had experienced prior.

I had just gotten support from relationships I had built over the past year at the Quaker meeting-for-worship.

Maybe my situation at work had been getting whispered about among my friends. Maybe my spirit was exuding a sense of desperation. Either way, I’d felt safer under the spell of the service, the last bit of community support I would experience for years.

When the service was over I’d checked in. A year-long friend gave me a deep hug with just a little more boob than I was comfortable with.

“I guess I am learning that it’s not safe to talk about what’s going on at the Morrison to anyone,” I told my slightly newer friend.

The Morrison was the notorious Section 8 housing project where I worked setting up social services for disabled residents. The deal was, homeless and disabled could get off the streets and into affordable housing, but they had to live in crime ridden contexts. Many good Seattle folk were concerned this just wasn’t good enough. As a result, there were frequent news articles written about the project.

“Well, I guess you know I will be holding you in the light,” said my newer friend who was so genuine I knew he was not an informer. He could be a life-long friend, I thought as I fingered the phone-number-paper-scrap in my pocket. I had obtained the number from a female just before the service.

But alas, I was ready to lay down my life to rectify injustice of what I’d seen at the Morrison. I was directly responsible for three recent news articles articulating the neglect. Maybe it was just a matter of time until they figured out it was me.

Now, here in this adjacent coffee house, it was as if I had just walked into a sting operation.

Having just gotten barked at by this addict with bulging veins when I had tried to use the bathroom he was occupying. I sat waiting with urgent need to pee, watching this father with his son.

The father was hefty and awkward, and his son was this with-it Seattle youth who looked adoring.

In fact, this father looked like a hometown acquaintance. I had just last night heard that this acquaintance had been found with a bullet in his head in his shed. Just last night, my oldest friend had told me the story when I contacted him. I had contacted him in hopes for his assessment of the level of danger I was experiencing.

“Just don’t let that happen to you!” my friend had said concerned.

Now it occurred to me that my oldest friend and I were basically saying this “suicide” sounded like a mob hit. Was it possible that the FBI sent a look-alike because they were tapping my phone?

Now this familiar looking man goes to the bathroom and pounds on the door. I see the addict emerge and fire an insult at him just as he had done to me. But the man, unlike me, was waiting for him. He barked right back. It was as if he were punching the addict in the gut. Still, no one was going to get in that bathroom! But the father walked away and was respected by his son.

Was this scene really staged by an arm of the government that trying to get me to change my Quaker values? I had a sense that I was meant to see this interaction! Was I being brainwashed into taking people out?

I did want justice; but violently taking people out and putting the wrong people in jail was more the work of the local law enforcement! It wasn’t what I was about.

My mind skipped. The night before I’d asked my mother if I had ever been sexually abused. I’d brought up some memories and had suspicions with a menacing tone.

I was believing that I was traumatized, not a mental case like my therapist had been telling me for the past seven years.

It was true, I once suffered from an eating disorder that almost killed me. It was also true I was extremely shy and had some disassociated memories. But still I had nothing direct to prove I was experiencing PTSD. Instead I carried the diagnosis of a schizotypal personality disorder. That meant when people picked on me I was paranoid.

When I finally left the coffee house, I drove north past my apartment, to the discount theater where I caught the afternoon showing of Me, Myself, and Irene. As the movie progressed, I remained astonished by the coincidences. Jim Carey had to suppress a secreted abuse. He had to raise his wife’s kids alone. Everyone around him mocked him. It was like that for me too. That was what my life had been like.

Now, as I watched the film for the second day in a row, I wondered about the role of the FBI following him. It was ironic that they were using his psychiatric profile to pin blame. Meanwhile to protect Rene Zellweger from the abusive ex-boyfriend who is controlling the FBI, Jim Carey has got to go through a caper to cure himself. I sensed that this is what I was getting ready to go through!

I knew there was alarming abuse going on at the Morrison. There were the secret files the management company held. There was a world of undercover informers and intelligence. These were the real muddy waters that infect those corridors of housing for the disabled, the backwards, the board and care homes, the jails, the prisons, and the inner-cities. I wasn’t accepting those: “now, that sounds like your paranoia!”— words my therapist frequently sang at me.

Since I stopped taking my medication a few weeks ago, I was starting to better see through the limited lies of the mental health establishment.

Back when this movie first came out, I choose not to see it because of the criticisms of the AMA! Now, I was meant to see this film when I did. I concentrated hard on the details guided by a higher power. More and more, the film seemed to be about me!

Earlier that week while at the Morrison, a resident had given me a great compliment about my work. “But I just want to say,” he added, “one time we had a worker like you who came and fought for the clients, but then he lost his job. He had to come down here and live as a resident himself. I just don’t want that to happen to you!”

As the movie finished, I felt at risk. I felt compelled to figure out the truth!

Later that night I made more phone calls in the bunker of my room just as I had done the night previous. Eventually, I called by best college friend who was fifteen years older than me and whose first career was that of a drug dealer. I called him believing that I was selected for this high-profile job by people who knew I would take it. People who knew me so well they knew what I’d do before I did it.

Indeed, it had been a strange shock to all involved that the power-brokers had selected the contract proposed by our agency. Now that I was getting wise, maybe I was becoming a threat.

My best friend always had delusions of grandeur that were associated with his bipolar disorder. He had this thing when he got manic. He sounded like he was connected to the mafia. He had shown me so many great mobster movies and was always seemed to use them to teach.

But now he replies in blunt tone “If you ever betray me, Tim, you need to know that I do have the power to harm you and I will use it if I have to.”

My mind sped through all the coincidences that had caused me to form this strong connection with my college friend. Was it true that it was all as it seemed? He often called himself a dry drunk. Maybe that meant he was still in the mafia.

Within twenty minutes I packed my car with the fundamentals and I took off. I would not live under this threat the rest of my life!

When I left Seattle that evening, I stayed in this state of emergency for two years. It wouldn’t be until many months after I returned to taking medication that the crisis dissipated.

On my way to Canada, I got stopped by police separated from my car. I was tracked for three days until I was remanded into a three-month psychiatric hospitalization in Montana State Hospital.

Once discharged, I got off the streets by getting a job but ran out of my discharge supply of medication. When I was told not to return to my job, I still had to pay rent! Despite intensive local efforts, the only job I could get was an arranged job at an Italian Delicatessen. To get the job, I had to move to the bay area.

To this day I still believe the job involved a mob connection. I know this sounds unlikely to many. It’s true that half of my evidence was faulty. But still a lot of it turns out to add up.

I also think I was correct about trauma and the mental health system during those tense days I was going through spiritual emergence almost eighteen years ago. I still work in the mental health system amidst great trauma and exploitation. I cannot maintain living in the murky waters of this modern-day fiasco we call the mental health system without using the medication I was started on twenty-five years ago.

I now pay mortgage on my own house, but still have no desire to do what it takes to be included in the false sense of community support I had back in Seattle. I wash my hands in the muddy waters of the mental health system.

It may be true I work hard; but I make money while my brothers and sisters remain warehoused and in dire circumstances. I sometimes think my ability to see all the angles and oppression is not really a disability. But I take my medication despite all the side effects to tolerate the abuse I see.

The post Spiritual Emergence in the Muddy Waters of the Mental Health System appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".

Warning: Graphic Content

“I have heard real stories,” said my female therapist, “of men doing graphic and horrible things to women. I don’t think based on what you just told me, there is any justification for any accusation whatsoever. I think you have been saying a lot of hurtful things.”

I figured my mother who was paying for these forced sessions put the shrink up to this confrontation. I never did bring the issue of sexual abuse up.

It is true I have had an ongoing suspicion that I was sexually abused. Particularly when locked up for extended periods of time for an eating disorder, and most recently for schizophrenia, my suspicion that my suffering had sexual abuse behind it escalated.

It was also true that in the state hospital I had just gotten out of, I had made rash accusations.

I can only recall making the accusation against my mother to my best college friend who had a nefarious past of drug dealing and a grandiose mafioso mentality while manic. When I confided in him that I had alerted the press in a section eight housing authority complex, he threatened me. With this feeling I had been led into this role I was playing as a whistle-blower all along, I’d fled towards Canada until the police intercepted me.

From the phone in the State Hospital, without knowing his level of responsibility for the fact that I was there, I told him what had transpired between myself and my mother in a provocative manner.  I told him he was lucky to have a family who cared about him when he had faced going to a state hospital for bipolar disorder. I’d also said, “Friends don’t threaten each other!”

“I think it is time for me to visit your mother,” my friend said.

Scared for my mother, I called to warn her.

“You shouldn’t make such accusations about Joe being in the mafia,” my mother said, “He really does care about you!”

When I later asked my Mom where she had heard about my provocative accusation, she told me she forgot.

At the time the female therapist confronted me, I could not remember the real incidents of sexual abuse that I experienced. I just stopped confiding in her.

Initially, shit just happened when I was a teen, built up and I just distracted from the pain through starvation. The incident with my Mom was just one of many. People like me who don’t realize that their suffering is due to trauma are often unable to discern abuse from re-traumatization. They may attract a long list of psychiatric diagnoses. They may feel abused a gazillion times and it becomes hard to see how any community might come to the rescue.

What I have come to believe is that if a person has experiences of disassociation, there is the possibility of incidents of forgotten events.

An example of a disassociation I experienced was when I was alone scouting a trail. I stepped within six inches of a rattlesnake, a childhood obsession of mine. The rattle made me run even though I knew better. Then I became aware that I lost track of time. Finally, one of my peers on the Outward-Bound course came and found me staring off into space and I grounded myself.

Also, after being teargassed at the WTO Protest in 1999, and pepper sprayed directly in the eye, I took a walk and lost track of where I was and what I was doing. Suddenly, I realized I walked past my destination and had been out.

Much later, after the state hospital incident, I disassociated in front of my nephew when he was a bathing cherub in a tub in front of me, I was going outside my body but didn’t leave all the way. This had been happening to me on a few occasions when I was working seven days a week trying to get back on my feet financially.

In fact, when I did write about this occasion, during an editing session I suddenly I got a vague flash of being molested in a bathtub. The girl, my best friend’s sister, was only one year older. I would later remember that she ordered me to take my clothes of and get in the tub with her while our parents were out walking.

I didn’t remember my disassociated response, I only remembered the hands disappearing beneath the suds. There is a story that I ate a moth ball thinking it was a marshmallow necessitating poison control to be contacted. I was a little old to make such a silly mistake. It’s true I could be wrong, but I connect that action to my response to the tub incident. I do believe that around that time I started bathing in my trunks.

I do recall becoming very angry at my best friends’ sister for not choosing the kind of ice cream I wanted when it came to selecting ice cream for her birthday celebration. I recall experiencing a lot of disapproval for that strange show of selfishness.

When I took this story to my mother, I got an additional answer. “No, you are thinking of the time we caught the babysitter touching you,” she said.

While I continue to have no memory of this incident I remember several occasions when I was around this babysitter later in life. Before I hadn’t been able to understand my piercing feelings, behavior and memory of those occasions.

“Thank you for telling me,” I stated to my Mom.

“I probably shouldn’t have told you,” she said, “Now you are going to think you have been abused a gazillion times!”

It’s true that the bath with my step-sister might not have been distressing to many untraumatized young boys. Now, however, I have some explanation for my suffering.

Before I broke through the wall disassociation I could never understand why I got such strong intuition and suspicions. I didn’t realize that I was doing this for a good reason. I often presumed there was something wrong with me.

Perhaps now I can better understand and accept why I get uncomfortable in bars and socially withdraw. Maybe now I can understand why I withdraw in trauma trainings with other therapists. When we are all learning emotional freedom techniques, for example, I am unable to benefit from them. Now, I know I am on my way to disassociating in these contexts.

Now I understand why I always have a hard time defending myself when I get attacked. I am numbing out! Now I know why when I do defend myself, I come off too strong and the results never go well. It is ongoing hypervigilance!

People who prey on others can see these signs and chose people they can hurt without getting in trouble. This can open a body up to bullying that can become institutional when labels get attached. People who appear to be victimized end up being soft targets.

And, so, I understand better how I got in some other hard-to-deal with situations and other disassociated memories. And, so, one day, while hiking with my father on a visit back east, I finally got up the courage to ask what had happened to our family friend who was a few years older than me and had dissociative identity disorder.

When I found out that her brother had sexually abused her, I suddenly I had a flash and an image. I saw him over top of her, became paralyzed with fear and fled. Had I really behaved like that? It seemed like more of an intuitive dream, that a solid reality.

Typical, I thought, for a schizophrenic to hear about sex abuse and think it is all about him. Perhaps some of the readers may think so as well.

However, I do remember visiting the two of them alone in a vacation cabin along the Chatooga River in the Adirondacks. They were skinny-dipping, she with just a shirt on, he in the nude, and me, very attached to my bathing suit. My last memory of the evening involves him standing behind her wrestling her around.

The distinctive flash of what I saw and an overwhelming feeling of cowardice and helplessness that overtook me is unconnected to any other part of the evening.

The brother has only admitted to inappropriate touching. So, I acknowledge that even suggesting the word rape may be inappropriate and unfair. I have taken myself closer to this flash and tried to remember visual details. I realize in doing this there were sleeping bags on the floor and that I saw no direct flesh. And yet I felt a sense of penetration internally. But the sense that I could only flee in cowardice connects to other times I acted in similar manners and the shame is enormous.

If I considered these flashes of disassociated memories to be true, there are several other incidents I had with adult men who were significant in my life that were suspicious.

These events help explain why all those years later when I was working in the section eight housing project, I used to walk in the evenings around a lake having rescue fantasies in which I physically psyched myself up to respond to rape scenes. I took these walks to relieve stress while I was using community activists and the press to fight the management company, the police and the black-market dealers against all odds. This is action that caused the police to attempt to institutionalize me in Montana.

I have come to understand that if I am to heal from my psychiatric labels of depression, anorexia, bulimia, schizotypal personality disorder, dyslexia, ADD, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder (now that I am in “recovery”) and perhaps dissaociative disorder I am going to have to accept that I will not know if all my conglomerate sex abuse incidents are true but accept that they may be part of my journey and are possible in the world. I, personally, cannot vilify people who are hurt and use it to perpetrate. To move past these types of incidents, I must forgive so many deeds that seem so strikingly wrong to me. I see them in a variety of things on a regular basis.

The post Dissociation Beneath the Suds and Psychiatric Labels appeared first on Redefining "Psychosis".