A few years ago, I realized that I had been sexually exploited by my thrapist, a NY psychiatrist,however I could not accept this information emotionally and emotions dominated my mind, not intellectual reasoning. I believed that it was myfault, thinking I was responsible for his behavior. I
deserved the blame, he was too normal, too good, he would never do
anything to exploit or harm me, after all he knew how depressed I was,
he knew I had suffered a tragic loss, he knew I was trying to start my
life over again, he knew what I believed in, he knew just about
everything that had happened in my life, he knew that I trusted him.
There I was a "sitting duck". I believed I was a stupid fool
that I had messed up my life. My torment was so intense that suicidal
thoughts and plans were ever present in my mind, options of the final
escape from flashbacks of images of being with this doctor in a
bizarre, sick, abnormal relationship. My body was an aching tomb,
filled with anxiety, depression, fear, guilt, shame, believing that I
was contaminated, and unworthy. My mind was about to explode and words
in therapy were not enough to expel these toxic feelings. In reality I
was functioning, but on a very low level. I emotionally distanced
myself from others, and when I wasn’t working, frequently I was
crying in bed or wandering around my apartment, bumping into walls. In
desperation, in order to rid myself of these overwhelming emotions and
to crystallize my thoughts, I drew a primitive diagram of my damaged
mind. I shared this picture with my new therapist and I felt a strange
immediate feeling of satisfaction and relief at seeing my tormented
mind in a concrete form outside of myself. Then I painted this
picture, including a symbol of the therapist who betrayed me. While I
was painting I felt that something deep within me was connecting with
the paintbrush and color. I had little conscious control over what I
was creating, but I knew when it was complete, when it was right. This
was the beginning of unlocking my mind and releasing the past and the
telling of my story. Writing poetry was another way I began to express
my feelings. I didn’t care if my paintings or poetry were
technically correct or good, since I didn’t have any training and
these creations were for my own benefit to get well. And gradually I
did begin to heal. One of the unexpected benefits was that as time
passed and when I became depressed I could look at my paintings or
read my poems and know that I was not in that same place, that I was
healing. Yes, there are times when I experience a panic attack or
plunge into the dark hell of depression, but I know I can rely on a
reputable understanding therapist who can help me. I know that for the
rest of my life I will need medication to manage depression, and I
think I can handle that. I have also been fortunate enough to connect
with other women who have also been exploited by their therapists. We
were able to share our experiences, feelings and dark humor as we
supported each other to gain self-confidence. I have been able to
confront my perpetrator in a civil legal action and in August I will
testify against him at trial for the State of New York to revoke his
license to practice medicine.
Today I am happy to share my artwork and poetry with others
in the hope that they won’t feel so alone. We will become stronger, we
will heal and the painful experiences we’ve had will eventually become
remote specks of our memories. I encourage anyone who is fragile,
riddled with terror and torment to pick up a paintbrush, pencil, magic
marker, or pen and let your feelings flow. I hope this method of
expressing your feelings is as beneficial for you as it has been for me.
Thank you for providing me with the opportunity to make a difference in helping
to end the pain in your life.
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