Todestrieb
"Was your uncle arrested for what he did to you?"
"No."
"But you were raped. Wasn't there evidence?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because John came in before he had a chance to do it. When I figured out what Uncle Frank's intentions were, I just screamed and screamed until John came running in. My parents were on Martha's Vineyard that weekend."
"But everything else you told me yesterday! That still counts as rape!"
"Yes, but it's the invisible kind. It could never be proven with a kit. Of course we told our parents, and there was a lot of drama in the house, but it never left our four walls. We had so much to lose if we went public and actually tried to prosecute him. My dad's reputation as a cop would be ruined forever. My uncle's career as a famous writer would probably also be ruined. And since I wasn't really raped," you say, smiling with a familiar irony, "then there was no need to take me to a hospital or let anyone outside the family know. It was made clear to Uncle Frank that we never wanted to see him ever again, even though the bastard never had the balls to confess to anything. My brother and I weren't able to talk to each other anymore, and over the years we just found all sorts of excuses for mutual hatred so we never had to break that silence. No one in the family ever talked about it and no one offered me any help. They just assumed I was still young enough to forget about it. They bought me some toys and a new canopy for my bed, and that was that. Mom hugged me a lot, but even she could never talk about it. It never happened."
"But it did happen."
"Yes, well, here I am." You smile sadly at Dr. Morton, thinking for the first time that you really do like him as a person. You are seated at opposite ends of the room, an air of sterility limiting your movements, freezing the waves of speech that wash unevenly back and forth. Though you can't remember anything from yesterday, you can see easily enough that you must have told Dr. Morton everything. He will never touch you now.
"Sweetheart, this is Dad. Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah why are you calling?"
"Your mom told me that you were dating a boy in school."
"Jesus, lighten up, Dad. I really don't need one of your lectures right now."
"I'm not going to lecture you. I just need to know one thing."
"What?"
"Has he ever done anything to hurt you? Anything at all?"
"No "
"Honey, I don't want you to feel ashamed if something has happened to you. You can tell me anything. You know that, right? If he ever does anything at all to you, you need to tell me so I can stop it. I can't bear the thought of anyone hurting you."
"What the hell is wrong with you? Is everything okay?"
"Yep. Perfectly fine. Just checking."
"There's one thing I still don't understand here, Anna. Why do you take all of your pain out on yourself? Don't you ever fantasize about getting even with this bastard?"
"Sure, I used to. All the time."
"What do you mean you 'used to'?"
"Well, thinking like that wouldn't do me much good anymore."
"And why is that?"
"Because Uncle Frank died of cancer three years ago."
I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't look in the mirror. No one is a good judge of his own neuroses, but I don't need my bogus medical degree to see just how deeply affected I am by this case, just how personally responsible I feel for all of it. She has been cheated on so many levels. She's been cheated of recognition for what happened, cheated of her family's support, cheated of any sense of closure or vindication. How can I live in this same world with her and yet fail to fight against such staggering injustices? It is a grave sin of omission and I am one hundred percent guilty. We are all guilty. I actually spat at myself in the mirror this morning. I had never done that before. I had always been rather pleased with myself, or at the very least unmoved by my place in the world. But just look at what horrors men are capable of! I have always known this, yet I never understood it till now. I love her ardently. All I want is to be able to sacrifice my miserable life for her, to be redeemed by her. Frank was a very sick man, but he spoke the truth when he said that she was an angel
I will be attempting a very risky method to heal Anna O. of her tremendous psychological injuries. This is something that has some indirect precedent in the literature, but is by no means standard procedure. I do not wish to think of the consequences if I should fail. I resort to these essentially desperate measures only because my experience treating this patient has led me to firmly believe that this is the only avenue left to us. Talk therapy is limited by the patient's inability to consistently access extremely painful memories without severe emotional backlash. Drug treatment seems like a likewise myopic approach. (Sorry, Celexa, but this is one instance where I will not be working as your pimp. Keep the commission; I don't want it.)
I have the plan almost finalized in my mind. I can see it already, each detail. It helps to focus on these details because doing so distracts me from the repercussions. I had to ask a few innocent questions here and there, do a little internet research, obtain a photograph or two. However, no one is aware of my larger plan. I am keeping these notes as a testament to everything that I have thought and done, in case...
I am almost ready now to do it. I may refer back to my notes for a few last details, but I know what it is I have to do now. I will do what I have to do. The rest is in God's hands.
"No."
"But you were raped. Wasn't there evidence?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because John came in before he had a chance to do it. When I figured out what Uncle Frank's intentions were, I just screamed and screamed until John came running in. My parents were on Martha's Vineyard that weekend."
"But everything else you told me yesterday! That still counts as rape!"
"Yes, but it's the invisible kind. It could never be proven with a kit. Of course we told our parents, and there was a lot of drama in the house, but it never left our four walls. We had so much to lose if we went public and actually tried to prosecute him. My dad's reputation as a cop would be ruined forever. My uncle's career as a famous writer would probably also be ruined. And since I wasn't really raped," you say, smiling with a familiar irony, "then there was no need to take me to a hospital or let anyone outside the family know. It was made clear to Uncle Frank that we never wanted to see him ever again, even though the bastard never had the balls to confess to anything. My brother and I weren't able to talk to each other anymore, and over the years we just found all sorts of excuses for mutual hatred so we never had to break that silence. No one in the family ever talked about it and no one offered me any help. They just assumed I was still young enough to forget about it. They bought me some toys and a new canopy for my bed, and that was that. Mom hugged me a lot, but even she could never talk about it. It never happened."
"But it did happen."
"Yes, well, here I am." You smile sadly at Dr. Morton, thinking for the first time that you really do like him as a person. You are seated at opposite ends of the room, an air of sterility limiting your movements, freezing the waves of speech that wash unevenly back and forth. Though you can't remember anything from yesterday, you can see easily enough that you must have told Dr. Morton everything. He will never touch you now.
**********************************
"Sweetheart, this is Dad. Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah why are you calling?"
"Your mom told me that you were dating a boy in school."
"Jesus, lighten up, Dad. I really don't need one of your lectures right now."
"I'm not going to lecture you. I just need to know one thing."
"What?"
"Has he ever done anything to hurt you? Anything at all?"
"No "
"Honey, I don't want you to feel ashamed if something has happened to you. You can tell me anything. You know that, right? If he ever does anything at all to you, you need to tell me so I can stop it. I can't bear the thought of anyone hurting you."
"What the hell is wrong with you? Is everything okay?"
"Yep. Perfectly fine. Just checking."
**********************************
"There's one thing I still don't understand here, Anna. Why do you take all of your pain out on yourself? Don't you ever fantasize about getting even with this bastard?"
"Sure, I used to. All the time."
"What do you mean you 'used to'?"
"Well, thinking like that wouldn't do me much good anymore."
"And why is that?"
"Because Uncle Frank died of cancer three years ago."
**********************************
I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't look in the mirror. No one is a good judge of his own neuroses, but I don't need my bogus medical degree to see just how deeply affected I am by this case, just how personally responsible I feel for all of it. She has been cheated on so many levels. She's been cheated of recognition for what happened, cheated of her family's support, cheated of any sense of closure or vindication. How can I live in this same world with her and yet fail to fight against such staggering injustices? It is a grave sin of omission and I am one hundred percent guilty. We are all guilty. I actually spat at myself in the mirror this morning. I had never done that before. I had always been rather pleased with myself, or at the very least unmoved by my place in the world. But just look at what horrors men are capable of! I have always known this, yet I never understood it till now. I love her ardently. All I want is to be able to sacrifice my miserable life for her, to be redeemed by her. Frank was a very sick man, but he spoke the truth when he said that she was an angel
I will be attempting a very risky method to heal Anna O. of her tremendous psychological injuries. This is something that has some indirect precedent in the literature, but is by no means standard procedure. I do not wish to think of the consequences if I should fail. I resort to these essentially desperate measures only because my experience treating this patient has led me to firmly believe that this is the only avenue left to us. Talk therapy is limited by the patient's inability to consistently access extremely painful memories without severe emotional backlash. Drug treatment seems like a likewise myopic approach. (Sorry, Celexa, but this is one instance where I will not be working as your pimp. Keep the commission; I don't want it.)
I have the plan almost finalized in my mind. I can see it already, each detail. It helps to focus on these details because doing so distracts me from the repercussions. I had to ask a few innocent questions here and there, do a little internet research, obtain a photograph or two. However, no one is aware of my larger plan. I am keeping these notes as a testament to everything that I have thought and done, in case...
I am almost ready now to do it. I may refer back to my notes for a few last details, but I know what it is I have to do now. I will do what I have to do. The rest is in God's hands.