Something old, updated, and STILL true. ( long )
When I stated therapy, back in 1999 I think, I also started writing a personal log, which I would give to my wonderful therapist each week like homework 
The first version of this ( long ) piece was written in April 2000.
When I went back and re-wrote anything I ALWAYS saved it as a different version, that way I could see how my thinking and ideas changed over time.
When I was doing my training to become a counsellor one of the things we had to do was present to the whole class 'something' that related to our personal growth.
This was to be done on a Saturday Workshop, and the week before my father in law died and I didn't have time to prepare anything, so I desperately looked for something, eventually re-writing the original to bring it up to date with how I felt in November 2003, and to relate to the rest of the class how therapy had helped me.
Somehow, I stood before the whole class and read this out. There was a certain amount of stunned silence when I finished, but it was a positive experience for everyone I think because it is a true experience of what therapy can achieve.
Well, today I stumbled across it again while clearing crap out of my old computer, and upon reading it again I thought that it might also show other Survivors that therapy is probably the most positive thing we can do.
It's long, and obviously my very personal experience of healing through therapy.
I hope it helps in some small way.
Dave
The first version of this ( long ) piece was written in April 2000.
When I went back and re-wrote anything I ALWAYS saved it as a different version, that way I could see how my thinking and ideas changed over time.
When I was doing my training to become a counsellor one of the things we had to do was present to the whole class 'something' that related to our personal growth.
This was to be done on a Saturday Workshop, and the week before my father in law died and I didn't have time to prepare anything, so I desperately looked for something, eventually re-writing the original to bring it up to date with how I felt in November 2003, and to relate to the rest of the class how therapy had helped me.
Somehow, I stood before the whole class and read this out. There was a certain amount of stunned silence when I finished, but it was a positive experience for everyone I think because it is a true experience of what therapy can achieve.
Well, today I stumbled across it again while clearing crap out of my old computer, and upon reading it again I thought that it might also show other Survivors that therapy is probably the most positive thing we can do.
It's long, and obviously my very personal experience of healing through therapy.
I hope it helps in some small way.
Dave
JOINING THE DOTS
Joining the dots of my lifes big picture was hard work, its a picture that ended up on many pages and somewhat vague in places, with the dots spread far apart in some kind of random mess across the page.
In other places its just as unclear with the dots so close they seem to merge into an equally meaningless jumble. Even now, after a few years of therapy for childhood sexual abuse the picture remains fuzzy in places.
But I persist and sharpen my pencil often; maybe in the end a clear, focused picture might emerge, which would be nice. But if parts still remain fuzzy around the edges then I'll learn to deal with that, whichever way it goes itll be the picture of my life. The only one Ive got and the one I have to deal with
The early stages of therapy and recovery it were very hard work, things were very vague and often didnt make a lot of sense, and the grief of recalling my troubled and distant past seemed like a big price to pay.
But I would go to my weekly session with a germ of an idea, maybe something new I recalled or, more likely, something I had plucked up the courage to talk about. And if I joined two dots together during the session I considered it progress.
The choice of starting therapy was mine - the hardest decision I'd ever made, but staying away would have been even harder. I was on a downward dive and this was the only chance to stop it I had.
I knew that getting help or treatment meant facing things I could barely admit to myself and dealing with them head on, but I knew nothing more than that.
If I was pushed I might have said that maybe I might get loads of advice and learn some techniques to help me forget my troubled past and tormented present, but really I knew nothing of therapy, therapists and what I could expect. All I had was the image from watching TV and movies. And that image is usually nothing more than a caricature on which to string a plot of some kind. Woody Allen lying on a couch making wisecracks isnt what its like.
The reality turned out to be a lot different, there wasnt someone sat in front of me handing out worthy advice or miracle cures to help me forget, because there is no fixed advice; and unfortunately the memories will always be there.
Anything I learned I figured out for myself, yes I was coaxed, helped and guided, but the answers to my problems were only coming from one place, my own mind.
If that sounds harsh towards those who helped me its not meant to be, I dont doubt that the guidance was expert. Its just that it was so sublime it disappeared into the background.
What I got was reassurance of my thoughts and guidance through the jumble of ideas that poured forth, and if my thoughts and ideas needed more work, then thats what was encouraged.
It didnt matter if it was in any sort of logical sequence, or even unrelated and inconsequential, some times it definitely was. But these tangents provided a bit of background, a piece of framework that supported the big picture.
My therapist has never said to me that recovery from sex abuse was going to be easy, and I dont think I expected it to be. It wasnt easy, it still isnt, but it was a revelation. Learning so much about myself was frightening and strangely fascinating.
The realization of a cause to my behavior and thinking would usually raise a smile as I marveled at the simplicity of the chain of events, but this simplicity was also very scary. Why hadnt I recognized these seemingly simple links through my past?
Well - they only became simple as I looked back, broke it all down and sorted it, laid it all out and looked at it, talked about it, thought about it, and eventually pieced it back together as one big picture.
I couldnt do all that before because it was happening all around me, actually it was happening to me. I was part of it and it was as confusing as I was confused.
I always knew that my recent behavior was somehow governed by my past but that was where my confusion lay, each time I tried to sort myself out I missed the point, I didnt have a bloody clue where to start. I was inside it, and I needed to be outside.
So somehow I made up my mind that something had to be done, the state I was in was not only hard on my mind, it was threatening my life, my marriage and everything I loved and had worked for.
The guilt trips I endured, and the way I beat myself up emotionally were overpowering and debilitating emotions. Something definitely had to be done, however painful or drastic.
I had to admit to myself, and those close to me that I needed help, and I didnt even know there was help for this kind of problem.
And the truth is; it was only the results of the abuse that I considered a problem even after 31 years of denial.
Soon after I saw a small advert in the local paper for Axis Counseling, who offer help to adults who were sexually abused as children.
Maybe thats me, I thought, so I cut out the advert and kept it in my wallet until I plucked up the courage to phone them. Then I told my wife what had happened and what I wanted to do.
Thats how I ended up in a small dark room talking about sex with a strange man!
I had denied my past for thirty one years because my past was my secret and I wasnt able to give it up that easily. The lies from my abusers that I believed as a boy still had a powerful grip. The lies had become entrenched and reinforced with guilt and shame, so giving my past up wasnt something I did spontaneously, it had to be done a bit at a time because the power unleashed by releasing my secrets was immense and unknown, and I didnt know if I could handle it. And if I couldnt, would those around me be able to?
So I would sit facing a man I didnt know the first thing about and relate in excruciating detail the stuff of nightmares, the story of my life.
I still dont know him, I only know his Christian name, that hes a good listener and that he can reinforce what I figure out.
But I dont need to know anything else about him, and quite possibly knowing all about him would destroy the strange scaffold of trust we now have between us.
All I needed to know initially was that he was on my side and that he was going to support me in what I do.
And once I had learned to trust a second person in my life I knew that he was my ally, knowledge of who he was and where he came from wasnt important in that room, I had to find out who I was and where I had been.
The turmoil of meticulously choosing my words as I told my story, and even more so as I write it, has been a major help in enabling me to gather my thoughts, a long pause to choose a word and construct a sentence means Im thinking hard about the precise meaning of what I want to convey.
For me to just say, To hell with them, I just want to forget about the dirty bastards. Ill be ok then is quick, easy - but, for me at least, no use.
Its what I did for thirty years so I know its no use because, quiet simply, I cant forget.
What I learned to say instead was I cant forget what happened so I have to try and understand what happened instead. If I understand my history then my future will be easier to map out
Its a bit longer and doesnt trip off the tongue as easily I know, but it begs questions - difficult and uncompromising questions.
How did I arrive at this change in my thinking ? I was steered in the right direction by a very good therapist. I didn't even realize what was going on in the dimly lit room. All his techniques were sublime.
So I spent hours quizzing myself, forcing myself to be honest with the answers to my questions.
It was easy to kid myself by faking the answers - but it was only temporary and ultimately pointless. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth is what I had to deal with.
And that was the hardest thing I ever did, but ultimately the most powerful and enriching defence I ever created against my abusers.
I had to search back into my childhood memories, even way before the abuse started and really figure out the roles we all played, even the innocents such as my family.
The words we used back then, the actions we took, all took on a new significance, and I had to tear it all to pieces to make the truth a reality.
Only by being honest with myself in my quest for the true story did I gain the upper hand over those that harmed me.
The truth was hard to find but when I found it I discovered that I was right and they were wrong.
I chose my words to understand my role and maximize the abusers guilt.
My careful choice of words sorted out blame, guilt, and all the other important aspects that ultimately led me to the therapists chair, and it was my words not his that told me the truth
In the early sessions something in the back of my mind told me I was still unsure of what I wanted. And I was forced to think long and hard about the exact phrases I used so I didn't appear to be a greater victim than I thought I was, but as time went on I realized that I was actually telling the truth. Unwittingly I was telling it like it was. Now, with the wonderful benefit of hindsight, I can see that my therapist was actually taking some initiative and guiding me. Not steering or dragging me in any particular direction, but picking up on what I said and making ME think about it in ways I hadn't done before.
There were also many long awkward silences as I toyed with words in my mind, building my sentences carefully to convey exactly what I wanted to say. And often, once I had the sentence right in my head, the truth and reality of what I had figured out would hit me like an express train and the silence would deepen as the truths dawned on me.
Emotions would come flooding to the surface making speech impossible. Silence can convey more than any long oration.
In perfect silence you can hear a bottom lip quiver and a tear leave the corner of an eye to rest upon a cheek. Words cant describe whats behind that silent tear.
Eventually I realised that I wasnt one of them. I was different to them, they were abusers and I was a survivor.
Getting my history out of my mind through the "Talking Cure" seems to make more room for normal, everyday thoughts to occupy my mind - or maybe I've relegated my history to the dim corner of my mind that it deserves by dealing with it ?
But wherever the history is now, I no longer spend lonely moments consumed with memories of my unhappy schooldays. Instead I think about my recovery and the support I have experienced, and all the mundane stuff that normal people think about.
And I also think about my new position in the scheme of things; no, that should be our position in the scheme of things.
I think about my new position as survivor alongside the people who grabbed a pencil and helped me join a few dots.
David Lloyd
