Session later today

I've barely slept this week. All thoughts of Father, grieving have been transplanted by therapist and the impending abandonment when sessions end in a few weeks. Its as though my entire being vibrates with pain, sexual and from weeping. The feelings that everywhere you look, that the object of your love is there, right there...you can see him with closed eyes, feel his being, recall his shape and facial features. If he wore cologne I would smell it without him even being near. His fingers are exceptionally long, his hands like my Father's were, large, warm though I've never touched them, I catch myself staring at them during session.

The pain at times is a relief, to know I am still alive, a woman while death would be preferrable to love or feel what is the only form of love I know since childhood, unrequited, unattainable, unfulfilled.

Fcuk Freud

If you cannot love, you might as well be 6ft under. Its like living in a desert.
I actually forgot what a woman can feel like, kept saying I'm too old now to think about anything but preparing for end of life. This has less to do with illness than just feeling like a failure at relationships and never finding someone to return love. There's always been someone who NEEDS me to lean on me, marriage or otherwise, but love... if we might define it as a feeling that has no ulterior motive except that widening of the heart, the feeling that the heart beats faster, that you want to be in that persons arms, that this love fits, feels rights.

 I think part of the problem is, therapy wise, we, therapist and I are mentally/intellectually compatible, he's stronger than I am afraid, and there've been times when I say something so spot on, he leans forward and catches himself before actually touching my hand etc. He's called me 'dear' I'm sure with no intention other than he is kind.

Since this kind of behaviour is so foreign and I am so starved for it, I would like to say fcuk Freud and the concept of transference and note that I actually love this man. I know I cant marry or be with him, he's too ethical for that-but he represents everything in a human male that I've never been blessed to live with, as a father, uncle, husband.

So as ridiculous as this may sound, I'm not sure I want to discuss 'transference' any further with staff because its denying what I feel and calling it something else to make everyone comfortable. Why cant we call it what it is, and go on from there? I'm crying for days as if my heart is breaking and this poor man has done nothing except be kind....
 

Memoir

The study admins know I'm in the process of writing a memoir-an initiative for me to do this study was to be able 'fix myself' by focusing on buried years and develop ability for healthy attachments. Its never been a problem to write about or for other people. I love my cats, but I also have children that need a healthy mother to spend some time with so they know they're loved, were loved and were not abandoned.

As for my parents...can any of us say we ever did NOT know as children when something was off? I recommend to everyone, Augusten Burroughs book, A Wolf at The Table-more troubling than the brutality a violent parent can inflict is the mixed message the other parent sends by telling us our perceptions are not what they seem, that Daddy didnt mean to touch you there, he was playing, or Daddy didnt mean to cut your mother with a glass bottle, she got in the way of the flying glass...so that after awhile your sense of reality short circuits. The other parent protects the savagery with their lies, for equally complex reasons. Co-dependency has become a cliche, but even today its difficult for women to pick up and run with kids unless she has family welcoming her or has money to fall back on. And some women cannot feel or function unless they are connected in some way, even dysfunctionally, with a man.

Maybe I knew extra early because I saw him sober and was his 'handler' as soon as I could walk and speak.
I was never allowed to bring classmates home or go to other children's homes. Never. It was a very small world, the sense of miniature and feeling safe inside are primary underlying factors of agoraphobia with me.

Roethke the poet writes about his drunk father waltzing him around as a small child, terrified as he tries holding on for dear life, his tiny feet on the tops of his father stumbling shoes--we know, we always know. But what name it had, what was wrong I didnt know until some years after he died and I had begun studying psychology etc.
The word alcoholism put some of the puzzle together but there is so much more involved, on both parents' sides.
 

Between sessions

I left this week's session after briefly discussing transference w/ therapist as directed by program director-slight point to be made-I'm not normally a person to do as directed simply because I'm ordered, there's always room for me to ponder and decide what's 'really the right thing'-that is a major problem, not always being able to decipher what IS right, but its a learned survival behaviour, trust no one to know more than you. Professionally this had been critical in being a minor success and retaining academic employment, shy sheep have their place but eventually got canned.

So instructed to bring up transference was humiliating when at those moments my emotional self is telling me if I could just get scooped up and run away with therapist all would be right with the world forever after. And he's tall, built like a football quarterback and my age but with even less hair than me. But when you're blind with transference passion (lolol) looks mean little, too bad I'm usually the one experiencing the transference.
Being the professional he is, as well as just a compassionate person, he actually didnt laugh, scorn or mock in any way. We talked as two adults understanding these feelings are part of a normal therapuetic process, but I left there and spent until Friday weeping like I was drowning.

 I have not had sexual feelings or even a hint of caring for adult men for many years. Its surprising that this capacity even exists in me.

The study antidepressant couldnt make a dent in what I was feeling-alone, abandoned, terrified about sessions ending in a couple of months, its all going too fast. The program director told me when I was there doing paperwork that the Psych would call me, but he didnt call and I thought well they're all confabbing about my sick thoughts about therapist and are just going to let the poor guy deal with it all.

By Friday the weeping, went from crying to nonstop flood was making me physically ill. When no one called I realized late in the evening that there was actually NO ONE going to rescue me, which is what I keep looking for, in partners, teachers-any authority figure, even females. As soon as this lightbulb moment happened (okay, maybe its just a nightlight light bulb, but it meant alot at that second) the ache for my therapist lifted, the onus is on me to do the rescue work, but jeez how many time have we all discussed this issue here and in other boards and while we may get it in our heads its doesnt seem to trickle down and take effect, at least this has been my problem.

I realized-okay pay attention, this is key-that I've portrayed my father, the grief subject I'm in the study for-in a romanticized manner, I'm pining for a man who in reality was a monster, that was our nickname for him, dear mother and I when whispering in the kitchen how to get some needs funds for her out of him....how to deal with the monster. So I've spent 7 weeks describing a man who repeatedly threatened to shoot and had slashed up my mother, threated her lovers w/death, drank to drunnkness every night as the only person who actually loved me. In fact he did, but only he knows why because this attention was not shown to my sister, we were like 2 orphans thrown together, total strangers who instinctively disliked each other.
I felt as if I had cheated and lied in the study and before going back wanted just to be sure this was the right place for me to be to work on these things.

Not 15 minutes later the Psych called...now paranoid as I am, imagine how this played out in my brain. Therapist gets call from me, doesnt know yet why I've called but we delved into transference last week so he's clearing a return call with psych before calling me back...according to Psych the program director had sent him an email he had only read late friday, it was actually a coincidence, or they're both good actors...I explained to psych why I called therapist and was concerned about the entire portrayal of my father as a misunderstood lonely guy who needed my love blah blah blah, he said come in next week, lets have a round table and talk this out and decide if you are placed right to continue. He said he would contact therapist because therapist is concerned about me and would want to speak to me before next week. (i still smell rat...do you?)

Therapist called 2 hours after finishing with another patient at office. This man keeps telling me I astound him with my general insight, honesty and striving to confront the issues of this therapy, so while I was expecting to hear, you know D. I think it might be best if we review everything and see if there isnt something more suitable therapuetically.

During the time I waited for his call back I realized that to sever this therapy mid stream would be the worst possible thing-I've discussed things I've never told ANYONE and to leave the dirty laundry out there unsorted is perhaps more damaging than pushing forward. He listened to why I was calling and said I am right where I belong, exactly-I'm just pushing myself so hard and fast, faster than he would suggest that I need to be more gentle, he reminded me of what I said to him the first week-dont be so soft and kind I'm not used to this its not good for doing this kind of work. (my kids tell me I walk too fast with my cane as well, gotta get there, gotta go home-get'er done)

 I apologized about the depiction of my father and said I felt almost as if I'd wasted study time or did the wrong thing....he responded with such kind words you wouldnt believe even if I wrote them here, but essentially said despite my disclaiming love, as my therapist he knows me well enough now to disagree with my assessment, indeed I loved my father and have a huge capacity to love others, its needs channeling. And no, no one is going to throw me out of the study, nothing happened, in fact its another break through.

As I write this, snowflakes are falling, covering pine boughs outside my front windows and Vladimir Horowitz is playing Chopin...if only the world could stay like this forever.

My landlord said I could bring a piano into the apartment. instead of this unexpected agreeable situation bringing me the joy it should my reaction was,how will my kids be burdened with an old piano when I'm dead?

Break thru, break down, just broken?

...even going into the study with what I thought were honest intentions, this evening while reading a book wholly on another subject, a thought occured, I've recreated a father in my imagination that was caring, loving and attentive even though the reality of it was he was violent, kept a gun, threatened our lives daily, was a full blown out of control alcoholic that had to be carried out of restaurants and piled into taxis which we then piled into to haul him home in total silence.

Then the doorman helped us get him into the apartment, and then it was my job at 5-6yrs old to put him to bed, sing him a song, remove his shoes and socks, his belt. I dont know what my mother was doing during this time, I had my assigned task and did it.

No matter what we said, offered, begged or pleaded, he got stinking nasty drunk.

A father who really loved, who was capable of 'love' would not have left one family to start another only to be so abusive for so long to so many. A sane father would not have taken his 6 year old to bookmakers, race tracks, had me pour shots or fetch fresh cold water to wash down his scotch or tried to kill my mother repeatedly, another monster in her own right.

So as of this evening, maybe there is no breakthrough maybe its a breakdown because I'm totally confused.
But what I am sure of is that once I admitted this mess to myself the feelings of transference and obsessing about my therapist came to a halt.

Feeling angry and feelings of hate for being a child pawn in a sick game between two sick adults and never finding shelter or aid from any authority figures i.e. teachers, guidance conselors etc, seems more normal than fantasizing about grief over a dead man that wasnt really a father at all.

Week 7, Transference kicks in

In the 3-4 week of CG sessions I had in the back of my mind that I would have to inevitably deal with separation; this is always like a death/mourning for me. As mentioned previously, it happens with colleagues, years while mourning the separation of my children...and my father, the reason for participating in this intense study. However, the concern over separation slowly warped into a different situation last week when I had an assignment to take my father's death certificate, inside an envelope, and go to a nearby place, take out the envelope keeping the cert inside and just 'be' with my father's certificate, then go home.
To start, I got lost, even though my therapist was kind enough to print out traveling instructions and the address. I'm too new here, but got lost coming out of every subway station in NYC:-0
A very nice woman walked me to the correct bus stop, I had pretty much walked the trip just in the opposite direction and never would have gotten where I was to be.

When I got home I sat to think, was very tired and realized I had rushed to complete this assignment, not for myself but for the praise I would receive from my therapist. His approach to is softly praise every effort, be it in session or the homework. When we began working together I asked him not to be so gentle, I'm not used to this and it was hard to take seriously. In effect I needed to be disrespected and feel abused by another authority figure, as with my parents or employers.

 He didnt budge and by this past week I found myself doing things, and so many assignments each day to  complete, alot of writing, listening to a long tape we make each week, recording emotions and where and when they occur, learning self awareness and learning to reward myself when a thing is done and done correctly.
So I caught myself in two ways; firstly, my dreams became sexual in nature which is very unusual for me. Second was the realization that my desire to please him was more important than understanding what each assignment meant to me and then grieving prematurely because I felt I was wasting precious time having transference issues instead of being fully into the therapy.

I had the psychiatrist scheduled for today and had made notes and actually did not want to bring transference into my CG therapy, to avoid causing embarassement for either of us or conflict with our work; I thought the psych would hear me out and get me back on track.
Well both therapist and I got the schedule wrong last week, the psych was NOT in today, but the program director had to speak with me about release forms and once I was in her office cried me a river and explained what was going on.
She said transference is completely normal, after all it IS therapy and very intense and intimate in this form. She suggested I do bring it up and talk it out with the therapist. And so we did, spent about 1/3 of session time (2.5-3 hrs)
discussing and my explaining that while in my mind I get it, its not sex/love what he's become for me is a substitute father and his being warm and gentle only makes it worse to deal with.
He explained as well that the therapy is very intense and he has had patients who cannot have the kind of attachment or feelings that I have, that they anticipate in a healthy person desiring to heal is an innate craving for human attachment to others, that is indeed the hope of the program. He said something very kind, "..that if you did not have these feelings, this would not be the R. that I know and have come to know, because I feel and have read and heard your humor and wisdom."

my marching orders long term is learn how to be more gentle and caring for myself as he has been to me.

Prepping for week 7

Complicated grief is NOT about a bad marriage or not getting a super job to have a big house and 3 cars etc.
Doing this weeks exercise listening to the 3rd audio tape, learning to say what I see, not editorialize around the point and avoid discussing the issues at hand (sound familiar? some times we ourselves dont do it, but other family members may do this to avoid confrontations with us because our 'tape' plays the same circular thinking over and over)--

I've spent a lifetime trying to do what my father taught me, your word is your bond-what you say you must do-of course most of his life was not lived that way, with the alcoholism, isolation from his own family, betrayals by my mother; he grieved over so many things and spent the last few years of his life grieving over the percipice he saw his daughters standing on and he had no way to pull us off the edge and to safety.

 Even as a child, his torment was so palpable I felt it and aligned my life with his. At times I hated him for tormenting my beautiful mother until realizing he was reacting to her unacceptable behavior-and in the face of his very real threats to kill lovers, hang them by their ankles out windows or to shoot my mother, most responses met his threats with a shrug...a weakened old man, threatening to kill a man half his age to keep a woman he had no right to anyway, sad if not so funny.

So he was betrayed and then insulted for defending what was his, a wife he paid for by a settlement giving all he had earned to his first wife. No matter where he turned there was no one on his side, no family to support him or straighten his young wife out.
Listening to the tape each day, much like peeling an onion, I can hear points that come out at me. And this week involved viewing the death certificate

My 4th audio tape consists of standing in the doorway of the bedroom where my father lay dead and describing exactly what I see. We did this 3 times, and while the event details were the same, each telling revealed more forgotten visuals.

We agreed coincidentally(we both had the idea separately!) that a daily walk to a specific location would be helpful-I have agoraphobia and its become worse lately...hmm. I usually cannot leave the house without a specific goal, be it market, laundry, I'm not one to wander. Reading Kazin's  A Walker in the City was breathtaking for me, something  unimaginable.

However, here its safe and friendly and so rich with places, museums, libraries I dont want to lose such a chance to take advantage of these things-they're right near me. In NY everything meant subway travel, staircases. Its still hard to walk for long periods, but I have to both walk and get out of the house without feeling like there's a gun to my back (held by me to get me outside). So therapist had a printout of local library, how to get there and instructions to come back with a library card!

I was asked what my 'aspirational goal' would be...this is something I've not mentioned before. This is a goal that is only something for me, that enriches my life, is something I've wanted but never could do for whatever reason.
I never thought to tell anyone this, but I've always wanted to learn to play the cello. I cant imagine dragging a cello case now since I can barely drag myself about, but maybe a smaller stringed instrument would be possible. I took one cello lesson as a child, but since i was already studying piano and expected to go a serious music academy, old Russian piano teacher banned string instruments. I haven't had a piano in 40 years...I dont even think these old floors could hold a small upright...but that would really be something, to be able to play piano again...G-d I'm getting teary. I love classical music and studied for so long, but under so much nastiness by my mother and tension from my father tapping like a metronome when I practiced.

Mr. B has to see the vet next week. In the meantime he's regressed to kittenhood and bringing toys to my bed. I find them when I wake in the morning, once a ribbon that he loves, another time a spongy ball...and all thee head butts...he's a happy camper for now.
B2 has been pouting because the oat grass doesnt sprout fast enough for him to nibble like a little goat. But his stomach is half the size it was before all this roughage. He also likes "Greenies".
Mr. B doesnt touch any of this stuff.

p.s. Got my new library card, reading a  bio on Kafka and the 1930s. They have audio books, all I need supply is a head set and AAA battery!! Asked daughter to print out cello application...decided as much as I would prefer a piano the hassle of getting one in this tiny apt getting it out if moving becomes necessary, just isnt worth it.
 

preparing for Session 7 (CG study)

Being someone who always cautioned colleagues and students about disclosing mental illness, this is my 'coming out of the closet' in many ways. Would I come out while professionally working, NO. The US not only dumps its mentally ill as often as possible back onto the street since closing mental hospitals, and shelter homes are staffed by some mighty nasty people-In NY I passed a residence everyday with people sitting mutely waiting for their 'work' van to take them where ever for the day. Caretakers said little except to quiet anyone because they didnt want neighbors complaining. Federal budgets to states force local communities to cut aid to this most vulnerable population who are then forced to live on the street, in tunnels, prostitute and dig in dumpsters.

I think my children are having issues with me going public and I try to no longer participate in emotional games i.e. this one said this or that, dont tell your brother/sister, no I cant give you rent money etc and I no longer feel any reason to explain why I need to purchase something like a rug or thermal underwear  in an apartment that averages 48 or less degrees at night.

 It is ironic that my father's favorite game with me was to be The Judge and I would be the Lawyer. You have to picture a withered greying man sitting an a well appointed living room, alone with his drifting family, knowing his wife is a runaround and his children are growing into a world he no longer understands. A young president was murdered, we're at war in a country he never heard of,
and every night a newsman asks the same question at 10pm "Do YOU know where your children are?" He calls out to my mother,
 "Did you hear that M?"

It is Saturday afternoon, late afternoon and sun drifts through the shutters as I stand across the room waiting to present my legal brief to a currently sober father in his jammies who wants to test himself by debating his 9 year old daughter. My mother will always ask the same question as she sticks her head in from the hallway bathroom where she's putting on makeup or taking off makeup..."Don't you have anything else to do but bother your father?"

I once asked my mother if me and my sister were adopted. She always made me feel I was a stumbling block in her path, something to step around like poop on the sidewalk, walk behind her not next to her and certainly never hold her hand inside or outside. So if my father loves this game and created it for him and I, Phuck off.

What he taught me was to analyze every detail, from every side. Its been a gift and a curse. Its driven me mad as I must know and grasp an idea or a person before I can think about trust. But in academia, its was a useful tool. Segue to this weeks therapy assignment...

Go over the death certificate by covering it with another sheet of paper and very slowly read each line, keeping anxiety at the specific level and stopping if that level cannot be maintained.

So here's what I found under scrutiny:
Older European doctor sympathetic (read-had a crush on my mother and did whatever she asked)came to apartment 12 hours earlier and by 4pm the following day rigor mortis was so severe when I saw my him, the undertaker could not move him without breaking certain bones. I said to therapist, 'that's a whole lotta dead.'
The death certificate was already prepared, the cremation money was sitting out ready and the undertaker got there shortly after I had been called. I think both my mother and her friendly doctor decided it would be for the best of everyone if a sufficient amount of something was given to let him sleep ad infinitum, and she waited until there was no longer any question of him being alive before calling me.

Of course that's only my hypotenus...could be she worked alone, both daughters out of the house, no one to get relief from. As my mother was dying she said something about "This is my punishment" in reference to suffering from cancer and being in a hospice (I was still working fulltime and she was leaving gas jets on). But perhaps her sudden insight was meant for other acts committed-I'll never know, once my mother entered hospice, she stopped speaking altogether.

I've been convinced of one thing so far, there is nothing more curative than seeing a dead relative nailed into a box and placed 6ft under ground with the hope you never hear from them again. Unfortunately both my parents chose or forced us to chose cremation since no money was left for any semblance of a funeral, something I work toward hoping to spare my own kids from having to chose.

THIS ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED IN THE JERUSALEM POST 1.2.0.12
Website at end tells you where to email to offer support for the Nahlaot community.



‘He masterminded systematic rape of over 100 kids'By MELANIE LIDMAN
01/20/2012 03:24
Nahlaot community reels from largest pedophile abuse case in nation’s history; at least three of 10 suspects remain free.

Talkbacks (5)

Members of the haredi community in the capital’s Nahlaot neighborhood are calling it “The Holocaust.” At least 10 pedophiles molested more than 100 children for six years, reaching nearly every family in this close-knit community.

One mother couldn’t figure out why her two sons would get hysterical every time she left the house, begging her not to go. They were chewing their clothes to pieces and having uncontrollable outbursts. She brought them to different doctors and psychologists to try to determine what was wrong, but no one could figure it out.

Then community doctors started seeing strange marks, possibly indicative of abuse, on many of the children. Finally, one young boy was injured in a way that was unmistakably sexual abuse. He was the one who finally broke the silence, and talked about the horrific abuse happening in the neighborhood.

Members of the community call this “the miracle.”

“Rivka,” a mother who lives in Nahlaot, walked through the deserted courtyards of the haredi Batei Broyde neighborhood on Tuesday with a reporter from The Jerusalem Post. She talked about the devastating effect the pedophiles have had on Nahlaot, both the haredi area of Batei Broyde and the mixed area, where she lives.

“This is like a little shtetl in downtown Jerusalem,” she said. “These are the holiest, kindest, best people, people who have devoted their lives to Torah. All of a sudden, it’s like they go from that to being the epicenter of the largest pedophile ring in Israel’s history.

“These people aren’t lawyers, they’re not politicians, and they’re in a situation that’s so much bigger than anything they can handle.”

The long rows of apartments in Batei Broyde were built more than 100 years ago, and the area is one of the original neighborhoods built outside of the Old City. Thousands of tourists pass through the courtyard each year to see the neighborhood’s Old World charm and picturesque stone archways in the middle of the downtown Jerusalem bustle.

“If you go house by house, almost every family was affected,” said Rivka.

A haredi mother from Batei Broyde who asked to remain anonymous said six families have left the neighborhood due to the abuse scandal. In a neighborhood where each family has seven to 14 kids, the decisions to leave have left large holes in the community, she said.

In one family that left, out of 10 children, every single child was abused.

“They would recruit and threaten babysitters, ones who had been molested for years,” explained Rivka. “They would tell them ‘if you don’t bring the toddlers that you’re babysitting for, we know where your bedroom is and we know where your parents are and we’ll come and kill you.’”

Rivka said that the man she believes is at the head of the pedophile ring, S, recruited some older men who had mental challenges or were considered “a little off” by the community. These men were considered largely harmless, and were even invited to meals by the parents of the children they abused.

She said S used these men to threaten kids on their way home from school, forcing the children to go to apartments where the pedophiles had access. Some of the suspects were able to make copies of keys, and memorized the schedules of the parents to know when apartments were empty.

In July 2011, the community went to the police and began making complaints. Almost immediately, the police understood they were dealing with one of the largest pedophile abuse scandals in the country’s history.

Today, there are more than 80 children who have made official complaints, but they have named at least 110 children who were affected.

Six men were arrested over the course of the summer, but police were only able to gather enough evidence to indict three of them, Binyamin Satz, Bentzion Primishelanu and Zalman Cohen. The three men will remain incarcerated until the end of the legal proceedings against them.

The other three, including S, considered by the neighborhood residents to be the mastermind of the pedophile ring, were incarcerated for a number of weeks and then released due to lack of evidence.

On January 8, an additional three suspects were arrested. One was committed to a psychiatric hospital, and the remaining two were given a restraining order and forced to leave Jerusalem for two months. A 10th man who police were investigating was found dead in his apartment at the end of December. Police classified his death as a suicide. Rivka explained that his apartment was where children allegedly went to watch movies the pedophiles had made of them.

The Committee for the Rights of the Child, headed by MK Zevulun Orlev (Habayit Hayehudi), toured Nahlaot on Thursday in a show of solidarity with the neighborhood.

The committee also held a special meeting examining the pedophile scandal two weeks ago at the initiative of Uri Maklev (United Torah Judaism), who said the residents turned to him after they felt the police investigation was not making progress.

“The past is what the police are investigating, ” Maklev said on Thursday in a statement released by the committee. “We are interested in the present – that the reality of everyday life returns to the routine.”

Now that the years of secrecy have been broken, the community wants to begin to heal. But what is most terrifying for the children and their parents is that at least three of the pedophiles are still at large in the neighborhood, threatening families who have already suffered abuse.

Police have stressed the difficulties of testimony from children. A concerned parent who asks their child if a certain person hurt them has immediately tainted the investigation, and may have rendered the child’s testimony inadmissible in court. Similarly, a parent who promises their child a candy bar after three hours of grueling testimony with a police investigator is considered to have offered their child a bribe, and thus disqualified their testimony.

“The State Attorney’s Office said that the parents destroyed the investigation,” said Jerusalem police spokesman Shmuel Ben- Ruby, who added that the families only came to the police after they had done their own informal investigation.

“This is the price the parents and kids are paying, this is the price of silence,” said Ben- Ruby. “It hurts me for these poor children, that they suffered this for years because of parents that preferred to keep it quiet, sweep it under the rug, go to the rabbis and take care of it themselves.”

But parents complained that the police never gave them this information, and never told them to stop talking to their children or how to approach the issue.

“It’s the job of the police to protect the community,” said Rabbi Aaron Leibowitz, a community leader in Nahlaot.

“Maybe it could have been better, but now you’re getting full cooperation. Trying to blame the community is a disrespect to a community that’s been hit hard.

“It’s like what MK Uri Maklev said [at the committee meeting two weeks ago]: It’s not that the haredi families didn’t know this was going on, they didn’t know things like this could go on.”

Not only are the pedophiles still walking around the neighborhood, but they’re threatening the families who complained. One of the pedophiles threatened to kill Rivka while she was with her children last week. Others who are leading the fight in the public sphere through blogs and the media have also been threatened.

“This is the biggest sex offender in Israel’s history. He masterminded the systematic rape of over 100 kids, and he’s just sitting there. Can you imagine how terrifying this is?” asked Rivka.

The social services have been struggling to provide therapy for more than 100 kids of destitute families. Many families were barely making enough money to survive before the abuse, but now, they are faced with therapy for five or six kids at a cost of more than NIS 1,000 per week.

“The kids are under house arrest, instead of the people who should be under house arrest,” said Rivka, gesturing to the empty courtyards. “People are raising 10 kids in two rooms, and the kids are not allowed outside, ever."

“This was so devastating for us, we were so depressed when it first came out,” said Rivka. “It was really a mourning process for a neighborhood we loved, and an illusion of purity and goodness. We thought to raise our kids in this beautiful village in the city, but it’s like someone has poured a bucket of ice cold water over us.”

But there are rays of hope in the community’s struggles. Sara Mannheim, an art teacher in Nahlaot, is trying to provide art therapy for some of the haredi women in the neighborhood. She is currently overseeing a large mural of the Seven Species, which six mothers work on at a time.

“The premise of the Seven Species is that this is the most treasured thing, and the most treasured thing to us is our children,” said Mannheim. The first thing to be completed on the mural was the sky overlooking a rebuilt Jerusalem. “The sky is filled with light and hope for the future, because that’s the message,” she explained.

Mannheim is also trying to organize activities for the children – art therapy, psychodrama, drumming, swimming – something none of the parents in the neighborhood can afford, but which can help the children reclaim their self-confidence and independence. She’s also working on two-day trip to the north and a psychodrama for the mothers.

“Parents know they have to be strong for their kids,” she said. “We have to hope, everyone says this will scar them for life... but we need to hope. This is the culture of the Jews, hope.”

The community of Nahlaot is currently working to set up a legal defense fund and raise money for activities for the children.

For inquiries into ways to support, please contact nahlaotheals@gmail.com

Grief study week 6

This session followed an intense week for me because I was again very upset with the audio tape, therapist called to discuss it (after staff obviously co-reviewed it) and told me to FOCUS on visualizing and not editorializing, something anyone here who reads what I write, knows I do this.

 But what I realized this week is a couple of critical things:
I 'editorize' because I'm constantly translating everything I hear and see, always looking for what's REALLY meant behind what's said. In my house if you were told black is white, you better believe it or else...even if you knew it was a total lie.

And my efforts to tell the truth, to teachers, guidance counselors who then called home after speaking to me or looking at my drawings only got me into boiling oil at home. No one was pulling a little white girl out of an upper middle class home in the '50s, who ever heard of such a thing. I didnt have a bruise on me, wasnt raped daily, everyone drinks and has family issues...right?

What I need most is to learn the correct technique of pushing aside the decades of internal chatter but the only way to do it is look at it very closely, honestly, face it, and then put it away. Not forever, put it away and then relax with something rewarding, be it favorite tea, something more, but reward the child as well as the adult that dared to 'see' it for what it was.

So that meant doing a 3rd version of the audio tape. As I listened to each version my voice gets stronger, more facts come out because I've stopped distracting myself from 'seeing' what was going on and the unspeakable question that somewhere deep inside was finally asked, not by me, but by the therapist.."Do you feel that your mother caused your father's death?"

 I do, but of course can never prove it. I was only invited back to the apartment to confirm what she clearly knew, with a stone cold stiff- as-marble-body lying in his bed.

Years later when I thought her defenses were lowered I asked her if she remembered doctoring his pills, in effect each dose was doubled because of inserting tiny pain pills into the sleep meds. My father was like a bull. After decades of drinking a fifth of scotch nightly I guess an extra pill wasnt making much of a dent. She denied even knowing what I was talking about, "Oh you misunderstood, I was helping him because he kept asking for pills so I put sugar inside and dumped the medicine out."

We wouldn't have needed two docs prescribing and two pharmacies filling the same narcotics if sugar was replacing the meds...?
Ah, the wonderful days of no computers and record keeping that could be easily lost, changed or whatever.

While I grieve for my father, its amazing what a role my mother played of such negative and destructive behavior. Much of which I cannot even write here

So the 3rd tape is actually visualizing and reporting what I saw and experienced with much less anxiety even though, even though it is now becoming uglier and clearer, the anxiety level is actually dissipating as though a steam valve is being loosened, pressure is being released.

This week's work at home is making lists of all positive experiences to do with Dad, not only in action but emotion, places, things said and I can bring pictures to next week's session. My mother made a concerted effort to destroy most of the family photos as well as all her personal letters so I have only 4 pictures of my father and a pair of cuff links.

Along with this special project are the week to week monitoring of thoughts, highs and lows of grief and who/what/where provoked those feelings and any physical issues and there have been some. The stress of doing this work has brought on recurring shingles. The doctor finally prescribed an antiviral which is amazing in shutting down the symptoms. I'm very lucky because I read many people do not have success with the med used for this.  I also do not think any of the grief work could happen without being on the study meds because the grey clouds lifted and the strength needed had to be found, with these medications this has been the case. 
Those rabbis and others who pooh pooh and condemn medications as are being utilized in this study, should be drawn and quartered for harming people and frightening the vulnerable who need help and think saying tehillim 3 hrs or studying texts is the answer for all Life's questions. G-d gave us brains and expects us to use them, even when it may seem to contradict halacha according to conventional practice. While prayer is important, it is not a replacement for seeking appropriate medical or emotional help so life is as the Rebbe often told us, 'b'simcha.'

***A word about Mr. B. His breath was so bad when I was clipping his nails I opened his mouth and found a wiggly grey molar. After looking online for something in my medicine cabinet that might relieve his pain...he had been isolating, snapping at me and his pal, but eating and coming to me to play alone...so I didnt think it was anything more than a recent diet change I made for them and he might be having some digestive problems. His teeth are missing and rotting, he has periodontal issues. The vet warned me it may cost thousands to treat and there is only one doctor in this part of the state that does feline dental surgery. We discussed giving him oral antibiotics, but Mr. B is not to be toyed with unless he decides what game he wants to play and having pills pushed down his throat 3x a day is not his idea of fun. So an antibotic was injected between the shoulder blades, the vet rubbed his shoulders for about a minute to disperse the medication. Within 2 days he was head butting his very hurt and confused little pal who feels so dejected from being chased out of the bedroom every night and made to stay in the living room where its colder. I had to finally buy another heater and make a whole snuggly place and bring B2 there (he has his own lullaby we sing) so he didnt feel completely orphanated-new word-orphanated, descriptive verb, feel free to use it:-)
 

"Let's Play Dentist"

Standing joke in our house, I have 2 cats that love to lay belly up, paws waving and snore. This week was manicure/pedicure time and while clipping Mr. B's nails, smelled terrible breath, so bad it could have killed a passing herd of buffalo. After finishing his majesty's toes I pulled his gums back and opened his mouth.

He has a rotting molar that is actually wiggley, so I was careful not get too curious but clearly it needs attention ASAP. ASAP for me is taking out a loan because even if its only one extraction, it might mean much more. It seems cats get all kinds of dental diseases, some so intractable that ALL teeth must be removed or regular medications given to the patient. I dont mean to joke about this, but losing his teeth would be a relief for his playmate because when B2 runs through the house meowling as if he had a nightmare, Mr. B runs after him, jumps on his back and bites his neck...doesnt bite through, just takes B2 by the scruff and holds him in one place. I have no idea where these two found this emotional cure for anxiety but it reminds me of 16th century therapy where hysterics were bound tightly or like swaddling a baby.

A friend told me to try using the animal shelter clinic as its much less expensive than a private vet. There's one cat clinic nearby, appointments only, weekends never available, $60 for routine checkup etc. So I'll check the shelter that's also close by first.

What's interesting is how Mr. B when from sulky and lack of appetitie to head butting me, gobbling up his food and cuddling up to me after he realized that I found what hurts him. What hurts me is there's no way to explain why I havent already tackled his problem and taken him to a doctor. But after bills are in order, he's top priority.

We have at least 2 inches of snow down and I made a dash early this morning  for a few items before it got anything like it is now!
As cold as it is,the snow and crisp air is so beautiful. Since B2 remembered the 'snowing' from NYC when we lived there, he was excited running from window to window watching the flakes fly around this morning. When I got home I took a small dish pan and filled it with snow and brought it in for him. He paws at it and likes to watch me make it 'snow' by trickling it. He gets it on his nose, his forehead, he plays until the cold hurts.

My indoor thermostat flits between 57-59, so I add another layer and need to invest in thermal wear. I had to put away the space heaters because the electric bill was more than when I used the central heat system. Only Mr. B has a heater now, he truly cannot bear the cold; before I got him a radiant heater he stopped eating and just huddled under the bed. He stays in front of that heater on a stack of blankets rolling around so just the right spots get warmed up, most of the day.
What a life....

Study update, week 5

Forgiveness is not on the menu for these sessions. The focus is calling a spade a spade and leaving denial in Egypt. I went in very angry this week after listening to myself describe horrendous events in a matter of fact matter and then blaming myself for being able to survive childhood but finding myself in situation after situation of being used/abused/raped in order to avoid homelessness, obtain a job, promotion etc. So I blame myself for not having developed the skills, other than paranoia, distrust, to be alert to these kinds of abuse after watching my parents enact these types of things to one another and in outside relationships.
I asked my therapist, is it plain stupidity, maybe I'm in the wrong type of therapy-it might be a different issue? WTF is wrong.

So here's his take:
1. At my age I'm still living in survival mode as if I was the same little girl running messages and mediating between an alcoholic and his young wife.
Living in this manner blocks out present day reality and appropriate responses, my reactions are on autopilot-every situation has a built in reactor as if I'm reacting to something from 40 years ago.

2. He pointed out the differences from my mother's philandering lifestyle and me leaving home at 16 to get away from the violence and then being told to get out at 17 after intervening on behalf of my mother against a physical attack by my father-the difference mainly is that I acted to survive, not as a prostitute etc. and got out of compromising situations as quickly as possible.

3. We redid the audio tape and I had to leave out all context and describe exactly what I SEE, not why, wherefore or WTF, just what I see.

I am looking at 40 years ago through the eyes of AN ADULT IN CONTROL, OR LEARNING TO GAIN CONTROL OVER THE ABUSED CHILD. In essence learning how to protect myself while also acknowledging and leaving it go. Learning its safe to 'look' at these incidents and issues but separating myself, allowing distance and finding safety.
Caps are only to emphasize importance.

 4. I'm experiencing a type of transference because there is nothing but compassion, kindness, help, this is not a religious organization, its an NIH funded study!! So its a particular group of exceptional and exceptionally well trained people selected to do this work.
I'm not used to this kind of interaction with people, so as the weeks pass I'm growing more concerned about separation/termination and simply missing my therapist from week to week.

I explained my feelings to him in this past session because, while its not interfering with my actual work away from the sessions, its causing separation anxiety and weeping, loneliness.

 My study med dose is maxed so we cant say lets raise that any higher.

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I am very happy that after months of dealing with Dr. Dangerous who contradicted every test result with "you dont have that" or "its within normal range" or Fibro is a mental disorder I've found a new female PCP at another well equipped medical center that does its sown tests, including 'female' stuff. This woman listened and heard me. She also acknowledges Fibro as a valid illness and nodded that many of her male colleagues have the sme opinion about Fibro. Albeit FM is secondary to my illness its severe. She looked at all my test results, including the redos on the mammograms/ultrasound and confirmed it was good judegment to ignore Dr. Dangerous and followup as I was instructed. I have to make an appt to the high risk clinic-I found among my papers this past weekend that my gastro had ordered a vaginal ultrasound-I never received results and made the asuumption that all was well, despite the pelvis aches and pains. I had cysts on ovaries in 2003, now cysts in my breast, my uterus was taken out at 41 being full of fibroids and every few months my lymph nodes are swollen, neck/swallowing and under arms. I honestly cant keep up with my body.

But all of this is fine, I feel some peace finally, happy and without pressures.

Complicated Grief (CG) week 5

This past week began the actual work of audio taping. I'm asked to place myself mentally at scene of where I was at the time, how I heard of death of father and describe every detail, how I heard the news, what I felt, what I did, what I saw. I felt myself immersing into that familiar yet shadowy pool of hazy memories that became clearer as I recalled one detail after another. 

I was working the grill at Woolworth's lunch counter at 16 (working papers) and hadn't yet started my GED. An older actress named Claudia McNeil came in everyday for a frank and cup of coffee. She was diabetic, lived in the projects next door on Amsterdam Avenue and needed an ear. Since my ears were already ripened from listening to my father for years, I was the perfect foil for her many stories about the movie industry and what I should be doing with my life. She was one of the leads in A Raison in the Sun. Claudia was my first encounter with a person that had reached a pinnacle that was generally considered an amazing feat in the '60s and here she was poor, eating a hot dog and living in government housing. Fame seemed to mean little to other people long term, no one recognized this hulking black woman in her house dresses.

It was Claudia who called me over one afternoon while finishing her coffee and whispered to me I didn't belong behind the counter and that I find a way to go back to school. She asked me if I knew about the GED program and suggested I take night classes to finish up so I could apply for City College. My parents were so out of touch with parenting or unable to think what was appropriate next steps for either me or my sister these conversations never ever went on. In kindergarten teachers were telling my mother I was gifted and should be taking music lessons, I was reading books before starting 1st grade.

My father was spending his last months sitting in the living room in his turquoise brocade upholstered arm chair where his fingers had rubbed and tapped the fabric until it was thread bare, morosely talking to himself about what was going to happen to the three of us when he died. My sister moved in with her boyfriend and his mother at age 13, with permission of my mother of course, whatever made my sensitive nervous sister happy, was fine.  These two young lovers had gone from spending hours in the floor of my sisters clothes closet after my mother snuck B. into the apartment when my father was already drunk and seemed to feel that as long as my sister was having sex in a dark closet with a nice polite boy, all was right with the world. All that leeway didn't earn her the love and respect she may have been looking for, because when my sister became pregnant at age 12, it was B. and his mother who took her for an abortion. My mother was busy arranging bi-annual abortions for her niece who refused to use a diaghram and got sick from using an IUD that moved itself into her hip.

Segue to point that none of the above was on the tape...but this is how my mind works unfortunately, its one tied up tale of scenarios all entertwined and overlapping as if none can be separated out because one would not exist had the first not happened. In my child's eye had my parents not married and stayed in their own territories where their families wanted them to, had they married or in my father's cases, remained married to his then wife, none of the collateral damage to so many people would have ever happened. I am aware I wouldnt have 'happened' either, but  here I am 50+ years later still cleaning up.
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I described what happened the day my mother called about my father's death and then we did an exercise of putting the memory aside, not permanently away, aside. So that during this week each day I revisit and put it aside again. I'm likening it to forcing a new smoker to smoke a pack of cigs in one sitting so that you get so sick you never touch another butt again. But I could be wrong, maybe there's a more positive motive for this. It was very disconcerting to hear my own voice the following day on the tape, that is what I do, listen to myself recount the memory each day, meditate and then a small reward i.e. tea, a book, sketching. Since food is an ISSUE for me, I said using food is not an option for rewards as I already use it in that way.

Complicated Grief Session 4

This week begins a period of sessions where I must visualize and describe the moment I heard of father's death, where I was, what I saw, what went on, who was there-the 'who what where why and when' These sessions are taped, I have given the tapes, the therapist makes his own copy simultaneously.

Which is followed by an exercise of putting the visualization away and then rewarding one'self. A physical location is selected and I visually place the tape back into its box and put the box in a cabinet, to be revisited everyday. I think its similiar to forcing someone smoke a whole pack of cigarrettes and get them so sick they dont return to smoking again.

Time stands still as you recall details you havent thought about in years, as your right in the moment, its present tense during the visualization. But listening to the tape replayed, it went so quickly. And I definately have a New Yawk accent, its softer than most, but now I know why people here ask if I'm from NY.

Immediate reward (same day at most) was to buy a small hair barrette. I cant afford to cut it yet, so that's 2nd best.