Something was wrong. I told my husband I was going to try some “short-term therapy.” It lasted 13 years.

We had recently moved to a new home, custom designed and built just for us. I felt totally undeserving of this pretty house on six acres of forested land just outside Colorado Springs . On the outside, life seemed perfect. We had been married for nearly nine years. We had a 7-year old son, a 5-year old daughter and a dog. I worked part time as a medical social worker in a nearby hospital. My husband, Tom, was a successful engineer. Even with this perfect life, I had started drinking in a way I called “bad.” It was hidden drinking. I knew I needed to do something before it became worse. At that time, I did not associate the drinking with the feelings of not deserving the house or the other good things in my life, much less with any childhood abuse issues.

When I first walked in the therapist’s office, I had a look she described as that of a “scared animal,” as if I was going to run with every step I took. I scanned and rescanned the room. There was stiffness in my body. After a while, even after the abject fear had subsided, I still had a defensive, hostile edge in my voice and manner as I talked. The therapist wondered if I was really ready to do the therapy. All she could tell was that I was extremely wounded in some way.

I found that I was very dissociative. Not actually a “multiple,” but very fragmented. By this I mean I had different “parts,” although they weren’t fully separated. In the early stages of my therapy, I gradually went through the process of remembering and admitting a history of sexual abuse. The memories became more odd and scarier. I began to have flashbacks at church. I came to recall that my father, a minister, had sexually abused me, and I was able to figure out that my mother had been involved with a dark cult.Continue Reading