As I write this, I am attending the annual International Focusing Conference in the Black Forest of Germany.
I have just given a presentation about childhood trauma. I wasn’t sure how it was going to go. I knew I planned to read from my book to illustrate how lost memories surface. And I knew I wanted them to hear about the actual breaking through of my awareness of sexual abuse at the hands of my father and grandfather.But I wasn’t prepared for how moving and moved the participants would be.
In the room there were of course Germans, then Greeks, Italians, one Palestinian, Brits, Netherlanders, French, Spanish, Belgians and many other nations represented. Most of these countries are just beginning to deal with the presence of child abuse in their societies. The recent sexual abuse charges against the Roman Catholic church here in Germany has stirred awareness of the prevalence of child sexual abuse.
After my reading, no one spoke. There was absolute silence for many minutes. I looked around the room. The eyes were closed or they sat pensively staring at a spot on the floor. I could only assume that each person was having his or her personal experience touched off by my very honest disclosures.
This was one more step in sending Confessions of A Trauma Therapist out into the world to plant whatever seeds find fertile soil. That’s what I wish for my book: to be heard and taken in by those who need to hear my message.
Today’s presentation felt like one more small step to reach out and help our world deal effectively with this crime against children.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Book launch memories of Frank
One of the most moving memories of the book launch centre around my son, Frank. From the speaker’s podium, Frank spoke of the years when he had first been helping me shape Confessions of a Trauma Therapist into a book. He said he would cry for hours over what his grandfather and great grandfather had done to his mother. I was really deeply touched. I had no idea it had been so painful for him to take in my traumatic childhood.
When he was a little guy, I experienced his childhood as a wonderful time in my own life. He was growing up protected and loved. My heart swelled to see him approach teachers and other adults without fear. He knew he was a good person and worthy of respect. The contrast with my own fearful childhood was profound.
And he knew that his very busy father would drop everything to be with him if he was in trouble. I often contemplated how different life would be for me if Harvey had been my father.
For those of us who were abused as children, watching our own grow up untraumatized helps set things right inside us. All parents vicariously reexperience their own youth through their offspring. By becoming parents, survivors of childhood trauma have the opportunity to know what “right” looks and feels like in childhood.
There is one thing that never occurred to me when I was a mother to a child. I would never have imagined that my child would grow up to be a best friend and a strong, wise support in my life.
I am so thankful for this lovely man who is still in my life.
When he was a little guy, I experienced his childhood as a wonderful time in my own life. He was growing up protected and loved. My heart swelled to see him approach teachers and other adults without fear. He knew he was a good person and worthy of respect. The contrast with my own fearful childhood was profound.
And he knew that his very busy father would drop everything to be with him if he was in trouble. I often contemplated how different life would be for me if Harvey had been my father.
For those of us who were abused as children, watching our own grow up untraumatized helps set things right inside us. All parents vicariously reexperience their own youth through their offspring. By becoming parents, survivors of childhood trauma have the opportunity to know what “right” looks and feels like in childhood.
There is one thing that never occurred to me when I was a mother to a child. I would never have imagined that my child would grow up to be a best friend and a strong, wise support in my life.
I am so thankful for this lovely man who is still in my life.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Memories of the Launch
My mind is filled with the scenes and feelings of the book launch that took place a few days ago when Confessions of a Trauma Therapist got birthed and went out into the world. Its mission? To help the victims of child sexual abuse and expose this crime against children.
A kaleidoscope of remembered hugs, greetings, old friends and colleagues, as well as the faces of those who came to hear that it’s possible to recover from childhood trauma – these experiences tumble over and over in my memory.
The book’s conclusion tells about foreseeing the book launch in a dream I had back in 1999.
I am a singer standing alone on the stage of a huge concert hall. My voice soars, filling the hall with its richness. The sound seems to wrap around each person sitting there. A rich contralto rises up effortlessly from my belly.
Then my song finishes and the crowd cheers, deeply moved by my voice. I step off the stage to join Harvey. He and I greet hundreds of audience members whom we recognize as survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
My heart goes out to them as I encourage them to go on with their healing. Then come their friends and supporters, followed by their helping professionals. All of us are joined in the work of healing past traumas and in the fight to prevent child sexual abuse in the future.
That is my dream, my vision and my hope in writing about my own history of incest. Never mind that I can’t hold a tune. The dream may be counter-factual, but it certainly matches how I feel about Confessions of a Trauma Therapist.
A kaleidoscope of remembered hugs, greetings, old friends and colleagues, as well as the faces of those who came to hear that it’s possible to recover from childhood trauma – these experiences tumble over and over in my memory.
The book’s conclusion tells about foreseeing the book launch in a dream I had back in 1999.
I am a singer standing alone on the stage of a huge concert hall. My voice soars, filling the hall with its richness. The sound seems to wrap around each person sitting there. A rich contralto rises up effortlessly from my belly.
Then my song finishes and the crowd cheers, deeply moved by my voice. I step off the stage to join Harvey. He and I greet hundreds of audience members whom we recognize as survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
My heart goes out to them as I encourage them to go on with their healing. Then come their friends and supporters, followed by their helping professionals. All of us are joined in the work of healing past traumas and in the fight to prevent child sexual abuse in the future.
That is my dream, my vision and my hope in writing about my own history of incest. Never mind that I can’t hold a tune. The dream may be counter-factual, but it certainly matches how I feel about Confessions of a Trauma Therapist.
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