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The new beginning: Dr. "S" was not a nice man. He was an older German psychologist and he was sullen, sarcastic and generally cruel. Dr. "S" didn't think that I was a multiple but he certainly did seem to enjoy signing my insurance paperwork with the diagnostic label of "Paranoid Schizophrenic," so that he could collect money out of seeing me indefinitely. This is what Dr. "S" explained to me near the beginning, that he needed a diagnosis that would ensure I would be able to keep going to appointments with him for a long time. Thus I became a phony "Paranoid Schizophrenic," yet in Dr. "S's" muddled mind the label he created to keep me became real to him over time. Beginning around the middle of my 17th year, I started seeing Dr. "S" twice per week. Since he was so moody and eccentric, he oftentimes simply ignored me, staring blankly out his office window, while I rattled on explaining my problems to him. At variant times he became viciously cruel, making fun of me, mocking me, parroting what I said in his sarcastic tones, and insulting everything about me. He told me that the fact that I didn't know how to drive a car was proof that I was schizophrenic (my parents would not let me learn how to drive). The reality that I didn't want to have sex and have a baby right away (at age 17 then 18) was proof that I was mentally ill. The fact that I said I was sick when no doctor had confirmed it was supreme proof that I was delusional. The view of me in my sunglasses also meant that I was schizophrenic, because I was too crazy to be without my sunglasses. The fact that I felt disfigured didn't matter to him -- it was only more evidence of my schizophrenia. I hated seeing Dr. "S" but my dad had told me that THIS WAS MY LAST CHANCE. My father also told me that it had to be Dr. "S". I was still sick, too sick to do anything, much less work and make my own money to get the surgery and the other medical care that I needed. I was too stupid to navigate the medical system by myself. I didn�t know what else to do. Therefore, I had no choice, I had to keep going to Dr. "S." After about a year, Dr. "S" became comfortable with me and he decided to confide in me regarding his greatest life's fantasy. Dr. "S" had always dreamed, envisioning with great desire, what it would be like to kill someone with his own hands. So he went on and on endlessly describing the sensations of the victim's body as his or her life slipped away and the sensations that might be in his body, transmitted through his hands, as the victim's death came. I began to understand that Dr. "S" was obsessed with his desire to know what it felt like to kill someone. To Dr. "S" the experience of killing HAD to be savored with his bare hands, he had to feel it. Since I was suicidal, Dr. "S" thought he could do me a favor and satisfy his fantasy at the same time! At least he was excited about it when he proposed it to me. I was once again shocked. I didn't know what to do. Dr. "S" never made a physical movement towards me, nothing indicated that he would act against my will, and I wasn't afraid to die. I wanted to die if there was no better way, but I didn't want it botched. Moreover, I didn't want to be tortured first. I wanted it done with a gun. So, I wasn't exactly afraid of Dr. "S" because I'd been sick for so long, since right before my 16th birthday. It would be good for me to die. It would be over then. But Dr. "S" was clearly a sick and deranged man. I was worried about him and I didn't want him to get himself into trouble. In the meanwhile, what if I could be helped? What if I could be cured and I could also get the plastic surgery? Then why should I die? And wasn't I in Dr. "S" office two times a week to show him, a Ph.D. psychologist who my dad approved of, that I was physically sick and needed help and repair. Why couldn't I prove the truth to him? Why couldn't Dr. "S" see? So the sessions went on until I was past my 19th birthday. For the most part, when he wasn't making fun of me, telling me how stupid I was, and mocking me for being such a dummy to trust people (including and especially my dad), all Dr. "S" ever wanted to talk about was his NEED TO KNOW WHAT IT FELT LIKE TO KILL SOMEONE WITH HIS OWN BARE NAKED HANDS. Occassionally, Dr. "S" commented that I was too chipper to be depressed or sick. How could I explain to anyone how I fought to keep my spirits and my hope up because that's all I had left. And wasn't I trying to make my last chance, Dr. "S" SEE my hope and my reality? My 19th birthday came and went. A little while after I turned 19 something strange and wonderful and unexpected happened. I suddenly went into recovery! Up to this day, I don't know why the sickness seemed to suddenly stop. In hindsight and within my immediate life I realize that it didn't stop completely, it just became considerably less severe. All of a sudden, my face wasn't swollen anymore, my other joints were rarely swollen, my shoe size went down to size 9, then 8 & 1/2 and finally to size 8 (as an adult, my shoe size is still size 8)!!! The Charley horses behind my eyes became more rare as did the dizziness. I slowly began to recuperate. The skin on my face became healthier again -- it wasn't perfect and it wasn't the way it used to be, but a lot of the extra sagging folds and creases went away. My ankles became stronger and steadier until they barely ever buckled out on me. I was elated, yet I'd come so far and suffered so much dragging myself into my mother's car to attend those awful appointments with the psychotic Dr. "S" that I still wanted the surgery! The plastic surgery would be my final farewell to those terrible years of the illness. However, Dr. "S" remained fixated on both his fantasy and his label for me. The fact that I now bounced into his office without the sunglasses, looking lively and rejuvenated meant nothing to Dr. "S." He simply seemed more distracted and sullen and upset that I was focused on some final repairs, hope and perhaps a real life now. He felt jilted because he had come so close to fulfilling his fantasy with me as his victim. The year dragged on in Dr."S's" office and my father wouldn't hear of me transferring to another psychologist. To my dad my desire to see someone else to bring him my proof that I deserved and needed the plastic surgery was nothing more than an attempt on my part not to face the reality as he saw it -- my attempt to manipulate him into wasting his money. But I was stronger now and I was learning how to reach Dr. "S" a tiny amount. I was learning how to pressure him into miniscule actions even though those actions might not be in time or exactly what I had in mind. I was able to get Dr. "S" to suggest that I see a medical doctor for a diagnosis. This was a strange victory indeed. I was going to see a medical doctor after I was in recovery already? Well, I'd become desperate to see a medical doctor before (after my deseration for a diagnosis overcame my fear)and I still wanted to see one now. I remained terrified that my sickness was merely in temporary dormancy. I wanted to know what kind of sickness I had had so I'd know if it was really over for good or if it might come back. If it was destined to come back I wanted to know what to do about it! I wanted to know how to treat it and control it if it returned. So I went to Dr. "H." Dr. "H" was a general practitioner who had the same kind of attitude from the moment he saw me as Dr. "J" had. Dr. "H" was in a foul mood, scrowling and me and shooting short harried questions at me. I answered the best that I could and then Dr. "H" had his nurse draw blood for a CBC. The CBC turned out normal and Dr. "H" called Dr. "S" rather than me and informed Dr. "S" that there was nothing wrong with me and that Dr. "S" was right -- I was insane. When my next appointment with Dr. "S" arrived he tore into me about how stupid and crazy I was and now he had the ultimate proof! He told me that Dr. "H" had called him and described every detail of the CBC results to him! Case closed. Dr. "S" was basking in his victory. I was shaking with RAGE! How dare Dr. "H" do that? How dare he! I never gave him permission! Wasn't that illegal without the patient's consent? And why didn't Dr. "H" CALL me or have his secretary call me with the news first. WHY? WHY? WHY? I called Dr. "H's" office later that day and asked him why? Dr. "H" was short with me and told me I was a crazy just like Dr. "S" said and that was that. No apology. No questions. Dr. "H" didn't care about the fact that he'd betrayed me and Dr. "H" didn't care about Dr. "S" strange behavior and fantasies either. Finally, somewhere within my 19th year of life, Dr. "S" got into serious legal trouble. He was accused of sexually abusing another young lady patient in his office, home, car and at her home too. She had come to him to resolve issues of having been a sexually abused child and he had taken advantage of her. Once the news was somewhat out and Dr. "S" was forced into court, he immediately changed his tune towards me. Suddenly he was much nicer and more attentive. Suddenly he was willing to refer me to his good friend, a famous plastic surgeon out of state! However, I had to make a solemn promise too, I had to promise to write a letter to the court declaring that Dr. "S" had never tried to sexually abuse me before Dr. "S" would make the referral. Well, I considered this, I was still very na�ve because I'd never had a life up to that point. I didn't know about men and women. My family was also very old fashioned and no one ever talked about men and women and relationships. So I thought it must be true, Dr. "S" never did try to have sex with me. Dr. "S" never tried to touch me at all. In fact, all Dr. "S" ever wanted to do was kill me to satisfy his sick fantasy. Yes Dr. "S" had problems, he was deranged, but he wasn't sexual that way. He'd never seemed interested in even talking about sex or sexual thoughts with me, except for his brief statements when I was still 17 and 18, that I was clearly severely mentally ill because I didn't want to drag my sick body out on the town and implant a baby in there to catch whatever disease I might have before it was even born. So I wrote the letter for Dr. "S" and he wrote out the referral. My dad was not pleased at all and he let me know that he really didn't have to keep his promise about the surgery, but he'd pay for me to fly over and see the surgeon. Off I went. To jump forward a little in time, the letter I wrote for Dr. "S" was never permitted into court. In the end Dr. "S" was found guilty and he lost his license to practice as a psychologist. After the court case was completed there were HUGE stories about Dr. "S" in all the major news papers. That was and remains the only small validation I ever received regarding what Dr. "S" put me through for those years he had me in treatment. This is perhaps the second time I have ever even told this story. |
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