Memories

It crawls around on your skin, looking for a way to get inside you so it can eat you alive...Memories.

 

The older I get, the more things I begin to recall, from growing up in a place that I wish would vanish from my mind.

I recall being around the age of 10 the first time I thought seriously about sex, life and death. I’m sure I thought about it even before this age, but not as seriously as I did that summer that I began letting older boys have sex with me, and I began experimenting with life and death.

I hadn’t started my menstrual cycle yet, and I thought I knew enough about it, that I would not get pregnant. I was curious. I wanted to know what it was like. So, I did it, not once, not twice, but more times than can recall. Death was the same. I wanted to know. I shot animals with my Dad’s 22 rifle, and then I would stare at them until they no longer moved. Curiosity overtook my thoughts one day, and after shooting a wild cat, I split open its chest so I could watch its heart beat for the last time.

There was only a few weeks left until school started back for the year, when I was caught by my father having sex with one of his friends at their house. I was sitting on top of him, when my father grab the back of my ponytail and pulled him out of me. I quickly put my pants back on as my father began beating him repeatedly with his fist. Blood covered his face and my fathers fist. My father continued to hit him, even after he laid there motionless. I ran to the car and hid under an old dirty blanket that was laying in the backseat. I closed my eyes trying to make the images go away, but it was as if someone had branded the images across an invisible glass directly in front of my eyes. 

I awoke as the car turned up the driveway to the front gate. I laid there quietly as I listened to my father get out the car and open the gate. He then got back in the car, drove through, and got out again to close the gate. I waited for the sound of him opening the car door to get in, but instead he opened the door where I was laying.

My heart began to pound wildly in my chest, as fear of what he was going to do, took over all other thoughts. As I laid there pretending to be asleep, I felt him uncover my body, and then his hands began feeling around between my legs. When I made a low moaning sound, he told me to be quiet so he could just check me to make sure I wasn’t hurt.

He spread my legs, and pointed a flashlight directly at me as he pulled down my pants and underwear. I closed my eyes as tight as I could, and pulled the blanket back up over my head. I could feel the warmth of the flashlight shinning on my body, as his hands began spreading me open. He then put his fingers inside and began feeling around.  After a few minutes he said, “I don’t think he came inside of you and you’re not bleeding, so you should be okay.” He then raised his voice and said, “I don’t want you telling anyone about this. I already took care of him, so it won’t ever happen again.”

The truth was I liked what the guy was doing to me, but I didn’t dare tell my father. Instead, I began crying, so he hugged me, and whispered to me that everything was going to be okay. In my mind, all I could think about was wanting to kill him. The visions of everything I had seen that night, slammed into my brain with such pressure that it was hard trying to force myself to continue crying. I wanted to take the 22 rifle and shoot him in the head, and as he laid there bleeding, I would cut him open, just to see what was inside of him. I thought about doing something horrible to him everyday for the rest of that summer.

Thoughts flood my mind even more today.

Dreams of the Past...Why I can't sleep.

Last night, or should I say early this morning, around the time the sun began to slowly peer above the horizon and make its way through a diminutive hole in the foil that covers my bedroom window, I finally drifted into a deep, non-stop dreaming sleep.

While sleeping, my dream took me back to a house that was very analogous to the house I grew up in. I was being held down on a twin bed, in the middle of a room, with a blanket thrown over me and tied down on all the corners so I could not move. Above me I could see the hole that was in the ceiling of my bedroom, but much bigger. As I struggled in my restraints, I was startled by a earsplitting sound of thunder. Lightening clashed loud in the air just above the hole repeatedly as I stared up into the sky above.

After several more frightening rounds of thunder, water began to trickle and then stream down on top of me. The blanket quickly became soaked as a tremendous amount of water began pouring in on top of me, making the blanket cling to my body. I struggled to breathe as the blanket tightened around me, slowly cutting off my air supply. As more water poured down on top of me, I could hear voices in the back ground.

“Quit just laying there! Get your ass up and empty the buckets!!” the voice of my father bellowed through the storm. But as much as I tried to move, I couldn’t. I fiercely struggled as the storm continued to send officious amounts of water down onto my cold, wet body. Over the stentorian storm, I could hear my fathers voice shouting obscenities as thunder crackled above my head.

The room began to fade black and I felt I could no longer breathe, and began trying to gulp in several deep breaths. I struggled and pushed hard against the flowing water and the wet blanket that held me down. I could feel pressure building in my chest, and with one finally push I awoke from my dream around 9:30 am, my heart racing and feeling like I couldn’t breathe for a moment or two.

I could feel the heavy beating of my heart deep inside my chest. As I laid there, I thought I could hear the rain pouring down in a heavy stream outside. Images from my past of growing up, flooded my mind with all consuming thud. I thought about all the endless nights without sleep I had, after a storm had passed over our house. The rain pouring through the hole in the ceiling, and splashing into the large buckets that sat underneath.

I couldn’t sleep then, so how am I suppose to sleep now when I can still hear the rain pouring down around me?

Not wanting to drift back into the intrusive dream, I decided to take a long hot bath. By the time the water had turned cold, I could smell the boys cooking food in the kitchen. Of course they made a mess as always, but managed to make sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast. Around noon we made our way to the park for a nice walk through the woods. I even got to take a few good pictures.




Now it’s almost 10pm and I feel exhausted, with no energy, but wide awake. I took a Rozerem that a friend gave me a few of, about 20 minutes ago, so we’ll see if this one is going to work.

Chicken Pen

This is fiction...or is it?



Everyone in the house had gotten up early that morning and left for school or work. I had woke up feeling sick, but more than anything I was having severe cramps from just starting my 2nd period ever. At the last minute I convinced Mom to let me stay home from school, by saying I was having bad diarrhea. It worked because she saw me go the bathroom 4 or 5 times, she thought I was using the toilet, but I was adjusting the tampon that seemed to be making me sick to my stomach. My father had already left for work an hour earlier and wasn't to be back home until after 6pm on that day, so I would have the house to myself until at least 4pm when Mom, my brothers and sisters would all get home.


I laid down in bed and covered my head as I listened to sounds of family driving away. Once I was sure they were far enough away, I quickly got up and fixed myself a bowl of cereal and took 2 ibuprofen for the pain in my stomach. It wasn't long before I was feeling well enough to play the music on the stereo loud enough that if someone had lived within a mile of us that could have heard it bumping with a thunderous bass sound. I dance about crazy and wild, doing moves that I would never consider doing in front of someone.


I continued dancing until the water I had placed on the stove to heat up was ready. We didn't have a shower or any hot water, so the best way for me to get cleaned up was by heating a large boiling pot on the stove in the kitchen, then carry it to the bathroom and dump it into a larger container that sat in the bottom of the tub. I would then add cold water from the well that had natural spring water flowing into it at all times, to bring it to a temperature that was comfortable.


I stripped naked, stepped into the tub and began pouring water over my head from yet another pan. I tried to let as much water as possible drain back into the large bucket sitting in the tub, so that I would have enough to wash and rinse my hair and then wash the rest of my body. It usually took all the water and sometimes a little extra cold water from the faucet to feel completely clean.


After I finished cleaning up, I got dressed and then headed outside with my book Little House on the Prairie. I had a favorite spot where I liked to read, where no one knew I was there. It was on top of the chicken pen on the south side of the house. One day I had gotten mad at everyone and decided to 'disappear', and that was the place I had chosen to hide.


On top I could see everyone around me, without them seeing me. I spent time there watching Mom hang clothes on the clothesline, my father feeding the chickens and gathering eggs, I watched my brothers using their knives to cut down small branches to make into swords, I saw my sister playing with her dolls near a small garden. I could watch the world from there, and I loved how that made me feel.


There was a tree behind the chicken pen that made it easy for me to crawl up on top, so I found myself spending a lot of my time there alone reading and watching others. I brought an old blanket and my pillow so I could lay down and get very comfortable for a couple of hours. I only had a few chapters left in the book, so I hoped I could complete it before anyone got back.
It was still before noon when I finished the book, but I decided to stay on top of the chicken house a little long and soak up sun. I had almost falling asleep when I heard someone coming down the driveway. My first thought was that it was some stranger who had lost his way. As I listened to the vehicle coming closer I began to entertain even crazier thoughts of it being a murderer looking for his next target. Whoever it was, I didn't want to take a chance of being found home alone, so I stayed hid on top of the chicken pen and watched until whoever was coming down the road came into view.


My heart raced wildly when I saw it was my father in his truck. Fear over took me, and I began thinking about ways to escape in case he saw me. I didn't want to spend time alone with him. I was frighten to death of him. I never knew what he would try to do to me or what kind of weird off the wall kind of things he would try to make me do when no one was around.


The thoughts made my heart beat so fast from the adrenaline rush, that I thought it was going to explode. I was taking in deep breaths as if someone was choking me. After a couple more deep breathes I got up enough nerve to look over the top of the pen again and see what my father was doing. I watched as he began getting something out of the passengers seat that was wrapped up with a old blanket that had been in the back of his truck for weeks. I kept my eyes peeled on what he was doing, but keeping myself laying down as flat as possible so he couldn't possible spot me.


Fear rushed throughout my body when I saw him carrying what he had towards my direction. I ducked completely down and just listened to sounds of him coming closer. I heard him walk through the door opening into the chicken pen, and then I heard the sound of him opening the door to the inner part of the pen. It was the area just below where I was laying, the area where my father had many times brought deer that he had illegally killed out of season, or just a extra untagged one during the season.


I once had to hold the flashlight for my father as he hoisted a deer by the hide legs up into the air with a rope. He then took out a very sharp, large hunting knife and split the deer open from between its legs. All the while he would direct me where to point the light, and tell me to make sure I kept my mouth shut so that he didn't get into any kind of trouble with the law.


It wasn't deer season, but that was my first thought when I heard the sounds of him hoisting something up into the air using the rope that always hung over a set of steel rods that my father had put up in between two 4X8 beams. It was solid enough that you could swing back and forth on the ropes. But most of the time you couldn't stand being in the room for very long because it was always so hot inside. In the room there was only one very small window that was barely big enough to stick your head out of it. Not even big enough to escape out of if the need ever came.


After several minutes I became curious enough to look through one of the several small nail holes that were all over the top of the pen. I could see my father with his penis out of this pants, stroking it as he stood there staring in one direction. I quietly moved over to another nail hole and look down. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head when I looked down and saw a young girl with brown hair and blood coming out of her mouth, hanging like a deer by her wrist high in the air. She looked like she had been beaten severely, until she became unconscious. I could hear small moans, but no words that I could understand. I watched with my eyes wide, not really believing what I was seeing, but scared to move in fear of getting caught and being the one hanging there.


My father moved into the picture and I could see and hear him slapping her hard across various parts of her body. He bit her hard on her nipples until both of them were bleeding. When he began having sex with her I turned away, no longer able to look at her suffering. I felt so sorry for her, but I was so scared and I knew there was nothing except for killing him that I could do to save her.


Since we lived so far out in the country we didn't have a phone. There were no lines that ran out that far, so if we wanted one, the phone company told Mom that they would have to pay to put up the lines, which cost several hundred dollars. Of course we never managed to save up that much money, so calling for someone to come rescue her was out of the question.


When I looked down again he was anal raping her with part of a old shovel handle. I could hear her crying out as he shoved it up her repeatedly. It was then that her eyes opened and we made eye contact. Our eyes wide, staring at each other, she began begging for my father to stop what he was doing. She looked directly at me, and screamed, "please help me, don't let him kill me!"

My father stopped what he was doing and looked up. I rolled over and away from the hole, looking for a possible escape, but making a lot of noise on the tin roof as I did. There was no where for me to go to get away quick enough without him spotting me, still I tried. I made it half way down the side of the tree when I felt him grabbing me by the legs. He pulled me hard and I tumbled down and hit the ground with a hard thump. He held the gun down near my face and asked me what the hell I was doing home. I got to barely explain before he grabbed me by the back of my hair and pulled in towards the door of the chicken pen.


"I promise I won't say anything! Please don't kill me!" I screamed from the bottom of my soul.

"Shut the fuck up and do as I fucking say!" he screamed at me as he jerked my head around.

He pulled me inside to the area where the strange girl hung silently in the air. Blood was draining down her legs from where the shovel handle was still stuck up inside of her.

"So you want to watch? Huh? Well watch this."

He then shoved the handle of the shovel all the way up inside of her, and she let out a loud scream that terrified me so much that I started shaking uncontrollably.

"Please just let her go." I begged. "Don't hurt her anymore. Stop making her suffer."

"Suffer?! Who cares if this whore suffers. She's just a piece of trash. Why don't you just put a end to her suffering? You're a part of this now. You know all about it. End it for her."

My father then grabbed his gun from the corner and put it in my hands.

"Just pull the goddamn trigger! Do you want to be the one laying there?"

I felt cold, distant. I couldn't take my eyes off of her eyes and the tip of the shotgun that was pressed hard between her two amber colored eyes. She looked at me and moaned deeply, begging for life without the use of words. I wanted to look away, walk away, run far to the ends of the earth and just jump off.

My father shouted at me with a voice that was more terrifying than dieing. "You better do it. If not I'm going to do to you, all the things I did to her. Do you fucking understand me? Now pull the goddamn trigger!"

He was holding the gun in my hands so tight that they had become numb, almost frozen in place. For a brief moment my heart stop beating. I didn't breathe. There was no sounds. Then it was all over. Blood poured from the wound, and gagging, bubbling sounds escaped from her mouth. Her eyes stared wide, directly looking into my eyes, looking for some type of hope. Some last chance. She grasp for one last breath of air and then her eyes lowered. I turned and vomited hard, falling down to my knees as I did.

My father untied her hands and let her drop to the floor as I stood there in shock. He wrapped her up in the blanket that he had carried her into the chicken pen with, and then through her over his shoulder. He picked up his 20 gauge and walked back to his truck and through her into the back. I recovered enough that I managed to get to my feet and walk outside. I met him half way between the chicken pen and his truck when he again grabbed me by my hair.

"You better keep this to yourself! If you tell anyone, anyone!! I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life locked up somewhere. I'll let them know you were the one who killed her, and you'll spend the rest of your life in jail getting fucked in the ass by some guards. Do you hear me Tayla? Keep you fucking mouth shut! Now as far as anyone knows I wasn't here today, so you better not tell anyone I was even home. Do you understand me?" He then yanked on my hair hard until I agreed.

Fear of my fathers rage, I did as I was ordered.

Tales from the Hood

Tales from the Hood.

I had been out of rehab for about a year, when I decided to move back to Nowata. Three days after I moved into a small two bedroom house with my best friend at the time, I met back up with an old gang member that I had hung out with in the past. He was into an argument with my next door neighbor, who was 6 months pregnant at the time. Apparently she owed him some money and she didn’t want to pay him back at that time, but he didn’t want to take no for answer. When I stepped outside to see what was going on, he was shouting at her at the top of his lungs saying how much of a bitch she was. He saw me and in a fit of rage told me to not trust the fucking bitch because she was a narc.

I wasn’t using any drugs at the time, so I didn’t really feel that would be a problem for me, but I trusted what he had to say. He didn’t have a car and lived all the way on the other side of town, so he asked me if I could give him a ride home. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I invited him in while I got my jacket and keys. I told him I just moved back in town, and was just starting my second year of college He was still doing pretty much the same thing from when I knew him 2 years earlier; robbing houses and stealing for money, all so he could keep using drugs.
We talked a lot about our past, and told each other our own “War Stories” about how we barely got away from the law. It wasn’t long before I was agreeing to a party that week-end at my house with a few of his gang friends. I don’t know why I agreed, I guess the lure of that kind of lifestyle was just to intriguing to say no too.

It was one wild party that week-end. In all over 15 gang members showed up, along with a few of their friends. I had bought over $70 worth of hard liquor and 6 point beer from Kansas so there was plenty enough for everyone to drink until they puked. Liquor wasn’t the only drug available, in my bathroom there was a group of guys sharing a needle, shooting up crank. In another room there were several people smoking weed, which I joined. Before I realized it I was talked into giving a ride to a few of the guys to a house on the west side of town. I was drunk and high but somehow I managed to make it where we were going without wrecking. I waited in the car as they ran in to pick up ‘something’. The next thing I knew everyone came running out of the house, and the sounds of gunfire rang throughout the air. I put my car in gear and was ready to get the hell out of there when 4 of the gang quickly re-entered my car and began shouting go.
We drove for several miles as I listened to them brag about robbing the house we were just at. I thought I had gotten away from that kind of lifestyle but there I was right in the middle of a robbery, and I didn’t say no. We went back to my house where they divided up the loot, even given me a cut since I was the driver. I was now a part of the gang whether I wanted to be or not. For the next few weeks I became a more active member of the gang, robbing, stealing, doing drugs, and just being a menace. The police looked at me as the leader because I was the oldest one in the group by 7 months, and I had the transportation that allowed for our criminal activities to take place.

I hated the lifestyle at times, but at other times it was the only thing that made me feel alive, and that feeling I wanted to forever feel.

Killer Thoughts: I hate the fucking summer time.

I hate the fucking months of July, August, and September,…July 1977, my older brother Frank was shot by an arrow by my half brother Will... I hated that fucking summer. August 1, 1979 my younger brother Rusty was shot, by Frank with a 22. Another horrible fucking summer.

September 3 is my half brother Will’s birthday (the one that is in prison for murder.) September 11,1985 I was sent to prison. On Sept. 7, 1988 my Uncle Jack died, Sept. 13, 1997 my father died. Sept. 19, 1986, I watched a good friend die after she wrecked and was thrown from her truck while we were speeding away from a house robbery. Sept. 27, 1986...I overdosed. And that's just a few that I can remember.

Well hopefully next month gets better and I can move on with some of my more crazier thoughts that I tend to have during these months. I also found this interesting article online that I think describes why I have some of the crazy thoughts that I do. Hell who knows…add another disorder to all the other ones that I have.

http://westsuffolkpsych.homestead.com/Violent_Obsessions.html

Here’s what it says…sorry it’s a little long, but I thought it was a really interesting post.
How I Treat OCD

Killer Thoughts: Treating Violent Obsessions
By Fred Penzel, Ph.D.
There are dozens of categories of different obsessions and compulsions that make up the disorder known as OCD, and while these cover a wide range of differing themes, they all share many characteristics in common. These would include intrusive, unpleasant thoughts, unceasing doubt, guilt, fears of being insane, and crushing anxiety. While all forms of OCD can be painful, paralyzing, repulsive, and debilitating, one of the nastier and more startling is the type known as morbid obsessions. This is particularly true of those obsessions in this category that are violent in nature, and include thoughts of killing or injuring others or oneself, or of acting sexually in ways that are against society's norms. I include thoughts of acting out sexually in this category, as they really represent a form of violence, and have little to do with sex.

Violent thoughts may involve both mental images and impulses to act. These can include those in which people see themselves hitting, stabbing, strangling, mutilating or otherwise injuring their children, family members, strangers, pets, or even themselves. They may envision themselves using sharp or pointed objects, such as knives, forks, scissors, pencils, pens, broken bottles, letter openers, ice picks, power tools, poison, their bare hands, or even their cars. The urges they experience may involve pushing or throwing themselves or others into the paths of trains or cars, out of windows, or off balconies, buildings, or other high places. Some report thoughts of hitting pedestrians, ramming their cars into bridge abutments on the highway, or steering into the path of oncoming traffic. Others fear snapping or going berserk in public and harming people. One patient of mine would have thoughts of opening one of the exit doors aboard an airliner. In reaction, sufferers tend to fear being alone with anyone smaller and weaker they feel they could easily overpower, such as children and elderly people. They often avoid going to such places as train platforms, pedestrian-filled street corners, or being in crowded public places. Mothers may experience repeated thoughts of acting violently towards their infants or small children. Sexual thoughts in this category usually involve raping or sexually abusing children or other adults. Fears of acting out other sexually inappropriate behaviors may also occur.

Although the number of people who suffer from this type of OCD is still not exactly clear, it is probably more common than most people think. I would estimate that about a third of my patients suffer from some form of them. When most of my patients begin treatment, they believe that they may be insane, and that no one else could think as crazily as they do. I am usually able to convince them that neither of these things is true, and this is further confirmed for them when they attend a support group and hear others report the same types of thoughts. Another problem these sufferers seem to be burdened with is a nagging doubt that causes them to ask themselves," What kind of person am I that could think such thoughts? Why would I think these things if I didn't really want to do them. I must be a psychopath or a pervert." Not being able to resolve this doubt obviously results in a lot of anxiety. In years past, OCD sufferers who went for treatment via psychoanalysis were mistakenly informed that their thoughts actually represented repressed anger and that they unconsciously wished to do the things they were obsessing about. This only worsened the symptoms for these unfortunate people. Sad to say, treatment of this type still continues in many places. In one case I know of, a woman confessed her obsessive thoughts of hurting her child to a psychiatrist. She was rewarded by this professional reporting her to state protective services, who then promptly investigated her with an eye to removing her child from her home.

It is important for sufferers to understand that the thoughts are just thoughts, and do not cause anxiety, but rather the anxiety is caused by the views sufferers take of the thoughts. They need to overcome the idea that, "If I think it, it must be real." It should be noted that people who suffer from these thoughts have no history of violence, nor do they ever act out on their ideas or urges. Although OCD can project extreme and bizarre thoughts into people's minds, it is not the thoughts or the anxiety, as much as people's solutions to having the thoughts that represents the real heart of the problem. It is the compulsive acts that people perform to relieve their anxiety that cause the paralysis that they experience. Compulsions are seductive, in that they offer the illusion of immediate relief from anxiety, even if it only lasts a brief time. Compulsions paradoxically, start out as solutions, but eventually become the problem itself. They may grow from taking only a few minutes per day, to taking up hours at a time. Instinct tells people with OCD to avoid or run away from the things they fear, and they erroneously believe that this is possible. Unfortunately, the opposite proves to be true, and the avoidance only worsens the problem and increases the fear. A person's whole life may become oriented around never coming into contact with the things that make them anxious. In actuality, you cannot run from what you fear. It must be faced. People with OCD do not remain in the presence of what they fear long enough to learn the truth of things, which is that nothing would happen even if they did no compulsions. Regardless of the type of obsessions, treatment for OCD is all about getting sufferers to accept that their solutions do not work, and will never work, and that they have to finally face their obsessive thoughts while resisting their urges to do compulsions. Anything short of this will not be powerful enough to get the job done.

These principles are put into action in a treatment known as Exposure and Response Prevention (E&RP). This is a systematic way of confronting the violent (or any other) thoughts in a step-by-step manner. The actual exposure itself is very straightforward. Sufferers can be exposed to violent thoughts in a number of ways. These may involve assignments carried out under a therapist's direction in an office, or on one's own, at home. What all these methods have in common is that they don't reassure. Instead they are designed to provoke anxiety by essentially saying that the thoughts are true, that the feared consequences will really happen, and that nothing can be done to prevent them. Ideally, exposure should be done whenever and wherever the thoughts occur. Those who suffer from violent obsessions have various types of scripts they write for themselves, and it is important to understand these scripts in order to be able to use them in designing homework assignments. A typical script for violent thinkers runs something like, " I must be having these thoughts because I'm really psycho and want to do these things. Maybe I'll lose control and really do them. If I do act on my thoughts, they'll lock me up forever. That will be horrible for my family and me; they will suffer because of what I did, and I will suffer knowing what I did to them and to my victim. I won't be able to live with the guilt. I'll either die in prison, or kill myself." Scripts such as these are worked into a series of graduated assignments.

I usually prescribe assignments based on a hierarchy we create, which rates all of the person's feared thoughts and situations in terms of the strength of the anxiety they cause. We begin with only those items lowest on the fear scale, and gradually work our way up, going at the patient's own pace. No one is forced to do anything they are not ready to tackle. If a particular assignment cannot be done in a whole step, it may be broken down into smaller steps. Each hierarchy and group of assignments is tailored to each person's symptoms. Treatment is home-based (also known as self-directed treatment) and outpatient. Homework is given weekly in written form, and done outside the office, with instructions to call if necessary. Most people have between 4 and 12 different assignments per week. In the majority of cases, treatment is on a once per week basis, requiring one 45-minute session to debrief the past week's homework, to give the next series of assignments, and discuss other ongoing issues in the person's life that may need attention.

The assignments usually begin with things that are more general, and only provoke a moderate amount of anxiety. Over time, they gradually become more specific, and get people to expose themselves to more and more challenging things. It is here that therapists are called upon to show their flexibility and creativity. We go wherever we have to go, and do whatever it takes to create therapeutic situations that will help the person to confront their thoughts. Behavioral therapy cannot be done in cookbook fashion. It is usually suggested to the patient at first, that there are people out there who are capable of violent acts, and who may lose control and act without warning. The exposure then moves on to suggest that the patient, themselves, just might be capable of the sorts of things they may be thinking about. From there, we move on to confronting the idea that there is a real possibility that they will snap, and commit a violent act. Following this, the next step has the patient expose themselves to the thought that they will definitely do whatever it is they are obsessing about, and that it may happen at any time without warning. At this stage, if the patient is particularly doubtful, it may also be appropriate to suggest that they have even done the feared thing recently, or in the past. Moving through these various stages can span a period of months, and the whole process can take approximately 6 to 9 months overall. Those with the more serious and debilitating problems may need to come more than once a week or for a longer period. A few of the most serious cases may even need to work within a hospital setting, if they are unable to follow treatment on their own, although this is much less common and rarely necessary.

One good exposure technique is via audio taped presentations of these feared ideas that run several minutes in length, and are used several times a day. Other methods could include reading books or news articles that provoke the violent thoughts, writing brief essays on why the thoughts represent true desires, visiting websites related to violent or sexual offenders, hanging up signs with phrases that evoke anxiety, writing feared words or phrases repeatedly, or voluntarily seeking out real-life situations likely to bring the thoughts on. With regard to this last technique, it can be quite helpful to set up little plays to help the person confront a feared situation in a somewhat realistic way. One example of this would be the case of a young man who had thoughts that he would stab his father. We set up a nightly exercise where he would sit next to his father on a sofa watching TV together, as the patient held a large kitchen knife in his hand. Periodically, his father would turn to him and say seriously, "Please don't kill me, son." An important factor to also build into these techniques is repeatedly exposing the person to the idea that the escape or avoidance maneuvers they typically use, cannot and will not work. Probably the most important assignment I ever give patients is for them to agree with each violent thought as it occurs, rather than trying to argue with or analyze them. They probably get more opportunities to do this assignment than any other.

When first considering E&RP, people tend to ask, "Won't this treatment make me feel worse?" The answer is that it may, at least to start. By staying with what you fear, you may feel more anxious at first, but you will gradually build up a tolerance to the feared thing. I like to tell my patients, "You can't be bored and scared at the same time." The ultimate goal is total immersion, so that exposure takes place in a variety of ways throughout the day. The more total it is, the quicker you will get used to what you have feared, and the sooner the fear will subside. This may not be as easy as it sounds, especially in the face of really repulsive, violent thoughts. Obviously, the real art of doing therapy involves getting people to trust what the therapist is telling them, and that the method will work for them. By the time we get to the end of a person's hierarchy, there is little left in it that can bring on anxiety. They can think the worst of their thoughts, but not feel that they have to react to them.

The following list is included to show what some typical behavioral assignments might look like. No list can be complete for all people, so this is just a sampling. Understand that some of these are advanced assignments presented in no particular order, and you would work up to doing them over time. Note that no one does assignments such as these until they are ready for them.

Thoughts of running into people with your car:

Reading news articles about hit-and-run accidents
Driving down crowded streets or around shopping malls
Driving down dark roads at night
Thoughts of stabbing people:
Gesturing at others with utensils, while eating
Sitting close to others at home holding a large knife
Thoughts of hitting people:
Walking down a crowded street and brushing against people
Patting people firmly on the back
Gesturing toward people while standing close to them
Watching stabbing scenes in movies
Thoughts of molesting children:
Reading about child molesters who got caught
Standing close to children in public
Holding one's own children or cuddling them (young children)
Thoughts of harming your infant:
Looking at articles about child abuse
Holding your infant standing near an open window
Reading about parents who killed or injured their children
Thoughts of stabbing yourself:
Writing a composition on how you will lose control and harm yourself
Sitting with a knife or pointed object in front of you on a table
Holding a knife or sharp object pointed at yourself
Fear of going berserk in public:
Walking around in public with a knife in your pocket
Walking with a knife in your pocket listening to a tape telling you that you will lose control
Standing behind people on a crowded train platform
Reading news articles about people who lost control in public
I like to make patients aware that many people they may encounter will not be particularly sophisticated or familiar with behavioral therapy or the purpose of its homework assignments that don't sound like your typical talk therapy. In discussing it with others, including family members or even physicians, they may get negative reactions. One psychiatrist gravely informed one of my patients that the therapy sounded very extreme and risky to him, and that he had his doubts about it. This obviously did little for my patient's motivation, and it took a bit of doing to get him to get back to work, while accepting that his physician just wasn't well acquainted with E&RP, and was commenting on something he knew little about.

Finally, I would like to share some rules that my patients find helpful in dealing with violent thoughts and other forms of OCD:
1. Expect the unexpected you can have an obsessive thought any time or any place.
2. Never seek reassurance. Instead, tell yourself the worst will happen, or has happened
3. Always agree with all obsessive thoughts never analyze or argue with them.
4. If you slip and do a compulsion, you can always mess it up and cancel it out.
5. Remember that dealing with your symptoms is your responsibility alone.
6. When you have a choice, always go toward the anxiety, never away from it.
There is a common myth that violent obsessions (and even obsessions in general) are harder to treat than other types of symptoms. This is absolutely false. Regardless of your symptoms, you can be successfully treated if the correct techniques are used, if you accept that you cannot go on as you have, and if you are prepared to do whatever it takes to recover and regain control of your life.

You can contact Dr. Penzel at 631-351-1729, or e-mail him at penzel@attglobal.net

I still secretly wish for someone to lean on.

Twenty seven years ago today, I laid in a strange bed near my sister, wondering how my brother was doing, thinking about how things were going to change. I knew they were going to change, I just didn't know how bad it was going to get.

The blood on my swim suit had completely dried and was now a dark rusty brown color. It was past midnight but still could not stop thinking about things. I laid there in the dark with my eyes open just staring at the ceiling, feeling with my fingers the area where the blood had dried to a hard crust. I heard the sound of a floor creaking. Startled I strained my eyes to see if anyone was there in the dark where the noise had come from. Finally my eyes focused enough to see my Uncle peeping through the curtain that separated the bedroom from the living room. I started to speak up, but I didn’t want him to know I was still awake, so I squinted my eyes partly shut and stared in his direction. It wasn’t long before I figured out he was masturbating as he stood there staring at us while we slept.

My little sister had fallen sound asleep after Uncle Jack had giving her a bath, and hadn’t move since. I had taken a bath alone after she finished with water from a water hose that our uncle ran into the bathroom. He didn’t have a hot water tank, so the water was cold but it was just like at home, because we didn’t have a hot water tank either. Still my body didn’t feel clean, because I had to put back on the same blood clothes that I had worn earlier.

After a few minutes I heard my Uncle let a low moan, and then the floor creaked again as I heard him walk away. I tried to close my eyes and sleep, but I kept seeing images of my brothers naked body from when Mom and I had placed him in the front seat of the truck. The image would only leave my mind when I thought I heard the floor creaking again, and when I felt like someone or something was standing next to me, but nothing was ever there. I couldn’t convince my mind that things were going to be okay, and it was okay to sleep, so I just laid there all night staring at the ceiling.

I'm down to one last breath.

It may be that my sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others.

We had just moved to a new house located deep in the forgotten woods near Verdigris Creek only the day before. The old 1930’s house was located 40 miles from any town and over 10 miles to the nearest neighbor. When you left the house you had to drive up a mile long old bumping dirt road just to reach the large metal gate that was there to keep the land private. After driving through the gate you had to drive down several more dirt roads for several miles before you finally found concrete to drive on. It gave you a feeling of total isolation from the rest of the world. All you could hear was silence when you stood outside and listened; it was nothing like the noises you hear in the city. There were no sounds of cars driving by, horns honking, tries screeching, no planes flying overhead. All you could hear if you listened closely was the wind blowing, and various types of birds chirping and singing out their warning calls to each other. At night the mating calls of different bugs could be heard at a loud echoing pitch until the sun appeared the next morning.

I shared a small bedroom that had no windows with my younger sister, who was only one year old at the time. In another bigger room towards the back of the house was my two brother’s bedroom that they shared. And of course up front in the best part of the house was my parent’s bedroom. In between the kids bedrooms and my parents bedroom there was a very small bathroom that only had a rusty old tub and toilet, next to the barely standing sink.

It was late the first night we moved in, so we weren’t able to take baths before going to bed. By the following night Mom said we were so dirty that she didn’t think there was enough water in the world to get us clean. The small hot water tank that was located in the pantry didn’t work, so water had to be heated in large pots then carried to the bathroom and dumped into the tub. My Mom gave my younger sister a bath first then my two brothers took a bath together. By the time they were done the water was so dirty and cold that I had to wait until more water on the stove began to boil. Mom finished dressing my younger sister for bed and then helped my two brothers get into bed. I shouted at Mom that the water on the stove was boiling and then I quickly went to hide out of the way.

I hated the sound of my parents carrying the large boiling pot of water to the bathroom. You could hear the sound of their feet pounding hard against the floor as they quickly carried the rather awkward heavy pot into the bathroom. Then you heard the water splash hard as boiling water was dumped into the tub that already had some cold water waiting to cool it down. The sound was always frightening when my father did it, because he would scream so loud for everyone to move the fuck out of his way, which caused your heart to rush and feel complete terror at the possibility that he might ‘accidentally’ dump it directly on top of you if you weren’t completely out of his site.

I saw my brothers were in bed already asleep when I hid part way in their room to make sure I was completely out of my father’s way as his feet pounded against the hardwood floors.
Splashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Tayla! Get your butt in here and get your bath over with, so I can take a bath.” My father shouted at me through my bedroom door.

I walked into the bathroom and tested the water before I added a little more cold water. My father yelled at me and told me not to put any more cold water in because he wanted to use the water too, “and it had better not be too damn cold”.

I got undressed and slowly slid down into the water that was almost hot enough to burn my skin. But I didn’t want to make him mad, I just wanted to please him, so I did as I was told. After only 5 minutes my father began banging on the bathroom door from his side that led into his bedroom. I tried to quickly wash my hair and then dump more water over my head to rinse, but the water was still so hot it hurt. I turned on the cold water and started to add more when my father stepped into the bathroom and got really mad at me for using more water.

“I told you not to add any more water!”
“It’s too hot”, I said wanting to get out right then and there.
He put his hand into the water and swished it around. “That water is not that hot. Now hurry it up!”
“What is the problem?” My Mom said stepping into the bathroom.
“The water is too hot”, I said complaining again.
“Well, here just add a little more cold water”, she said turning on the faucet.
I could see the look of hate in my father’s eyes as he turned and walked away.
“I’m going to finish doing some unpacking, so hurry up and finished, then get in bed.”
“Okay.”

Five minutes later I was finish and standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom trying to brush out my hair. It was getting so long that it tangled easy and made it hard for my 5 year old hands to undo.

My father got mad again because I was still taking so long, that he walked into the bathroom naked and sat down in the water to take a bath. I walked into my bedroom as I continued to try and comb out my hair. I was still at it when my father had finished his bath and left the bathroom. I walked into the kitchen and asked if Mom could help me out, but she told me she was too busy unpacking and to let Dad help me out. My father heard what Mom said and he called for me to come into the front room. He was sitting in his recliner, still partly wet and completely naked.

“Sit down and let me see your brush.”
I sat down on his lap as he began trying to brush out my hair that hadn’t been brushed since the day before we moved. He pulled my hair hard a couple of times and I cried out.
“Just hold your butt still and it won’t hurt”, my father screamed at me as he tried brushing out the back of my hair.

I sat still as I could as he pulled my hair until it felt like I had no hair remaining on one side of my head.

“Good girl”, my father said I sat there without moving, barely breathing. Suddenly I felt his hand between my legs as he cupped his hand over my tiny vagina. At first I kept quiet as he continued to untangle my hair slowly. His hand then pulled my panties to one side and he tried to slide one of his fingers inside of me. It hurt really bad and I screamed out. Mom heard me scream and stepped into the front room to see what was wrong. When she saw Dad was still combing out my hair she thought I was just complaining and told me I needed to be quiet.
“Just sit still and let your daddy finish. If you hold still and it won’t hurt. And I don’t want to hear any more screaming. You’re going to wake your brothers and sister up, so be quiet! Sit there and let your dad finish what he’s doing.”

Mom then walked back into the kitchen where I could hear her putting things away in the cabinets as if she was angry at me. I closed my eyes tightly and let my father continue.
He began combing my hair with one of his hands while his other hand went back to where it had been between my legs. This time when his finger went inside of me again, I kept quiet.

I convinced myself it was all normal.

We are nothing, if not the product of our childhoods. Incomplete and somehow broken, struggling to find the pieces, and put them back together. Like a jigsaw puzzle, that’s not all there.

Well behaved women rarely make history.

Everything is always okay in the end, if it's not, then it's not the end.

Free My Mind

I was at the tender age of nine at the time. It had been almost a year since the last time my father touched me in any way. Mostly that was due to the fact that I hadn’t allowed myself to be alone with HIM. Most of the time I feared him like my brothers and sisters did, but every now and then the other side of him would appear. At those times, he was so nice it was almost sicken.

I was out walking by myself early one summer morning, when I stayed gone a little longer than I had planned. By the time I got back to the house everyone was gone to town to do shopping, and since I wasn’t there when it was time to go, I was left behind. At first I didn’t mind being alone because I was able to listen to the type of music that my father forbid us to listen to in HIS house when he was around. I should have known better and at least paid attention in case someone returned, but it was my first time playing the music louder than we were aloud to, so I didn’t hear my father’s truck when he returned.

I was immediately met with a hand to the back of my head, which knocked me down to the floor because it had caught me off guard.

“What in the hell are you doing playing the stereo so loud? I told you kids I don’t want you playing with the stereo when I’m not here.”
“I’m sorry”, I said trying to get up off the floor.
“Well, I warned you once, now you’re going to get a spanking.”

Of course tears immediately began falling as I begged not to get spanked, but he pulled me hard by my arm into his bedroom where he always took us when we got a spanking. He sat down on the corner of his bed and then told me to pull down my pants. I began begging and pleading for him to not give me the spanking as tears soaked my face. He finally just grabbed me, pulled down my pants and then he threw me across his lap. After a few seconds when I realize I couldn’t get away from his grasp, I just closed my eyes tightly and waited for the pain to begin. Suddenly he sat me up and gave me a big hug.

“I’m sorry I don’t want to spank you. It hurts me more than it hurts you. I think your problem is you’re not getting enough of my attention. Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know.” I said somewhat confused, but glad for once I wasn’t getting a spanking.
“Well, since you’re my special girl, I’m going to show you what else we can do, and I promise you will like this. Lay back on the bed and spread your legs apart.”
I did what I was told in spite of the fact that it made me feel ill. He tried to put his finger inside me but I pulled away when it hurt.
“I don’t like doing that.”
“Okay we will only do what you like?”
“What do you like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know your sister and I do this same thing.”
“You do?”
“Yes, we do sometimes. So remember its okay to do this, but just don’t tell anyone, they might get mad because you get to do it and they don’t…okay?”
“Okay.” I thought to myself I didn’t know he was doing these things to my sister, because she never said anything. But I believed him.
“It’s just like your momma and me, we do these things all the time, so it’s okay. Do you ever hear your Momma talking about what we do? No you don’t, because you don’t talk about these things…okay?”
“Okay.”
“Let me know if you like this. I bet it will feel good.” He then began licking me for a long time as I laid there not moving.
“Do you like that?” When I didn’t answer he reached up with one hand and squeezed one of my nipples real hard, then he stuck his finger inside of me with force. When I tried to pull away he grabbed me and began licking on me again.
“You like that don’t you?” when again I didn’t answer he began to reach up towards my chest and I felt his fingers starting to enter me. I didn’t want to feel the pain again so I answered.
“Yes, daddy it feels good.”
“Good. We will only do what you like.”