Walls are Real

From the archives. Written 10/06/10

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non-subject ~ trust

aww: 10/06/10

Trust? Shall I give it a go?

Currently I don't trust myself. I don't trust myself to write. I don't trust my perceptions. I don't trust my judgments.
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On Saturday, I decided to write Mia and let her know that I'd mailed the complaint against Knapp. Mia too has been verbally abused by him, but she has never been a client; rather, a colleague. She had never spoken of it except to a handful of people who witnessed it. Until me.

Back in mid-August, I had shared with her my experience. I learned then that she had experienced similar.

I had mailed the complaint packet on Wednesday, September 29. At first, I only told my husband and my kids and my best friend Leah. I then, by online chat let Lema know. Lema is Chechen and lives in Russia. Lema had been the other party in the recent conflict with John.

I'm not proud for mailing a complaint packet against my ex-therapist. It turns my stomach. I feel I have to justify why I have done such a thing. I have never in my life done anything like that. I didn't even get in on the class-act law suit against the pharmaceutical company that produced the contaminated albuterol back in the early 90s. Over 350 people died. I was almost one of them as I inhaled the pseudomonos-laced mist into my suffering lungs.

I'm not the complaining or suing type.

But Knapp can't go around doing this to people, especially clients or recent previous clients or whatever I was. And I'm not suing him, though I probably could. I simply filed a complaint packet. For all I know NY state might toss it aside. At least I hope Knapp knows that I filed it. I'll soon find out.

I decided to email Mia and let her know that I had filed the complaint. I sat on the toilet with my laptop on my lap. Odd place I guess, the toilet. Commode compose. They aren't called laptops for nothing.

I typed the words: "I'm not sure how I feel right now. When I mailed everything, I felt I had at least given myself voice. I felt a relief and that I could file this away. Yet, I know the reality is that the investigator will call me and we go from there. At the moment I now feel like walking away from all of it....my cult past and all related to that. To get a new identity..."

I immediately got dizzy. My stomach turned. And the tears rolled. "Who the fuck am I?!" My heart wrenched and mind contorted. My gut hurt. I wished I could wake up from this dream that isn't a dream.

I finished the email and clicked send.

My panic continued for a couple hours. My heart didn't race. It was just the dizziness and stomach turning. The crying stopped. And then the derealization, or whatever it's called. That feeling of dreaming but one isn't dreaming. That feeling of not being real.

My husband drove the one-1/2 hours to our spot on the Blue Ridge Parkway. I rode in the passenger's seat mostly in silence. A grunt here and there, or I'd answer a question or two.

We hiked a couple miles from The Saddle overlook. We took the trail to the north that goes through the open pastures where jimson weed grows. I had my tie-died Catskills sweatshirt with me, the one I'd bought back in August while in NY.

The feeling of not being real, feeling like I had taken bad acid, lasted another seven hours.

Today I've had to remind myself that I am present. That the wall in my bathroom is real.

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Note: The above is more from my personal journal and/or other writings as I moved through the inner turmoil after the Knapp trauma which happened the end of July/beginning of August, 2010. The sharings are simply my thoughts at the time processing through events that took place with my ex-therapist, John M. Knapp, LMSW. To access an ongoing index, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
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