Treating the

Adult Survivor
of Childhood

Sexual Abuse
A Psychoanalytic Perspective

JODY MESSLER DAVIES, PH.D.

MARY GAIL FRAWLEY, PH.D.
 TREATING THE
ADULT SURVIVOR OF
CHILDHOOD SEXUAL ABUSE

t
 Treating the
Adult Survivor of
Childhood
Sexual Abuse
A PSYCHOANALYTIC
PERSPECTIVE

Jody Messier Davies, Ph.D.

M|hry Gail Frawley, Ph.D. I
pv-.
I w
I

1
1

BasicBooks
A Division of HarperCollinsPwWwAers
Copyright © 1994 by BasicBooks,
A Division of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this
book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permis­
sion except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and re­
views. For information, address BasicBooks, 10 East 53rd Street, New York,
NY 10022-5299.

Designed by Ellen Levine

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Davies, Jody Messier, 1952-
Treating the adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse : a psychoanalytic
perspective / Jody Messier Davies, Mary Gail Frawley.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-465-06633-X
I. Adult child sexual abuse victims—Rehabilitation. 2. Psychotherapy.
3. Psychoanalysis. I. Frawley, Mary Gail, 1950-
II. Title.
RC569.5.A28D37 1994
616.85’83690651—dc20 93-34377
CIP
94 95 96 97 ❖/HC9 8 7654321
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

My grandmother, Ida Wallach,

and in loving memory of Celia Messier,
Samuel J. Wallach, and Ned Messier
—J. M. D.

The memory of Martha Kivlan Quinn

—M. G. F.
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction 1

1 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in

Psychoanalysis 11
2 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of
Childhood Sexual Abuse 26
3 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 43
4 Dissociation 62
5 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 86
6 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 103
7 Exposure to Danger/the Erotization of Fear, and
Compulsive Self-abuse 129
8 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and
Countertransference 149
9 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 167
10 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 186
11 Technical Considerations in Treatment 198
12 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and
Reconsiderations 216

References 237
Index 249
 Acknowledgments

E HAVE BEEN fortunate to have the professional and relational

W
support of many people during the writing of this book. Although
there is some overlap between us in people we wish to thank, we,
for the most part, sought out different colleagues and friends as we worked
on this project, and thus we wrote separate acknowledgments.
First, however, we begin with some commonality. Wendy Greenspun cat­
alyzed this collaboration, for which she has been both cursed and blessed by
us, depending on how the writing was going at any given time. Mostly, we
thank her for bringing us together. We also thank Jo Ann Miller and Stephen
Francoeur of Basic Books. Jo Ann welcomed us as new authors, believing
from the beginning in the value of our work. Stephen contributed humor,
constancy, and balance as we struggled to bring this book to a publishable
form. (

Jody Messier Davies:

The opportunity to thank all of those whose knowledge, generosity, and

support have contributed to the final version of this book is, indeed, a formi­
dable task, as well as a long-awaited pleasure and privilege.
I wish to begin with the patients, whose courage and persistence in the
face of overwhelming life circumstances has been a continuous source of in­
spiration and hope. Their stories, their faith, and their trust have changed
my life and profoundly influenced my understanding of the psychoanalytic
process.
To the many others who have supported this project at different points
along the way, giving of their limited time with great generosity and enthu­
siasm: George Stricker, Elena Skolnick, Lewis Aron, Robert Mendelsohn,
Lawrence Epstein, and Jerry Rittigstein. They have read long sections of the
X Acknowledgments

book, in some cases the entire manuscript, and have offered their criticisms
and comments with directness, candor, and tact.
To those colleagues with whom I have struggled to understand the diffi­
cult and personally challenging work with adult survivors. They have
shared their thoughts, their writing, and their most personal moments of tri­
umph and self-doubt: Sue Shapiro, Madelyn Miller, Sue Grand, Richard
Gartner, Wendy Greenspun, Judith Alpert, Michelle Price.
To the members of my study group for continuing to provide a place that
is "safe enough," a place in which to learn, question, disagree, and ulti­
mately create new ideas. My appreciation and affection to Susan Katz Flinn,
Patricia Kennedy, Susan Shimmerlik, Linda Pastemack, and Carolyn
Clement.
To Neil Skolnick, with whom I first contemplated the idea of commiting
thoughts to paper. This book could not have been written without our earlier
collaboration.
To Jonathan Slavin, who carried this manuscript half-way around the
world and gave of himself, his ideas, and his spirit, time and time again,
whenever asked, and without fail. My heartfelt thanks for his enthusiasm,
his support, and ultimately for his frienship.
To Stephen Mitchell, the rarest of teachers, who has conveyed with such
eloquence and respect the ideas of the past and the present, remaining all the
while intrigued with new ways of thinking about and conceptualizing the
analytic process. His work has served as a model of quality, dignity, and cre­
ative open-mindedness. My sincerest thanks for the generosity with which
he has given of himself.
To my coauthor, Mary Gail Frawley, for the experience of a collaboration
that has been generative in the truest sense of the word, as well as creative,
respectful, and fun throughout. Over the past 3 years, we have worked, we
have struggled, and we have played. In the end, it would be impossible to
imagine doing this work without the truly safe context provided by her pres­
ence.
Finally, I turn to my family, without whose love, enthusiasm, and emo­
tional sustenance this book would never have been written.
To my parents, Mark and Sandra Messier, who have given their love, con­
fidence, and support, as well as so many weekends of "extra" babysitting.
To my daughters, Jocelyn and Shelby, with great love, for remaining
proud of their mother and interested in her work, despite the many times it
has infringed on our days together. "Okay girls, I am finally done."
At the heart of it all, I return as I always do, to Lee, empowered by his
faith, sustained by his energy, and grateful, beyond words, for his love.
 Acknowledgments xi

Mary Gail Frawley:

Jody and I were only acquaintances when this book was conceived. Over
the past 3 years, we have become good friends as well'as coauthors who
have worked together with remarkable ease. I have come to cherish deeply
her intellectual prowess, humor, generosity of spirit, and collegial support.
To Jody, I say, "We did it! Let's do it again!"
The Demer Institute at Adelphi University has been my intellectual, clini­
cal, and emotional home for almost a decade. I have been influenced, chal­
lenged, and held by many members of the Adelphi family, some of whom
deserve special mention. George Stricker has been mentor, transferential
father, colleague, and friend and has guided my professional footsteps for
years. From the inception of this project, George gave generously of his time
and knowledge. As the project drew to a close, he read the entire manu­
script, offering valuable suggestions that enhanced the final draft. I want to
convey to George my respect, gratitude, and affection.
At a demanding time during which he assumed the position of Acting
Dean of the Demer Institute, Bob Mendelsohn read and commented on sev­
eral key chapters of this book. In addition to his contribution to this project,
Bob has been an important influence on my clinical work; his genius and ca­
pacity for play have impressed and moved me.
Larry Epstein and Jerry Ritigstein read the entire manuscript, for which I
am very grateful.
As a doctoral student, I was excited by Irwin Hirsch's insistence that the
therapist become a full partner in psychoanalytic journeys, enacting and ob­
serving with the patient key relational configurations. I am grateful to Irwin
for reading the chapters on transference and countertransference and for ar­
guing with me about my ideas about dissociation.
Moving to the wider < psychoanalytic community, I want to thank
Jonathan Slavin. Jonathan has graciously and generously extended himself
to Jody and me as critic and professional supporter. As important as his in­
terest in our work, however, is his friendship. Jonathan has become a friend
whose company I enjoy and whose kindness was important to me at a time
of significant change in my life.
I was most fortunate to enjoy the collegial support of a number of fine
therapists in Rockland County. Steve Ratnow, Erica Wanderman, Gloria
Stone, Ann Kuehner, Laura Woolis, and David Friedman are gifted profes­
sionals who are also friends. Over the years, they have contributed to my
growth as a clinician and also have provided warm support and encourage­
ment during the writing of this book.
Family and friends have been enormously loving and patient, as this
book evolved from idea to finished product, generously tolerating unre-
tumed phone calls, canceled engagements, and periods of absorption that
xii Acknowledgments

excluded what should have been expectable responsiveness from me. To

Martha Ann, Debbie, Kevin, Judy, Elizabeth and Gerritt, Michelle, Arlene,
Tom (the master pipe bender) and Joanne, Bob and Laurie, Jenny, and Mary
O'Hanlon go my gratitude and love.
Important journeys often are marked by unexpected twists and turns;
they are more interesting and safely ventured in partnership with a trusted
other. Lynn has been a steady, yet playful traveling companion, who has
earned my respect, trust, deep gratitude, and love.
As an old college friend of mine once said, "One never knows where love
may be lurking." For over 25 years, Dennis O'Dea has been the poet in my
heart. As the writing of this book drew to a close, we found each other yet
again, and, now, his love warms and enriches me.
Finally, I thank my patients, from whom I have learned much as I trav­
eled with them on their journeys of recovery and reclaimed hope. Their
courage, their determination to grow beyond the once unspeakable viola­
tions of their bodies and minds, their generous willingness to help me to
help them have moved and inspired me. I sincerely hope these pages do jus­
tice to their creativity and persistence.
 Introduction

RITING AN INTRODUCTION is, perhaps, an author's most per­

W
sonal statement. It is a frame through which we hope the reader
will view and interpret what we offer, and it is a final attempt,
placed paradoxically at the beginning, to influence how one's thoughts and,
in the case of psychoanalysis, one's clinical work will be received. We write
this introduction at the end of our journey, aware that it is only as we our­
selves emerge from our embeddedness in this project that we can hope to
gain some perspective from which to view it.
When we began to contemplate this project more than 3 years ago, there
was little written or discussed from a psychoanalytic perspective on the
treatment of adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Those psychoanalyt­
ically oriented articles we could find did not integrate psychoanalytic theory
into the growing body of ^empirical, clinical, and theoretical observation
available from the sexual abuse and psychological trauma literature. Also
unintegrated were current developments in cognitive psychology that dealt
with the variety of ways in which traumatic memories were symbolized and
encoded by patients. Indeed, even in private conversations with our col­
leagues about the problems inherent in treating sexual abuse survivors, we
encountered disbelief, or an atmosphere of hushed secrecy, and awkward
discomfort as if the very discussion were as forbidden as its topic.
Both of us were working at this time with a large number of adult sur­
vivors of childhood sexual abuse in psychoanalysis or psychoanalytically
oriented psychotherapy. We both felt a strong need to communicate about
aspects of treatment that seemed relationally challenging and paradigmatic
of the work. Other analytically oriented clinicians who treated incest and
sexual abuse survivors told us they were often steeped in self-doubt, even
shame, about what they considered to be somewhat unconventional and tur­
bulent treatments. They yearned for reassurance, guidance, and validation.
2 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

At the same time, we were also meeting other colleagues who expressed
doubt or misgiving about the whole issue of early sexual trauma, its seque­
lae, and the centrality it should be accorded in treatment.
Much to our surprise, in the 3 years during which we wrote this book,
there was an explosion of media attention on childhood sexual abuse and its
aftermath. At best, these public and sometimes sensationalized exposes en­
courage incest and sexual abuse survivors to seek treatment for their psychic
scars. At worst, the media circus surrounding the subject threatens to trivial­
ize the long-standing pain experienced by many survivors or alienate clini­
cians unfamiliar with the sequelae of childhood sexual trauma who may
view patients' disclosures of sexual abuse as conformity with the latest na­
tional fad. As we witnessed the widening popular focus on childhood sexual
abuse, we felt even more strongly that psychoanalytically oriented profes­
sionals needed to engage in a comprehensive, critical dialog about the seque­
lae of early sexual trauma and the treatment of adult survivors.
Two separate lines of inquiry have served as point and counterpoint in an
often embittered debate among analysts and between psychoanalysts and
other clinical specialists. One line argues that it is the reality of the traumatic
event, accompanied by the actual overwhelming of ego functions and sym­
bolic capacities, that is ultimately more disruptive to adaptive functioning
and thus more seriously demanding of clinical attention. The other line ar­
gues that it is more important to understand the way in which traumatic
events become incorporated within unconscious fantasy, particularly sado­
masochistic fantasy. Some psychoanalytic writers speak eloquently of the
long-term developmental failures and particular vicissitudes of unconscious
fantasy found among adult survivors but fail to integrate into their thinking
the growing literature on traumatic stress and the specific posttraumatic
stress reactions common to adult survivors. Others write movingly of the ef­
fect of real traumatic events on their patients but appear to suggest that a
thorough abreactive reliving of these events will, in itself, unlock develop­
mental arrests, rework the pathological reality distorting/preserving de­
fenses marshalled by the traumatized survivor, and reformulate the internal­
ized system of abusive relational matrices that continue to influence current
interpersonal relationships.
Our heartfelt conviction, indeed our raison d'etre for writing this book,
became to offer our shared belief that this controversy has in itself become
destructively misleading. It has led analytically oriented clinicians into an
overly polemicized debate, fostering the perception that, clinically, one
must choose between dealing with the realities of childhood abuse or with
their internalized fantasied elaborations. We believe this choice to be unnec­
essary and hold that making such a choice too often contributes to the well-
documented treatment failures in this area of clinical work. Both the reality
of childhood sexual abuse and the fantasied elaborations of these traumatic
 Introduction 3

events are woven into the tapestry of the adult survivor's self and object
worlds; both must be accorded weight and attention in treatment. It is only
via a cross-fertilization of what have remained surprisingly disparate areas
of clinical interest that we can come to fully understand the specific
phenomena that emerge in the psychoanalytic treatment of this patient pop­
ulation.

The Relational Treatment Model

Fortunately, contemporary psychoanalytic thinking no longer forces us to

choose between attempting to reconstruct past traumas and coming to ap­
preciate the elaboration of such traumas in fantasied aspects of internalized
object relationships. Working with adult survivors of childhood sexual
abuse within a relational model implies the cocreation of a transitional space
in which therapist and patient together are free to reenact, create context and
meaning, and ultimately recreate in newly configured forms the central, or­
ganizing relational matrices of the patient's early life. Here, the unique his­
tory, system of identifications, and fantasies specific to each participant in
the therapeutic dialog define that person's experience of the treatment and,
at the same time, infuse the other participant's understanding and organiza­
tion of meaning.
Within this treatment model, we hold no illusion regarding the therapist's
"neutrality" and fully expect the clinician to be pulled, through transferen-,
tial pressures from the patient and her own countertransferential reactions to
the clinical material, into constant and ever-shifting reenactments. These
reenactments are not "clinical errors" but the essence of the material to be
analyzed within the treatment. Such reenactments involve the unconscious
recreation in the treatment setting of dissociatively unavailable aspects of self
and object representation—aspects that cannot be verbally described but can,
via projective-introjective mechanisms, particularly projective-identification,
volley back and forth between patient and therapist in startling reconstruc­
tions of early trauma, their fantasied elaborations, and their ultimate infiltra­
tion into present-day interpersonal relationships. Within this model, reenact­
ments are crucial, and the working-through process only clears the way for
other reenactments, and still others after that. Therapeutic neutrality, in this
model, lies in the clinicians' capacity to keep such reenactments fluid and
ever changing; in their ability to prevent countertransference reactions from
embedding the treatment in the perseverative reenactment of only one inter­
nalized self and object relationship at the expense of all others.
We also understand the classical notion of "abstinence" to refer to the
maintenance of openness and malleability within the potential space
of the therapeutic work, that is, to attempt within such reenactments to
4 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

avoid the kinds of concrete gratifications that would bring about a collapse
of transitionality. Within this construction, we can face our patients' needs,
not with an almost phobic dread encouraged by more rigid theories about
the clinician's participation in the therapeutic relationship but with an
awareness that symbolic and illusory gratifications of certain needs and
wishes will occur as prematurely foreclosed developmental processes are
again awakened.
We stress here that both participation and observation are vital to the
treatment. In so doing we subscribe to the thinking of Winnicott (1947,1955,
1960a, 1971), Khan (1960, 1969, 1971a, 1971b), Gill (1982), Mitchell, (1988),
Greenberg (1991), Hoffman (1991), and Bromberg (1991), among others, all
of whom stress that the clinician not only observes but also participates in
the patient's relational world, actively reenacting with the patient early rela­
tional paradigms. We agree with Fairbairn's view (1943) that the intensity of
attachments to "bad" abusive objects is particularly tenacious. Adult sur­
vivors of childhood sexual abuse, with their intense ties to abusive others,
actively and with great determination and despair draw the therapist into
reenactment of their chaotic early relationships. Successful treatment, there­
fore, depends on the therapist's ability to freely engage in these transference­
countertransference reenactments and then disengage sufficiently to ob­
serve, contain, and process with the patient what has occurred between
them. Treatment is threatened both when the therapist resists participation
and when he is so enmeshed in enacting that the capacity to observe is lost.
Our therapeutic model is based, therefore, on a constant volleying be­
tween regressive reenactment and interpretation of that which is revived
through the transference and countertransference constellations that emerge
and the progressive unfolding of a new object relationship that takes place
between patient and therapist during the course of treatment. Reenactment,
counterbalanced by interpretation, resulting in a progressively new kind of
interpersonal experience becomes the ultimate goal.
Most of our therapeutic work with adult survivors occurs within the
broad view of a transference-countertransference matrix (Ogden, 1986).
Included in this conceptualization of transference are all aspects of the work
that have previously been defined as the working alliance, the "real" rela­
tionship between patient and analyst, and the dynamically derived, internal­
ized system of relational expectations and fantasies comprising more tradi­
tional definitions. We further include Greenberg's (1991) notion that the
patient's transference reactions embody the conscious and unconscious pro­
cessing of the therapist's conscious and unconscious characteristics and dy­
namics and encourage the kind of inquiry into the patient's expectations of
and fantasies about the analyst's subjectivity described by Aron (1991).
Our conceptualization of countertransference encompasses a similarly
broad perspective. We view the countertransferential process as the mo­
 Introduction 5

ment-to-moment, inextricably bound concordant and complementary coun­

terparts to the transference (Racker, 1968). Included in this definition of
countertransference are aspects of the work that have been previously con­
ceptualized as the clinician's side of the working alliance: the real feelings
the therapist experiences for the patient—thoughts, feelings, fantasies, pro­
jective identifications, etc. that evolve in response to the patient's conscious
and unconscious, verbal and nonverbal communications; and responses de­
rived primarily from the therapist's dynamically based conflicts and fan­
tasies.
All of the clinician's reactions to the patient and all of the patient's reac­
tions to the therapist are threads in the tapestry that is woven by both partici-
pants/observers to form the relational matrix within which and through
which the therapy unfolds. The therapeutic relationship thus forms both the
background and foreground (Pine, 1981) in which treatment occurs. As back­
ground, the relationship is the consistent holding environment (Winnicott,
1960a) in which the patient gradually learns to trust, a good enough
(Winnicott, 1960b) space that becomes safe enough for a patient to go on
being (Winnicott, 1962) while she relives, tames, and slowly integrates the
long split-off self and other representations originally splintered by traumatic
experiences. As foreground, the therapeutic relationship is "where the action
is." It is the arena in which abuse, neglect, and idealized salvation are reexpe­
rienced and in which therapist and patient participate in the emergence, iden­
tification, and working through of powerful, often chaotic, transference and
countertransference paradigms. It is within the relational matrix that state-de­
pendent traumatic memories are triggered off by aspects of transference­
countertransference reenactment.
In our writing, we have attempted to describe, in as evocative a manner
as possible, the specific dissociative patterns and characteristic transference
and countertransference paradigms that emerge with some consistency in
our work. We realize that our patients do not represent a homogeneous,
monolithic group. Rather, the clinical process that emerges between each
patient/therapist dyad will be distinctive and unshared by any other pair.
Where we may err in the direction of overschematizing certain patient­
therapist interactions, as in the transference and countertransference chap­
ters, we do so in an attempt to help clarify regressive reenactments of these
paradigms, which are always intensely passionate, and often are disorganiz­
ing to both the patient's and the therapist's experience of a shared reality.
Here, we attempt to provide a language of broadly stroked categories
through which the therapist can attempt to regain some sense of psychic
equilibrium, organizing and locating herself with some clarity in the heat of
the transference-countertransference moment. However, these are only land­
marks, and we provide them in full recognition that they will take different
form within different therapeutic dialogues. We hope that our readers will
6 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

use them as such, without resorting to a reification of these categories that

might result in a somewhat reductionistic approach to the wonderfully cre­
ative pursuit of psychoanalytically derived experience.
Likewise, in our use of such terms as "the child self" and "the adult self,"
we are not suggesting a new structure of mind but, rather, the most evoca­
tive images we can summon up to depict the regressive reenactment of cer­
tain traumatically dissociated aspects of self and object representation that
can shift with mind-boggling rapidity between patient as subject and object,
and therapist as subject and object. It is our experience that particular char­
acters (such as "the abused child," "the abusing adult," "the idealized sav­
ior," and "the indifferent and denying parental other") are the archetypes
that most often organize the dissociated self and object world of the sexually
traumatized child and intrude, unpredictably, on the adult patient's under­
standing of her current interpersonal relationships. We do not approach our
clinical work as a search for such preconceived prototypes, but it is a fact
that we have seen these characters literally possess our patients and our­
selves, shifting back and forth, and doing so with some regularity despite
the striking differences among the patients and therapists involved.
Sometimes, these personas jump out of the transference-countertransference
process, filling the therapeutic space with their unmistakable presence. At
other times, they make their presences felt in more subtle and insidious
ways: a choice of word or phrase, a look in the eyes, a particular mannerism
or gesture at one time attributed to a significant other in the patient's life,
now emanating from the core of self as she occupies the treatment setting or
emanating from the surprised and unsuspecting person of the internally oc­
cupied analyst.
In writing this book, we have struggled endlessly with the complex gen­
der issues involved in our conceptualizations. We have seen both male and
female survivors in treatment. However, our experience with female sur­
vivors far outweighs our experience with male survivors, in large measure,
we believe, because women still represent the significant majority of those
presenting for treatment with histories of childhood sexual abuse. It is also a
fact, although often stated only implicitly, that most of the sexual abuse liter­
ature from which we draw conclusions involved studies of female survivors
only. Our clinical examples, therefore, involve mostly women and, in most
cases, we refer to our patients as "she." We do not want to understate in any
way the traumatic legacies of countless numbers of young boys who have
been sexually traumatized and who do appear regularly for psychoanalyti­
cally informed treatment. Although we believe that many of our formula­
tions and recommendations will prove useful in treating male survivors, we
are also aware that the literature to date suggests some differences between
men and women in the way they deal with childhood sexual trauma
(Gartner, 1993). We therefore regard our conceptualizations as they apply to
 Introduction 7

men with a different degree of confidence, aware that a more comprehensive

understanding of the male survivor awaits additional empirical and clinical
investigation. 1
We also know that childhood sexual abuse is not a monolithic phenome­
non but, rather, encompasses a range of sexual activities, levels of violence,
ages of onset and termination, durations, and relationships between victim
and perpetrator. Adult survivors with whom we usually work were sexu­
ally abused in childhood for several years. The abuse often began when
they were quite young, between 3 and 7 years old, and frequently extended
into adolescence. Abusive activities tended to be serious, including rape,
sodomy, fellatio, curtnilingus, digital penetration of the child's genitals, and
mutual masturbation of victim and perpetrator. Abusers were usually close
relatives—mothers, fathers, uncles, grandfathers, brothers. Many of our pa­
tients disclosed their abuse to at least one other person when they were chil­
dren. In most cases, they were ignored, disbelieved, or, in some other way,
rebuffed. It is thus clear that we have in treatment a biased sample of the
universe of sexual abuse survivors; it is a sample that is consistent, how­
ever, with adult survivors found in other clinical populations (Briere, 1989;
Jehu, 1988).
To preserve confidentiality of past and present patients, we have identi­
fied them by pseudonyms. The case vignettes that appear here are compos­
ites based on the experiences of many different patients. In all instances, we
have thoroughly disguised identifying details.
The major psychoanalytic books on the treatment of adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse (Kramer & Akhtar, 1991; Levine, 1990; Shengold,
1989) have been written primarily from a classical perspective in which the
sequelae of early trauma are encapsulated within a drive/structure model of
psychopathology. Treatment is conceptualized within a one-person model in
which the patient's intrapsychic contents and processes are focused on. Our
book, on the other hand, is written from a relational perspective and embeds
the consequences of childhood sexual abuse within a model of psy­
chopathology in which the internalization of early relationships is key. This
book thus offers a psychoanalytic perspective on the treatment of adult sur­
vivors of childhood sexual abuse that is embedded in contemporary rela­
tional theories and, as such, offers an approach quite different from those of
other psychoanalytic books on this subject.
There are many nonpsychoanalytic works on the treatment of adult sur­
vivors of childhood sexual abuse (Briere, 1989; Courtois, 1988; Herman,
1981, 1992; Jehu, 1988; Russell, 1986). These have contributed epidemiologi­
cal information regarding the frequency and nature of childhood sexual
abuse. They also have provided valuable information regarding common
symptoms and sequelae of early sexual trauma and have suggested treat­
ment approaches that range from behavioral to cognitive to an eclectic mix­
8 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

ture of psychodynamic, cognitive, and behavioral approaches. Clearly, our

book differs from these in offering a specifically psychoanalytic perspective.

Structure of the Book

Chapter 1 addresses the history of psychoanalytic thought on psychological

trauma and childhood sexual abuse. Beginning with Freud and Sandor
Ferenczi, in this chapter we offer models of trauma from four psychoana­
lytic perspectives: classical, ego-psychological, object relational, and self-
psychological. It is our belief that psychoanalytic thinking about trauma
must be enhanced by an understanding of psychological trauma and the
contributions of the empirical sexual abuse field. Therefore, Chapter 2 re­
views the developmental, cognitive, affective, self-experiential, relational,
and behavioral sequelae of trauma as delineated within the psychological
trauma literature. This chapter also discusses key epidemiological findings
from the empirical sexual abuse literature. Chapter 3 provides our own inte­
grative model of childhood sexual abuse in which we discuss the sequelae
and treatment of adult survivors from a relational-psychoanalytic perspec­
tive, informed by the trauma and sexual abuse literatures. Chapters 1 to 3
thus set the stage for a discussion of specific treatment issues with these
patients.
Dissociation is the hallmark of trauma. In Chapter 4, we discuss dissocia­
tion from theoretical and phenomenological perspectives and address in de­
tail the clinical implications of working with patients for whom dissociation
is an important mode of communication, defense, and adaptation. In this
chapter we also review the differences between dissociated traumatic memo­
ries and what the current media have come to refer to as "repressed memo­
ries of abuse." In so doing we hope to help clarify some of the misunder­
standing underlying this controversy.
Secrecy is another hallmark of trauma; the sexual abuse of children is
most often wrapped completely in secrecy. Disclosure of past abuse is a criti­
cal step in the recovery of these patients. Thus, it is crucial that clinicians
learn how best to facilitate disclosure of past sexual trauma. Chapter 5 there­
fore discusses disclosure and also addresses the ways in which traumatic
memories are likely to be recalled. Frequently, these memories do not return
in the symbolized, pictorial form we are used to but, rather, besiege and
overwhelm the patient as body memories, flashbacks, dreams, and other dis­
ruptive phenomena.
In some ways even more destructive than the actual sexual abuse is the
typical attack on the victim's sense of reality that is encapsulated within
early sexual trauma. Chapter 6 describes the long-lasting disruption of the
adult survivor's capacities to test reality and discusses her intractable
 Introduction 9

propensity to doubt her own sense of reality and to preserve internalized re­
lational bonds by distorting contemporary internal and external realities.
Here, too, we hope to distinguish our approach frbm one which regards a re­
turn and abreaction of memory as the sole curative factor in treatment.
Therapists working with survivors of early trauma often find most dis­
ruptive the impressive array of violent, shocking, self-destructive behaviors
in which these patients often engage. Because the continuity of the thera­
pist's containing and interpretive functions is crucial in the face of self-de­
structive acts, Chapter 7 is devoted to a thorough discussion of two espe­
cially difficult problems: the erotization of fear and compulsive self-abuse.
It is within the transference and countertransference of psychoanalytic
treatment that the real work of therapy is accomplished. It is here, within the
relational paradigms evoked by and enacted within the treatment, that the
patient's internalized world of traumatogenic self and object representations
will come alive where they can be observed, put into play in the transitional
space of the therapy, and eventually made explicit. Because of the centrality
of the transference and countertransference, we devote three chapters to this
area of treatment. Chapter 8 discusses the impact of trauma on development
and expression of the transference and countertransference. Here we exam­
ine the effect of the patient's unorganized, unsymbolized experiences; her
use of dissociation as a coping skill, defense, and vehicle for communication;
the effect of the patient's general defensive constellation, particularly acting
out and projective identification; and, finally, the impact of the clinician's
personal attitudes toward or experiences with trauma and of his or her
transference to more traditional psychoanalytic concepts. In Chapter 9, we
discuss eight specific relational positions that emerge in work with these pa­
tients: the uninvolved, rejecting, nonabusing parent; the unseen, neglected
child; the abuser; the abused; the omnipotent rescuer; the needy, sometimes
entitled child; the seducer; the seduced. We stipulate that therapist and pa­
tient will each enact, again and again, each of these relational positions at
various points during the therapeutic journey. We close our discussion of
transference and countertransference in Chapter 10 with an extended case
vignette that illustrates the points made in the preceding two chapters.
Chapters 11 and 12 are devoted to a summary and further delineation of a
treatment model for adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse. In Chapter
11, we review the constituent elements of our treatment model: containment;
recovery and disclosure of traumatic memories and fantasied elaborations;
symbolization and encoding of memory and experience; integration of dis­
parate self and object systems and of other reality-distorting defenses; inter­
nalization of a new object relationship found within the therapy. Chapter 12
is devoted to a discussion of the theoretical and clinical implications of our
model. Here, we include thoughts on the therapeutic interplay between illu­
sion and reality; traditional concepts of abstinence and neutrality in working
10 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

with patients who have been abused; and the pathogenicity of projective
identification in abused children and its centrality in work with adult sur­
vivors. We close with a reconsideration of the place of oedipal dynamics in
psychological development and offer our views on the therapeutic stance
evolving from this reconsideration.
We encourage the reader to regard this work not as a finished product but
as a temporary stopping point in the ongoing dialog about the treatment of
this important patient group. This invitation is made in a spirit of openness
and is intended to stimulate disagreement and discussion, both within psy­
choanalysis and between psychoanalytic professionals and those from other
branches of social work, psychology, and psychiatry. We expect to raise here
at least as many questions as we answer, leading, we hope, to a professional
dialog that steers an intellectually and clinically sound course between the
stultifying silence of the past and the somewhat deafening cacophony of the
present.
We ask you, then, to journey with us, through what is undoubtedly diffi­
cult terrain. Although we can surely provide certain landmarks and reassur­
ances along the way, we begin each trip in full awareness that the experience
will never be the same twice; no two clinicians will come away with the
sense that they have journeyed the same road. The one truth that does serve
us well through the inevitably dark moments of our work is the heartfelt
conviction that childhoods marked by traumatic abuse will impose the tem­
plate of such early trauma on the transference-countertransference experi­
ences of the patient and therapist alike. We thus cling to the hope that in our
most disorganized, despairing, and enraged moments (as well as in our most
glorious and omnipotent experiences of rescue and salvation), we have come
upon not insurmountable obstacles to therapeutic success but a conduit that
can provide full access to the dissociated and otherwise unknowable self and
object world of the adult survivor of traumatic childhood sexual abuse.
 CHAPTER 1

Trauma and Childhood

Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis

HROUGHOUT ITS HISTORY, psychoanalysis has struggled to decide

T
what importance should be given to the role of actual childhood
trauma, especially sexual abuse, in the genesis and treatment of adult
psychopathology. Like the larger society, psychoanalysis discovered, de­
nied, rediscovered, redenied, and is currently discovering yet again the sig­
nificance of childhood sexual trauma as an etiological factor in later psy­
chopathology. However, even when analytic thinkers have agreed that
actual early trauma is an important pathogenic phenomenon, they have dis­
agreed on how traumatic events are internalized by the child and expressed
by the adult patient. Thus, treatment models vary widely. In this chapter, we
review historical and contemporary psychoanalytic views of psychological
trauma, especially childhood sexual abuse. An exhaustive review of this lit­
erature can be found elsewhere (Wolf and Alpert, 1991). Here, we offer a
representative cross section of the theories of major psychoanalytic thinkers.

Sigmund Freud and the Seduction Theory

Any psychoanalytic consideration of childhood sexual abuse must begin

with Freud's development and later renunciation of the seduction theory, a
paradigm stipulating that hysterical neurosis derives from early sexual se­
ductions. Although he never wholly rejected the notion that childhood se­
ductions were pathogenic, Freud shifted his emphasis from the seduction
theory to the Oedipus complex, on which he based his assertion that the
neuroses were etiologically embedded in the unconscious fantasies of the
psychoanalytic patient. Fantasy upset reality as the causal link to the neu­
roses, and the stage was set for Freud and his successors to interpret reports
of early sexual victimizations as fantasies driven by the adult patient's un­
12 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

conscious childhood wishes. Thus, from early on, Freud's renunciation of

the seduction theory moved psychoanalytic emphasis away from a concep­
tualization of the neuroses that attended to the central role of real childhood
events and relationships.
Over the years, Freud's biographers and other psychoanalytic writers
have presented polarized views on the meaning of the abandonment of the
seduction theory. Some (Gay, 1988; Jones, 1961; McGrath, 1986) cite the re­
nunciation of the seduction theory as a landmark achievement emanating
from Freud's rigorously demanding self-analysis. Others (Krull, 1986;
Masson, 1984; Miller, 1984) argue that the abandonment of the seduction the­
ory led to an unfortunate invalidation of a central childhood experience.
Furthermore, they suggest that the renunciation was primarily driven by
idiosyncratic factors in Freud's life and psyche. We elect not to join the in­
tensely polemical battle regarding the basis of Freud's rejection of the seduc­
tion theory. Although the psychobiographical analyses of the issues are fas­
cinating and provide intriguing insights into Freud's personal life and
psyche, the bitter controversy evoked by speculation about the reasons why
he rejected the seduction theory distracts from serious consideration of the
consequences of the retraction. At this point, we believe that it is more perti­
nent to review Freud's own arguments for and against the seduction theory.
On April 21, 1896, Freud introduced the seduction theory in an address
before the Society for Psychiatry and Neurology in Vienna. His paper, the
Aetiology of Hysteria (Freud, 1896), was based on his work with 18 female
hysterics and expounded his theory on the cause of the disorder. Freud's
conclusion was that "at the bottom of every case of hysteria there are one or
more occurrences of premature sexual experiences, occurrences which be­
long to the earliest years of childhood" (p. 203). Freud firmly believed in this
clinically driven theory, as demonstrated in the paper's closing remarks:

Prepared as I am to meet with contradiction and disbelief, I should like to say

one thing more in support of my position. Whatever you may think about the
conclusions I have come to, I must ask you not to regard them as the fruit
of idle speculation. They are based on a laborious individual examination of
patients which has in most cases taken up a hundred or more hours of work.
(p. 220)

Within 18 months, Freud reversed himself and repudiated the seduction

theory in a letter to Fliess written on September 21, 1897 (in Masson, 1985):
"Let me tell you straight away the great secret which has been slowly dawn­
ing on me in recent months. I no longer believe in my neurotica" (p. 264). In
this letter, Freud cited several reasons for rejecting the seduction theory.
First, he stated that he must doubt its validity, because his analyses of hys­
terics were not completely successful and because partial successes could be
explained without reference to the seduction theory. Second, Freud doubted
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 13

the frequency of childhood sexual abuse implied by his theory. Third, as he

told Fliess, as there is no representation of reality in the, unconscious, it was
possible for the patient to weave fantasies in which the parents are cast into
assaultive roles. Finally, Freud asserted that even in the psychoses, uncon­
scious memories do not break through to consciousness. He thus doubted
that in treatment unconscious memories of real events could break through
the censoring mechanism of the conscious mind.
Let us consider and critique Freud's own arguments regarding his change
of mind. First, the analyses of many patients, sexually abused or not, end
prematurely for a variety of reasons. Furthermore, it is not infrequent that a
patient leaves or wants to leave treatment when confronted with the memo­
ries of abuse. When a patient begins to remember and share memories of the
sexual victimizations, the reality of the abuse often hits very hard. Until this
point in treatment, the patient has worked to deny the reality of the abuse
and fights against the pain of truly knowing about the assaults by relegating
the memories to a state of fuzziness. Many survivors wish to leave therapy
when they can no longer hide from the truth of their traumas. At this junc­
ture, leaving seems preferable to enduring the pain evoked by memories. In
addition, the memories, associated affects, and fantasy elaborations are acti­
vated and repeated in the transference process, so that the patient actually
feels abused within the treatment. In 1896 Freud himself addressed the great
distress experienced by a survivor in recalling details of the abuse:

While they are recalling these infantile experiences to consciousness, they suf­
fer under the most violent sensations of which they are ashamed and which
they try to conceal, and, even after they have gone through them once more in
such a convincing manner, they still attempt to withhold belief from them. (p.
204)

One can also hypothesize that some of Freud's female patients left analy­
sis because of intense transference phenomena evoked by remembering
early sexual assaults. Continued analysis with a male therapist, close in age
and social status to the perpetrator—perhaps even a social acquaintance of
the abuser—might have evoked a transference in which the patient expected
Freud to reabuse her or betray her by sharing her memories with the perpe­
trator. Moreover, at this stage of his career, Freud still engaged in physical
manipulation of his patients, massaging them or touching their heads with
his hands. It is easy to imagine a female survivor of childhood sexual abuse
running from a male analyst who occasionally touched her during treatment
and onto whom she transferred expectations derived from her abusive expe­
riences. Freud, at this point, had not developed a full understanding of
transference and may have missed negative (or positive, especially erotically
mediated) transference manifestations, particularly if the patient did not ver­
balize them.
14 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Although all this is conjecture, it can plausibly explain premature termi­

nations or only partially successful treatments. What is clear is that early ter­
minations and incomplete analyses are not incompatible with continued al­
legiance to the seduction theory.
Second, Freud wrote to Fliess that he came to reject his theory because it
implied an improbable frequency of childhood sexual abuse. Once again,
Freud had anticipated this criticism in his 1896 paper when he stated, "chil­
dren are far more often exposed to sexual assaults than the few precautions
taken by parents in this connection would lead us to expect" (p. 207). In
1896, then, Freud could believe that children were commonly abused sexu­
ally. By 1897, he questioned this premise. Why?
Part of the answer to that question is that Freud had no way of empiri­
cally validating the extent of sexual abuse in Victorian Vienna. As a bour­
geois father, he apparently could not conceive that children were abused in
numbers large enough to produce the frequency of hysteria seen in that day,
especially when one assumed that hysterics represented only some fraction
of the universe of sexually abused children. Considering that it was only in
the 1980s that empirically excellent studies (Russell, 1986; Wyatt, 1985) gen­
erated incidence rates of childhood sexual abuse at 38% of all American
women, we can understand Freud's resistance to accepting the frequency of
childhood sexual abuse implied by the incidence of hysteria.
In his third argument against the seduction theory, Freud offered what
later became the cornerstone of his new theory of the neurosis. He suggested
that his hysterical patients had fantasized the childhood victimizations, cast­
ing their parents into the roles of abusers. That reports of childhood sexual
abuse were fantasies was a criticism Freud anticipated when he presented
the 1896 paper, and, there he offered a rebuttal: "In the first place, the behav­
ior of patients while they are reproducing these infantile experiences is in
every respect incompatible with the assumption that these scenes are any­
thing else than a reality which is being felt with distress and reproduced
with the greatest reluctance" (p. 204).
This perspective is clearly consistent with our own experiences with pa­
tients who are disclosing details of their sexual abuse. In fact, the predomi­
nant fantasy presented by our patients is that the sexual abuse was not really
as bad as it sounds or that the abuser, often a parent or other trusted relative,
was not as self-serving as the memories suggest. Because acknowledging the
reality of the abuse is often tantamount to knowing that she was abandoned
by a desperately loved and needed parent, the patient protects herself from
the pain of that reality by fantasizing a less horrific early environment. Freud
supported this view in the 1896 paper when he said:

There are, however, a number of other things that vouch for the reality of the
infantile sexual scenes. In the first place, there is the uniformity which they ex­
hibit in certain details, experiences always of the same kind, but which would
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 15

otherwise lead us to believe that there were secret understandings between

various patients. In the second place, patients sometimes describe as harmless
events whose significance they obviously do not understand, since they would
be bound otherwise to be horrified by them. Or, again, they mention details
without laying any stress on them, which only someone of experience in life
can understand and appreciate as subtle traits of reality, (p. 205)

In 1896, then, Freud went to great lengths to argue that his patients' re­
ports of sexual abuse could not represent fantasy material, and he marshaled
convincing evidence to support his views. By 1897, he had changed his mind
on this point too, in part because his self-analysis revealed to him that fan­
tasies are potent psychological organizers.
Finally, Freud doubted the validity of the seduction theory, because it is
unlikely, he said, that accurate memories of real childhood events could ever
break through into consciousness. If even psychotics preserve the censorship
of real memories, certainly analytic treatment cannot reverse that censoring
process to release accurate memories. Many clinicians today would not re­
quire that verifiable, exact memories be produced before they believed the
essential truths contained in patients' reports of childhood events. A patient
may, for example, report an abusive experience that is a composite memory
of several victimizing episodes and that is imbued with fantasy elaborations
of the original trauma. The memory is inaccurate; the fact of the abuse is not.
We do not believe, therefore, that a patient's failure to exactly reproduce ac­
curate childhood memories required abandoning of the seduction theory.
We see, then, that Freud traveled a long distance in the 18 months be­
tween his presentation of the seduction theory in 1896 and his renunciation
of it in 1897. By the time the oedipal conflict was emplaced as the central
forerunner of neurosis, Freud had come full circle. The seduction theory was
based on validation of a patient's childhood experiences with real people; it
incriminated adults who used children to fill their own narcissistic needs.
The oedipal conflict, on the other hand, insisted that childhood sexual abuse
was fantasy material driven by unconscious childhood sexual wishes; it pro­
tected parents at the expense of the patient's reality. The seduction theory
was based on clinical data obtained from actual patients. Theory based on
the centrality of the oedipal conflict grew not from case material but, rather,
from interpretations Freud made during his self-analysis (Gay, 1988).
Had Freud not rejected the seduction theory, he might have explicated
further the role of all kinds of child abuse in adult psychological problems.
Child abuse occurs in many forms—physical, sexual, emotional, or some
combination of these. Both mothers and fathers perpetrate the abuses, and
the victimized child often becomes an adult with serious psychological prob­
lems, including the dissociative phenomena seen in Freud's hysterics.
Instead of expanding the seduction theory to account for all types of child­
hood trauma, Freud replaced the seduction theory with psychosexual theory
16 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

and, in so doing, turned almost solely to the realm of fantasy to explain adult
psychopathology. What is more, he issued a mandate to his professional
progeny that rendered criticism of this powerful transferential father prob­
lematic. We know that Freud brooked no serious dissent from his views,
roundly rejecting and expelling from the "family" such followers as Adler
and Jung who dared to question major aspects of Freudian theory. For the
most part, psychoanalysis was silent on the subject of early sexual trauma
for many years. There were, however, exceptions, and Sandor Ferenczi
stands out as an early continued supporter of the centrality of childhood sex­
ual abuse in adult psychopathology.

Sandor Ferenczi

Ferenczi, who is currently enjoying a worldwide rehabilitation, was notable

among members of Freud's inner circle for maintaining allegiance to a view
of pathology centered on the etiological significance of childhood sexual
trauma. His tenacity cost him Freud's approval and his standing in the early
psychoanalytic community.
Freud's pupil, analysand, and, after Fliess, his closest friend, Ferenczi
eventually jeopardized his relationship with Freud and his esteem within
the psychoanalytic community by promulgating his belief that early sexual
trauma was a common occurrence, frequently associated with adult psy­
chopathology. In his seminal paper, Confusion of Tongues Between Adults and
the Child (1932), Ferenczi validated the reality of childhood sexual abuse,
poignantly described its impact on the child victim and adult survivor, and
in so doing challenged Freud's reliance on instinctually driven fantasies as
the basis of psychopathology. Ferenczi said:

trauma, especially the sexual trauma, as the pathogenic factor cannot be valued
highly enough. Even children of very respectable, sincerely puritanical fami­
lies, fall victim to real violence or rape much more often than one had dared to
suppose. Either it is the parents who try to find a substitute gratification in this
pathological way for their frustration, or it is people thought to be trustworthy
such as relatives (uncles, aunts, grandparents), governesses or servants, who
misuse the ignorance and the innocence of the child.. .. The real rape of girls
who have hardly grown out of the age of infants, similar sexual acts of mature
women with boys, and also enforced homosexual acts, are more frequent oc­
currences than has hitherto been assumed, (p. 201)

In addition to validating the reality of childhood sexual abuse, Ferenczi

referred to some of the pathological consequences of early sexual trauma:
identification with the aggressor, pervasive guilt and shame, sexual dysfunc­
tion and perversion, and the profound splitting of the ego associated with
dissociation. In this paper, Ferenczi clearly stated his belief that psycho-
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 17

analysis had strayed too far from crediting the etiological importance of ac­
tual trauma in later psychopathology when he said: "By that I mean the re­
cent, more emphatic stress on the traumatic factors in the pathogenesis of the
neuroses which had been unjustly neglected in recent years. Insufficient
deep exploration of the exogenous factor leads to the danger of resorting
prematurely to explanations—often too facile explanations—in terms of 'dis­
position' and 'constitution'" (p. 196).
Ferenczi read this paper at the International Psycho-Analytic Congress at
Wiesbaden, Germany, in September 1932. In so doing, he alienated the ana­
lytic community and provoked an irreconcilable break with Freud. So vi­
cious was the attack on Ferenczi that his views were publicly correlated with
his supposed emotional breakdown. Instead, Judith Dupont's publication of
The Clinical Diary of Sandor Ferenczi (1988) portrays a man in full possession
of his faculties and exquisitely sensitive to the psychological adaptation and
resultant psychopathology of childhood sexual trauma.
Throughout his diary, Ferenczi discussed the devastating sequelae of
childhood sexual abuse, struggling informally with those points he summa­
rized in the 1932 paper. In reading the diary, we are struck continually by
the congruence between Ferenczi's descriptions of his patients and what we
see in our own consulting rooms. In addition to his cogent insights into the
psychological sequelae of the actual seductions, Ferenczi was also keenly
aware of the centrality of the maternal deprivation inherent in much sexual
abuse, especially incest. He said, "But the most frightful of frights is when
the threat from the father is coupled with simultaneous desertion by the
mother" (p. 18), and he went on to describe the further ego fragmentation
engendered by the mother's lack of protection of the child.
Ferenczi's discussions of the recovery of memories and of maternal emo­
tional abandonment are but two topics sensitively addressed in a diary re­
plete with clinically rich and theoretically interesting entries about the se­
quelae and treatment of childhood sexual abuse. We who work daily with
adult survivors of incest and of other forms of childhood sexual abuse find
in Sandor Ferenczi an analyst who, over 50 years ago, grasped many of the
essential psychodynamics and therapeutic approaches salient to work with
this clinical population. Through their treatment of Ferenczi, however, the
members of the early psychoanalytic establishment issued an injunction
against serious consideration of childhood sexual abuse that was powerfully
effective for many years. Written psychoanalytic discourse on this central
clinical phenomenon has been sparse, even up to today. Psychoanalytic writ­
ing on psychological trauma can be divided among four schools of thought:
classical, ego-psychological, object-relational, and self-psychological.
18 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The Classical Psychoanalytic Perspective

The classical psychoanalytic view of trauma is a direct descendant of Freud's

position that, even when actual prepubertal sexual traumas occur, their sig­
nificance lies in the reactivation in fantasy of earlier, primarily sado­
masochistically formulated exposure to primal scene experiences. For Freud
and the classicists, the pathogenicity of trauma derives neither from an over­
whelming of the ego by unmanageable real events nor from a profound be­
trayal of relational bonds but, rather, from a regression to intense sado­
masochistic fantasies. The pathogenic action, in other words, is intrapsychic
rather than relational.
Phyllis Greenacre's work (1949, 1950, 1967) is an intermediate point be­
tween Freud's thinking and contemporary proponents of the classical perspec­
tive on trauma (Abend, 1986; Brenner, 1986; Dowling, 1986; Kramer & Akhtar,
1991; Levine, 1990; Shengold, 1989, 1992). Greenacre, like Freud, understands
exposure to the primal scene as the prototype for all traumatogenic experi­
ence. Pathology results from regression to sadomasochistic fantasies, medi­
ated by exposure to the primal scene and potentiated by prepubertal sexual
experiences. It is the regression to fantasies belonging to a preoedipal level of
psychosexual organization that, for Greenacre, is the most significant aspect of
prepubertal sexual trauma. The effects of the actual traumatic events are mini­
mized. In her review of several clinical case examples, Greenacre (1949) unfor­
tunately not only fails to incorporate the disorganizing effects of the immedi­
ate sexual abuse described but also appears to view the abuse as related to the
fact that her patients were very "seductive" little girls and, therefore, by impli­
cation, the unwitting instigators of their own molestations.
More contemporary classical psychoanalytic writers cite Fenichel's (1945)
claim that trauma is unrelated to the quantity of stimulation experienced by
the individual. According to Fenichel and, later, Abend (1986), Brenner
(1986), Dowling (1986), and Shengold (1989,1992), it is the conscious and un­
conscious meanings ascribed by the patient to particular events that render
those events traumatic. Brenner (1986), for instance, stipulates that "the
trauma, what is traumatic, is the subjective experience of the traumatized in­
dividual. It is what the event meant to the individual which is the trauma. It
is the impact of the external stimuli, how they heightened fears, intensified
sexual and aggressive wishes, resonated with feelings of guilt and remorse.
All of this is what a psychically traumatic event actually is" (p. 203).
Leonard Shengold (1963,1967,1971,1979,1989), a contemporary classical
psychoanalyst, employs the term soul murder to describe the phenomenologi­
cal experience of recurrent abuse and deprivation. He encapsulates his clini­
cal constructions within a drive theory paradigm in which he discusses the
patient's need to distance from emotions, because feelings might lead to fan­
tasies and, ultimately, to traumatic memories linked to fantasies, particularly
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 19

those of an oral aggressive and sadomasochistic nature. The soul murder

victim's alienation from her feelings results, Shengold says, in an "as-if" pre­
sentation of pseudorelatedness that disguises a deeply seated mistrust of
others based on an experienced reality. Shengold further suggests that ac­
ceptance of the analyst as a separate, predominantly benevolent person is a
difficult step that may take years marked by relentless testing of the ana­
lyst's constancy. In addition to the difficulty in overcoming a profound lack
of trust, Shengold points out that acceptance of the therapist as substantially
different from the patient's soul-murdering caretakers requires the patient to
challenge and eventually relinquish the fantasy that the caretakers were in
fact loving and emotionally generous. He says: "Experientially, the patient
feels the terrible danger of losing the parents psychologically... . The immi­
nence of the loss revives something at the heart of the child's traumatic anxi­
ety (and the terrified child is very much alive within the adult): to be alone
and beside oneself with distress and overstimulation, helpless in a terrible
and destructive, or indifferent world" (1989, p. 315).
The giving up and mourning of the fantasied good parent is, Shengold
suggests, the central issue of therapy with former victims. As this proceeds,
the patient begins to feel intense rage and hatred that are frightening and
against which the patient has defended through emotional isolation, psychi­
cal fragmentation, autohypnosis, denial, and perpetuation of relationships
based on "masochistic bondage" (1989, p. 315).
Proceeding from earlier works by Fliess (1953) and Dickes (1965),
Shengold stresses the centrality of what he calls "autohypnotic states" in the
mental lives of adult survivors of soul murder. He believes that autohyp­
notic states essentially relieve the patient from the burden of being responsi­
ble for what is said and felt during the treatment hour. Though he maintains
a classical drive model and views autohypnosis as "the ego's need to defend
against drive tensions" (1989, p. 141), Shengold adds two very significant
perspectives to the concept of autohypnosis. He stresses the possibility that
autohypnosis can also be used to facilitate drive discharge, a phenomenon
that transcends the drive functions. Here, alteration in consciousness is used
to facilitate a traumatic reenactment, either within or outside the transfer­
ence, and to deny the experience of significant gratification of libidinal and
aggressive impulses. In addition, Shengold describes how the hypnotic state
can bring about a "concentrated hypercathexis of perceptory signals" that
enhances awareness of peripheral stimuli and evokes a state of "hypnotic
vigilance" (1989, p. 143). Although it stems from the simultaneous need to
defend against and gratify the derivatives of instinctual drive or their dis­
charge, the process appears inadvertently to heighten the patient's sensitiv­
ity to a range of other experiences within the therapeutic relationship.
We see, then, contemporary classical analytic thinkers turning to a consid­
eration of incest and childhood sexual abuse as important pathogenic events.
20 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

With some variation, most classicists find the primary impact of trauma lo­
cated in the intrapsychic, fantasy-mediated organization of the patient.
Treatment is embodied within a traditional analytic frame, in which verbal
interpretation predominates as a mode of communication between the pa­
tient and the neutral, abstinent analyst.

The Ego-Psychological Perspective

An alternative contemporary psychoanalytic perspective on trauma, still

based on classical metapsychological formulations, incorporates not only the
unconscious meaning of the traumatic event but also stresses the extent to
which the ego is overwhelmed and rendered nonfunctional by the excessive
stimulation inherent in early trauma. Proponents of this ego-psychological
viewpoint include Cooper (1986), Anna Freud (1967), Furst (1967, 1986),
Gediman (1991), Kramer and Akhtar (1991), Krystal (1978,1988), and Levine
(1990). Anna Freud (1967) sets out the position subscribed to by the ego psy­
chologists:
Like everyone else, I have tended to use the term "trauma" rather loosely up
until now but I shall find it easier to avoid this in the future. Whenever I am
tempted to call an event in a child's or adult's life "traumatic," I shall ask my­
self some further questions. Do I mean the event was upsetting; that it was sig­
nificant for altering the course of further development; that it was pathogenic?
Or do I really mean traumatic in the strict sense of the word, i.e., shattering,
devastating, causing internal disruption by putting ego functioning and ego
mediation out of action? (p. 242)

As suggested by Arma Freud, in their determination of what is traumatic

and what is not, ego-psychological writers emphasize the ego's complete in­
capacitation and the phenomenological experience of helplessness in the face
of what is perceived by the individual to be life-threatening danger.
Furthermore, some of these authors differentiate between events they con­
sider to be "near-traumatic" and those that represent "catastrophic trauma."
The first are situations in which the ego is threatened but ultimately mobi­
lizes extreme defenses leading to neuroses or more severe character pathol­
ogy. Catastrophic trauma, on the other hand, is defined by Krystal (1988) as
"a surrender to what is experienced as unavoidable danger of external or in­
ternal origin" (p. 154). He goes on to distinguish between near-trauma and
catastrophic trauma:

Evaluation of the situation as one of inevitable danger and the surrender to it,
initiates the traumatic process. The affective response to the signal of avoidable
danger is fear, dread, or anxiety. The affective response to the perception of in­
evitable danger is the catatonoid reaction, (p. 154)
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 21

Within this model, childhood sexual abuse clearly represents catastrophic

trauma that results in deficits in every area of ego functioning.
Another contemporary classical analyst writing about childhood sexual
abuse and the adult survivor is Howard Levine (1990). He points to the
primitive defensive constellation of the adult incest survivor and cites the
centrality of dissociation in this population, saying, "From a diagnostic per­
spective, it may be useful to think of many of these analysands as having a
split-ego organization, in which a healthier, neurotic part of the personality
alternates with or lies buried beneath a more impulsive, primitive part of the
personality" (p. 198). In addition, Levine is acutely aware that the severity of
the original trauma engenders powerful transference/countertransference
paradigms in which, because of the patient's uncertainty about the line be­
tween fantasy and reality, "the experience of the analytic situation becomes
the trauma" (p. 199).
Levine thus credits the reality of the patient's childhood as the primary
factor in the development of pathological fantasies regarding self and other
that characterize the adult patient's interpersonal relationships, including
the one with the therapist.
Selma Kramer (1990,1991) also follows classical analytic treatment of adult
survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Kramer describes the somatic decoding
of traumatic events that is experienced by the patient as body memories in
which the sexual abuse is relived as if it were happening in the present. In ad­
dition, she points to the problems in separation and individuation experi­
enced by these patients and positions their sometimes entitled demands dur­
ing treatment as the restarting of long-blocked developmental channels.
The ego psychologists thus assign more weight than the classicists to the
impact of real, external events on the developing ego of the child. At the
same time, they still emphasize the intrapsychic mediation of external events
as central in resulting pathology. Like classical thinkers, ego-psychological
clinicians pursue a primarily traditional, verbally interpretive mode of treat­
ment with their patients. What to us remains insufficiently addressed in the
ego-psychological model is the extent to which unsymbolized traumatic ex­
periences, encrusted in a primitive core of unspeakable terror, intrusive
ideation, and somatic sensations, exist cordoned off within the patient's psy­
che where they are unavailable to self-reflective verbal processes and tradi­
tional analytic examination.

The Object-Relational Perspective

The object-relational perspective on trauma, espoused by Fairbairn (1943),

Khan (1963, 1964), Kluft (1990b), Miller (1981, 1983, 1984), Scharff (1982),
Steele (1986) and implied by Balint (1979) and Winnicott (1960a, 1960b), al­
22 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

though taking into account ego incapacitation and psychic helplessness in

the pathogenicity of traumatic events, stresses most that early trauma signi­
fies betrayal of the child by one or more important early objects. Here, object
relations theorists intersect with psychodynamically oriented developmen-
talists (Bowlby, 1969,1973; Stern, 1985) in emphasizing the primacy of early
attachment bonds to significant objects. Thus, within this theoretical model,
the central themes are not the magnitude of the overstimulation inherent in
sexual abuse or the fantasy mediation of the traumatic event but the extent
to which abusive behavior, especially by parents, represents a psychic aban­
donment and profound betrayal of the child. At issue are the primacy of the
child's relationship to the abusive other and the parents' failure to protect
the vulnerable child from intrusive abuse. According to object relations the­
ory, it is the child's and, later, the adult's attempts to preserve actual and in­
ternalized relational bonds that result in symptoms, notably dissociation,
and in character pathology.
W. R. D. (Ronald) Fairbairn (1943), a British Middle School object rela­
tions theorist, made important contributions to the psychoanalytic literature
on the sequelae of childhood sexual abuse. He stressed the impact of actual
relationships on a child's developing psyche and wrote poignantly, based on
his work with sexually abused children, about the significance of exploita­
tive contact with caretakers. He postulated that a relationship with a bad ob­
ject is not only painful for the child but also shameful. Because early object
relationships are based largely on identification, children whose parents are
abusive or neglectful will feel that they themselves are bad. No matter how
abusive or neglectful the parents are, the child needs them and therefore
cannot reject them. The internalization of bad parental objects represents, ac­
cording to Fairbairn, an effort to control them. He said, however: "But, in at­
tempting to control them in this way, he is internalizing objects which have
wielded power over him in the external world; and these objects retain their
prestige for power over him in the inner world. In a word, he is 'possessed'
by them, as if by evil spirits "(1943, p. 67). Certainly in our own work with
sexual abuse survivors, we struggle with the "possession" of our patients by
internalized abusive objects to whom the patient remains tenaciously affec­
tively attached.
Fairbairn recognized that abused children dissociate. He pointed out that
the child splits off, or dissociates, bad aspects of the object and of the self in
relationship with the object in order to preserve a good image of much-
needed caretakers and of the self. As the dissociation occurs, the child simul­
taneously represses awareness of these now split-off aspects of the self and
other. In Fairbairn's model, repression takes place not to censor instinctual
drives but, rather, to defend "the self against the awareness of its shameful
deficiencies" (Grotstein, personal communication, 1992).
Alice Miller (1981, 1983, 1984), a former classicist who became more and
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 23

more relationally oriented and eventually disavowed psychoanalysis en­

tirely, expands on Fairbairn's work, highlighting the adult abuse survivor's
tendency to protect parents by seeing them as more loving than they in fact
were. Miller also emphasizes the extent to which analysts hear what they are
prepared to hear and miss what does not fit into preconceived theoretical
paradigms. It is also our contention that analysts and analytically oriented
therapists fail to serve previously abused patients well when they focus too
exclusively on intrapsychic fantasies and patterns.
The contemporary interpersonalist Darlene Ehrenberg's (1992) views on
the impact of childhood sexual abuse are compatible with those of the object
relationists. Ehrenberg particularly notes the stifling of all desire, sexual and
otherwise, that often occurs as a result of sexual abuse. Like Fairbairn,
Ehrenberg points out that children usually assume responsibility for their
own abuse. They do this, first, because the sexual acts frequently correspond
with age-appropriate fantasies and desires. Second, the child unconsciously
identifies with the abuser's desires, making them her own in an attempt to
relieve and cure the perpetrator. Ultimately, desire itself becomes so danger­
ous to the psychic equilibrium of the child, and then to that of the adult pa­
tient, that it is renounced in full. One vital aspect of psychoanalytic treat­
ment with these patients, Ehrenberg says, is to work through their sense of
responsibility for the abuse in order to unlock the capacity for desire.
Within object relations theory clinicians find treatment models that pro­
vide templates for the treatment of profoundly dissociated patients who
must, in order to heal, regress during treatment. Although neither Balint
(1979) nor Winnicott (1960a, 1960b), for example, directly address actual
trauma, their treatment models emphasize the need of many patients to
regress to the area of a "basic fault" (Balint, 1979), where verbal interpreta­
tion is at best meaningless and at worst assaultively intrusive. In work with
regressed patients, Balint and Winnicott among others (Bollas, 1987; Khan,
1963; Ogden, 1986, 1991) deemphasize verbal interpretation and traditional
analytic abstinence, stressing instead the containing functions of the thera­
pist, in which nonverbal acceptance and management of regression are para­
mount. Certainly adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse require that the
therapist be comfortable managing protracted regressive reenactments.

The Self-Psychological Perspective

Like object relationists, self psychologists underscore the relational aspects

of trauma. They insist that developmental trauma occurs within an intersub-
jective field consisting of self and self-object; it is the profound disturbance
between the child (self) and caregiver (self-object) that renders an occurrence
traumatic. The concept of trauma was incorporated into Heinz Kohut's
24 Treating toe Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

(1971) general thinking about personality development and pathology and is

addressed specifically by such contemporary self-psychologists as Ulman
and Brothers (1988) and Stolorow and Atwood (1992).
Kohut (1971) stipulates that when early self-objects deprive or disappoint
the child in traumatic ways, the basic psychic apparatus and the structure of
the personality are adversely affected. He suggests that very early preoedi-
pal trauma interferes with maintenance of the basic narcissistic homeostasis
of the personality and results in "diffuse narcissistic vulnerability" (1971, p.
47). Later preoedipal trauma challenges successful drive control and leads to
resexualization of drive derivatives and internal and external conflict.
Finally, trauma during the oedipal period or latency results in incomplete
idealization of the superego with a concomitant eternal search for approval
from external figures.
Kohut took a broad view of trauma; object loss or disappointment in, de­
privation from, neglect, or abuse by important figures in a child's life could
constitute traumatic experience. Ulman and Brothers (1988), on the other
hand, define trauma as a "real occurrence, the unconscious meaning of which
so shatters central organizing fantasies (of self in relation to self-object) that
self-restitution is impossible" (p. 3). The unconscious meaning of the shatter­
ing real event is expressed symbolically in the symptoms of post-traumatic
stress disorder (PTSD), which Ulman and Brothers classify as a dissociative
disorder emanating from a vertical split of the ego.
Ulman and Brothers assert that successful therapy with trauma patients
rests on the therapist's ability to become for the patient a fantasized self-object
that facilitates restoration and transformation of shattered fantasies of self
(p. 4). They recommend a standard self-psychological analytic approach,
using the intersubjective field created by therapist and patient to reconstruct
and work through the unconscious meaning of trauma. They emphasize
analysis of resistance to and ultimate development and working through of
self-object transference fantasies.
Stolorow and Atwood (1992) agree with Ulman and Brothers that trauma
occurs only within an intersubjective field. They stipulate that the essence of
trauma involves a failure of affective attunement between caregiver and
child (self and self-object) that results in a disrupted capacity for affect regu­
lation in the trauma patient. It is, first, the pain of an initial rebuff from a
caregiver and, second, the failure of the caregiver to attune to the child in a
way that contains or relieves that pain that are traumatic. Stolorow and
Atwood go on to cite the dissociation, chronic self-doubting, affective insta­
bility, pessimism, and self-blame characteristic of trauma survivors. They
also indicate that, much as the abused child protects early objects by dis­
avowing the reality of trauma, trauma patients may split off or blame them­
selves for disruptions in the intersubjective field of analysis. In treatment,
therapeutic action occurs when the analyst is positioned within the transfer­
 Trauma and Childhood Sexual Abuse in Psychoanalysis 25

ence as the longed-for parent who successfully affectively attunes to the pa­
tient's internal states, especially traumatogenic states. Finally, Stolorow and
Atwood attend to the fierce dread of retraumatization as a central resistance
in psychoanalysis with trauma patients.
Self- psychologists place trauma within a relational context, in which both
the real event and the unconscious meaning of the real event as mediated by
the trauma victim are emphasized. Like object relationists, they view the an­
alytic relationship and the transference/countertransference constellations
emerging within it as central aspects of therapy. What does not seem to be
emphasized by these writers is the extensive regression that is often required
in work with trauma patients.

Throughout the 100-year history of psychoanalysis, the study of early

childhood trauma and of unconscious intraspsychic processes and develop­
ment has shifted between point-counterpoint theories in an elaborately ar­
gued, often embittered, discourse on the etiological significance of specific
precursors to adult emotional disorders. The relative importance of fact ver­
sus fantasy in the pathogenicity of traumatic events appears to have evolved
as the emblematic substratum of such dialogs. Is it the reality of the trau­
matic event or the complex vicissitudes of its symbolic internalization that
are disruptive to later functioning? Is it the impact of trauma on the struc-
turalization of the ego or the nature of the unconscious fantasies evoked by
the trauma that demand clinical attention? Or is it the effect of trauma on the
internalized self and object world of the patient, signified by complex pat­
terns of projective and introjective identification, that leads to pathology and
therefore must be addressed during treatment? It is our contention that the
pathogenicity of childhood sexual trauma derives from all these—and more.
In addition to what we have learned from psychoanalytic thinking, we find
additional important insights into early trauma and its sequelae in the
trauma literature. It is only through combining psychoanalytic concepts
emerging from each major school of thought with the wealth of data avail­
able in the trauma literature that we can arrive at an integrated conceptual­
ization of childhood sexual abuse, its sequelae, and its treatment.
 CHAPTER 2

Long-Term Sequelae
and Diagnosis of
Childhood Sexual Abuse

WO BODIES of literature, one relating to psychological trauma and

T the other compiled by empiricists and clinicians in the sexual abuse

field, combine with psychoanalytic theories to facilitate a comprehen­
sive, multifaceted conceptualization of childhood sexual abuse, its sequelae,
diagnosis, and treatment. It is only when contributions from each of these
fields are interwoven that a rich, complex, and clinically useful model for the
treatment of sexual abuse emerges.

The History of Trauma Research

Interest in the impact of trauma on an individual's psychology and physiol­

ogy dates at least as far back as Pierre Janet's (1889, 1894, 1898, 1907, 1909,
1911) work on dissociation, which he viewed as the central organizing mech­
anism of trauma-related disorders. In a process parallel to what occurred
within psychoanalysis after Freud's repudiation of the seduction theory,
work in the field of trauma was suspended for the most part for many years
after Janet's contributions. It was wartime that evoked renewed interest in
the impact of trauma, as battlefield neurologists, psychiatrists, and eventu­
ally psychologists were faced with soldiers who were badly and pervasively
disorganized by their wartime experiences. Attention to the acute and per­
sistent aspects of war-related trauma particularly burgeoned after the
Vietnam War (Card, 1983; Figley, 1978; Laufer, Frey-Wouters, & Gallops,
1985; Yager, Laufer, & Gallops, 1984), a war noted for the severity of the psy­
chological impact felt by many of its soldiers.
In addition to work with war veterans, trauma researchers have investi­
gated the recurrent sequelae of such other traumas as the Holocaust
(Barocas, 1975; Bergman & Jucovy, 1982; Eitinger, 1980; Kestenberg, 1985;
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 27

Rakoff, 1966); Hiroshima (Lifton, 1967); natural and manmade disasters

(Adams & Adams, 1984; Baum, Gatchel, & Schaeffer, 1983; Green, 1982;
Green, Grace, Lindy, Titchener, & Lindy, 1983; Perry & Lindell, 1978); crime
(Terr, 1979, 1983), including rape (Burgess & Homstrom, 1974a, 1974b, 1978;
Frank, Turner, & Duffy, 1979; Kilpatrick, Veronen, & Resick, 1979;
Sutherland & Scherl, 1970); and, more recently, child abuse, including sexual
abuse (Herman, 1992; Kluft, 1990; Terr, 1990, 1991; van der Kolk, 1987). It is
striking that survivors of very different traumas share many acute and long­
term sequelae, suggesting that there are some response patterns to shock
and trauma that are typical for our species.
The work of these trauma researchers has led to the nosological concept
of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) (American Psychiatric Association,
1987). As currently formulated in DSM-III-R, the diagnostic manual of the
American Psychiatric Association, PTSD encompasses sequelae related to a
wide variety of traumas, including both single and repeated events, associ­
ated with a spectrum of such events as war, disaster, crime, and accidents.
The only unifying theme is that the traumatic experience be "outside the
range of usual human experience" (American Psychiatric Association, 1987,
p. 247). More recently, Herman (1992) has proposed a new nosological cate­
gory, complex PTSD, reserved for survivors of prolonged, repeated trauma,
such as hostages, prisoners of war, battered spouses, and victims of child­
hood physical and sexual abuse (p. 121). Complex PTSD reflects the pro­
found psychological and physiological disruptions commonly found among
survivors of prolonged trauma, including adult survivors of childhood sex­
ual abuse. Repeated childhood sexual trauma affects every aspect of an indi­
vidual's functioning: cognitive, affective, self-experiential, relational, and be­
havioral. Psychoanalysis enriches our clinical work with adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse with,contributions from classical, ego-psychological,
object-relational, and self-psychological perspectives, but the trauma litera­
ture extends our clinical conceptualizations by providing a psychobiological
model of the consequences of trauma.

Developmental Aspects of Trauma

Developmentalists such as John Bowlby (1969) have long suggested a biolog­

ical substrate to a child's attachment to important early objects. It is not sur­
prising, therefore, that when early attachment bonds are disrupted through
neglect and abuse, the child suffers physiological as well as psychological ef­
fects. Animal and human research suggests that disruptions of attachment
affect operation of select neurotransmitters and the endogenous opioid and
endocrine system (van der Kolk, 1987). Longlasting, even permanent, neuro-
biological abnormalities can be engendered by childhood abuse and depri­
28 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

vation that are reflected in the adult patient's tendency to swing between hy­
perarousal and hypoarousal to internal and external stimuli. This character­
istic often is manifested clinically in sometimes rapid shifts between un­
formed, uncontainable panic, and equally > unsymbolized, crushing
depression. Recognizing that adult surivors of childhood sexual abuse labor
under the impact' of neurobiological impairments mediated by disrupted
early attachment highlights the importance of the therapeutic relationship,
specifically the containing and holding functions of the therapist.

Cognitive Sequelae of Trauma

Psychological trauma has a disorganizing effect on an individual's ability to

encode, process—through assimilation and accommodation (Piaget, 1968)—
and store memories of the traumatic events (Fine, 1990; Fish-Murray, Koby,
& van der Kolk, 1987; Janoff-Bulman, 1985; van der Kolk, 1988; van der Kolk
& Ducey, 1989). By definition, trauma overwhelms. Part of what is over­
whelmed in a sexually traumatized child is the ability to cognitively contain
and process the enormity of the relational betrayal and physical impinge­
ment with which she is faced. Even if the child has reached the level of oper­
ational metaphoric thinking, the trauma engenders a regression to more
concrete, sensorimotor iconic cognitive organization (van der Kolk, 1988).
Here, too, biology plays a part in the response to trauma.
The encoding of memory involves the taxon system, which encodes infor­
mation according to quality, and the hippocampus, which matures later and
locates memories in space and time (van der Kolk, 1988). Severe or pro­
longed stress suppresses hippocampal functioning and potentiates the taxon
system, leading to unsymbolized, context-free encoding of the traumatic ex­
periences that renders the memories unavailable to linguistic retrieval. It be­
comes one function of the therapist to allow the adult survivor to relive trau­
matic memories sensorimotorically, that is, through body memories, and to
help the patient symbolize these memories for the first time. Sensorimotor
abreaction and symbolic transformation and integration are crucial.
Obviously, symbolization can only proceed from reliving; abreactive reliv­
ing without symbolization and integration, however, is retraumatizing.
Among other things, it engenders physiological hyperarousal without com­
pensatory structuralization of experience.
In addition to affecting the traumatized individual's encoding and stor­
age of traumatic events, trauma has long-term implications for the sur­
vivor's ability to engage in sublimatory, productive fantasy. Comparing the
Rorschach responses of Vietnam combat veterans suffering from PTSD with
those of combat veterans without PTSD, van der Kolk and Ducey (1989)
conclude that the PTSD veterans show a biphasic response to the trauma.
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 29

They are either dominated by chronic, intrusive, disorganizing, unsymbol­

ized "memories" of the trauma, or they avoid to the extreme any involve­
ment in affect-potentiating mental activity, such as fantasizing, that might
evoke a reexperience of the trauma, or they have both reactions. These
researchers conclude that the PTSD veterans are unable to "symbolize, fan­
tasize, or sublimate" (p. 267). Fish-Murray, Koby, and van der Kolk's (1987)
analysis of abused children reveals similar all-or-nothing patterns with
regard to fantasy.
In our own work with adult patients who were sexually abused as chil­
dren, we also note a bifurcated ability to fantasize; a similar finding has been
noted by Bollas (1989). Not always, but often, the patient is able to engage in
transforming, sublimatory fantasies about aspects of her life, such as work,
that are associationally disengaged from the traumatic history. In these
areas, the patient can use fantasy creatively to plan, problem-solve, and ex­
periment. When mental activity turns to areas of life associationally linked
with the earlier traumas, however (e.g., sexual relationships with men, the
expression of aggression toward authority figures), we find the biphasic pat­
terns described by van der Kolk and Ducey (1989). The patient is alterna­
tively overwhelmed and dominated by unsymbolized versions of the
trauma and then rigidly defends against, and detaches from, any mental ac­
tivity whatsoever.
For instance, Adrianna was abused sexually and physically by her father.
A successful investment banker, this patient has a full, rich fantasy life about
relatively nonconflictual aspects of her life such as her career, advancing her
education, entertaining friends in her home. When she becomes involved
with a man or contemplates visits with her family, however, Adrianna por­
trays the biphasic pattern described above. When having sex with a
boyfriend, for example, she may at times be overwhelmed by body sensa­
tions or "memories" reminiscent of her abuse—her thighs are experienced as
huge, and her anus contracts with pain (her father penetrated her anally). At
other times, she becomes utterly numb and rigid during sex, reporting that
her brain is "dead" and devoid of mental activity. Adult sexual relations
clearly evoke the emergence of traumatic memories that overwhelm her cog­
nitive capacities, as once did the actual traumatic events.
In addition to the impact of trauma on memory and fantasy, trauma re­
sults in a constellation of cognitive symptoms. These include inflexible cog­
nitive schemata (Fish-Murray, Koby, & van der Kolk, 1987), intrusive
thoughts, or flashbacks of the trauma (Herman, 1992; Terr, 1991; van der
Kolk, 1988); dichotomous thinking (Fine, 1990), misattribution of blame and
responsibility for past and present events (Young, 1988), and a sense of a
foreshortened future (Terr, 1991). From the trauma literature, we thus obtain
a picture of the pervasive and persistent cognitive disruptions engendered
by psychological trauma.
30 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Affective Sequelae of Trauma

Trauma research has identified an affective response pattern characteristic of

survivors of psychological trauma of all kinds. The pattern is marked by the
survivor's shift between states of affective numbing and intense hyper­
arousal (van der Kolk & Greenberg, 1987). The inability to modulate arousal
often leads to inappropriate motoric discharge of unbearable anxiety when
the individual is hyperaroused and to similarly inappropriate emotional and
psychomotor constriction in the state of psychic numbing.
When an individual is subjected to stress, the autonomic nervous system
is aroused to stimulate a stress response. In such a chronic trauma as child
abuse, autonomic arousal occurs again and again in an ongoing situation of
physical and relational impingement, in which the child cannot intervene
effectively. Autonomic arousal becomes a generalized organismic reaction to
stress, in which the connection between the severity of the perceived threat
and the degree of arousal is broken. The survivor, unable to discern between
degrees of actual danger, responds to many stressors with autonomic hyper­
arousal that can result in such seemingly inexplicable behavioral reactions as
temper outbursts or terrified withdrawal.
Animal research suggests that neurotransmitters and endogenous opioids
also are involved in the trauma survivor's inability to modulate arousal and,
thus, affective response (van der Kolk & Greenberg, 1987). For instance, nor­
epinephrine and dopamine depletion, resulting from inescapable stress,
leaves the traumatized individual psychobiologically hypersensitive to later
arousal. Research with animals also implies that organisms subjected to pro­
longed stress develop a physiological dependence on the analgesia resulting
from the release of endogenous opioids that is stimulated by trauma. This
can lead to an active search for stressful stimuli in order to achieve a state of
soothing calm, even numbness. As the endogenous opioid effect recedes, the
organism suffers symptoms consistent with opioid withdrawal, including
anxiety or aggressive displays.
The trauma survivor's tendency toward hyperarousal stems in part, then,
from ongoing alterations in neurochemical operations. It is vital that the psy-
chodynamically oriented clinician appreciate these neurobiological sequelae
of trauma when treating patients who were sexually abused as children. The
trauma literature indicates, for instance, that psychopharmacological agents,
particularly some antidepressants, noradrenergic activity inhibitors, benzo­
diazepines, lithium, and carbamazepine, may help modulate the hyper- and
hypoarousal states of the adult trauma survivor (Silver, Sandberg, & Hales,
1990; van der Kolk & Greenberg, 1987). Such psychotropic intervention is
sometimes a necessary adjunct to psychodynamic psychotherapy that allows
the patient to modulate affective arousal enough to make more constructive
use of therapy.
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 31

Dissociation: The Impact of Trauma on the

Organization of Self
/
Dissociation, although affecting an individual's cognitive, affective, rela­
tional, and behavioral functioning, leads first and foremost to a disruption of
the organization of self. Unlike repression, which is a horizontal division
into conscious and unconscious mental contents, dissociation involves a ver­
tical splitting of the ego that results in two or more self states that are more
or less organized and independently functioning. These two or more ego
states alternate in consciousness and, under different internal and external
circumstances, emerge to think, behave, remember, and feel. Such dissoci­
ated states are unavailable to the rest of the personality and, as such, cannot
be subject to psychic operations of elaboration. They are likely to make their
presence felt via the emergence of recurrent intrusive images, violent or
symbolic enactments, inexplicable somatic sensations, recurrent nightmares,
anxiety reactions, and psychosomatic conditions.
Colin Ross (1989, p. 89) asserts that dissociation exists on a continuum
that includes what is normal biological (forgetting that one got up in the
middle of the night to go to the bathroom), normal psychosocial (day­
dreaming during a boring lecture), abnormal biological (amnesia after a
concussion), and abnormal psychosocial (amnesia for incest). It is abnormal
psychosocial dissociation as defined by Ross that commonly coexists with
trauma, including childhood sexual abuse.
Pierre Janet (1898) first linked trauma and dissociation almost 100 years
ago. Janet believed that memory was an act of creative integration by which
human beings organized, encoded, and categorized experiences into already
existing cognitive schemata (van der Kolk, Brown & Van der Hart, 1989).
Here is the early precursor of Piaget's bipolar dialectic between assimilation
and accommodation. When an event in a person's life was too bizarre, terri­
fying, or overstimulating to fit into such preexisting schemata, Janet believed
that it was split off from consciousness into a separate system of "fixed
ideas" (Janet, 1898). There they became incorporated into their own system
of organization, untouched or unmodulated by the rest of the individual's
experience.
With Freud's discovery of and emphasis on repression as the central de­
fense mechanism in neuroses, discussion of dissociation for the most part
faded after Janet. Although dissociation was mentioned occasionally over
the years (Dickes, 1965; Fairbairn, 1954; Fliess, 1953; Sullivan, 1956), it is only
recently that trauma researchers integrated the concept into a model of the
psychological regulatory processes evoked by trauma. Now, most trauma
writers (Braun, 1986; Figley, 1986; Green, Wilson, & Lindy, 1985; Herman,
1992; Hilgard, 1977; Kluft, 1990b; Putnam, 1989; Spiegel, 1986; Van der Hart
& Horst, 1989; van der Kolk, 1987; Wilson, Smith, & Johnson, 1985) view ab­
32 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

normal psychosocial dissociation as defined by Ross (1989) as a hallmark of

trauma. In fact, van der Kolk & Kadish (1987) state that "Except when re­
lated to brain injury, dissociation always seems to be a response to traumatic
life events" (p. 185).
Richard Kluft (1984) and Braun and Sachs (1985) propose similar etiologi­
cal models of dissociation. First, the individual is likely to have some biopsy-
chological predisposition to dissociate. This is akin to innate hypnotizability.
Next, these researchers suggest that there is a severely traumatic life event
with which the individual attempts to cope through dissociation. Kluft
(1984) stipulates that severe dissociation indicates that the traumatized per­
son engaged in ongoing dissociative activities after the initial trauma and
that the environment failed to provide sufficient restorative experiences to
intervene in continued dissociation. Braun and Sachs (1985), in their discus­
sion of severe dissociation, state that the initial trauma is followed by other
traumatic events that chain the dissociated experiences affectively.
David Spiegel (1986) offers another compelling etiological factor in disso­
ciation certainly at work in the incestuous family. Spiegel cites the double
bind as a powerful generator of dissociative phenomena in the individual
predisposed to this psychic mechanism. In a double bind, the family issues a
primary injunction to the child that is utterly contradicted by a second, more
subtle injunction; finally the child is prohibited from openly addressing the
contradiction (Spiegel, 1986, p. 67). In essence, the child is directed to "be­
come two contradictory people simultaneously" (p. 69) and, furthermore, is
made to understand that there can be no comment on this demand.
Dissociation, suggests Spiegel, allows the child to become, in fact, two sepa­
rately functioning people without being conscious of the contradiction.
It is clear that a child faced with ongoing sexual abuse and who is devel­
opmentally predisposed to dissociate exists in a world consistent with the
models proposed by Kluft (1984), Braun and Sachs (1985), and Spiegel
(1986). There is a triggering traumatic event—the first episode of sexual
abuse—that is repeated over time in a family environment that all too often
fails to restoratively provision the victim. Rather, the family double binds
the child by insisting that she simultaneously become a demure "good girl"
and a sultry sexual partner to the perpetrator and further enjoins her not to
know about or point out the contradictory demands. The child in this situa­
tion employs dissociation during the abusive assaults and often, over time,
resorts to this now tried-and-true mechanism whenever she wishes or needs
to escape an aversive reality. We see this most dramatically in patients who,
generally submissive, depressed, and inhibited, in a dissociated state enact
wildly aggressive or sexually provocative behavior and later have no or only
hazy memories of their seemingly ego alien activities. Here, we find a pa­
tient quite literally divided, self-state against self-state. This patient is unable
to achieve ordinary self-consciousness, for to do so would unleash long
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 33

warded-off terror, rage, and desperate helplessness associated with the early
sexual traumas. In fact, the trauma literature (Spiegel, 1986) suggests that it
is often only when the adult survivor can stand to reenter the affective state
of primitive confusion, sense of impending annihilation, and utter helpless­
ness that the memories of traumatic events can be reclaimed, symbolically
encoded for the first time, and integrated into the consciousness of the adult
patient.

Relational Sequelae of Trauma

The trauma survivor's capacity to form and maintain relationships, particu­

larly intimate ones, is limited by the long-term effects of trauma. Trauma
writers suggest that these interpersonal deficits are linked to the survivor's
identity diffusion and tendency to react to others based on expectations
forged during the trauma.
Mitchell Young (1988) describes the "inert identity" of the trauma sur­
vivor, saying, "The inert identity is composed of separation, disintegration,
and stasis and is not able to experience connection, integrity, and move­
ment" (p. 39). Adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse indeed often con­
form to Young's depiction of inert identity. Although they may have
painstakingly constructed a public persona that is superficially friendly, vi­
brant, and efficacious, this identity is experienced as inauthentic and extraor­
dinarily fragile. Just below the surface of this often impressively functioning
veneer, the trauma survivor is trapped in an inner world of fragmentation,
dissociation, terror, and rage. Often frightened that others will discover the
hidden truths about them, trauma survivors, including patients with histo­
ries of sexual abuse, remain essentially disconnected from others. As Young
points out, these patients are frozen in time, unable to flexibly respond to
present-day relational demands and opportunities.
In addition to interpersonal problems emanating from trauma survivors'
diffuse identities is their tendency to form a "traumatic transference"
(Spiegel, 1986, p. 72) to others, including the therapist. Within a traumatic
transference, the trauma survivor may exhibit rapidly shifting relational pos­
tures, ranging from extreme dependency and vicious abuse to stark terror or
cold aloofness that lead to chaotic interpersonal relationships or isolation.
Real mutuality and intimacy bom of shared authenticity are impaired.
The trauma survivor's capacity for relational intimacy is also disrupted
by the symptoms of PTSD, including affective swings between hyperarousal
and psychic numbing. Finally, the sexual abuse survivor's tendency to expe­
rience disorganizing flashbacks, especially during sexual engagement with a
partner with whom the patient has grown emotionally close, renders inti­
macy painfully difficult to achieve.
34 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The Effects of Trauma on Behavior

Perhaps the most dramatic manifestation of trauma is the survivor's reenact­

ment of traumatic events through self-destructive actions. The patient with a
history of psychological trauma frequently presents with a truly spectacular
array of self-damaging behaviors, ranging from nonlethal forms of compul­
sive self-abuse to acute and persistent suicidality. Traumatized patients fre­
quently cling tenaciously to these behaviors, which seem, for a long time,
impervious to therapeutic intervention. Although psychoanalysis provides
various important dynamic understandings of traumatic reenactments, the
trauma literature offers a psychobiological explanation of the addiction to
ongoing trauma.
As already noted, animal research indicates that the security of a child's
early attachments affects the endogenous opioid system, with insecure at­
tachment resulting in decreased brain opioid activity. In addition, high lev­
els of stress have been found to activate the opioid systems of animals (Amir,
Brown, & Amit, 1980; Miczek, Thompson, & Shuster, 1982). Van der Kolk
(1989) concludes that, partially as a result of the attachment deficits and
chronic hyperarousal that come with child abuse, adult survivors may re­
quire higher external stimulation of the endogenous opioid system to coun­
teract hyperarousal and achieve a state of calm. They therefore develop a
chemical and psychological addiction to exposure to the traumatic situations
that in some ways mimics the drug addict's. According to van der Kolk
(1989) such enactments as self-mutilation produce an altered state of con­
sciousness that calms and soothes the trauma survivor. Furthermore, termi­
nating situations reminiscent of the original trauma(s) may engender with­
drawal symptoms not unlike those experienced by the addict. This addictive
quality, combined with the temporary tranquilizing effectiveness of self­
abuse or other traumatic reenactments, contribute to the intractability of the
trauma survivor's enacting behavior.
In addition to compulsive repetition of trauma, the neurobiologically me­
diated shifts from hyperarousal to psychic numbing result in seemingly un­
predictable changes in behavior. When hyperaroused, a normally placid,
even withdrawn, patient may become openly aggressive, verbally assaulting
the therapist and others or motorically discharging affect (e.g., by throwing
things or stamping feet). The same patient, when psychically numb, may be­
come rigid, withdrawn, and virtually unresponsive to attempts to make con­
tact. Finally, a patient whose use of dissociation results in severe fragmenta­
tion of the ego may exhibit very different behaviors when another self-state
emerges. For instance, a usually conservatively dressed, well coiffed patient
who usually sits poised on the couch may suddenly muss her hair and curl
into a ball when in a more primitively organized self state.
The trauma literature enhances our understanding of the adult survivor
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 35

of childhood sexual abuse by providing a psychobiological conceptualiza­

tion of symptoms and by empahsizing the pervasive impact of trauma on
every aspect of a patient's functioning. The empirical and clinical sexual
abuse literature offers convergent data, specifically on the epidemiology and
sequelae of childhood sexual abuse.

The Sexual Abuse Literature

Before the mid-1970s, one would be hard-pressed to find convergent data on

the incidence of sexual abuse in this country. Now, thanks to the pioneering
efforts of such epidemiologists as David Finkelhor (1984), Diana Russell
(1986), and Gail Wyatt (1985), we know that approximately one-third of all
women are sexually abused before the age of 18. Of these, about 43% have
been incestuously abused before they turned 18 years old. These numbers
mean that over 20 million American females have had a sexually abusive ex­
perience before adulthood, often at the hands of a loved and trusted relative.
If these statistics are shocking, the stories behind the numbers are often hor­
rifying. One patient, Corinne, describes her experiences: "When I was 6, my
grandfather abused me along with three of my cousins. He was really sick—
he'd lock us in an old shed in the heat, then rape us one by one while the
others watched. One of my cousins finally told her mother who put a stop to
it. When we got home from a family meeting about the whole thing, my fa­
ther had sex with me. He said I was already broken in for him. He had inter­
course with me at least every week until I married my first husband at 16."
Who are these adults that turn to children to gratify their own unmet
needs? Researchers to date emphasize that perpetrators identified in their
studies are mostly male., There are, however, differences between the
abusers most commonly identified by women in clinical versus nonclinical
samples. Both Russell (1986) and Briere and Runtz (1988), for example, ex­
amined nonclinical samples and determined that the majority of women re­
porting histories of childhood sexual abuse cited extrafamilial perpetrators
as their abusers. As there are empirical data suggesting a correlation be­
tween intrafamilial abuse, particularly parental incest, and later symptoma­
tology (Briere & Runtz, 1988), it is not surprising to find that more women in
clinical samples report having been incestuously abused (Jehu, 1988).
The sexual abuse of a child may begin as early as infancy or as late as ado­
lescence. Latency is the period usually cited for the beginning of abuse with
the reported average age of onset ranging from 6 to 10 years old (Briere &
Runtz, 1988; Frawley, 1988; Jehu, 1988). Like others (Courtois, 1988; Russell,
1986), we suspect that the actual age of onset may be even younger; earlier
abuse may be blocked out by the child. This belief is strengthened by wit­
nessing the recovery of very early abusive memories during intensive psy­
36 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

chodynamic therapy. Gina, for example, presented to treatment knowing

that her uncle had sexually molested her from ages 7 to 14. Over the course
of therapy, however, she recovered memories of her father molesting her
when she was 5 years old. Gina's case is not particularly unusual; we have
found that women frequently remember during treatment earlier experi­
ences of abuse than those with which they present.
Although sexual abuse may be a one-time occurrence, it more often ex­
tends over time (Courtois, 1988; Frawley, 1988; Jehu, 1988). Data suggest that
for many children the sexual violation of their minds and bodies is a relent­
lessly frequent experience that continues for many years.
Childhood sexual victimization comprises activities across a spectrum of
severity. Russell (1986) provides a hierarchy of sex abuse severity into which
specific activities can be classified:

Very severe sexual abuse. Attempted or completed, forcible or nonforcible,

genital or anal intercourse, fellatio, cunnilingus, analingus.
Severe sexual abuse. Attempted or completed, forcible or nonforcible, manual
touching or penetration, simulated intercourse, or breast contact (un­
clothed).
Least severe sexual abuse. Forcible or nonforcible sexual kissing, intentional
sexual touching of buttocks, thighs, legs, or clothed breasts and genitals.

Among clinical samples, over 60% of the patients report having been
abused at the very severe level as defined by Russell (Frawley, 1988; Jehu,
1988).
At times, sexual abuse can be violent as well as severe, as with Louisa,
whose father began raping her when she was 6 years old. Whenever Louisa
struggled or made a sound, her father choked her until she could no longer
breathe. He also threatened to cut his daughter's tongue out if she ever told
anyone about the incest, and he showed her the knife he would use.
The sexually abused child or adolescent, whose psychic and physical in­
tegrity are regularly violated, usually suffers her pain and rage in silence.
Secrecy is the cornerstone of sex abuse; it is imposed by the perpetrator with
threats and promises that ensure the child's acquiesence. However, most
sexually abused children and teenagers cannot negotiate the developmental
tasks and interpersonal relationships appropriate for their ages without in
some ways betraying that all is not as it should be. Until recently, there was
no compendium of symptoms that could alert parents, teachers, physicians,
and therapists to the possibility that a child or adolescent might be a victim
of sexual abuse or that an adult patient might have once been a victim.
Today, thanks to the sexual abuse literature (Bagley & Ramsay, 1986; Briere,
1988; Briere & Runtz, 1986; Courtois, 1988; Fromuth, 1986; Gold, 1986; Jehu,
1988; Surrey, Swett, Michaels, & Levine, 1990), we do know the signs and
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 37

symptoms of childhood sexual abuse. Familiarity with these alerts an adult

survivor's therapist to the possibility of past childhood sexual victimization
when they are disclosed during history taking.
Table 2.1 presents the symptoms of sexual abuse likely to be seen in a
preadolescent child. The table suggests that being sexually abused affects
every realm of a child's life. Table 2.2 summarizes the adolescent symptoms
of sex abuse that, as in childhood, reflect contamination of every aspect of a
teenager's functioning. Table 2.3 delineates the signs of childhood sexual
abuse commonly found among adult survivors. Of course, no 6ne symptom,
or even the presence of several symptoms, necessarily indicates past abuse;
rather, it is the overall picture of symptomatology and character structure
that can alert the clinician to the possibility that a patient is a survivor of
childhood sexual abuse.

TABLE 2.1
Childhood Symptoms of Sexual Abuse

Changes in School Performance

Falling grades
Decreased interest in school
Difficulty concentrating
School phobia

Chronic Physical Complaints for Which No Medical Causes Are Found

Headaches
Gastrointestinal problems
Oral, anal, or vaginal infections
Urinary tract infections
Nonspecific aches and pains-

Sexualized or Seductive Behavior

Compulsive masturbation
Inappropriate sexual behavior toward others
Exhibitionism

Return to Regressive Behavior

Thumbsucking
Drinking from a bottle
Bedwetting
Soiling

Sleep Disturbances
Insomnia
Sleep walking
Nightmares, night terrors
 TABLE 2.2
Adolescent Symptoms of Sexual Abuse

Continued School Problems

Noninvolvement in extracurricular activities
Truancy
Fear of speaking in class

Continued Physical Complaints

Menstrual Problems
Shame or fear about menses
Severe cramps
Depression during menses
Pain or fear while inserting a tampon
Inability to insert a tampon because of vaginal muscle contractions

Weight or Body Image Problems

Excessive weight gain at puberty
Discomfort with and disgust about the body
Embarrassment or disgust at the development of secondary sex characteristics
Distorted view of body, especially of stomach as huge or bulging

Anorexia or Bulimia

Continued Sleep Disturbances

Problems with Sex/Intimacy

Promiscuity
Prostitution
Adolescent pregnancy
Adolescent marriage
Complete avoidance of boys and dating

Impulsive Behavior
Running away
Drug and alcohol abuse
Self-mutilation
Stealing

Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempts

 TABLE 2.3
Adult Symptoms of Childhood Sexual Abuse
. —
Amnesia for All or Specific Periods of Childhood

Physical Complaints
Migraine headaches
Gastrointestinal problems
TMJ (temporomandibular joint) disorder
Ulcers
Gynecological difficulties

Sleep Disturbances
Nightmares
Insomnia
Fear of the dark
Fear of someone breaking into the house at night

Sexual Dysfunction
Physiological dysfunction
Arousal disorder
Vaginismus
Anorgasmia
Dyspareunia
Sexual anesthesia
Aversion to men
Promiscuity
Prostitution
Intense shame at self as sexual being

Other Symptoms
Anorexia or bulimia; compulsive overeating
Distorted body image
Shame during pregnancy; feeling that it is "wrong" to be pregnant
Parenting problems, especially with daughters
Self-mutilation
Suicidal ideation; suicide attempts
Low self-esteem
Chronic, free-floating guilt
Chronic shame
Depression
Subjective feeling of being wholly, inherently bad
Subjective feeling of not belonging, not fitting in, being different
Difficulty trusting others, particularly men
Social alienation or isolation, or compulsive socializing and a need to please
PTSD symptoms
History of adult rape, sexual and/or physical victimizations
Chronic dissociation
40 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Research in the area of childhood sexual abuse is still young; the majority
of the literature in the field has been published only within the last 15 years.
For a long time, studies, mostly drawn from clinical samples, simply listed
symptoms reported by adult survivors without verifying the discriminative
power of these markers. More recently, an emergence of research has pro­
vided data successfully differentiating abused from nonabused women on
the basis of certain symptom clusters (Bagley & Ramsay, 1986; Briere, 1988;
Briere & Runtz, 1986,1988; Gold, 1986; Surrey et al., 1990). These studies in­
dicate that, as more sophisticated, methodologically impressive research is
conducted on the long-term effects of childhood sexual abuse, it becomes
clearer that women who were sexually abused as children give evidence of
specific symptoms and behaviors that are correlated with their histories of
abuse and that set them apart from women who have no abuse histories.

Diagnostic Considerations: Post-Traumatic

Stress Disorder and Borderline Pathology

Psychological trauma survivors, including adult survivors of childhood sex­

ual abuse, elicit a number of diagnoses on both Axis I and Axis II of the
DSM-III-R (American Psychiatric Association, 1987). The affective disrup­
tions stemming from the patient's tendency to shift from hyperarousal and
psychic numbing often warrant an Axis I mood disorder or anxiety diagno­
sis. The cognitive symptoms, combined with the patient's use of dissocia­
tion, can lead to diagnoses of various dissociative disorders and to the misdi­
agnosis of psychotic conditions. Patients are also often assigned such Axis II
diagnoses as histrionic personality disorder, schizotypal personality disor­
der, and, very often, borderline personality disorder.
Recently, trauma and sexual abuse researchers have begun to investigate
a specific diagnostic issue that has profound implications for psychodynami-
cally oriented clinicians: the relationship between early trauma and adult
borderline pathology. It also addresses the possible overlap between PTSD
and what traditionally has been conceptualized as borderline personality
disorder, or borderline ego organization (Kemberg, 1984). These studies
(Herman, Perry, & van der Kolk, 1989; Perry, Herman, van der Kolk, &
Hoke, 1990; Saunders, 1991; Shearer, Peters, Quaytman, & Ogden, 1990;
Stone, 1990; Stone, Unwin, Beacham, & Swenson, 1989) suggest that many
patients assigned a borderline diagnosis report, when asked, histories of
early trauma and, conversely, that many patients who report actual child­
hood trauma show borderline pathology. For instance, Herman (1989) found
that 81% of patients who met criteria for borderline personality disorder
gave histories of major childhood trauma, including childhood sexual abuse;
this was significantly higher than for patients diagnosed with only border-
 Long-Term Sequelae and Diagnosis of Childhood Sexual Abuse 41

line traits or with no borderline pathology. Ross (1989) goes as far as to say
that "borderlines don't have either personality disorders or psychoses: They
have chronic trauma disorder" (p. 149). '
Research on this crucial diagnostic clarification is in its infancy, and con­
clusive results await us only in the future. These early studies certainly sug­
gest, however, that we consider the possibility that patients presenting with
borderline pathology are, in fact, suffering from the sequelae of early
trauma. At this point, we can examine a well-accepted psychodynamic diag­
nostic model of borderline ego organization (Kemberg, 1984) to determine if
these diagnostic criteria are compatible with a view of borderline pathology
as etiologically linked to early trauma.
Otto Kemberg (1984) proposes a model for differentiating between neu­
rotic, borderline, and psychotic ego structures. Patients in the borderline
range of ego functioning, as stipulated by Kemberg, have symptoms and psy­
chological regulatory mechanisms consistent with those described in much of
the literature on borderline pathology (Gunderson, 1984; Masterson, 1976;
Meissner, 1988; Searles, 1986; Volkan, 1987). What we find on closer examina­
tion, however, is that these patients also conform to the description of trauma
survivors emerging from the trauma literature.
One of the primary diagnostic criteria in Kemberg's model is the extent to
which the borderline patient presents with identity diffusion, defined as an
inability to integrate contradictory representations of self and other. This
kind of identity diffusion is completely consistent with the disturbances in
identity and object relations described in the trauma literature, as emanating
from the traumatized individuals' use of dissociation, their inert identities
(Young, 1988), and their tendency to form traumatic transferences to others
(Spiegel, 1990).
The next criterion for the diagnosis of borderline ego structure is the de­
fensive constellation of the patient. Borderlines are said to use primarily
"low-level defenses" (Kemberg, 1984), such as splitting, projection, projec­
tive identification, denial, primitive idealization and devaluation, omnipo­
tence, and acting out. Dissociation could be added. All of these defenses in­
corporate some aspect of splitting, which is an adaptive and necessary
defense for the trauma victim. The trauma literature is clear that repression
is insufficient to cope with the overwhelming assault on the ego embodied
by psychological trauma, especially child abuse. Other defenses, based on
splitting, are required for the trauma victim to survive; they are the only
methods by which the victim can preserve some semblance of good self and
other representations.
Another diagnostic criterion of borderline pathology is the patient's usu­
ally intact reality testing that falters under increasing internal or external
stress or decreasing environmental structure. Once again, we find compati­
bility here with the trauma survivor's tendency to shift between usually ac­
42 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

curate reality testing and a loss of that capacity under stress, especially when
internal or external stimuli trigger the emergence of warded-off memories of
traumatic events. These lapses often correspond to the appearance of a
wildly terrified, desperately confused, primitively organized dissociated ego
state that is frozen in time in a traumatized condition.
Kemberg also describes "nonspecific" manifestations of ego weakness as­
sociated with borderline pathology: an intolerance for anxiety, poor impulse
control, deficits in the ability to sublimate, and a lack of superego integration
marked by primitively sadistic and highly idealized object representations.
All of these markers of borderline pathology are also compatible with indi­
cators of psychological trauma. The survivor's tendency to regress when hy­
peraroused is akin to the anxiety intolerance described here. Similarly, the
borderline patient's poor impulse control can be conceptualized as the
trauma victim's neurobiologically driven addiction to ongoing traumatic
stimulation as well as their tendency to relate to others via a traumatic trans­
ference that elicits dramatic "flight or fight" behaviors. Sublimatory ineffec­
tiveness, likewise, is consistent with the traumatized patient's bifurcated
fantasy life, in which sublimatory mental activity is at times foreshortened
by overwhelming, unsymbolized memories and fantasy elaborations of ear­
lier abuse. Finally, the unintegrated superego of the borderline patient fits a
model of trauma in which the survivor is dominated by internalized sadistic
objects defensively offset by highly idealized compensatory objects.
Current research does not allow us to conclude that all borderlines are re­
ally trauma survivors or that all adult trauma survivors exhibit borderline
ego structure. However, the available research, combined with the diagnostic
symmetry between criteria for borderline pathology and chronic PTSD com­
pel us to consider that the borderline patient before us may be a survivor of
early psychological trauma. Herman et al.'s (1989) studies, in fact, suggest
that the more severely borderline the patient, the more likely it is that early
trauma took place. The possibility that a borderline patient has a history of
actual trauma should therefore be seriously considered. Practitioners can
question these patients about early traumatic events, including childhood
sexual abuse, and can attend to derivatives, dreams, and, especially, transfer­
ence and countertransference phenomena with an openness to their trau­
matic roots.
 /

CHAPTER 3

An Integrative Model of
Childhood Sexual Abuse

N THIS CHAPTER we move from the theoretical and experimental to the

I
clinical and attempt to organize what we have learned from reviewing
both the psychoanalytic and the contemporary research literature into an
integrated model for the psychoanalytic treatment of adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse. We focus on the pervasive developmental arrests
and defensive accommodations that manifest themselves in the emergence
of particular recurrent clinical phenomena woven as leitmotifs thoughout
the therapeutic process, as well as the particular sequelae of chronic child­
hood trauma whose dramatic effects often disorganize therapist and patient
alike, foreclosing prematurely on the therapeutic process and its promise for
change.
From the extensive literature on posttraumatic and delayed, posttraumatic
stress reactions, it is clear that such a severe and chronic trauma as childhood
sexual abuse exerts a defining influence on all aspects—cognitive, emotional,
behavioral, and relational—of the adult survivor's internal organization and
understanding of the world. Most powerfully affected is the adult patient's
organization of self and object representations. The often mutually incompat­
ible representations of parent as perpetrator and otherwise loving other, as
well as the polar experiences of self which grow up around such disparate
object representations come to be tolerated and ultimately internalized via
the defensive process of dissociation. Though we are respectful of the enor­
mous contribution made by trauma researchers, without whose understand­
ing of the traumatic process effective treatment would be impossible, we re­
main sceptical that the kinds of "cathartic" and "abreactive" treatment
suggestions which grow out of some of this literature can be sufficient in ac­
complishing the kinds of internal changes we deem necessary. If one of the
goals of treatment is to help the patient to understand the way in which his or
her particular internal organization of self and object images makes its pres­
44 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

ence felt in the difficult external world of interpersonal relationships, some­

thing way beyond the abreactive recovery of traumatic memory is required.
It is our belief that it is only within a relational-psychoanalytically oriented
framework, that the full complexity of the human .mind and its remarkable
adaptation to abuse can come to be appreciated. It is within this model that
symbols, fantasies, ego disruptions, and experiences of abandonment and be­
trayal are shaped and given meaning by dint of their function and signifi­
cance within a system of complex self-object configurations. Here complex re­
lational patterns—current, transferential, and past—provide the key to
understanding the particular systems of self- and object-related imagery
through which the patient organizes experience; the dissociation employed to
prevent the traumatic memories and their associated fantasies from infiltrat­
ing and poisoning more benign representations; and the splitting, projection,
and projective identifications that are the hallmarks of the adult survivors'
internal object world and current interpersonal difficulties.

Four Points of Interface

There are four particular areas of interface where trauma theory can help to
illuminate the psychoanalytic process with adult survivors of childhood sex­
ual abuse and the kinds of clinical adjustments that may become necessary
in the course of treatment.

The Symbolic Encoding of Traumatic Memory

A classical approach to traumatic memory deemphasizes the importance
of the actual sexual abuse itself, stressing instead the primacy of meaning
with which these events become imbued for the particular individual. Here
it is the system of fantasies that grows up around experiences of abuse, the
way in which such experiences reactivate and intensify earlier pregenital,
primarily sadomasochistic organizations of fantasy and experience that are
of primary importance.
In contrast, however, trauma research informs us that the more over­
whelming the actual experiences of sexual abuse are, that is, the more sadis­
tic the forms of abuse, the earlier the age of onset, the more central the rela­
tionship between victim and perpetrator, the more overwhelmed and
disorganized the patient will become. Such a view, which stresses the trau­
matic overwhelming of the ego, implies dysfunctions in all areas of psycho­
logical organization—affective, cognitive, and self-regulatory. Here the orga­
nizing, synthesizing, symbolizing functions of the ego are overstimulated
and flooded, both by the psychological regression precipitated by childhood
abuse and by the physiologically mediated hyperreactivity secondary to ex­
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 45

periences of childhood terror. These experiences thus become ones of unfor­

mulated experiential chaos. With no self-reflective observing ego to provide
even the rudiments of containment, meaning, and structure to the traumatic
events, the child exists in a timeless, objectless, and selfless nightmare of un­
ending pain, isolation, and ultimately psychic dissolution. Memories of such
abuse, when they do return, do so only in the form of intrusive idetic im­
agery, radical and inexplicable mood shifts, somatically experienced symp­
tomatology, panic attacks, and so on. One patient's recovery of early abuse
memories began with repeated episodes of midnight awakenings in which
she felt that she was choking on some "horrid liquid substance" that she
"could neither swallow nor bring up." Another patient had recurring images
of a man standing menacingly at her door each night as she fell asleep. "It
seemed like a hallucination, yet I knew that I wasn't crazy. I had an over­
whelming sense of impending danger that I could not shake."
Embedded in the continuum between verbally encoded memory and
such unformulated experience is a fundamental question that cuts to the
core of a major therapeutic debate. Is the traumatic experience embedded in
a fantasy-imbued meaning that can be verbalized, experienced, and made
available to traditional psychoanalytic interpretation; or has the ego regres­
sion precipitated by trauma rendered symbolic functions inoperative? To the
extent that the traumatic experiences remain unsymbolized, they lie en­
crusted in a primitive core of unspeakable terror and phenomenologically
meaningless panic, intrusive ideation, and somatic sensation. As such, they
exist outside the usual domain of recalled experience, unavailable to self-
reflective processes and analytic examination. Only an approach that inte­
grates what we have come to understand about the symbolization and
encoding of traumatic memory within the framework of a relationally ori­
ented psychoanalytic approach can provide an arena for working through
such traumatic memories.

Dissociated Systems of Self and Object Representation

From a review of the trauma literature one comes away with an unshake­
able belief in the inextricable connection between recurrent childhood abuse
and the defensive process of dissociation. Although the concept of dissocia­
tion is reviewed in some detail in chapter 4, we wish to emphasize here the
enhancement one achieves by incorporating this concept within a psychoan­
alytic perspective. The research literature speaks of the dissociation of trau­
matic events and the memories of those events, which remain unintegrated
and unconnected with the remainder of the individual's experiences. Our in­
tegrative model stresses that it is not only the memory of specific traumatic
events that comes to be dissociated from other experiences but also the orga­
nization of mutually exclusive systems of self and object representations that
46 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

have been formed in relationship to such traumatic moments. It is only via

the reactivation of such dissociated systems of self and object representa­
tions that the therapist working with an adult survivor can help the patient
to integrate these otherwise inaccessible images that so influence his or her
interpersonal experience of the world. In other words, it is not only the
memories of specific abusive experiences that we should seek to integrate
more effectively but also each patient's multiple experiences of self as they
exist in relationship to defensively fragmented aspects of her internal object
world. Here is the contemporary analog to Janet's work on dissociation and
to our own current integrative approach to treating traumatogenic disorders.

Sudden Regressions and Experiences of Disorganization

The developmental literature, regardless of the particular psychoanalytic
orientation, presupposes that the consolidation of ego development and self
integrity begins around a secure attachment to a loving and protective other.
This attachment provides the secure base, the backdrop of safety, order, pre­
dictability, and control that allows the young child to begin his relationship
to our complex, dangerous, and oftentimes, overstimulating world. This se­
cure relationship becomes the haven from which young children draw their
confidence in their capacity to control external events; the omnipotence, if
you will, that potentiates the child's active engagement in what might other­
wise seem to be overwhelming developmental tasks. It is also the retreat to
which the child withdraws for soothing and comfort when that omnipotence
is challenged or thwarted by experiences of failure and frustration.
The intensity and primacy of this early parental bond and the develop­
mental chaos that accompanies its disruption have been well documented in
both human and primate research. Van der Kolk (1987) sees the loss of this
secure base as the "earliest and possibly most damaging psychological
trauma" (p. 32). From this point of view, it is both the parent who abuses
and the parent who fails to protect who are guilty of primary betrayal; of ab­
rogating essential and fundamental parental responsibility. Brandt Steele
(1986) stresses this point:

We are convinced, however, that the more significant element, at least from the
standpoint of production of psychological damage, is not the strength of the
stimuli themselves, but the failure of the protective shield which would enable
the psychic apparatus to assimilate or counteract the stimuli.... It is easier in
diagnosing traumatic maltreatment of children to count the bruises and frac­
tures or sexual assaults than it is to establish how much love, care, and protec­
tion was not there. Likewise, it is easier in treatment to describe past events of
physical and sexual trauma than it is to reconstruct the more significant but less
easily accessible deficits in the protective shield. This is especially difficult if
the abuser is at the same time a primary care giver (pp. 61-62).
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 47

Children deprived of this ongoing sense of well-being become anxiously

attached and fearful. Even the most severe abuse, paradoxically, intensifies,
rather than discourages, this desperate clinging behavior. Pynoos and Eth
(1985), who have written extensively on the manifestations of posttraumatic
stress disorders in abused children, make similar observations. They de­
scribe these children as unable to modulate aggression either toward others
or toward themselves. They note extensive self-destructive and self-mutilat­
ing behavior, perseverative, rhythmical attempts at self-soothing, cognitive
changes, time distortions, a tendency toward magical thinking, and a life­
long vulnerability to severe depressive episodes.
Certainly, adults who were sexually abused as children, particularly in
cases where such abuse was perpetrated by one or both parents, find it im­
possible to evoke the presence of loving and protective internal objects at
times when states of panic threaten acute regressive disorganization. As no
parent or loving other appeared to put an end to the nights of terror-filled
abuse, the adult survivor becomes unable to call upon internal representa­
tions of protective internal objects to help soothe, contain, and ultimately con­
trol flashback experiences of panic, disorganization, and physiologically me­
diated states of intense hyperarrousal. Indeed, the trauma literature would
warn us that survivors demonstrate a decreased ability to use symbolic men­
tal operations at all, and under the sway of such arousal and disorganization,
where mental processes fail, the trauma survivor becomes used to respond­
ing to threats or perceived threats via action rather than thought.
The same literature also informs us that even the most arbitrary events, be­
cause they were in the past associated with abusive situations, can trigger the
kinds of acute regressions about which we speak. When such triggers emerge
from the patient's experience of intense transference-countertransference
involvements, the object-related nature of the regression can make it appear
even more abrupt, intense, and disruptive. Thus, it is imperative that the clin­
ician working with an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse become
familiar and comfortable with the kinds of abrupt shifts, dramatic mood
changes, and disorganizing regressive episodes that become one of the defin­
ing hallmarks of this complex work. In the absence of any external or internal
loving and supportive objects, it is ultimately between patient and therapist
that this net of safety must be woven in order to allow for the unfolding and
emergence of such toxic and dangerous internal representations.

Hyperreactivity and Trauma Response to Arbitrary Stimuli

In chapter 2, we reviewed the biochemical changes that occur after early
and chronic childhood abuse. It is now well accepted within the trauma field
that such intense, "all-or-nothing" responses include generalized overreac­
tivity, startle responses, extreme irritability, nightmares, intrusive thoughts,
48 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

flashbacks to traumatic events through the evocation of state-dependent

memories, and ultimately the kind of regression and disorganization of
thought processes just described. Of particular importance in the clinical un­
derstanding and management of these symptoms is the finding that, in trau­
matic stress reactions, habituation to the original traumatic stimulus can
occur, and apparently neutral, yet associated stimuli come to elicit such trau­
matic response (van der Kolk, 1988). Certainly, this list of symptoms is famil­
iar to those working with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse and per­
haps with the broader category of patients we have become used to thinking
of as manifesting severe borderline pathology.
Clinical manifestations of these processes abound in work with adults
who were sexually abused as children. One patient would begin to tremble
and sweat at the mere taste of peanut butter. She reported feeling dizzy and
"fuzzy-headed"; unable to organize her thoughts following such exposure. It
was some time before the patient was able to fully understand this symp­
tom. Although peanut butter does not appear to be directly related to the in­
cestuous experiences between this patient and her father, peanut butter
sandwiches were the lunch they always shared on the days when her mother
left them alone together. It had thus become a simple, classically learned
conditioned stimulus, associatively linked with incestuous memories, evok­
ing a physiological response even before these memories were recovered in
treatment.
Such connections are invaluable to an understanding of the physiological
processes that connect psyche to soma. They help to explicate certain psy­
choanalytic explanations of this relationship, such as Joyce McDougall's con­
ceptualization of somatic symptomatology as rooted in the foreclosure of
symbolic representation (1989) or Henry Krystal's understanding of alex-
ithymia as the severence between affect and its representational links (1988).
Awareness of these symptoms is useful, too, in sensitizing us to the possible
presence of early traumatic experience. Patients with histories of trauma
often present with a multitude of startling and medically inexplicable so­
matic complaints. Such presentation or experiences of medical confusion
and undiagnosable symptomatalogy should alert the clinician to the possi­
bility of childhood abuse in the patient's history.

The Clinical Presentation of

Traumatic Childhood Abuse

Moving from theory and research to clinical practice, one can cull from these
four perspectives an integrated-relational point of view—a composite pic­
ture, if you will, of adult survivors of traumatogenic childhood abuse as they
present for treatment.
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 49

Preeminent in the clinical presentation of adult survivors is the juxtaposi­

tion of what appears to be rather primitive, intrusive, and disruptive symp­
tomatology in otherwise functional, often highly successful individuals. This
is likely to be the first derivative of the underlying dissociative processes
that the clinician is likely to observe—one that often gives rise to diagnostic
mystification. It is not uncommon for adult survivors to present with a laun­
dry list of prior diagnoses that are wide-ranging, contradictory, and confus­
ing to those not familiar with this population. The first clinical vignette at the
end of this section describes a patient who was diagnosed by her former
therapist as "paranoid schizophrenic with borderline features"! In extended
consultation, these patients may be dramatically different from day to day;
even from minute to minute, with different levels of ego organization appar­
ent at different points in time, always in different emotional and relational
contexts.
Because they are usually highly functional individuals who perpetually
totter on the brink of evoking their dissociated world of primitive, paranoid,
or chaotic experience, these patients are frightened, rigid, and often hyper­
vigilant. They must always remain cognizant of any interpersonal, transfer-
ential, or environmental triggers to their dissociative experience. They ap­
pear always ready to flee the session at a moment's notice in what one can
regard to be the clinical manifestation of fright/flight/freeze reactions com­
mon to trauma survivors. They are cautious about what they say to the ana­
lyst. They choose their words carefully. It is difficult, if not impossible, for
them to play. Often, they are distraught, bordering on the hysterical.
Adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse usually present as either
highly emotional and reactive to internal and external stimuli; or as emotion­
ally cold, detached, split off, even dead. Here both extremes speak to their
inability to modulate affective responses; in one case, the reaction is
markedly avoidant; at the other extreme, such a defense cannot be mar­
shaled. The clinical picture is quite different, but both patients act in re­
sponse to their own vulnerability to regressive, disorganizing, traumatic
reenactment. In one case, the patient is perpetually in crisis, moving from
one terrifying reenactment to another with only brief respites in between. In
the other, the patient feels herself to be constantly avoiding the ultimate fall
into chaos, disorganization, psychosis. There is a dim awareness that on the
other side of emotional deadness lies a searing and uncontrollable pain. Such
patients often present dreams of falling through bottomless holes, having the
earth open beneath their feet, being swallowed up into some unknown and
limitless place, and so on. Our patients are terrified of the couch, prolonged
silences, vague therapeutic responses, or any other such technique that hur­
tles them, out of control, into an objectless state. As they have not yet learned
to play with thoughts and ideas, they cannot allow their images of self and
other to wander freely. Boundaries are either nonexistent or rigidly main­
50 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tained. Terror is concrete, and transferentially the analyst is always on the

brink of becoming the abusing or abused other, with the patient playing the
complementary role. Of course, such depictions represent the extremes, and
often this very dissociation allows one aspect of the patient's persona to in­
teract in a lively, playful, and emotionally responsive way. However, one is
always aware with adult survivors of the hypervigilance that controls access
to the interior, guarding the dissociated, abused child from further painful
entanglements.
Also common is a history replete with confusing somatic symptoms, un­
diagnosable illnesses, hospitalizations, and invasive but inconclusive med­
ical procedures. Frequently, these patients show signs of noticeable physio­
logical distress, even during the initial consultation. Trembling, hand
shaking, sweating, blushing, excessive belching or flatulence, vulnerability
to temperature changes in the therapist's office, and so on can all be present­
ing parts of the clinical picture. Such histories and such presentations reflect,
in our opinion, the confluence of three different factors: the physiological
changes secondary to histories of severe abuse; the fact that specific abuse
memories are often encoded in specific somatic states that recur with regu­
larity, particularly at times of acute stress; and, finally, the fact that invasive
medical procedures (like addictive acts of self-abuse) represent reenactments
of the painful, intrusive, sexual abuse.
Let us turn to three very different case descriptions that will illustrate
some of the phenomena discussed. Each is the description of a patient pre­
senting for an initial consultation. In each case, the patient turned out to be a
survivor of childhood sexual abuse.

Case 1

Melissa was 22 at the time of her initial consultation, although she ap­
peared to be no older than 15. She was casually, almost sloppily, dressed
in jeans and a tom tee shirt. Speaking exclusively in a little girl whisper,
she had a helpless, almost pathetic, waiflike quality that made the analyst
imagine that the wind had blown her in and might soon sweep her up and
blow her out. She cried continuously during the initial consultation, trem­
bling excessively and sweating profusely. She would blush noticeably
whenever direct eye contact was maintained. Melissa's mother was dying,
and her current therapist was on the verge of moving out of state and dis­
continuing treatment. The patient described a history of dysfunctional
family interactions, ongoing contact with youth groups and counselors
that she herself had sought out, and minor skirmishes with drug and alco­
hol abuse, as well as dangerous sexual promiscuity and illegal acting-out.
Melissa felt desperate and suicidal. She begged the analyst to accept her
for treatment, saying that she "would do anything if you take me."
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 51

A startlingly different Melissa arrived for her next session. She came
dressed in a tailored and sophisticated business suit, with her previously
curly and unruly hair swept up away from'her face. She was appropri­
ately made up, projecting a stunning impression. She spoke in a deeper
and more resonant voice, and the analyst was struck with the change in
both her vocabulary and the depth of her thought processes. When asked
about the same issues she had discussed two days before, her emotional
reactions were strikingly different. For instance, where she had been dis­
solved in tears about her mother's imminent death on Monday, on
Wednesday she replied, "I always hated my mother and she hated me....
She's a bitch. ... I don't expect I'll miss her much.... I only cried the
other day because that's what you're supposed to do when your mother
is dying." Also of note on Wednesday was the fact that the patient had
much less access to childhood memories than she had revealed on
Monday. Her recollections were more anecdotal and her emotional avail­
ability far more restricted.
After recovering from her own shock, the analyst commented on how
different the patient seemed that day. Melissa laughed, for the first time
in that session, rather heartily and explained as if it was the most natural
thing in the world, "Oh, that was on Monday.... I'm little on Monday,
because I don't go to school or work.... You saw me in my play
clothes.... Today you get the grown-up me." The patient then described
what she had not mentioned previously, that she held a very responsible
job and was currently working on her applications to medical school. She
explained that she knew her mother would be dead by then and that,
with the inheritance she would receive, she could easily afford to be a
full-time student!
Melissa's former therapist described her in a phone conversation as "a
paranoid schizophrenic woman with borderline features." The former
therapist appeared to be trying to integrate divergent personal experi­
ences of this patient by employing a diagnostic label that itself made no
sense. This struggle can clearly be a formidable one—and may go far in
explaining the frequent history of such wild diagnoses in the presentation
of adult survivors.

Case 2

Emily was a married, 34-year-old mother of three children ages 2, 6, and

9. She had been hospitalized following a serious suicide attempt and was
referred for treatment after her discharge. She had a long history of recur­
rent depression beginning in early adolescence. She described her family
as alternately emotionally abusive or neglectful and absent and would or
could say little else about them. There had been one other suicide attempt
52 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

at age 16 and a brief hospitalization at this time. The suicide attempt had
been attributed to the breakup of a high school love affair, but the patient
remembers that, "there was something else at the time . .. something I
can't quite remember. I'm not sure that I knew exactly what it was then
either, but it was there, and I thought that I couldn't bear to deal with it. I
remember I tried to tell my therapist in the hospital. It had something to
do with my father. I remember that he laughed and said that I was being
dramatic and looking for attention. I don't know, but it was the oddest
thing ... because no one in my family ever asked me why I tried to kill
myself. If your kid did something like that, wouldn't you at least ask her
why?"
Emily survived her college years in what could only be considered as a
drug- and alcohol-induced stupor, moving from one promiscuous and
dangerous sexual affair to another. These relationships were always
tinged with aggression and involved overt sadomasochistic enactments.
Although bright, she barely passed her course work and would have
dropped out of college had she not met her present husband at the end of
her junior year. She recalled in that initial consultation how good he was
to her: "He was the only good person in my life ... he took care of me,
and I was really able to clean up my act for a few years. I knew that there
was no way he could tolerate the person I had been . .. that dirty, evil
thing."
In the context of this relationship, and with the help of antidepressants
and tranquilizers, Emily was able to live a reasonably comfortable life
over the next several years. She viewed her husband as "her rescuer" and
believed that marriage and a family would put her nightmare of parental
neglect and self-induced suffering to an end. Indeed, her husband seemed
to identify with his role of savior; he was tender and attentive; deter­
mined to save the wounded little girl he sensed beneath the surface of his
wife's chaotic life story. With the birth of their children, however, his at­
tentions were drawn more and more away from his wife in their dyadic
relationship into the ongoing stresses and demands of fatherhood and
family life. Emily grew more and more enraged at what she experienced
as his abandonment, becoming slowly and inexorably more symptomatic.
She became more severely depressed, this time plagued with recurrent
panic attacks that ultimately kept her confined to the house on most days.
She suffered from persistent nightmares from which she would awake
sweating, hyperventilating, and terrified. She remembered almost noth­
ing of the contents of these dreams, except that they were violent and that
she was in extreme danger.
Six months prior to her last suicide attempt, Emily had undergone an
elaborate medical workup to determine whether or not she was suffering
from multiple sclerosis. She was experiencing recurring tingling, numb­
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 53

ing, and muscle weakness in different parts of her body. The symptoms,
though severe at times, eluded diagnosis and corresponded to no known
neurological pathways. She became very involved in the medical proce­
dures and was noted to deal with this crisis better and more calmly than
she had with anything in recent history. Her suicide attempt came 5
weeks after her doctors determined that they could find nothing wrong
with her.
Emily spoke rapidly or not at all. She was highly emotional and ex­
tremely reactive to even her minutest perceptions of the therapist's be­
havior, attitudes, or reactions to her. Her thinking was often chaotic and
disorganized, and she seemed to bolt from one crisis state to another with
barely time to catch her breath. After 2 months of twice-a-week treatment,
Emily was able to begin the recovery of incest memories that involved ex­
plicit sadistic torture.

Case 3

Delores, age 28, had been editor of the Law Review at her prestigious Ivy
League law school. She was enormously successful academically and
upon graduation had been pursued for the most highly coveted jobs. In
addition to being brilliant, she was beautiful, articulate, and impeccably
coordinated. She earned a great deal of money and lived in lonely high
style. Although warmly related, Delores had few friends. Women, she
felt, were intimidated by her; and she could only relate to men as platonic
friends. Most of her close friends were married men with whom she had
close working relationships but little social contact outside of the office.
She was enormously disturbed by what she regarded as her sexual frigid­
ity and her inability to maintain an ongoing sexual relationship. She had
experimented in relationships with both men and women but felt equally
nonresponsive to both. Recently, she had begun to wonder whether "any­
thing sexual" had happened between her and her father (also a successful
trial attorney) when she was younger, and although she was starting to
believe that it had, she had no particular memories of such experiences.
She began an analysis.
Only after several months, and within the context of a period of par­
ticularly intense positive transference and yearning for greater closeness
with the analyst, was Delores able to reveal what she had consciously
withheld before. First, that she still sucked her thumb at night as a way
of calming her anxieties about letting go and drifting off into sleep. And,
second, that she had a long and unremitting history of non lethal wrist
cutting that was occasionally incorporated into her masturbatory and
sexual fantasies. Intense anxiety interfered with her ability to engage
these fantasies in the context of a real sexual encounter and was perhaps
54 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

one reason behind her sexual unresponsiveness. Delores's own suspi­

cions about childhood sexual abuse were now joined by those of her
analyst.

Therapeutic Implications

Childhood sexual abuse is a form of chronic trauma, in which the abusive

other overstimulates and overwhelms the young child's ego capacities to the
extent that it renders them essentially inoperative. Where such abuse is per­
petrated by a trusted family member, particularly a parent, the child loses
not only his own capacities but also any ability to rely on the auxilliary ego
capacities of the mother and father. The abusive parent cannot be relied on,
and revelation of the abuse to the other parent threatens the dissolution of
the entire family. To a young child, this represents a threat to his very exis­
tence. It is at this psychic crossroad that dissociation plays its crucial adapta-
tional role. In an effort to preserve the remnants of a trusting capacity to de­
pend upon the parents for emotional and physical sustenance, the young
victim of traumatic abuse essentially sunders her ego, i.e., her experience of
self and other, internal and external, in two. One represents business as
usual, the daytime self, the part that responds to the parent's denial of the
traumatic abuse by imposing its own denial. No one speaks of the other,
nighttime self. It exists only as part of a dreamlike state whose very existence
assumes an air of vague unreality in the light of day.
Because the reality of the abuse can never be spoken about, no verbal
links exist between the experiences of the two dissociated aspects of self. The
abused child enacts but is, in most cases, rendered speechless by her terror
and by the ego regression psychically and physiologically mediated by such
terror. The denying child is bound to maintain this wordlessness by the
strictest familial collusion and by her awareness of the precariousness of her
own continued survival. Without the ability to encode via verbal representa­
tion, her horrifying experiences, there can be no communication between
these two experiences of self.
In cases of chronic abuse, what begins as a dissociated aspect of experi­
ence becomes organized into a cordoned-off system of internalized self and
object representations that protects the remainder of the personality from the
horrifying and psychically disorganizing effects of the trauma. The abused
child becomes encased within her own world—a world that admits only
abusers, victims, saviors, and those who choose to stay defensively unin­
volved or unaware. She lives there perpetually without the language to an­
nounce what is happening to her. Although surely weakened by the enor­
mous effort required to maintain such a psychic cleavage and by the vague,
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 55

dreamlike awareness that "something is not right/' the child is freed to de­
velop and mature relatively spared from the poisonous effects of such toxic
introjects and concomitant identifications. 1
The presence of such dissociation goes a long way toward explaining the
breadth of clinical presentation described. The fact that the patient's psychic
world is organized around at least two different loci of experience and incor­
porates, as it were, two entirely different and mutually exclusive systems of
self and object representations, gives rise, in each case, to ego capacities re­
flective of essentially different life histories. One comes to expect, then, in
working with adult survivors the presence of symptoms usually associated
with more profound forms of psychopathology in the context of what ap­
pear to be higher functional capabilities. One also comes to expect, however,
that these capacities will vary from day to day, within session, and certainly,
as memories of abuse begin to emerge. Analysts working with adult sur­
vivors of childhood sexual abuse become acquainted with the reality that
there are at least two different patients in treatment and that analytic tech­
nique will vary according to which system of self and object representations
is being evoked and enacted within the transference-countertransference
process at any given time.
However, the absence of words—the fact that, in so many cases, the pa­
tient has never semantically encoded what has happened to her—presents
perhaps the most challenging dilemma for the analyst undertaking such
work. Analysts are used to relying on words: Language is, and has always
been, our medium. It is not difficult for the uninitiated, both therapist and
patient, to be seriously set off course by the language of disembodied im­
ages, dreamlike states, somatic memories, and physiological states of hyper­
arousal and disorganization so common in work with adult survivors. How
to reach such crucial aspects of experience, where no words exist; how to
evoke an experience of self and other, defensively dissociated from more
palpable self or object representations; how to encourage and support the
patient's need to believe in a reality that expresses itself only in mood
changes, bodily states, disorganized images, and illusively fleeting intrusive
thoughts? Ultimately, it is the reestablishment and reenactment of specific
transference-countertransference paradigms in the analysis and the capacity
of such transferential reenactments to evoke state-dependent memories em­
bedded within and organized around those unintegrated experiences of real
or fantasied relationships to others that provide the initial bridge to trau­
matogenic memory and a therapeutic opening in the vague and turbulent
states we have described.
A case illustration may highlight some of these issues. Jenny was a 28-
year-old woman who had recently moved to this part of the country in order
to complete a residency program in internal medicine. In an initial phone
contact, the patient informed the therapist that she had had a long history of
56 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

violent incest; and, although she knew of the therapist's interest in this area
and was reassured that she would, therefore, be sensitive to many of the re­
lated issues, she did wish to make clear her belief that she had completely
dealt with the issues of her sexual abuse in a previous therapy several years
earlier.
She wished to return to treatment now, because she felt great anxiety at
beginning her residency and was even aware of several disruptive physio­
logical manifestations of this anxiety, for which she knew that there was no
medical cause. The patient described recurring mild-to-moderate anxiety at­
tacks, accompanied by nausea, light-headedness, and difficulty concentrat­
ing. She would sweat profusely and was aware of her heart racing. Because
these episodes appeared to occur only at the hospital, Jenny had assumed
them to be related to her initial insecurities about beginning a new aspect of
her professional career. However, with time and her growing comfort on the
job, these attacks had not ceased or even diminished.
Upon presenting herself at the therapist's office, the patient appeared at­
tractive, appropriately dressed, and highly articulate. Alhough she claimed
to be calm, "because as I told you I've been through all this before," there
seemed to be an excessive amount of shifting, hand wringing, finger twist­
ing, and hair twirling belying her reported nonchalance. Her body seemed to
be in perpetual motion.
Jenny reported having been the victim of rather violent and sadistic sex­
ual abuse at the hands of her father, beginning around the time of her fifth
birthday and continuing until she began to menstruate at age 12. Though she
detailed that the abuse had involved instances of fondling, digital penetra­
tion, and forced fellatio, her images were vague, the depiction highly clini­
cal, and her affect detached and strikingly removed. The therapist began to
wonder how much of the patient's experience and its accompanying affect
remained dissociated. She therefore commented on the patient's ability to
speak of such events in so calm a manner and was reassured by the patient
that this apparent calm was only as a result of her prior treatment. "After
all," she announced in a startling turnabout, "I'm not one of those people
who dissociated a lot of my experience. I always remembered that I was
abused, so it wasn't so shocking to talk about."
However, it remained of note, as treatment progressed, that Jenny never
spoke of explicit aspects of her abuse. In addition, when asked by the thera­
pist if she thought that, given her history, her anxiety attacks might be con­
nected to the fact that she was examining so many naked bodies on a daily
basis, she appeared mystified, as if she had never made the connection be­
tween her own somatic experiences, the specific memories she had worked
on in her treatment, and the external triggers that might precipitate a regres­
sion to those states. It became increasingly clear, that although Jenny remem­
bered the fact that she had been sexually abused, the specific memories, fan­
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 57

tasies, and affects related to those experiences were still partially dissociated,
unsymbolized, and, therefore, unintegrated. Gaining access to these warded-
off childhood experiences became the clinical challenge.
One day, approximately 5 months into the treatment, the patient reported
that she had always, since childhood, slept with the same large stuffed dog.
With a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, she admitted to continu­
ing this practice into the present and wondered, rather playfully, what this
could mean psychologically. The therapist replied to her: "The meaning
aside, I wish we could speak to that little puppy . . . I'm sure he'd have a lot
to tell us about what things were like for you." The patient's mood seemed
to shift, she became more serious, almost tearful, and her voice had a some­
what trancelike, faraway quality. (We believe that, here, the analyst's shift to
a child's worldview [one could talk to this stuffed puppy] allowed for the
subtle shift in access to past experience that could then work its way into the
analytic space.) The session proceeded in the following way:

Patient: I used to hold him, you know, at night when my father did those
things. I held on to him so tight, I used to worry that he couldn't
breathe. That I would hurt him.
Therapist: Do you remember what he felt like when you held him?
[Again attempting to maximize the evocation of a particular experi­
ence by helping the patient focus on what might be a piece of non­
threatening and available memory associatively linked to more trau­
matogenic and, as yet, unsymbolized aspects.]
Patient: He was so soft. I remember I used to rub the fur against the side
of my cheek . .. and . . . [crying now] he had a hard stuffed little nose
that was glued on. I used to suck and bite on that and make everything
else go away.. . . [Patient closes her eyes.]
Therapist: If you make everything go away now, we leave that little girl
with no one but her puppy to talk to. I wish we could talk to her, so
that we might try to help.

Here the physical transformation was striking. The patient curled up in

her chair, wrapping her arms around her body. She began to tremble uncon­
trollably and to breathe rapidly with small gasping breaths. Her quiet crying
became a wailing that was alarming to see. As she cried, she shook her head
"no" in a violent manner; she could or would not speak to me of what she
was experiencing. "No, no, no," was all she could say. She would not speak
for the remainder of the session, and attempts to help her to do so began to
feel intrusive and prodding. Alhough the patient was somewhat calmer by
the end of the session, she clearly left the office in an agitated and psychi­
cally vulnerable state. Although the therapist called that evening to see how
she was doing and to remind the patient of her availability, the answering
58 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

machine picked up, and it appeared that Jenny was not answering the
phone.
Jenny canceled her next two scheduled appointments. When the therapist
was finally able to prevail upon her to return, she insisted that she could not
speak of the images she had seen, and she was sure that doing so would
overwhelm her, make it impossible for her to function at work, and essen­
tially ruin her entire life. She was convinced that she would end up on the
inpatient unit of a psychiatric hospital if she continued any further in treat­
ment. Jenny was reassured that her fear of going crazy was experienced by
many adults in the process of recovering memories of childhood abuse. The
therapist explained that the fear of being destroyed by what she had to say
was essentially a memory of the fear felt by the abused child, who was told
over and over again that speaking of the abuse would lead to the destruction
of the family or her extradition from it. Indeed, even maintaining conscious
awareness of the abuse could be experienced as bringing the patient to the
edge of an even more horrific psychic death. Jenny was assured that, al­
though the process was painful, her words no longer contained the destruc­
tive potential that they had when she was a child. They would be unlikely,
therefore, to precipitate a psychotic break. The therapist then added that she
and Jenny would take things very slowly, as the patient was ready, using
extra contacts, double sessions, temporary medications, and so on to make
sure that Jenny would not be retraumatized in the process of working these
issues through.
The patient was reassured by the support and the understanding that her
terror could be contained and shared in the treatment setting. She therefore
began over the next few weeks, in what was clearly the voice of a much
younger child, to recount and at times relive aspects of the abuse she had en­
dured as a young child—aspects that had not up to this time been spoken of
to anyone. The story that emerged was one of horrifying sadism, helpless­
ness, and coercive submission. It would appear that the return of these dis­
sociated experiences was at least in part triggered by activation of the pa­
tient's identification with her father in the process of carrying out oftentimes
painful medical procedures on her own passive patients.
The implications for analytic work are therefore multidimensional. The
analyst must find a way to help the patient to contain the overstimulation,
hyperarousal, and mental disorganization that are the psychological and
physiological hallmarks of abuse and will accompany any attempt to enter
the split-off world of the abused child. In so doing the analyst serves a hold­
ing function that makes possible the recovery of traumatogenic memories
and ultimately their verbal symbolization. One cannot stress enough that the
analytic work at this stage involves not only the recovery of memories but
also the need to verbalize them again and again, thus establishing clear lin­
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 59

guistic encoding of the heretofore unrepresentable pathogenic experiences.

Such words will make it possible for the abused child and the adult who has
grown up only partially aware of her to speak to each other for the first time.
The patient can begin to integrate pieces of her experience that have, for too
long, remained isolated from each other. She can also mend, in such a way,
the internal splits in self and object representation that have defensively
maintained traumatic memories in isolation, and given rise to complicated
difficulties in present-day interpersonal relationships.
However, the experience of verbalizing recovered memories serves more
than a symbolizing and integrating function. In the process itself, an essen­
tial shift will occur in the patient's internalized matrices of self and object
representations; a shift that introduces and ultimately provides a pathway
for the internalization of an entirely new object-related experience. Here the
presence of the analyst provides an adult who will contain, listen, and be­
lieve in the child's inexpressible nightmare. The analyst will by dint of his or
her presence and listening function inalterably change the traumatogenic sit­
uation of isolation and psychic foreclosure as it reemerges in the analytic set­
ting, thereby facilitating symbolization and integration and minimizing the
possibility that this emergence will be experienced as a retraumatization by
the patient. Without such containment, the reemergence of traumatic mater­
ial will represent only a dissociated reenactment within the transference and
not the necessary type of integrative work.
Having internalized the childhood reality that certain words carried the
potential of literally destroying her world, for better or for worse, the
patient has grown up with those magical beliefs in the omnipotent destruc­
tiveness of her own words still intact. As the analyst perseveres and sur­
vives, in a Winnicottian sense, the patient works through her imprisoning
ties to persecutory objects and internal representations of self that grow out
of identifications with such objects. As these toxic introjects and self repre­
sentations infuse the analytic relationship, giving rise to maddening cycles
of ever-shifting transference-countertransference reenactments, the work­
ing-through process itself bears testimony to the fact that speaking the un­
speakable words, which have by now become infused with an omnipotent
destructiveness, will not destroy the patient, the analyst, or their growing
bond to one another.
Here, for the first time, analyst and patient create a transitional space
(Winnicott, 1951), where the patient is free to play with thoughts, ideas,
words, and symbols that previously carried too much hate and destructive
potential to be expressed. In elevating the patient's belief in her own destruc­
tive potential from the concrete to the symbolic, and by doing so in the con­
text of a new object relationship that is accepting of both the patient's loving
and hating internal identifications, the treatment progresses in a way that in-
60 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

alterably changes the nature of the patient's intrapsychic and interpersonal

reality. Love and hate can comingle for the first time, thus providing a
bridge for the integration of internally dissociated experiences and simulta­
neously enriching and enlivening the patient's ongoing relationships in her
interpersonal world.
In optimal situations, the diffusion of the patient's magical beliefs in the
power of her own rage also allows her to experience that others can be angry
with her without seeking her destruction. The murderous wishes of the par­
ents can be separated from the everyday annoyances and dissatisfactions of
others. With the growing capacity to tolerate experiences of love and anger
both within the self and within the object comes perhaps the first real oppor­
tunity for the kind of intersubjective experience in the analysis that lays the
groundwork for the achievement of any real intimacy in the patient's world
outside treatment. The ever-widening scope of tolerable self representations
and the concomitant capacity to incorporate contradictory images of and
fantasies about the analyst must, as they are internalized, lead to a facilita­
tion of this process in other relationships as well. The capacity to touch and
be touched to explore the interior of another as one allows that other into the
self must in both its symbolically sexualized and desexualized forms begin
in the treatment setting itself.
An integrated model for the psychoanalytically oriented treatment of
adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse is thus based on the progressive
unfolding of five specific and heretofore foreclosed intrapsychic capacities.
They are (1) the therapeutic containment of the physiological and psycholog­
ical hyperarousal and disorganization secondary to chronic trauma; (2) the
recovery of pathogenic memories and fantasied elaborations; (3) the symbol­
ization of memory and fantasied elaborations; (4) the integration of dissoci­
ated self and object representations; and finally (5) the internalization of a
new object relationship, within which these capacities will be enfolded and
by dint of which they will become internalized.
In laying forth this plan,we have attempted to stand with one foot
firmly planted in an understanding of the trauma and sexual abuse re­
search literature, and the other in our continued belief in the the centrality
of the analytic relationship. Abreaction and symbolization of memories, as
described in much of the trauma literature, seem insufficient in accom­
plishing the kind of change necessary. It is only when such abreaction and
symbolization occur within the containing and holding context of a new
therapeutic relationship; when that relationship becomes the vehicle for
untangling and verbally encoding distorted, fragmented, and dissociated
experiences of self in relation to other; when that relationship facilitates the
diffusion of heretofore omnipotently imbued destructiveness and thus po­
tentiates the unfolding of true transitionality and intersubjectivity in per­
 An Integrative Model of Childhood Sexual Abuse 61

sonal thought and relationship, that therapeutic work can be internalized

in a meaningful and permanent way. The containing, symbolizing, and in­
tegrating function of the explanatory words and theories generated be­
tween patient and analyst will be effective only in so far as they become
the symbolic representation of the all-important object relationship in
which they were first uttered.
 CHAPTER 4

Dissociation

What Is Dissociation?

ISSOCIATION IS THE PROCESS of severing connections between

D
categories of mental events—between events that seem irreconcil­
ably different, between the actual events and their affective and
emotional significance, between actual events and the awareness of th
cognitive significance, and finally, as in the case of severe trauma, between
the actual occurence of real events and their permanent, symbolic, verbal
mental representation.
When a child is subjected over time to a trauma, such as sexual abuse by a
trusted parent, the enormity of the betrayal and of the physical and psycho­
logical violation is too great for the ego to tolerate. The continued survival of
the child is felt to be at risk, because the actuality of the abuse jeopardizes
this primary object bond and challenges the child's capacity to trust and,
therefore, to securely depend. To protect the self from such overwhelming
fear of annihilation and, further, to shield oneself from cognitively knowing
about the event(s), the individual's experience of consciousness splits verti­
cally. Coexistent with the ego state(s) that knows about the trauma and af­
fectively reacts to it, is an ego state that, although somewhat depleted, is ig­
norant of the catastrophic events.
Traditionally, then, dissociation is defined as a process by which a piece
of traumatic experience, because it is too overstimulating to be processed
and recorded along the usual channels, is cordoned off and established as a
separate psychic state within the personality, creating two (or more) ego
 Dissociation 63

states that alternate in consciousness and, under different internal and exter­
nal circumstances, emerge to think, behave, remember, and feel. Such disso­
ciated states are associatively unavailable to the rest of the personality and,
as such, cannot be subject to psychic operations or elaboration. The adult
survivor of childhood abuse will experience the dissociated traumatic states
in the form of memories of the trauma that are unavailable at other times; re­
current intrusive images connected to the trauma but otherwise unrecogniz­
able; violent or symbolic acting out; inexplicable somatic sensations; recur­
rent nightmares; anxiety reactions; and psychosomatic conditions.
Dissociative pathology of varying degrees plays a significant role in the
intrapsychic organization of most patients who have suffered chronic sexual
abuse in childhood. This would appear to be particularly true when such
abuse involves a parent or close and trusted other. Although some have dis­
agreed with this formulation (Shengold, 1992), researchers in the area of
PTSD have continued to demonstrate the link between severe trauma and
dissociation (Figley, 1986; Green, Wilson, et al., 1985; Herman, 1992; Hilgard,
1977; Kluft, 1990b; van der Hart & Horst, 1989; van der Kolk, 1987; van der
Kolk et al., 1989; Wilson, Smith, & Johnson, 1985). Indeed, one study went so
far as to conclude that the presence of dissociation could be a valid diagnos­
tic discriminator between sexually abused and nonabused college women
(Briere, 1988; Briere & Runtz, 1988).
Only recently, with the renewed interest in the long-term effects of child­
hood abuse, has the concept of dissociation found its way back into the psy­
choanalytic literature. Although it has been occasionally mentioned in the
past (Dickes, 1965; Fairbairn, 1954; Fliess, 1953; Sullivan, 1956), its complete
integration into our understanding of psychic regulatory processes appears
to have been enjoined along with any serious consideration of the influences
of real events on psychic structuralization. When the concept does make an
appearance, both in the intervening years and in the present, it appears to
have survived, more or less intact and unaltered by time. Like the process it
describes, dissociation was for a long time forgotten, occasionally popping
up, but essentially unmodified or elaborated over time. Bromberg's moving
description (1991), although cast within a more interpersonal framework,
puts forth a contemporary psychoanalytic perspective entirely compatible
with Janet's initial descriptions. Bromberg states: "Dissociated experience
thus tends to remain unsymbolized by thought and language, exists as a sep­
arate reality outside of self-expression, and is cut off from authentic human
relatedness and deadened to full participation in the life of the rest of the per­
sonality. ... Meaningful existence in the present is preempted by the repeti­
tive, timeless, traumatic past, and the present is little more than a medium
through which this unprocessed past may be known" (pp. 405—406). The clin­
ical relevance of these processes with adult survivors of childhood abuse (as
well as with others) remains, with few exceptions (Davies & Frawley, 1992a;
64 Treating the Adult Survtvor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Dickes, 1965; Ferenczi, 1932; Fleiss, 1953; Shengold, 1989) virtually unex­
plored. It is to a fuller exposition of this clinical process and to its centrality to
that particular patient population that we now turn.

Dissociation and Childhood Sexual Abuse

Our own concept of dissociation, though encompassing all the characteris­

tics mentioned, goes one step further in articulating a fundamental clinical
assumption. We understand the internalization of childhood sexual abuse to
occur within a relational-developmental model similar to that described by
Fast's event theory (1985). We believe that events become incorporated and
ultimately understood vis a vis the particular matrices of self and object ex­
perience within which they are ensconced and that they are bound together
and organized with particular regard to the intense emotional experiences
that accompany them. Therefore, it is not the traumatic event alone that be­
comes significant but of equal importance is the traumatized individual's ex­
perience and representation of self within the abusive events and her experi­
ence and internalization of the others in his or her world as they are
represented at such abusive moments. Here the clinical implications are
most important. The trauma and sex abuse literature—indeed even the rele­
vant psychoanalytic literature—tends to stress the patient's need to recover
dissociated memories of pathogenic events and to express these with full affec­
tive discharge. We believe that it is the oversimplification of the treatment
process that has in part contributed to the growing controversy over the reli­
ability of traumatic memory that now floods the popular media (see also
chapter 6).
Recovery of the traumatic event(s) is merely one aspect of the clinical
work that must be accomplished. Because we view these traumatic experi­
ences as embedded in the entire constellation of the patients' internal object
world and concommitant aspects of self experience, we view the emergence,
containment, encoding, and integration of this entire split-off aspect of expe­
rience to represent the overriding therapeutic goal.
Included, then, in our understanding of the dissociated "child self" to
which we refer, is a completely separate organization of self and object rep­
resentations; the memories of traumatic events that bind these representa­
tions to each other; intense and unmodulated affect states specific to the
trauma; and a level of ego organization specific to the developmental stage
at which the traumatic event and pathogenic ego dissociation occurred. One
can expect fantasied elaborations of these experiences to have been fore­
closed by the trauma reaction but to emerge, in accord with the developmen­
tal fixation, during the integration that occurs as a part of the treatment
process. We stress here that our concept of "the dissociated child self" bears
 Dissociation 65

no resemblance to the now popularized concept of the "inner child." The

inner child as we understand her is a whole being with a multitude of inte­
grated experiences, perhaps more in line with Winnicott's "true self." Our
"dissociated child self" is a specific organization of self and object represen­
tion unique to the abusive set of events and containing the affective, cogni­
tive, physiological, and fantasied elaborations of those events in a cordoned-
off ego state associatively unavailable to the remainder of the personality.
To understand the centrality of dissociative processes in the lives of
adults who were sexually abused as children (Davies & Frawley, 1992a,
1992b), it is important to understand the differences between the concept of
dissociation and the more familiar notion of repression. Repression is an ac­
tive process through which the ego attains mastery over conflictual material.
Dissociation, on the other hand, is the last ditch effort of an overwhelmed
ego to salvage some semblance of adequate mental functioning. Here our
views are consistent with those of Fairbairn (1954), who sees dissociation as
the result of ego disintegration, "a passive process—a process of disintegra­
tion due to a failure on the part of the cohesive function normally exercised
by the ego ... it thus stands in marked contrast to the concept of repression
formulated somewhat later by Freud" (p. 105). Repression brings about the
forgetting of once familiar mental contents (i.e., events, affects, identifica­
tions, etc.). Dissociation on the other hand, leads to severing the connection
between one set of mental contents and another. Dissociation can occur be­
tween categories of mental events, for example, good and bad experiences
with the same object, between certain events and their affective representa­
tion (Krystal's alexithymia, 1988); between events and the meaning of those
events (Grotstein, personal communication, 1992); perhaps even between
events and the words that symbolically represent them. Therefore, a patient
can be aware of an abusive, trauma in one state and completely unaware of
its existence in another. Likewise, a patient can retain memories of an event
but have absolutely no access to their emotional impact except within an al­
ternate state of consciousness. Therefore, the working-through of repressed
contents involves the process of remembering. Working through dissociative
states involves an ongoing effort at integrating mental contents severed by
traumatic regression and maintained in disparate ego states that alternate in
accessability.
Repression leaves the individual with the experience of being more mas­
terfully in control of his environment; dissociation is experienced as an inad­
equate response, a submission and resignation to the inevitability of over­
whelming, even psychically deadening danger. Repression creates a context
for signal anxiety or symptom formation that maintains disavowed mental
contents from awareness. Dissociation, in contrast, represents the failure of
such signal functions to call into effect any of a number of defenses capable
of preventing the bifurcation of reality and the constriction of experience
66 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

and emotional life inherent in dissociative pathology. In Harry Stack

Sullivan's words, "the dissociated personality has to prepare for almost any
conceivable emergency that would startle one into becoming aware of the
dissociated system." (1956, p. 203).
A further distinction can be made between repression and dissociation.
Repression is a mental operation performed on (depending on one's theoret­
ical orientation) wishes, thoughts, aspects of identifications, events, known to
the patient. Recovered via psychoanalytic work, repressed materials are expe­
rienced as once familiar, rediscovered aspects of mental life; the patient's ex­
perience here is one of recognition. The experiences that reemerge, either
verbally or via transference-countertransference reenactments or manifesta­
tions, have been previously experienced, psychologically digested, encoded,
and then forgotten. In the treatment situation, repressed contents can be psy­
chologically operated on by the patient; they can be maintained out of
awareness, distorted, and psychically elaborated via fantasy, their deriva­
tives finding verbal expression within the analytic hour. Despite the occa­
sional intractability of repressed experiences, they reemerge in a more or less
linear fashion, are subject to interpretation, and, once recalled, are usually
accessible for the remainder of the analytic work.
Dissociation, in contrast to repression, involves the foreclosure, not the
elaboration of psychic contents. Because no internal psychic work has modu­
lated the terrifying, pathogenic experience for the patient, their reemergence
is, essentially, a repetition of the original traumatic state. There is no verbal
encoding via which meaning can be attributed to the mental representation
of these experiences. Therefore, they tend to reemerge as fragmented, mean­
ingless, visual images; rapidly shifting physiological states; nightmares; in­
trusive thoughts, and so on. For most patients, the experience is terrifying,
again beyond words; and analysts unfamiliar with the manifestations of
such traumatic revival in clinical work are all too often cast adrift, caught up
and controlled by a process that seems to have a life of its own.
It is not uncommon for analysts to feel that such patients are on the verge
of a psychotic decompensation and to inadvertently resort to heroic rescue
measures—inappropriate overmedication, hospitalization, even shock treat­
ments—in an effort to stem the tide of what looks like a burgeoning psy­
chosis. Unfortunately, such measures all too often reestablish the psychic
foreclosure that created the patient's problems in the first place and commu­
nicate to the patient the analyst's inability to understand the material that is
emerging and the patient's fearful reaction to it. Although medication and
hospitalization are needed on occasion to support the patient through the
reemergence of such chaotic experiences (see chapter 11), it is important that
the analyst not overreact. Such recommendations, meant to help the thera­
peutic pair to contain the traumatic reenactments long enough to organize
and give meaning to them, must be understood as temporary supportive
 Dissociation 67

measures, not as adequate long-term solutions. Indeed, the analyst's under­

standing that such disorganizing experiences do not represent the psychotic
ravings of a decompensating patient but, rather, the courageous attempts of
a previously traumatized patient to make sense of her dissociated states, will
go a long way, in and of itself, toward establishing the kind of psychic mean­
ing that will help to contain such episodes in treatment. Such supportive
measures, when necessary, will be viewed by the patient as adjuncts toward
helping her accomplish the necessary psychic work, not as attempts to shut
down a process that threatens to overwhelm and frighten the analyst. Here
the analyst's familiarity with and understanding of dissociative processes
and the differences inherent in the distinctions between "the return of the re­
pressed" and "the return of the dissociated," particularly as they shape
transference-countertransference configurations, is of the utmost importance.

The Emergence of Dissociative States

Most survivors of childhood abuse are faced with the dilemma of having to
negotiate the external, interpersonal worlds of friendship, school, authority,
career, and so on in spite of the fact that they have, relatively early on, been
betrayed by a person with whom they share one of the most intimate rela­
tionships of their lives. It is remarkable to observe the degree to which most
survivors can, via dissociative processes, painstakingly erect the semblance
of a functioning, adaptive, interpersonally related self around the screaming
core of a wounded and abandoned child. This adult self has a dual function;
it allows the individual to move through the world of others with relative
success, at the same time protecting and preserving the abused child who
lives on, searching still for(acknowledgment, validation, and compensation.
It is the impact of this essential splitting and dissociation at the core of the
personality and its effects on all later personality development to which we
now turn our attention.
To integrate the extensive trauma literature with psychoanalytic theory
and technique, we have attempted to demonstrate a critically important
point. The patient who was sexually abused as a child is not an adult patient
with particularly vivid memories of painful childhood experiences existing
in the context of other, happier, more loving times. This child is a fully de­
veloped, dissociated, rather primitively organized alternative self. It is im­
perative that the therapist who begins working with an adult survivor of sig­
nificant childhood sexual abuse understands that he/she is, in fact,
undertaking the treatment of two people: an adult who struggles to succeed,
relate, gain acceptance, and ultimately to forget, and a child who, as treat­
ment progresses, strives to remember and to find a voice with which to
scream out her outrage at the world.
68 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The dissociated child self has a different ego structure, a more primitive
and brittle system of defenses, a fuller and more affect-laden set of memories
and has clearly become the repository for the patient's intense, often over­
whelming rage, shame, and guilt. We often find the child with a different
wardrobe, different facial expressions, body postures, voice quality, set of
linguistic expressions. "She" takes on the persona of a timid little girl; "he"
assumes the air of an awkward preadolescent whose emergent sexuality has
lagged behind that of his chums.
It should be noted that dissociation exists along a broad continuum with
coexistent, alternative ego states moving in ever-shifting patterns of mutual
self-recognition and alienation. It is not uncommon for the child-self to con­
tain several different personas, often with different access to historical infor­
mation and memory. Common among these personas are the good-perfect
child; the naughty-omnipotent child; and, ultimately, the terrified-abused
child. Given the frequent coexistence of these alternative states, it does not
seem that they represent true multiple personality organizations, the occa­
sional presence of which is addressed more specifically later in this chapter.
In most instances, the adult and child are at least partially aware of each
other's existence; it is the child's incestuous secret and overwhelming rage
about which the adult is often completely ignorant.
Although the adult and child are, in most situations, aware of each other,
they are not friends. They have entirely different emotional agendas and live
in a constant state of warfare over whose needs will take priority at any
given time. Each feels entirely abandoned by the other. The child believes
that the adult has "sold out" by progressing with life as a grown-up. After
all, grown-ups are bad and do bad things. To become one of them is the ulti­
mate betrayal. The child takes every opportunity, therefore, to subvert the
adult's attempts to separate from the past and her identity as a victim to
become a part of the outside world. She uses the techniques she was taught
by her abusive parent (other) to undermine the confidence of her other self:
seduction; cajoling; manipulation; and threat of abuse (in this case self-
inflicted). As she herself felt invaded, she often invades the unexpecting con­
scious sensorium of the adult in inappropriate and disruptive ways, causing
great confusion and disorientation, at times bringing to a halt whatever ac­
tivity the adult was engaged in at that moment. She stands in relation to her
adult self; a provocateur, with a terrorist's commitment to a program of un­
relenting insurgence.
On her end, the adult persona "hates" the sadistic and disruptive child
with bitter intensity. On the most conscious level, the adult views the child
as a demanding, entitled, rebellious, and petulant pain in the neck. If she re­
members being sexually abused in childhood, she blames her child self for it,
thereby refortifying her insistence on the child's thorough and complete
badness. She was "the seductress" and as one patient announced, with bum-
 Dissociation 69

ing rancor, in her first session, "she got what she deserved ... it was coming
to her." It is almost incomprehensible to us that here the patient is talking
about herself; the part of herself that was rather sadistically abused as a
child, abused by her own father. We see, though, the effectiveness of the dis­
sociation that spares both the adult persona and the father from the full im­
pact of the child's rage. The hate is turned back upon the child who has, after
all, been well trained in the art of self-victimization.
In situations where the patient has not yet recovered actual memories of
childhood sexual abuse, she stands in relation to her demanding and disrup­
tive child self, a passive and mystified player; she who gives voice to the
child's tantrums, mood swings, and demands without exactly understand­
ing why. "It's as if a voice rises up in me," reported one patient. "I know it's
my voice ... I recognize the sound of it . . . but it's so odd, I have no idea
what the voice is going to say. All I know is that usually it says something to
get me into trouble."
If the disparity between the intensity of the child's rage and shame, and
the content of her thoughts becomes severe enough, the patient may experi­
ence full dissociative episodes, where the child is given full reign to express,
remember, reenact, without any conscious recollection of the experience. As
is the case with true multiple personalities, patients report losing time, sud­
denly finding themselves in the middle of a situation but not remembering
how they got there, and so on. One patient would report, with some regular­
ity, sitting down to write business reports only to find that they had already
been done—and to perfection! "It's like the shoemaker and the elves," she
would say. "I go to sleep and when I wake up there it is!" This particular pa­
tient entered treatment because of persistent problems on her job. Although
it was immediately clear that her personal life was also extremely restricted,
she kept these issues out of the early phase of her treatment by insisting that
a social life was completely unimportant to her.
On her job, the patient was considered a truly brilliant and incisive
thinker whose written analyses supported and gave direction to much of her
firm's ongoing work. However, she was completely incapable of presenting
her written work, either within her office or to clients. She was terrified of
being looked at, exposed, and penetrated by the stares of others. A severe in­
hibition, based in large measure on dissociated exhibitionistic urges, would
give rise to the most paralyzing experiences of humiliation and shame in
these situations. The inhibition was so complete that often others would be
called upon to present the patient's work to clients. To make matters worse,
the patient was considered moody and demanding, with a reputation
among colleagues for being "entitled and difficult to get along with."
Although she had no conscious recollection of the ongoing sexual abuse
by her father between the ages of 7 and 12, the patient had perfectly recre­
ated the emotional climate of these confusing early years in her present work
70 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

life. She was gifted, special, and favored in some way that remained quite a
mystery to her. Because she had no memory of writing her "brilliant" re­
ports, she could hardly value herself for writing them, as others valued her.
Despite her vague sense of specialness, she also felt despised and abused by
her colleagues. She felt deserving of this abuse because she agreed that her
behavior was often demanding and unpredictable. The patient herself expe­
rienced these abrupt mood swings and outbursts of demanding entitled be­
havior as ego-alien intrusions; and, on occasion, when the affect was most
intense, she had no recollection of them at all. Without the memories that
would spur compassion for this "other self," the patient was filled with fear
and self-loathing.

Patient: "It's like there's this baby part of me ... she's scared and pitiful
sometimes, and I hate her for that . .. but then she turns hateful and
demanding . . . she won't be satisfied ... I try, but I can't. She wants
more and more, but I don't know of what. She won't leave me alone,
and she won't grow up. Sometimes I think she takes over completely,
and part of me gets scared of what she'll do. I go away I think ... I just
can't bear to listen."
Therapist: It seems to me she's likely to stay around until someone hears
what she's trying to say.
Patient: The less attention she gets, the better. The only thing I can do is
ignore her ... starve her out... otherwise, she'll never leave. If I give
her nothing at all, maybe she'll go away and leave me alone. [Quietly].
.. Maybe she'll die ... I really want her to die.

Here again, the hatred and death wish for the child self. This is not the
omnipotent seductress who is blamed by the adult for her own abuse, but
the raging and entitled child, who makes her pain clear but keeps its source
a mystery to all, including herself. Not yet on the analytic scene, but strug­
gling to emerge, is the terrified child; living in a dissociated world of perpet­
ual abuse, terrorized not only by the actions of another, but by the prospect
of speaking her own words and knowing her own mind.
It is almost always the adult self who presents herself for treatment. She is
either struggling with overt nightmarish memories of childhood, or in her
amnesia, she is plagued with one or many of a list of vague, debilitating
complaints: sexual dysfunction; depression; intense guilt; poor self-esteem;
self-destructive impulses; drug and alcohol abuse, and the like (Gelinas,
1983). It is only slowly—and after much careful testing—that the child per­
sona begins to make her presence known. She may step forth boldly and
dramatically, as in the development of sudden panic attacks or in the erup­
tion of painful and frightening somatic complaints. The child may also enter
quietly, almost imperceptibly. The therapist may first become aware of her
 Dissociation 71

presence by an oddly childish mannerism; a way of wiping away tears or

twisting a lock of hair. At other times, he or she may signal his arrival with a
subtle change in vocabulary, grammar, body postures and movements, dif­
ferent styles of clothing, a particular voice or facial expression. Many times,
the therapist's first awareness of change has to do with a perceived shift in
the nature of the transference or in his or her own experience of the counter­
transference. Regardless, however, of the specific manner of entrance, it is
most often the case that the child enters the analytic scene sometime before
the recovery or disclosure of specific memories of past abuse begins.
The reasons here are clear. From the child's perspective, the analyst is, as
yet, an unknown quantity, a stranger. True, she has been listening, but what
she has heard has been limited by the nature of the adult-analyst interaction.
From the child's point of view, it is the analyst and the adult who inter­
viewed and chose each other. It is they who have evolved a relationship,
have begun to define the limits of their trust and to deal with painful and in­
timate issues. As a dissociated self system with a separate object world and
ego structure, the child has been kept very far away from the analytic field.
The child has had little or no impact on the analytic relationship, and the re­
lationship has affected her only insofar as she has perceived enough trust be­
tween the analyst and the adult to encourage her participation. To be sure,
the emergence of the child in the treatment signifies that the early work has
proceeded well and that the heart of the treatment is about to begin.
There are now two different patients on the analytic scene. An adult self,
whom the analyst has already begun to know, and an illusive child self, who
appears and disappears at will, introducing endless confusion into the ana­
lytic process. It behooves us to pause here and take a closer look at this child
self system and at the ways in which he or she attempts to engage the ana­
lyst in playing out unconscious wishes, dreams, and fears.
Without question, the most singularly important thing to understand
about the child is that she exists only in the context of a perpetually abusive
internalized object relationship. It is this aspect of the self and this aspect of
the object that have been, literally, ejected from the patient's more integrated
personality functioning and allowed to set up an independent existence for
the sake of pursuing their separate needs. Mature personality organization is
an amalgam and integration of a multitude of widely varying self experi­
ences and object experiences, each with its own unique affective-ideational-
instinctual charge (Kemberg, 1976; Ogden, 1986; Volkan, 1976). Ideally, this
integration leads to wide-ranging, internal representations of the self and ob­
ject that are at times contradictory but not mutually exclusive. Love and hate
coexist, are modulated, each by the other, and give rise to the potential for
ambivalence and mourning, as well as intense passion and ambition.
In the patient who has been sexually abused, the child aspect of the self
representation, along with that of the abusing other and their complex sys­
72 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tem of emotional connection and exchange, is cordoned off and isolated

from the rest of the personality. It remains virtually frozen in time, the im­
ages unmodulated by any. others of a different, perhaps gentler nature.
These images become the embodiment of the murderous rage and perni­
cious self-loathing that drive the child in her relationships with others. In
their intensity, they fuel the psychotic-level terrors of annihilation and world
destruction that so infuse the patient's internal experience. The child cannot
grow. Her anger and self-hatred go untempered—therefore unintegrated.
Her world is a world of betrayal, terror, and continued emotional flooding.
Her reality has been penetrated by a hostile, invasive force and her percep­
tions tragically distorted by her abusive experiences. What is bad she is told
is good; what hurts is something she has been told she secretly wants and
asks for. Her body aches. Her mind is in a constant state of upheaval and
confusion. When, as a child, she turned to those around her for a way out,
she was confronted either with threats and further abuse or neglect and for­
midable denial. The child is incapable of expecting anything different from
the analyst. She experiences herself as terrified, completely alone, and help­
less. Only the adult persona can ask for and receive help. The child cannot
ask; and it is, indeed, a long while before the analyst's "help" begins to pene­
trate the formidable dissociative barriers.
The extreme dissociation of the abused child into a separate self and ob­
ject system is, essentially, an attempt by the patient at damage control. As
physicians attempt to isolate and remove a potentially invasive malignancy
before it can affect healthy tissue, the adult survivor of childhood sexual
abuse attempts to isolate and eject the toxic introject and accompanying self­
representation before the capacity to trust oneself and others is entirely de­
stroyed. The child self may be condemned to a world of unrelenting para­
noia, but the adult persona, having ejected these toxic experiences, attempts
a rudimentary integration, where self and object representations coalesce at
a higher level of development. Indeed, the adult persona of many of our pa­
tients is marked by a rather hypomanic defensive style, where aggression is
routinely projected and then denied. The adult in these instances takes on an
air of uncanny innocence. He or she is often eager, if not compulsively dri­
ven, to help others. The consummate self-denier, the patient is unaware of
the ways in which others take advantage of her well-intentioned need to
help and are equally unaware of her own resentment at often being taken
advantage of. She struggles but fails to make sense of her complete inability
to say "no." Others seem to be capable of possessing her completely.
Clearly, the balance attained here between adult and child is tenuous at
best, with a codetermined impairment of ego functioning that makes suc­
cessful adaptation virtually impossible. Secondary-process thinking is sub­
ject to the constant intrusion of more primitive ideational strains. Reality
testing is impaired by the pathological defensive patterns and the dissocia­
 Dissociation 73

tive trends that give rise to a confusing duality in functioning. Somatic com­
plaints are rampant, and the struggle against self-abusive urges is constant
and unrelenting. Unlike diseased tissue that can be rendered harmless, once
removed, the child self is fully aware of her extradition and can wage an in­
sidious campaign against the adult, thus making any successful adaptation
even more unlikely. It is not uncommon for an adult survivor in treatment to
arrive at the point where she can articulate the ongoing struggle between
that aspect of her personality that wants to function independently and suc­
cessfully, and those more childlike aspects that feel such an adaptation to
represent a "sellout" and betrayal of the child who suffered so unmercifully.
It is often at this precise moment of crisis, as adult and child are beginning
to come together, when memory of childhood abuse threatens to emerge and
overwhelm the adult sensorium, that a third persona can appear, the adoles­
cent protector-self aspect of the personality, who conveys a tough, street­
wise, intensely cynical view of the world. She comes equipped with a truly
dazzling array of impulsive, acting-out, self-abusive symptomatology de­
signed to preoccupy the adult, befuddle and distract the therapist, and
above and beyond all else, obfuscate the threatening emergence of the child
self and her traumatogenic memories. The compendium of delinquent and
self-abusive behavior includes stealing, truancy, pathological lying, burning,
cutting, and the entire spectrum of anorexic-bulimic symptomatology.
The adolescent persona has no memories of specific childhood abuse,
and, rather than understanding her delinquent, self-abusive behavior as
symptomatic of an earlier trauma, her own abusiveness is often used to ex­
cuse a general attitude of parental neglect, indifference, or hurtfulness. The
adolescent must at all cost contain the child; but the only methods of con­
tainment and control available to her are the cruel and sadistic methods she
had experienced as a child. The adolescent persona is, in essence, the clinical
manifestation of the sadistic introject in its dissociated adult form. Certainly
this extreme resolution cannot work indefinitely, and the adult, at great un­
conscious risk, enters psychoanalytic treatment.
Once the participation of all the psychic players has been ensured, ana­
lytic work can proceed. Of tantamount importance is the integration of the
adult and child personas' experiences. This involves, above all else, the re­
covery and disclosure of as many memories of early sexual abuse as is possi­
ble. This includes, of course, the actual memories as they emerge for the pa­
tient; the fantasies and secondary elaborations that arise in the patient's
associations, dreams, or memories; and a full affectively integrated reliving
and working-through within the transference-countertransference of the
traumatic overstimulation, terror, and dissociation. It is only when the pa­
tient witnesses the dissociation during the course of treatment that she be­
comes truly convinced of its existence and can begin to anticipate and cir­
cumvent the experience, thus precluding it from intruding at times of
74 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

heightened emotionality and excitement. As the adult listens to the child's

words and slowly begins to understand their significance, new meaning is
given to previously inexplicable symptoms. The acceptance and integration
proceed slowly, but ideally the interpenetration of these two personas each
provides some compensation for this intensely painful process.
The adult, no longer terrified of the child's experiences, comes to appreci­
ate the reasons for her rage and to acknowledge its justification. There is a
new compassion for this former enemy and a wish to heal her wounds.
Because the adult comes to slowly allow the child back into a shared con­
sciousness, she can also provide the child with some sorely needed parent­
ing. In providing understanding and acceptance for her child self, the adult
can go a long way toward gratifying a painfully frustrated developmental
need.
The child, on the other hand, is no longer driven to undermine the adult's
successes. Her program of insurgence can, at last, come to an end. The
adult's thought processes are no longer subject to constant invasion and dis­
ruption. In addition, the adult is revivified by once again integrating the
child into her inner world. In excising the dangerous child persona, many
other important childlike capacities have been lost. The child, now freed
from her painful and all-consuming burden, is released to discover, perhaps
for the first time, these other capacities and to bring them back to the adult,
who also experiences them anew. Vitality and the shameless passion known
only to children can reinfuse the adult's interpersonal world. Play and fan­
tasy—for so long dangerous regressive forces—will enrich her internal life
and breathe creativity into her practical, survival-oriented mind. Ambition,
always too close to aggression and exhibitionism, either dissociated or inap­
propriately acted out, can assume a more readily modulated position and
spur the adult to a greater enjoyment of her successes.
One patient, for example, presented her dysphoric, anhedonic, rigid adult
self for treatment. Some time later, after she had made considerable progress
in integrating the dissociated child self, she reported to her analyst a day
spent at an amusement park. She had ridden the fastest rides, eaten cotton
candy, flown a balloon, and reveled with delight in all of it. In her next ses­
sion, she began to muse about returning to school for a master's degree in
her field.
Her progress demonstrated the force and the consequences of integration.
But during this intensely painful phase of treatment, the forces of integration
exist in a constant battle with the ever-ready tendencies toward dissociation
and disorganization. For it is during this phase that adult and child together
must come to terms with the two most deadening realities. The first, the real­
ities of the abuse that occurred; and the second—and perhaps more difficult
fact—a childhood that was destroyed and won't ever be reclaimed.
It is a universal fantasy among all adult survivors of childhood sexual
 Dissociation 75

abuse that once the horrible facts of the abuse become known, the world will
be moved to provide a new and idealized, compensatory childhood. This
had always been the antidote; the daily pain-killing drug that became an ad­
diction for the tortured child. She fed herself, in one patient's words, "daily
doses, pm for pain," in order to go on living. It is often the renunciation of
this wish that proves to be even more unimaginable for the child than ac­
cepting the realities of her abuse. Acknowledging the impossibility of bring­
ing this fantasy to realization represents a betrayal of her most sacred inner
self.
It is often this issue that gives rise to the most serious suicidal ideation, a
threat that must, particularly in this context, be taken seriously. However,
even when suicide is not an issue, renunciation of this idealized, compen­
satory childhood almost always results in a refortification of dissociative de­
fenses and hatred for the child self. Through a purely childlike piece of logic,
the dissociated self believes some form of these words uttered by one pa­
tient: "If what happened to me was unfair ... if I did not deserve it, then I
would get what I did deserve ... what all the other children had. If people
only knew, they would make sure that I got it. If I am not going to get it,
even now when they know the truth ... then I must have deserved what
happened to me after all. I must be bad."
Another patient said:

This is too much. I can deal with the abuse ... I think .. . maybe, I can. But the
idea that this is all there will ever be. That when I think of being little, all I will
feel is pain and terror ... that's too much ... I can't live with that. I want to feel
what I see in the eyes of little children. You (therapist) say I deserve this ... so
why can't I? The sense of safety, I want a place that's safe. I want to get into
trouble and be mischievous ... safe trouble ... usual trouble. I want someone
else to do the worrying and the punishing. I'm tired. You say I can feel some of
these things as a grown-up .. . you tell me about them. But how can I feel them
when I'm not sure what they are .. . words. It's like trying to describe a color to
someone who was bom blind.

This underlying theme, which runs throughout treatment, does call forth
periods of the most profound and intractable mourning. It tests a patient's
determination to survive the threat of overwhelming disorganization, and it
challenges the analyst's capacities to withstand her patients' despair and the
limitations of her own abilities to alleviate suffering. Above all else, the ana­
lyst must allow the patient to experience and express his grief in full mea­
sure. This expression must be unencumbered by a need to appear better for
the analyst's sake.
The patient must recognize and come to terms with the finality and irre­
versibility of the traumatic loss. This is a long and arduous process of work­
ing through intense rage and profound pain. Every resistance possible will
be called up by the patient to avoid this mourning process; and the analyst
76 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

will inevitably be swept up into a maddening conundrum of illusively shift­

ing transference-countertransference enactments. The child will hold on,
first to her denial, then to her expectation of compensation, with a ferocity
that the analyst may not have experienced previously. In addition, the ana­
lyst may experience some trepidation about allowing such primitive trans­
ference paradigms to play themselves out and about tolerating such extreme
regressive disorganization in a previously functional patient. However, this
regressive process is unavoidable; only by allowing the child self to emerge,
speak, and mourn will the emotional trauma be healed and the structural in­
sufficiencies mended.
Inevitably, such a formulation, which stresses the inextricable linkage be­
tween trauma and dissociation, will call forth questions about the presence
and diagnostic differentiation of the processes we describe from those inher­
ent in the development of multiple personality disorders. In accordance with
what we regard to be the best psychiatric literature on the subject (Putnam,
1989; Ross, 1989; Ross & Lowenstein, 1992), we believe that dissociation and
dissociative disorders exist on a continuum, with multiple personality disor­
ders representing the most extreme form of the kind of process we have de­
scribed. The earlier, the more chronic, the more sadistic the abuse, and the
closer the object relationship between abuser and victim, the more likely will
be the development of multiple personality disorder. So, although all adult
survivors of childhood sexual abuse do not show multiple personality struc­
tures, it seems that the best current estimate is that between 88% and 97% of
all multiple personalities have experienced significant sexual and/or physi­
cal abuse in childhood (Putnam, 1989; Ross, 1989).
It is our belief that an approach that views dissociative barriers as bound­
aries drawn around particular organizations of self and object representation
(as opposed to a view that stresses only the dissociation of specific memo­
ries) provides a clearer way of seeing entitites within the entire spectrum of
dissociative pathology from a more theoretically continuous perspective.
Such an understanding facilitates the capacity of a psychoanalytically
trained clinician who finds him or herself confronted, perhaps for the first
time, with a patient suffering from a true multiple personality disorder.
We also believe that a relationally oriented conceptualization of dissocia­
tion sheds some light on one of the continuing controversies in the multiple
personality disorder literature, particularly that written from a psychoana­
lytic perspective. Some analysts have expressed their concerns that the emer­
gence of "alter personalities" appears to intensify in the treatment setting,
thus raising the possibility that such splits are iatrogenic, specifically as they
relate to transferential reenactments. Often, an analyst "covering" a col­
league's practice because of illness or vacation claims to see no evidence of
the multiplicity that has been described and thus remains mystified by the
diagnosis or attributes it to a countertransferential overinvolvement on the
 Dissociation 77

part of the treating therapist. Within our conceptual frame, however, such
seemingly different experiences on the part of these two hypothetical ana­
lysts suggest no inherent internal contradictions.
It is our view that dissociation, because it is traumatogenically rendered,
exists, fundamentally, within a relational context. Such mutually exclusive,
alternating states are constellations of self and object representations with
the traumatic memories themselves, providing both the glue that binds these
representations together and the terror that divides such memory groupings
from others of a more benign and tolerable nature. It should riot be surpris­
ing, therefore, that such fundamental divisions will be most likely to mani­
fest themselves around the re-evocation of experience specific to intense
transference-counter transference emergence within an ongoing analysis.
That such experiences are called forth only within the treatment setting by
no means implies that they are created by that setting. If such a view pre­
vails, than all transference manifestations would fall prey to the same dubi­
ous speculation.
Although a thorough review of diagnostic criteria and treatment proce­
dures specific to instances of multiple personality disorder are clearly not
within the scope of this book, the reader working with adults who were seri­
ously abused as children should be alert to the overlap in these two areas of
clinical work. Enhanced sensitivity to the presence of such phenomena will
enable the analyst to seek out appropriate reading, didactic work, and super­
visory consultation when such a clinical eventuality occurs.

Clinical Implications

In presenting our thoughts, on the psychoanalytic treatment of adult sur­

vivors of childhood sexual abuse we are asked again and again about the
level of regression described in our clinical work and exemplified in treat­
ment vignettes. Is such regression necessary for the working-through of
early traumatic abuse, or is it an iatrogenic artifact of an unnecessarily re­
gressive analytic style? Is the dissociated child persona a structural and clini­
cal inevitability of chronic trauma, or is it merely the patient's accommoda­
tion to a particular point of view held by the analyst? We have found
ourselves—and have had confirmed by numerous colleagues, students, and
supervisees—that speaking directly to the child persona and understanding
tenaciously entrenched therapeutic stalemates from the child's perspective—
that is, taking into account her own unique ego organization and system of
internalized object relations—changes profoundly the nature of the analytic
work.
With this formulation in mind we make the following clinical recommen­
dations:
78 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

1) Speaking directly, to. the child persona in the adult survivor is the most
effective way of recovering all of the traumatogenic memories. This is
particularly important, because it is the more severe end of the spectrum
that exists outside of conscious awareness.
2) Speaking directly to the child persona is also the most effective way to
work through via the transference-countertransference a more pathologi­
cal internal system of self and object representations and reality-distorting
defenses. Such an internalized structure seriously impinges on the pa­
tient's current interpersonal relationships, and, in many cases, sets up
these relationships along sadomasochistic lines that make the patient an
ongoing victim of real or perceived abuse. Here the real experiences in­
teract synergistically with the cordoned-off internal object world of the
abused child persona to further confirm her intrinsic badness and, there­
fore, to indirectly intensify dissociative barriers.
3) The establishment of an alliance between the child persona and the ana­
lyst has the effect of symbolically changing the original traumatic experi­
ence of isolation and despair by bringing about the internalization of a
new therapeutic object relationship that produces a permanent change
in internal structure.

Although we stress the importance of working with dissociative states in

the treatment of adult survivors, we are nonetheless aware that carrying out
such tasks can become a complex and problematic clinical process. Two par­
ticular areas where the progress of the clinical work is particularly vulnera­
ble to breakdown are illustrated with the following specific case examples.

Repetitive Reenactment of Abusive Memories

In cases where the dissociative barrier is particularly strong (usually im­
plying a more sadistic or earlier experience of abuse), memories can emerge
and be verbalized by the patient and analyst, without integration proceeding
in the more usual fashion. In such a case, the patient is extremely upset, cry­
ing, shaking, and trembling, usually curled up with her head buried and not
looking at the analyst. Although the patient can tell the story of her abuse
while in such a frenzied state and the analyst can obtain knowledge, perhaps
for the first time, about the specifics of the patient's abuse, integration be­
tween the child and the adult states within the patient is not occuring.
Here, the essential nature of the transference-countertransference config­
uration evokes the regressive reenactment of a piece of previously dissoci­
ated experience in the treatment setting. In such a case, the reenactment may
involve a dialog between the patient and her abuser. In such a situation, the
analyst merely bears witness to the conversation that went on between the
victim and perpetrator during the abuse, with the patient reenacting both
 Dissociation 79

roles within the therapy hour. Nothing is addressed to the therapist; in fact,
in such a situation, the patient appears to be oblivious to the therapist's pres­
ence.
In the second situation, the patient reenacts in the therapy hour a dialog
that went on between dissociated aspects of herself during the actual experi­
ence of abuse. In this case, the dialog has a repetitive chantlike quality—hyp­
notic and trancelike in itself. It may be a particular song or a recognizable
nursery rhyme, repeated again and again in an obvious effort to block every­
thing else from awareness. In both of these scenarios the patient is oblivious
to the analyst's presence; he or she exists only as an observer to this dissoci­
ated reenactment. Via projective identification, the analyst, in this context, is
often left with the same sense of helplessness and loss of control in the face
of overwhelming traumatic regression once experienced by the abused child.
Although the analyst observes, she does not participate in this reenact­
ment. Although the particulars of the transference and countertransference
are necessary for and essential to the evocation of the experience, the dissoci­
ation is, in this case, a defense against working through the particulars of the
relationship, real and fantasied, to the analyst, in the immediacy and mutu­
ality of the treatment setting. When such defenses against working through
within the transference become rigidified, these patterns of dissociated reen­
actment often become repetitive and nonproductive aspects of the therapeu­
tic work. Here a clinical example may help to clarify why such patterns be­
come established and how they might become unfixed.
A talented and experienced analyst recently requested a series of consulta­
tions regarding her work with an adult incest survivor with whom she be­
lieved that she had "let the regression go too far." The patient was a 27-year-
old survivor of father-daughter incest that had begun when she was 5 and
continued until the start of menses. The patient's father was alcoholic, and the
sexual abuse often included violent physical assaults as well. The patient had
had no conscious memories of abuse at the time she began her treatment, but
the peculiar juxtaposition of a highly successful external adaptation and more
intensely primitive masochistic and overtly self-abusive symptomatology
alerted the analyst, who had recently become aware of the growing psycho­
analytic literature in this area, to the possibilities of such a history.
This particular therapist had done her homework well, familiarizing her­
self with much of the literature on trauma, sexual abuse, and psychoanalytic
work with this patient population. She had thus gained a familiarity and
comfort in working with the return of dissociated material and had, with
such knowledge, facilitated the emergence of the child persona and her cata­
log of previously inexpressible memories within the treatment. Although the
analyst now had a working familiarity with many of the significant events in
her patient's past, the analysis had assumed a pattern with which she was
uncomfortable. We present this consultation because we believe it to be typi­
80 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

cal of many cases of yvork with dissociated material that can be allowed to
become perseverative and unrelenting. This common problem for clinicians
grows out of the exclusive emphasis placed on "full, affectively charged,
abreaction" of pathogenic events found in the trauma literature and the rela­
tive lack of emphasis placed on the notion that such abreaction, although es­
sential, is only a means toward the ultimate integration of such experiences.
In the present case example, memories of incest experience between the
patient and her father began to emerge in much the way we have grown
used to hearing. The patient would curl up on the couch and begin to speak
in the voice of a younger child. At some point in the session, the retelling of
the experience became a reliving, and the patient was essentially unaware of
the distinction between these past events and the present context. The ana­
lyst was both fascinated and alarmed by the intensity, physicality, and re­
gressive pull of this reenactment. The patient could "end up hiding in a cor­
ner of my office, speaking from behind a bookcase or literally writhing in
sexually suggestive ways on the couch." At times, the patient was capable of
hearing the analyst's interventions, but at many times she was not. These ex­
periences in the session were initially helpful to analyst and patient in con­
vincing them both of the powerful reality of what they had only vaguely
suspected to be true and in providing the analyst with many of the details of
specific events that would prove to be helpful in formulating interpretations
later on in the work.
Over time, however, an interesting transformation, first noticeable in the
countertransference, began to infuse the therapeutic relationship. The ana­
lyst, who was at first "riveted" by the unfolding drama and raw intensity of
the dissociated material, began to feel impatient, almost bored, with regres­
sive reenactments that had started to feel inevitable and repetitive. Speaking
almost in a whisper, herself, the analyst guiltily confessed, "It's awful to say
this, and I know something is wrong that I'm reacting this way .. . it's one of
the reasons I'm here. But last week when she (the patient) was reliving one
of her worst memories—something that initially moved me to tears in the
session—I actually thought—oh this is so awful—I actually thought, 'so . . .
what else is new?'"
This is not an unusual reaction for therapists working with adult sur­
vivors, although it is always one that engenders intense guilt. The experience
resembles that of a parent who at one time is entranced by the surging
power of the imperious and commanding 2-year-old but finds such peremp­
tory edicts much less endearing in the child several years older (Mitchell,
1990). As children mature, we come to expect more of them. As the patient
proceeds in treatment, therapists hold to certain notions of developmental
progress and therapeutic change, maintaining an empathic identification
with the patient's wish to grow. Here, of course, we are on dangerous
ground: transference or counter transference? Sadistic frustration by the pa-
 Dissociation 81

tient of the analyst's perceived goals for her? Or retaliatory anger on the part
of the analyst who wishes to save and cure this troubled soul?
Within a relational model that stresses the belief that together analyst and
patient cocreate the paradigms that need to be analyzed, we are spared the
need to resolve such conundrums. We assume both of these possibilities,
along with many others to be true, signaling not the moral disintegration of
this once-empathic analyst but a definitive shift in the intrapsychic meaning
of this particular reenactment, that is, the reliving of this specific dissociated
event. Signaled by the growing change in the countertransference, that is,
the feeling that it is time for the patient to "move on," the therapist must as­
sume a shift in the pertinent relational matrices is being played out in the an­
alytic sessions. He or she is no longer working with the terrified, out of con­
trol, traumatically overstimulated child but with that aspect of the sadistic
introject, the internalized abuser who seeks active gratification via transfer­
ence reenactments of past trauma and, in so doing, renders the analyst-vic­
tim helpless and guilt-ridden.
Here the counteretransferential change helps to illuminate a reconfigura­
tion in the transference-countertransference interaction, active interpretation
of which relocates the once dissociated experience, well into the heart and
soul of the analytic relationship. Thus, the potential for reintegration of these
experiences, now transpiring under the watchful eye of an observing
ego/adult persona, can be maximized. Such is the case with each aspect of
the internalized paradigms of self and object representation that inhabit the
inner world of the dissociated abused child. As they play themselves out in
the relationship to the analyst, they can be witnessed by patient and analyst
together, then verbalized, interpreted, and integrated with other aspects of
adult functioning. This process of active integration beginning in the patient­
analyst interaction should contribute in large measure to a reduction in the
type of perseverative reenactments of dissociative states of which the analyst
in our case example grew tired.
There are several other technical suggestions that may help to facilitate
the integration of such dissociated reenactments, when it feels as if their rep­
etition has become overly gratifying in and of itself, and is no longer useful
in recovering new memories. We often ask patients in a dissociated state if
they can sit up and talk of the same experiences while maintaining eye con­
tact with the therapist. One patient described the effects of this request far
more eloquently than we can. She said, "When I look into your eyes, I see the
horrors of my own life reflected there. You look sadder and angrier for me
than I can yet feel for myself. . .. Your eyes look loving, but there is still dan­
ger hidden there." This patient is struggling to integrate abusive experiences
within the context of a new, nonabusive object relationship, a relationship
that allows for her perception of the analyst's emotional reactions as well as
for the integration of those reactions with her own. We find that simply ask­
82 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

ing patients to sit up and look at the analyst can have a major effect upon re­
locating the "scene of the crime" within the analytic dyad. We can under­
stand the "danger" that the patient sees in the analyst's eyes and work with
it far more effectively than we can with a disembodied danger that exists
somewhere "out there."
Some other suggestions may be helpful, such as asking patients, much as
one might with a true multiple personality disorder patient, "Is the grown­
up part of you listening to what you're saying . .. it's so important that she
knows and understands what you are describing." Here one invokes the ob­
serving ego of the adult persona to bear witness to her "other self" and its in­
ternalized system of more primitive and sadomasochistically organized ob­
ject relationships. As one patient aptly put it, "You speak not only to the
child, you also speak to the adult about the child." In so doing, one seeks to
encourage an identification between the adult persona and the analyst, as
the latter attempts to engage, regulate, contain, and essentially parent the
abused and dissociated child.

Maintaining the Analytic Frame

Although much of what we have written stresses the centrality of evoking the
dissociated child persona and her related system of self and object representa­
tions specific to episodes of abuse, it is equally imperative that the clinician
never lose sight of the adult self and object organization within this relational
matrix. Ultimately, it is the adult persona who bears responsibility for main­
taining the analytic frame (i.e., conforming to certain time constraints, paying
bills, respecting the analyst's needs for privacy, time off, sleep, etc.) Any treat­
ment, abuse-related or not, that encompasses certain regressive reenactments
in the transference, must navigate a veritable minefield of potentially treat­
ment-destroying interactions tacitly encouraged by such regression.
Under the sway of regressive reenactments, often outrageous demands
can be made of the analyst by the patient. Although we become used to hear­
ing about the perceived needs of our patients and of struggling ourselves
with the constant tension between symbolic gratifications, frustrations, and
interpretations, such requests, when made by patients with histories of se­
vere abuse, exert particularly powerful and influential countertransferential
pressure. Requests that are contextually embedded in a history of abuse and
neglect, plaintively echoed by the very child who endured such maltreat­
ment, can move the most resolute believer in the powers of abstinence and
neutrality to inappropriate acts of attempted heroic salvation.
However, no sooner does the idealized savior-therapist make contact with
the abused child persona than the operative relational matrix shifts and we
are simultaneously dealing with enactments of the omnipotent, counterabu-
 Dissociation 83

sive child, that aspect of the child that is identified with her abusive parent or
other. The analyst must be prepared for the reality that, in a split second, the
central organizing transference-countertransferehce paradigm can shift from
that between a nurturing parent-therapist and a needy, damaged, yearning,
and ultimately grateful child-patient to that between a weary, depleted, guilt-
ridden, helpless child-therapist, and an entitled, omnipotent, raging and out-
of-control abuser-patient. Therapists shift, shift back, and shift again, as each
paradigm takes its turn at center stage in the analytic relationship.
The emergence and resolution of this particular transference-counter-
transference reenactment is addressed in chapter 8, but it should be men­
tioned here in order to emphasize the point that, although we welcome the
emergence of a dissociated child persona and listen to her memories, experi­
ences, and perceived needs, we at all times hold the adult patient responsi­
ble for maintaining herself and the ability to continue the treatment. This
provides a necessary balance and counterpoint to the regressive pull of such
a treatment. It is the therapist's role to enable the child to mourn the child­
hood that cannot be, not to live it out in the transference relationship. It is,
therefore, disturbing to hear the many stories of therapists actively engaging
in parent-child type of activities, such as reading children's books to their
patients, playing children's games during sessions, and so on, as if this
somehow provides recompense for the horrific abuse that has been perpe­
trated. Far from not helping, such excesses can be counterproductive, inter­
fering with the necessary mourning that must be done, by communicating
the therapist's willingness to attempt such "reparenting." We believe that a
thorough understanding of the internal object world of such patients will
make clear the doomed resolution of such attempts. On the contrary, it is the
patient's continued ability to function, that is, to maintain the necessary
obligations inherent in her participation in the adult world, that will ulti­
mately convince her of her ability to deal with traumatic memories and reen­
actments without becoming overwhelmed and retraumatized. We therefore
encourage our patients to continue working, to maintain a modicum of so­
cial interaction with the outside world. We insist that sessions be fully paid
for, that time limits be adhered to, and that reasonable understanding of the
therapist's needs in such a therapeutic relationship be maintained. Of
course, adhering to such a treatment frame is enormously difficult, and the
analyst should always be willing to negotiate with the adult patient the par­
ticular therapeutic modifications that may be necessary in order to enable
the child counterpart to proceed with the therapeutic work.
Ms. P. was a 32-year-old survivor of repetitive sexual abuse at the hands
of an alcoholic and sadistic father. The following excerpt is taken from a ses­
sion during the third year of a three-time-a-week analysis, occurring at the
time the patient was beginning to recover memories of having been forcibly
sodomized.
84 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Patient: I can't possibly leave now; I know you wouldn't make me do

that. I'm all over the place ... a mess ... I can't go out there (escalating
panic). I know you see somebody after me, but just this once, you'll
make that person go away, you must, because I can't, I really can't
stop. I'm begging you!

Here the analyst is faced with a seemingly no-win proposition. To "force"

the patient to leave reenacts an abusive scenario with the therapist as abuser
and patient as the begging, pleading victim. Perhaps less available, counter-
transferentially, however, is the therapist and her next patient as the victim
of an infantile and out-of-control abuser who just "can't stop" herself.

Therapist: I know how much pain you're in, because I've been here with
you through this session. And I wish I could do that for you, now ... to
make the whole rest of the world and all my other patients disappear
... to say to you that, because your father did this to you, you deserve
this time to be the only person in the world who matters. I think it's re­
ally okay to wish for that... I even want you to wish for that. . . . But I
can't make it come true.
Patient: But why not... why can't you just this once. I've never asked
before. I even bet your other patient would understand. Crises happen,
everyone knows that. I would understand if you had to cancel my ses­
sion one time because of a crisis with someone else. I may not like it,
but I would understand.

The therapist becomes aware that under the countertransferential pressure

to empathize with the abused child, the patient is beginning to sound reason­
able. She even considers, momentarily, acceding to the patient's demands.

Therapist: You make it sound so reasonable, and I suppose from one

point of view it is. But it seems to me that there's another point of view
that is equally important. If I say okay to you, that it's all right to stay
and use somebody else's time . .. I'm really saying that all of the terri­
ble things you've suffered entitle you to be so out of control that you
impinge on the rights of that person out there (the next patient). That
having been abused gives you the right to ignore the rights and bound­
aries of another, to identify with your father and turn that patient out
there into yourself.
Patient: I don't care!
Therapist: I know that the little kid in you who has been so terribly hurt
doesn't much care about that stranger, and, at this moment I wouldn't
expect her to. But the only way I know to make it really safe for that lit­
tle girl inside to feel all the angry wishes she can possibly imagine is to
 Dissociation 85

be very clear that all those angry wishes won't really hurt someone else.
Patient: I can't care about other people right now.
Therapist: I understand that. /
Patient: [Crying] I don't even think I care about you.
Therapist: That's okay. I'll try to protect myself, too. Then, you can feel all
of the hate without having to worry about anyone but yourself.
Patient: Okay, so you do that for me; I understand what you're saying,
but I still just don't think I can do it. I'm too upset to get up and face
the world. I'm out of control.
Therapist: I don't think you are. I think you would like the freedom to be
out of control, to be free of the burden of having to control yourself.
After all, your father didn't worry about staying in control ... did he?
Why should you have to?
Patient: I know that you want me say okay to that, that I understand and
now I will go nicely. But I still can't do it [panic rising again].
Therapist: I have to believe that you can do it, because we are going to
stop now. We must do that so that we can go on working in this way.
You know that if you have trouble, you can reach me later on this
evening.

The patient being described here was able to leave this session and to func­
tion quite well until her next analytic hour. However, many patients, despite
the best interpretive efforts, will still leave such a session utterly enraged at
what they experience as the analyst's brutality. By way of reassurance we can
only stress here the belief that our work involves the constant, delicate negoti­
ation of regressive reenactment and progressive working-through and
unfolding. The "brutal and heartless therapist" is not a therapeutic failure but
a central aspect of the internal organizing matrices of self and object that must
be worked through during the analytic encounter. However, together, the
functioning, adult patient and the analyst must protect the structure and
direction of the treatment from the seductive encroachment of regressive
therapeutic enactments that threaten the continuity of treatment.
Here the analyst tries to steer a course through the storm, knowing that
all involved will be tossed around unmercifully and that there will be peri­
ods when all sense of direction and purpose will be lost. Here, we hold the
final destination in mind but know that the ultimate success of our ability to
navigate and survive will rest with our ability to pick significant landmarks
and milestones out of the encroaching mist. As we become familiarized with
the kinds of dissociative processes described, we enhance our ability to react
quickly and assuredly without at the same time oversteering the boundaries
of the often enshrouded course.
 CHAPTER 5

Disclosure and the Recovery

of Memories

HE SEXUAL ABUSE of children is enshrouded in secrecy and denial.

T
Secrecy is imposed by the perpetrator with a variety of intimidations
that range from the subtle to the viciously sadistic. Frequently, the si­
lence obtained from the child is so deeply internalized that the victim
reaches adulthood with the secret of her violations intact. At more extreme
levels of preservation, the sexual abuse remains dissociated from the every­
day consciousness of the patient, thus constituting a secret even from the
victim herself. If, on the other hand, the child does disclose the abuse while it
is occurring, she is often ignored, disbelieved, vilified, or further abused
rather than validated and supported.
Given the extent to which the abused child and adult survivor relegate
their sexual victimizations to a realm of shadowed secrecy, it is not surpris­
ing to find that many women with abuse histories undertake and even
"complete" therapy without ever mentioning their abusive experiences.
Treatment may bog down and eventually grind to a halt because of a myriad
of resistances and seemingly inexplicable, yet powerfully unsettling, trans­
ference and countertransference constellations that confuse and frustrate
both patient and therapist.
If secrecy is the mainstay of childhood sexual abuse, disclosure to a vali­
dating, believing other is the first step in a process of healing the devastating
wounds of early sexual victimization. It is therefore crucial that clinicians
know how and when to facilitate disclosure, so that they can become that,
often first, validating and believing other.

Disclosure of Abuse in Childhood: What Happens?

Some patients, as children, divulged the secret of their abuse early on.
Unfortunately, many of these patients met with negative responses from dis­
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 87

closure targets; they were often ignored, blamed, or vilified for the abuse by
the person to whom they disclosed.
When, as a child, a patient disclosed her Secret to an adult who then
failed to intervene or protect her, she, of course, was abused once again.
Furthermore, the fantasy that someone would protect her if only she told
was dismantled, leaving her even more alienated and bereft. Barbara, who
was sexually molested by her father, told her mother about the abuse when
she was 12 years old, 4 years after the nearly nightly victimizations began.
Barbara's mother was hanging laundry in the backyard when Barbara
blurted out, "Mommy, Daddy puts his penis between my legs at night, and I
don't like it." Her mother just continued to hang clothes and, when Barbara
summoned her courage to begin again, her mother responded, "Barbara,
you're in my way. Go in the house, and see if your father is awake yet." The
message to this child could not have been clearer; her role was to attend to
her father in every way while her mother remained emotionally detached
from both husband and daughter. The hostile neglect inherent in this inter­
change was yet another abusive thread running through the tapestry of
Barbara's childhood.
Clearly, the child who disclosed her sexual abuse when she was young
and met with a negative response often becomes an adult patient, who, even
if she remembers the sexual traumas, is terrified of disclosing again only to
be rejected once more. It is the therapist's sensitivity to and comfort with de­
rivatives and symptoms suggestive of a history of sexual trauma that can
lead to disclosure and the beginning of healing.

Facilitating Disclosure of Sexual Abuse in Treatment

Psychotherapy, from its inception, has been dedicated to the belief that talk­
ing about one's life within the context of a therapeutic relationship is muta­
tive. Since Anna O's discovery of the "talking cure," therapists have been
urging people to talk. Because, however, a patient's sexually traumatic his­
tory is frequently beclouded by long-held secrecy, it is imperative that the
therapist take an active position in eliciting information about past abusive
experiences. Before delineating ways in which disclosure can be facilitated,
we examine resistances to this process that are sometimes mentioned by clin­
icians.

Resistance to Asking
Therapists may be reluctant to ask about a history of abuse for a number
of reasons. First, they may feel that patients will divulge important aspects
of their histories when they are ready. Asking, in this case, is experienced as
88 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

premature or intrusive. Clinicians may also hold that a history of sexual

abuse, if present, is just one more part of a patient's narrative and does not
represent something especially to seek after. In this case, asking is judged to
be irrelevant. A third concern raised by therapists .involves the believability
of sexual abuse disclosed in response to questioning during history taking,
particularly sex abuse disclosed by psychotic and borderline patients. This
argument echos Freud's in questioning the reliability of the data presented
by more disturbed patients. Finally, therapists doubt disclosures of child­
hood sexual abuse and attribute these reports to unresolved oedipal conflicts
and fantasies.
Each of these arguments against asking a patient about sexual abuse often
represents countertransference resistance on the part of the therapist.
Psychological trauma, especially sexual abuse, raises anxiety and discomfort
within the clinician. Like society at large, a victim's family and, frequently
enough, patients themselves, therapists do not want to know that patients
sitting before them were violated sexually, often repeatedly, perhaps sadisti­
cally, maybe at very young ages. We want to recoil and close our eyes to the
commonness and viciousness with which children are sexually victimized.
And so, too often, we do not ask, citing the potential intrusiveness or irrele­
vance of such questions, or we find reasons to disbelieve what we hear, in­
voking the reported tendency of more disturbed patients to distort, or rely­
ing on the centrality of oedipal theory to recast what we are told. The latter
two potential therapist resistances may be particularly devastating to pa­
tients who have been invalidated earlier in their lives when they talked
about their abusive experiences.
The literature linking early actual trauma and borderline pathology sug­
gests that, indeed, the borderline patient's presentation of her childhood
may be quite distorted. In contradistinction to traditional conceptualizations
of the borderline (Kemberg, 1984), however, this literature suggests that the
way in which borderline patients distort often is to present their histories as
far rosier than they really were in an attempt to preserve positive images of
much-needed and loved parental objects.
Our clinical experience is certainly more in keeping with this emerging
paradigm of borderline pathology. Adult sexual abuse survivors tend to be
enormously and poignantly supportive of their abusers, particularly
parental perpetrators, and often for years deny or minimize the extent of
their past victimizations. We thus find it more difficult to help patients to
accept full cognitive and affective remembrance of their abuse than to vali­
date the reality that abuse in fact occurred. In other words, the fantasy
among our patients is that their childhoods were better than they really
were.
As to mislabeling as oedipal fantasies reports of actual childhood sexual
abuse, we stress the phenomenological differences between patients present­
 Disclosure and the Recovery ofMemories 89

ing with oedipal fantasies and those holding memories of actual early sexual
trauma.
First of all, the patient struggling with psychological problems primarily
related to unresolved oedipal conflicts is unlikely to present with the severe
symptomatology and ego fragmentation found among adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse. Next, the phenomenological presentation of oedipal
material is markedly different from sexual abuse memories. Oedipal fan­
tasies, although frequently disturbing to the patient, do not carry the imagis-
tic or affective wallop of sexual abuse memories. Furthermore, the anxiety
surrounding oedipal material is usually a response to the murderous rage
felt toward the same-sex parent; it is not evoked by the explicitly sexual as­
pects of the oedipal conflict. Finally, oedipally driven anxiety is usually
warded off from direct subjective experience; it is manifested instead in
symptoms such as phobias or physical complaints. When patients discuss
their oedipal conflicts in treatment, their ego functioning most often will re­
main intact.
The anxiety connected to sexual abuse memories, on the other hand, is di­
rectly connected to sexual aspects of the survivor's relationship with the
abuser. Most often, it is not successfully warded off through symptom for­
mation but is experienced subjectively and, in fact, frequently floods the pa­
tient, resulting in dissociation, severe impairments in ego functioning, and
flashbacks or intrusive thoughts about the abuse. Thus, although sexual
abuse memories and the consequences of early trauma can, and often do, co­
incide with oedipal conflicts and fantasies, the presentation of one differs
sufficiently from the other to enable clinicians to trace the roots of what they
are hearing in the consultation room.

The Importance of Asking'

Given what is known now about the prevalence of childhood sexual
abuse in general and among a patient population, especially an apparently
borderline population, and given the secrecy usually surrounding an adult
survivor's childhood victimizations, it is incumbent on therapists to ask
about sexual abuse just as they routinely query about any other potentially
meaningful childhood experiences.
During history taking with every patient, we explore for possible past
abuse. As patients discuss with us their past and present sexual experiences,
we routinely inquire about sexual abuse, saying something like, "I wonder if
you could tell me about any uncomfortable or distressing sexual experiences
you may have had as a child or teenager?"
There are subgroups of patients to consider when asking these questions,
ranging from the nonabused patient to one who has completely dissociated
the memories and affects associated with early actual traumas. It is therefore
90 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

important to evaluate responses to these questions in terms of both verbal

content and nonverbal process. Most nonabused patients, for instance, han­
dle these questions routinely; matter-of-fact negative verbal responses are
complemented by equally matter-of-fact body positions, facial expressions,
affect, voice inflection. Patients who were, in fact, abused will also range
along a continuum.
Some adult survivors enter treatment desperately hoping just to be asked
about their abuse so that they might begin to speak (Herman, 1981). These
are patients with conscious memories of their childhood traumas who want
to speak but may not unless and until they know the therapist is willing and
able to hear their stories. Just asking about a history of sexual abuse is fre­
quently enough to facilitate disclosure from these patients.
There is now empirical data supporting the efficacy of simply asking new
patients about sexual abuse. For instance, Briere and Zaidi (1988) conducted
a study in which 100 intake reports on nonpsychotic women presenting to
an urban psychiatric emergency room were reviewed in two phases. In the
first review, 50 charts were randomly selected and the intake report was
checked for a history of sexual abuse; 6% of the charts reflected such data.
Clinicians were then instructed to question intake patients for previous sex­
ual victimizations. Another 50 postinstruction intake reports were randomly
reviewed, and, this time, 70% of the women interviewed reported having
been sexually abused at some point in their lives. These researchers and oth­
ers (Cole, 1988) emphasize that many of these women had previous encoun­
ters with mental health facilities during which their abusive histories were
not disclosed. We thus stress the imperative need to ask every patient about
any abuse in her past. Asking often facilitates disclosure, and disclosure is
necessary for healing to occur.
Sometimes, of course, just asking does not result in disclosure. This can
happen when the patient has dissociated all memories of the traumas. It can
also occur when the patient has conscious abuse memories but bears alle­
giance to an internalized silencing or much-needed object. Finally, it can be
associated with the patient's fear that the therapist will ignore or disbelieve
disclosed abuse. Having conscious but as yet unspeakable memories places
this patient at the next point on a continuum.
A patient who clearly remembers her abuse may have carried her secret
for many years and is still tenaciously attached to an internalized silencing,
shaming object. Disclosure of past abuse evokes whatever threats or
promises the perpetrator used to obtain silence and also endangers the inter­
nalized relationship; disclosure is thus threatening to the patient's organiza­
tion of self and objects. Disclosure also may be experienced as dangerously
risky because it raises the spectre that the therapist, perhaps like others be­
fore, will ignore, disbelieve, or in some way invalidate the importance of the
early trauma.
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 91

This patient probably will not disclose her sexual abuse during history
taking but is likely to offer positive nonverbal responses to the therapist's
queries. Often, this patient tenses up at questions regarding sexual abuse,
quickly glances away as she verbally denies her own history, or provides
overly intense and elaborate protestations that she was never abused. Even if
the sexually abused woman who remembers her victimizations is not pre­
pared to disclose during history taking, the therapist's questions inform her
that he knows and believes that children are sexually abused, that those vio­
lations are important clinical material, and that he is prepared to join the for­
mer victim in working through the memories and affects linked with any
such abuse.

Who Speaks First?

Even when the therapist presents as willing and ready to work with a pa­
tient's abuse history, it is frequently a tremendous struggle for the patient
actually to verbalize the truth of her abuse, even when both she and the ther­
apist have been circling around it, like an airplane seeking the right ap­
proach path for landing, for many weeks or many months. Initially, the ther­
apist who suspects a history of sexual abuse in her patient can wonder with
the patient at the meaning of derivatives of betrayal, intrusion, unwanted
penetration, lack of validation. Patient and therapist can seek the meaning of
transference and countertransference paradigms that replicate aspects of
abuse, such as the patient's experience of the clinician as a dangerous pene-
trator of the patient's mind. Therapist and patient can sort out the signifi­
cance of such dramatic symptoms as cutting, substance abuse, repeated in­
volvement in abusive relationships, or amnesia for all or part of childhood.
At some point, however, someone has to land the plane by actually putting
into words the reality of the patient's previous sexual trauma.
Who will land the plane and when and how becomes a dilemma of timing
and technique for the clinician working with a patient who knows about her
abuse, who knows the therapist knows, who knows the therapist knows the
patient knows, but who still resists the ultimate verbalization of the unspeak­
able trauma. For the therapist to name the unnameable first may feel abusive
to the patient who struggles to maintain denial, secrecy, and allegiance to im­
portant childhood figures. On the other hand, for the therapist to collude
with not knowing ad infinitum may too closely replicate the patient's experi­
ence with an unseeing, unhearing, unavailable, nonabusing parent; a parent
who knew about the sexual violations but who failed to validate and support
the patient when she was a little girl. In addition, the therapist's participation
in ongoing avoidance of the known may be perceived by the patient as the
clinician's reluctance to process the abuse with the patient. In this case,
the survivor feels that the therapist views her the way she sees herself—a
92 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

shameful, disgusting, unacceptable being. At an even deeper level, the

process of endlessly circling the abuse secret without ever quite landing on a
verbalization becomes a way for the patient to tantalize the therapist much as
she once was teased and overstimulated by the sexual abuser.
It is often appropriate and even crucial for the therapist to speak first; to
put a name to the’unnameable; to begin to symbolize that which has re­
mained unorganized and raw within the patient's psyche. If therapist and
patient have engaged in a reasonably full process of examining symptoms,
dreams, derivatives, transference and countertransference phenomena, all of
which lead to a conclusion that the patient experienced childhood sexual
abuse and, if the therapist senses that he and the patient are, in fact, end­
lessly circling an unspoken known, it is then therapeutically indicated for
the clinician to speak first. To do so is to validate the patient's inner reality in
a way that establishes the therapist as a powerful counterpoint to the pa­
tient's internalized silencing/abusive objects. It is setting out a claim that
past abuse is an important clinical issue that the therapist can stand dis­
cussing with the patient. It also demonstrates that the therapist can set limits
on unending tantalizing and overstimulation. The following vignette be­
tween Lisette, a patient who was sexually abused by her father, and the ther­
apist illustrates how the therapist might go about speaking the secret first:

Therapist: You know, it seems to me, that you and I have been dancing
around an important secret. I think that, at this point, we both know
there's a secret, we both know what the secrect is, and each of knows
that the other knows. But, so far, we haven't put it into words.
Lisette: I don't know what you mean.
Therapist: Well, we've talked about a number of issues that are powerful
and painful for you. We've talked about how much you hate your
body. We've talked about the possibility that you're reliving some­
thing when you "see" a man standing beside your bed when you fall
asleep at night. We've talked about how scared you get whenever your
husband wants to make love. We've notice how you "space out" every
time we talk about your childhood relationship with your father.
We've wondered why you have very clear memories of life up until
age 7 and then no memories of life between ages 7 and 15. We've
talked about all this and more and we've wondered about the reasons
for all this, but we don't ever seem to be able to land on, to put into
words, a reason for many of your symptoms and conflicts.
Lisette: Do you think you know the reason?
THERAPIST: Well, I actually think we both have been entertaining similar
thoughts. But it sounds to me as if just thinking these thoughts seems
dangerous to you, and so you may wish that I would put them into
words first.
 Disclosure and the Recovery ofMemories 93

Lisette: I'm confused; I don't know what's going on.

Therapist: Well, it seems odd to me that, given all we have discussed
about your life past and present, that the <4ne thing we've never openly
talked about is the possibility that you were abused sexually as a child.
Lisette: Oh, I don't think that could be.
Therapist: It doesn't seem to me that we have to decide if it happened
right now. I wonder, though, why it is that we can't even explore this
possibility.
Lisette: You do know. You know I think it happened. But I hate that it hap­
pened, and I don't want to know, I don't want to.
Therapist: These thoughts—this possibility that you were abused—are
awful to grapple with. My experience, though, is that struggling with
this awful possibility is bearable when you feel you can do it with
someone else. So I think it can be bearable for you if we do it together.

The patient and therapist in this vignette had been exploring a myriad of
derivatives of sexual abuse for months—dreams, symptoms, transference
and countertransference paradigms, repeated relational configurations in
the patient's life. In addition, the patient had provided derivatives suggest­
ing her awareness that she and the therapist shared an unspoken secret.
Furthermore, the derivatives implied that the secret was experienced as
detrimental to the therapeutic relationship. Finally, there were indications
that the patient wanted the therapist to speak first. For instance, the patient
offered a dream about a childhood friend who, in the dream, knew a secret
about the patient. In the dream, the patient yearned for the friend to tell the
secret so that it was open between them.
The clinical dilemma in this situation is delicate. By not speaking first, the
therapist attempted to avoid^too close a replication of the sexual abuser who
psychologically and physically penetrated the patient long before she was
emotionally ready to cope with that stimulation and knowledge. At the same
time, not speaking first may have instead too closely duplicated the position
of the nonabusing parent who for too long knew the secret of the patient's
abuse but said and did nothing. In this case, the clinician decided to present
herself as an object significantly different from the patient's mother who
seemed to have known about the abuse but did nothing; the therapist named
the unnameable first. It is important to note here the patient's great reluc­
tance to put her abuse into words; far from embracing an identity of an in­
cest survivor, the patient struggled to protect her parents, real and internal­
ized, from the truth of her childhood molestations.
Although we advocate great caution in preempting the patient's intiation
of disclosure, there are instances such as the one presented in this vignette in
which it is not only acceptable but perhaps vital for the therapist to speak
first. This kind of clinical dilemma can be trying for both patient and thera­
94 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

pist. Even more challenging, however, is disclosure work with the patient
who has dissociated all memories of her childhood abuse.

Disclosure in a Dissociated State

During history taking, the survivor who has dissociated the memories of
her abuse will truthfully deny any history of sexual trauma. The therapist,
however, is likely to note a look of vague discomfort, a slight shift in body
position, as if the question disturbed something far within the patient. It
may also happen that this patient will dissociate at the therapist's inquiry
about past sexual trauma, briefy—or not so briefly—"spacing out." These
nonverbal responses alert the clinician to the possibility of an abusive past.
Combined with careful assessment of the signs and symptoms of childhood
sexual abuse discussed in Chapter 2, these nonverbal cues allow the thera­
pist to prepare for the possible disclosure of the dissociated trauma.
In work with a patient who has dissociated her childhood traumas, dis­
closure of the abuse occurs when the abused child part of the person, holder
of abuse memories, emerges to share her story with the clinician. For this to
happen, the therapist must accept, work with, and even encourage the disso­
ciated states into which the patient enters during treatment. It is through
these states that the truth unfolds, first to be spoken to the therapist.
A patient with dissociated traumatic material begins to "space out" dur­
ing sessions or describes dissociative experiences that occur between ses­
sions. The therapist notes that the dissociation happens most frequently
when certain subjects are raised in session. For example, Loma, whose father
abused her for 9 years, presented to treatment with no conscious memories
of her sexual abuse. After a few months of therapy, she began to dissociate
during session. As time went on, the therapist realized that Loma consis­
tently dissociated after she mentioned her childhood relationship with her
father, her own sexuality, or her current relationships with men. During a
dissociation, Lorna's eyes glazed over, she sat stiffly in the chair, and she
was unresponsive to questions from the therapist. When she "came back,"
Lorna had no memory of what she had been saying before she dissociated,
nor could she describe what happened internally during the period of disso­
ciation.
The therapist began to remind Loma of what she had been discussing be­
fore the dissociations and asked the patient what about the subject, her girl­
hood relationship with her father, was so upsetting that Lorna had to dis­
tance herself by "spacing out." Eventually, the therapist interpreted to Loma
that it seemed that talking about her father, other men, or sex triggered feel­
ings Loma wanted to avoid. After some months and during a dissociative
episode, Loma relived and described her father raping her at age 6. At that
time, Loma's voice, facial expression, and body posture were consistent with
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 95

the presentation of a 6-year-old child. Similar episodes occurred over a pe­

riod of many months, during which the dissociated child part of Loma re­
called and relived her sexual traumas. 7
It is important to note that disclosure of Loma's sexual abuse occurred
when the therapist accepted and worked with the patient's dissociations.
Focusing on dissociation as a mode of communication as well as a defense
against knowing enables the clinician to facilitate disclosure of dissociated
traumatic material.
Disclosure of abusive memories, affects, and associated fantasies is essen­
tial to the successful treatment of adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
If the therapeutic road eventually leads to the disclosure of sexual trauma,
the therapist must be prepared for a range of possible effects of disclosure.

Effects of Disclosure

Although there are many positive outcomes of disclosure, initially breaking

the abuse secret may engender increased disorganization and symptom ex­
acerbation, such as disturbing flashbacks, reenactments of some aspect of the
trauma, or self-punitive behavior evoked by the betrayal of and disloyalty to
the family represented by the very act of disclosure. These consequences of
disclosure reflect the return of bad objects to whom the adult survivor re­
mains unconsciously and tenaciously attached (Fairbairn, 1943).
A group at greater risk for suicide than women without histories of sexual
victimization (Bagley & Ramsay, 1986; Briere & Runtz, 1986), survivors may
attempt or complete suicide when disclosure evokes very painful, very rage­
ful previously dissociated memories and affects associated with their abuse
(Courtois, 1988). In these^ cases, attempted or successful suicides can be
viewed as vicious attacks on and by the patient's introjects, as well as an ex­
pression of rage toward the therapist for colluding with, even encouraging,
the disclosure. Consider a clinical example of one patient's reaction to her
disclosure of her father's particularly sadistic sexual abuse.
Vera's incest ended only when, at age 20, her father tried to murder her
one night when she struggled to escape. For years, years that included a
number of psychiatric hospitalizations, Vera told no one about the incest.
The first time she did disclose, she became acutely suicidal. Violently resist­
ing hospitalization, she required four male paramedics to restrain her. For
some time, subsequent disclosure of material related to her incest evoked a
similar response. Eventually, through repeated interpretation of the repeti­
tion of the trauma invoked through her actions, Vera was able to see that
after she revealed memories or affects associated with her incest experi­
ences, she behaved in a way that resulted in a terrifying reenactment of her
father pinning her down on the floor to rape her. In a convoluted and self­
96 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

destructive way, Vera was enacting loyal preservation of her internalized re­
lationship with her father.
Although this is an extreme example of the negative consequences of dis­
closure, it dramatically illustrates the point that revelation of the abuse secret
may sometimes result in temporary deterioration of the patient's functioning
with a concomitant increase in symptomatology. After exploring a patient's
reactions in session to any disclosures of traumatic material, we find it help­
ful to predict to the patient that she may experience more frequent memo­
ries, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts about the abuse, along with intensified
affective reactions of rage and terror. Depending on a patient's symptom his­
tory, we suggest that she may feel fragmented, depressed, suicidal, or that
she may want to engage in self-destructive actions, such as self-mutilation,
drinking, or driving recklessly. We stress to the patient that, although this
exacerbated symptom picture can extend for some time, it is temporary. We
educate the patient about the improved functioning that results from talking
about and integrating her traumatic experiences in therapy. Predicting some
of the possible negative consequences of disclosure can sometimes, although
not always, help patients to tolerate disorganizing affects and self experi­
ences without engaging in impulsive enactments.
Despite the turbulence that sometimes follows an adult survivor's disclo­
sure of her childhood sexual abuse, the opportunity to reveal the secret and
to discuss her abusive experiences with a validating other more usually sig­
nifies the beginning of healing for former victims.
Because, by definition, women who have not disclosed their abuse secrets
are unavailable to researchers, it is difficult to validate empirically the ame­
liorative effects of disclosure. However, research studies (Brunngraber, 1986;
Courtois, 1980; Frawley, 1988) suggest that disclosure of childhood sexual
abuse is experienced by the patient as ultimately immensely relieving and
that it is crucial to reopening intrapersonal and interpersonal relational
channels. Disclosure initiates a process of remembering and relating that
eventually results in structural integration and improved functioning, al­
though remembering is itself a complicated process.

The Recovery of Traumatic Memories

One of the most important therapeutic processes that occurs during treat­
ment with a survivor of childhood sexual abuse is the remembering, speak­
ing aloud, and integration of often long warded-off traumatic memories.
This is conceptualized best as speaking the unspeakable and naming the un-
nameable. Even if patients have shared the fact that abuse occurred with
someone before entering therapy, seldom have they talked about what was
done to them and what they felt tike at the time.
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 97

Complicating the process of remembering is the fact that specific trau­

matic memories are frequently state-dependent (van der Kolk, 1989). They
were encoded in trauma-related states of helpless terror and wordless rage
and are accessible only when the patient reenters those affective states,
something that occurs only when transference and countertransference
reaches a level of intensity that triggers evocation of these states. Further
complicating the recovery of memories is the fact that traumatic memories
were often not encoded semantically but were processed only on a sensori­
motor level of cognition. Unsymbolized and unspoken, the abuse remains
unorganized and vast within the patient's psyche, where, alive and encased
in wordless terror and rage, it works on her from outside her control. To
symbolize the experiences for the first time, to put words to what happened
to her, is eventually to contain the vastness of the abuse, to shrink it from the
size and shape of a monstrous bogeyman from childhood to a still painful
but more manageable narrative about truly past events.
In discussing the encoding and retrieval of traumatic memories, we enter
an area of fierce controversy. Psychoanalytically oriented clinicians, aware of
the organizing role of fantasy in a child's life, frequently question the accu­
racy of childhood memories, traumatic or not, reported by patients.
Memories of sexual encounters have been considered particularly suspect
because of the perceived central influence of oedipal fantasies. More re­
cently, some experimental psychologists (Loftus, 1992) have joined the fray,
insisting that memories of sexual abuse reported in therapy may result from
suggestions made by the clinician. Trauma research, however, indicates that
traumatic memories are indeed retrievable and are essentially accurate.
Lenore Terr (1991), in her work with traumatized children, reports that
children who were abused as infants or toddlers and who, at the time of
treatment, were amnesic of their ordeals repetitively drew, played out, or re­
ported "seeing" accurate portrayals of their original traumas. Terr gives an
example of a 5-year-old child who was sexually and pornographically
abused in a daycare center between the ages of 15 and 18 months. Amnesic
of these events, the child reported a "funny feeling" in her "tummy" when­
ever a finger was pointed at her; photographs confiscated by authorities in­
vestigating the daycare home showed an erect penis pointed at the same
place on the victim's stomach that she herself identified when describing
"funny feelings" (p. 13).
Adult patients' stereotypic behaviors, dreams, seemingly inexplicable
fears, or recurrent, intrusive thoughts often accurately convey details of pre­
vious trauma. We say accurately because, in more than a few cases, the va­
lidity of the memories have been corroborated by third parties who were
aware of the sexual abuse when it occurred.
Although recoverable, traumatic memories range along a continuum
from those wholly dissociated and out of awareness to those organized and
98 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

integrated into the consciousness of the patient. Patients arrive in treatment

at different points of remembering; some start therapy with very clear, inte­
grated memories, and others begin their healing at some place on the contin­
uum. The road to remembering is thus marked by unexpected and, for the
patient, frightening turns.
Many adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse arrive in treatment with
only hazy impressions, if any, of their abuse. Their memories are not seman­
tically encoded but reside within their psyche in unsymbolized, unorganized
formlessness. Once these patients are in treatment and the therapeutic rela­
tionship reaches a critical point of intensity, they may begin to experience
what to them are inexplicably powerful reactions to seemingly benign envi­
ronmental stimuli. Consider two clinical examples.
Maria had a violent reaction every time she saw a certain shade of blue—
her throat constricted, her heart palpitated, and she felt nauseous and dizzy.
Frightened, she felt she must be crazy because of this disorganizing response
to a shade of color. Finally, Maria remembered that the room in which her
uncle sodomized her was this very shade of blue, as was the coverlet on
which the abuse took place. Having recovered the memory, her reaction to
this color became much less intense.
Lizzie, who had been viciously abused by multiple perpetrators, was so
unable to verbalize her experiences that she called all terms associated with
the victimizations "yuck" words and "yuck" things. To say or even hear the
"real" words—rape, penis, vagina—was tantamount to reexperiencing the
abuse, right then in the present At hearing these words, this patient dissoci­
ated and literally relived abuse, often writhing and crying out in pain. When
she "came back," she remembered nothing of the dissociative episode. Only
gradually was she able to tolerate and then finally say words associated with
the abuse. This growing tolerance coincided with remembering and relating
the details of her violations.
These survivors remembered before they knew they did. They "remem­
bered" first in unsymbolized ways that were reenactments rather than mem­
ories as we usually understand them to be organized and integrated into a
well-functioning ego. At this furthest end of the memory continuum, the pa­
tients' memories of their abuse were almost wholly dissociated. Split off
from consciousness, they retained the affective strength of the original
trauma and operated with great power from outside the patients' awareness.
When the therapist is working with a patient who is experiencing unsym­
bolized memories of abuse, it is important that he join with the patient in ex­
ploring the meaning of wordless revivals of trauma. In fact, the first step for
the clinician to take is to communicate to the patient that these experiences
have meaning that eventually can be understood and symbolized. Then, the
therapist can encourage the patient to stay with, and associate to the disturb­
ing stimulus in session. In most cases, the patient will be able to experience
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 99

the visceral or affective reenactment in the consulting room and, with the
therapist's support, retrieve the memory behind the experience.
At the next point on the continuum are fnemories that are expressed
through somatic experiences that symbolically represent some aspect of the
original traumas. These usually involve visual or kinesthetic perceptions
that some part of the body, or the whole body, is undergoing change. Such
body parts as hands, legs, thighs, or buttocks may feel bigger or smaller;
numbness or pain may be felt in certain areas; and the survivor may feel that
she is becoming smaller, the size of a child. These are very powerful experi­
ences, during which the patient actually feels and sees the supposed somatic
changes. Two clinical examples make the point.
Annalee was sexually abused by her grandfather. She began to remember
the molestations through somatic events. Specifically, Annalee would par­
tially dissociate and experience her thighs as huge and very heavy.
Sometimes, when she looked down, she saw them as enormous, bulging out
below her waist. Eventually, Annalee recalled her grandfather lay on top of
her after molesting her. The somatic experience symbolized the weight and
pressure of her grandfather bearing down on top of her body.
Dorothea, whose father abused her, began to experience a mild form of
peripheral neuropathy in her left leg and foot shortly after she first disclosed
that her father had molested her from ages 6 through 12. This usually signals
the onset of another new memory or the elaboration of an already recalled
abuse memory. Later in treatment, Dorothea realized that she always had
dangled her left leg and foot off the side of the bed during the abuse; they
were parts of her that she was able to keep from her father. The peripheral
neuropathy symbolically represented both the abuse and her struggle to pro­
tect some part of her body from violation.
These somatic experiences are frightening for the patient, who often feels
that she is going crazy. Once again, it is essential that the therapist normalize
somatic memories within the context of the ways in which childhood sexual
abuse survivors recall their childhood traumas. Assuring the patient that she
is not going crazy but is striving to remember an as-yet unsymbolized mem­
ory often allows the survivor to join and stay with the experience instead of
resisting it. Then, therapist and patient together can explore associations to
the somatizations until, at last, the original trauma is recalled to memory.
Moving along the memory continuum are terrifying hypnogogic and
hypnopompic events. Hypnogogic events occur in the state between wake­
fulness and sleep; hynopompic events happen between sleep and wakeful­
ness. At these times, the patient has a hallucinatorylike experience during
which she relives some aspect of the sexual trauma. Often, she feels as if the
perpetrator is in the room preparing to abuse her. Because a patient's origi­
nal abuse usually occurred at night and because of the lack of body control
associated with these near-sleep psychic states, hypnogogic and hypnopom-
100 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

pic events are particularly common and especially frightening for many sur­
vivors.
Marianna was sexually abused by her brother for several years of child­
hood. She was plagued by a recurrent hypnogogic experience that began
shortly after she entered treatment. In that space between wakefulness and
sleep, she sensed her brother's presence next to the bed and felt his breath in
her ear. Terrified, she was unable to move or scream; all she could do was to
lay still until she woke up fully and assured herself that she was alone. Not
surprisingly, this patient's sleep was disturbed for the months that she was
gripped by this hypnogogic threat. She dreaded going to bed at night and
often fought off sleep to avoid the experience. The whole process repeated
her childhood dread of bedtime and her brother's nocturnal visits to her bed.
As was true for unsymbolized reexperiences of abuse and somatizations,
it is crucial that the therapist normalize these hypnogogic and hypnopompic
events for the patient, placing them in the context of expectable stops on the
journey to fully remembering childhood traumas. When the patient is sure
that she is not crazy, she often becomes more tolerant of these events and the
work of associating to them in session can proceed until the memories are
more fully recovered.
At the next point on the memory continuum are dreams or nightmares
that are, in fact, accurate portrayals of original trauma. It is our experience
that childhood sexual abuse survivors frequently have dreams that are virtu­
ally undisguised depictions of their abuse. Unlike the highly symbolized
dreams we are more used to unraveling, these dreams paint pictures that are
what they seem to be—dreams, in other words, that have little symbolic
overlay.
For example, Nanette, who was abused by her grandfather, presented to
treatment with only hazy impressions of her abuse. She reported a recurrent
dream in which a distinguished looking, silvery-haired man led a little girl
down a long flight of stairs into a darkened basement. Here, the old man
pulled the girl's white tights down and digitally penetrated her. The little
girl in the dream was paralyzed; she wanted to run, but her legs would not
move. When Nanette eventually recalled her abuse in some detail, she real­
ized the "dream" was in reality a very accurate depiction of her grandfa­
ther's molestations, which occurred in the basement of his house.
Other memory-dreams are symbolized only slightly more. Casey, for ex­
ample, also had a recurrent dream. In it, a tall, thin man in a basketball uni­
form stood above a young girl's bed. When the girl awakened and opened
her eyes, the man dropped a basket of slithery snakes into her bed. Casey's
brother, a tall, stocky football star, stole into her room at night to abuse her
by placing his penis between her legs and rubbing against her. The dream
provided an only minimally disguised route to the memories.
It is important for therapists working with sexual abuse survivors or pa­
 Disclosure and the Recovery of Memories 101

tients thought to be survivors to evaluate dreams reported by the patients as

potentially accurate or only slightly masked representations of the childhood
traumas. These dreams can be helpful in suggesting avenues of exploration
that facilitate evocation of the memories in treatment.
Moving still further along the memory continuum are flashbacks usually
triggered by external or internal stimuli that are associationally linked to the
abuse. Flashbacks may begin or intensify after initial disclosure of abuse,
and they often are terrifying for the patient whose functioning they intru­
sively interrupt. During a flashback, the patient suddenly reexperiences
some aspect of her victimizations. She usually has a vivid visual memory ac­
companied by powerful affects associated with the original experience.
Typically, there is a partial dissociation during the flashback. The patient,
however, usually remembers the content and emotional tone of the flash­
back once it has passed.
Ellen Ann, a father-daughter incest survivor, began to experience flash­
backs shortly after she disclosed the abuse secret for the first time in therapy.
When she and her husband made love, she suddenly saw her father's face
instead of that of her spouse. During the flashback, she experienced herself
as very small and relived being raped by her father. When the flashbacks
passed, she was able to describe both content and affective components of
the experience. Ellen Ann did not remember, however, her behavior during
the flashback, nor could she recall her husband's response to her.
Flashbacks occur suddenly and deliver a powerful emotional wallop.
Patients beset by flashbacks dread them and may avoid situations, such as
sex with a spouse, that are likely to elicit these disorganizing glimpses of the
original trauma. It is often helpful for the therapist to put flashbacks into
perspective for the patient. Frightening and disorganizing though they are,
flashbacks are also part of a process of separating from and gaining mastery
over the internalized abuser and the past abusive events. As the patient con­
tinues to remember and process her abuse within therapy, flashbacks tend to
occur less frequently. When they do, they are experienced increasingly as
more cognitive and less affective phenomena. In addition, the patient begins
to feel that she has some control over the flashbacks. For example, one pa­
tient who was far along in her therapy reported that a flashback began one
night as she and her husband began to make love. At this point, she was able
to will the image of her father away, insisting to herself that she was a grown
woman having sex with someone she loved. The therapist and patient then
explored in session the precipitants of the flashback.
At the next point on the continuum are intrusive, obsessive thoughts
about the abuse that plague the patient. These tend to occur after consider­
able working through of dissociated or somatic memories or flashbacks and
do not carry the same affective power as those other forms of memory.
Intrusive, persistent thoughts can be conceptualized as embedded in a
102 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

process of gaining mastery over past traumatic past events. Although they
certainly represent the insistent return of distressing object relationships,
they also afford the patient an opportunity to work these over and gradually
gain control of their disorganizing impact. They are often irritating for the
patient but usually are not particularly disorganizing or terrifying.
Katie, for example, who was sexually molested by her uncle, complained
that thoughts of the abuse would begin at work and that, once they began,
she "couldn't think of anything else for hours." She mulled the abuse over
and over, analyzing every aspect of the experiences with her uncle and fanta­
sized about ways it might have turned out differently. These intrusive
thoughts followed years of treatment during which Katie struggled first with
somatic memories and then with flashbacks. The obsessional working over of
the incestous victimizations was actually a way of separating from them by
gaining mastery over their dominance. Through her obsessive concentration
on a memory once it intruded, Katie began to dominate the experiences
rather than being dominated by them. Where once she would become disor­
ganized and chaotic at the intrusion of a memory, perhaps having to leave
work for a day or more, now she imposed her own thought processes on
memories as they came along. After many months of this preoccupation, the
memories began to fade in frequency and intensity. Katie one day realized
with some relief that she had not thought about her abuse in over 3 weeks.
It can be seen that the recovery of traumatic memories is a long, often
complicated process during which a patient moves toward integrating these
events into her consciousness. It is a process marked by great disorganiza­
tion and pain. At the end, the memories of sexual abuse, now more clear
and, at the same time, less affectively powerful take their place within the
patient's life narrative, where, still painful, they are also truly past. Perhaps
Louise Armstrong (1978), an incest survivor and author, puts it best when
she says, "So it doesn't go away? It recedes.... You don't have to like it. You
just have to live with it. Like a small, nasty pet you've had for years" (p. 260).
 CHAPTER 6

Reality Testing and the

Question of Validation

N WORK WITH adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse questions

I
about the nature and adequacy of the patient's reality testing assume
particular importance in attempts to understand the particular and idio­
syncratic patterns of reality distortion and interpersonal difficulties sec­
ondary to failures in reality testing. We believe that the early imperative for
the patient to subordinate her own perceptions of reality to those of an over­
whelming and invasive other represents one of the most insidiously damag­
ing effects of childhood abuse (Slavin, 1992), imposing lasting, long-term
weaknesses in ego structuralization and interpersonal processes. These areas
of vulnerability come to have a direct impact on a patient's adaptational
skills, her capacity for healthy object relationships, and her self-reflective ca­
pabilities. They will also figure prominently in the unfolding psychoanalytic
drama between patient and therapist.
This chapter seeks to offer a clarification of (1) the nature of reality and re­
ality testing for a child who has been sexually abused; (2) the nature of patho­
logical doubting as it affects adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse; (3)
the compromises in integration that must be made to preserve the patient's
level of functioning, and the particular patterns of interpersonal behavior and
self-reflective awareness that result from this failure to integrate; and (4) spe­
cific clinical issues that emerge as a result of these ego deficiencies.

The Nature of Reality

The world of the adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse is a fragmented,

discontinuous, and often frightening reality that subsumes a multitude of
104 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

contradictory experiences, frequently eluding logical cohesion and organiza­

tion. Caught in the cross currents of partisan perspectives, torn apart by the
inability to integrate mutually incompatible experiences of reality, and dri­
ven by the opposing needs to both obfuscate actual experience and yet be
hypervigilant to the ever-present dangers of repeated abuse, the adult sur­
vivor of childhood sexual abuse often feels out of control and crazy.
In the growing child, the developing capacity to accurately perceive real­
ity emerges in part out of the dual survival needs of obtaining gratification
and avoiding danger. In most normal childhood situations both of these abil­
ities are enhanced by the adequacy and refinement of such skills; by a
heightened sense of all that is possible, and a carefully constructed experi­
ence of that which must, for survival's sake, be avoided. For the child grow­
ing up in a chronically abusive household, however, the effects of develop­
ing ego functions, particularly those that mandate a consolidation and
integration of denied or dissociated aspects of sexual abuse, can insidiously
threaten a very tenuous psychic balance. Certainly, reality, in such cases,
provides little in the way of acceptable gratification; and danger can only be
avoided by a retreat into defensive inhibition or omnipotent fantasy.
Melissa's history provides a moving case in point. The patient entered
psychoanalysis at the age of 29, speaking of "depression, low self-esteem,
and an inability to take her life seriously and feel like a part of the adult
world." She had graduated summa cum laude from a prestigious university
and gone on to attain several graduate degrees. However, she remained un­
able to turn any of her many talents into an income-generating career. She
therefore remained in a semi-dependent situation, vis a vis her widowed
mother, by whom the patient reported being infantalized, manipulated, and
emotionally abused. During an extended consultation, the patient also con­
fided in her analyst that she was a compulsive cutter; that rarely a day went
by without a deep gash being made somewhere on her body. She also re­
ported complete sexual inhibition, of both action and fantasy. The patient
spontaneously reported that her parents had been very socially active in
their New England community, regular churchgoers who were heavily in­
volved in several local charities.
The patient could recall no memories of having been abused as a child
(though the case history was clearly suggestive) and reported that, on the
contrary, she had been the clearly favored of two daughters. As she put it,
"I was something of a pampered little pet to both my parents. It was my sis­
ter, I fear, who was badly treated by both. I never understood why. She was
such a good girl." Melissa could not, at this time, provide any further de­
tails of how her sister had been mistreated, claiming only, "you know, the
usual kid stuff; she was always in trouble for something, always doing
something not quite the right way!" Melissa's story emerged very slowly
and then only against a backdrop of increased psychic disorganization and
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 105

powerful impulses to act out in self-destructive ways.

The story that began to unfold was not atypical. It appeared rather clearly
that the patient herself was never sexually molested, but she was for a pe­
riod of about 5 years forced to witness her father rape and sodomize her
older sister. This appears to have happened on a regular basis, "at least once
a week," by the patient's account, usually on the night that her father went
out drinking with his friends. The patient described what would happen in
her own words:

Our beds were next to each other. He would sit me on my bed and say,
"Now watch very carefully. Watch what happens to little girls who
think nasty thoughts." Then he would ... he would do these (whis­
pered) horrible things to her.... I didn't even know what he was
doing then. Now, I know. She would cry out for help. It must have
hurt her terribly [crying now]. No one ever came. I never understood
where my mother was, why she never came. It didn't feel real. I used
to think to myself, if this is real, why doesn't Mommy come. He told
me that if I ever told anyone what I saw he would do the same things
to me; then he would tell them that I was crazy, and they would come
and lock me up in a mental hospital. He said I must never speak about
it at all. Of course, I obeyed. For a while.

Here, a young girl is forced to observe unthinkable things being done to

her older sister. She is locked into a passive-masochistic position vis a vis her
father, whose presentation at these times is so entirely different from the
norm that the young child must question her own perceptions. The whole
scene is not unlike a recurring nightmare in which the behaviors of each per­
sona are bizarre and terrifying and at times bear little resemblance to the
dreamer's conscious, waking, daytime experience of them. Furthermore, any
attempt to analyze, integrate, or otherwise make sense of the experience is
foreclosed by the injunction against speech. The child must never speak of
what she has seen. In the light of day, it will be she who is deemed crazy, she
who will be isolated and abandoned.
Here we have an assault on the patient's very ability to trust her own per­
ceptions; to decide what is real and what is not real; what comes from inside
the self and what from outside; even what is asleep and what is awake. It
should not be surprising that on three different occasions, as the patient
struggled to remember and speak of some particularly vivid and over­
whelming childhood memories, she fell asleep during her analytic session.
The regressive reenactment within the treatment setting was poignant: a lit­
tle girl whose eyelids had grown too heavy and full, struggling to stay
awake, to see what was so clearly laid out before her, rubbing her eyes with
clenched fists to clear away the filmy haze, so that she might see more
106 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

clearly, and yet ultimately succumbing to the wish to retreat to some distant,
safe, dreamlike state. Reality could wait.
On each of these occasions, Melissa awoke in a particularly chipper, al­
most hypomanic mood. She was somewhat flustered and embarrassed by
her behavior but showed little interest in exploring its meaning until some­
time later in the treatment. Likewise, she had no memories of what she had
been discussing at the time she fell asleep, claiming only to remember that it
was quite intense and potentially disturbing. Though she was surprised that
she could not remember what she had been talking about at the time she fell
asleep, the surprise itself had an air of Freud's early "la belle indifference."
The patient appeared mildly disconcerted, not deeply disturbed by this un­
usual and dramatic memory loss. Morning had clearly come, bringing with
it a very different reality and taking away those other things that had been
so intensely disturbing and even disorienting; those things belonged to the
night. Clearly, this experienced discontinuity was not unfamiliar to the pa­
tient. In fact, it was the sine qua non of her particular adaptation to reality.
It would be several years further into treatment before Melissa could as­
sign meaning to these events. Ultimately, she remembered how she had es­
caped the abusive scenes in her bedroom by retreating into sleep.

There seemed to be no retaliation for this. It was probably a relief to

have me out of the way. The odd thing though, was waking up in the
morning. It was as if I was waking from a bad dream. Everything was
just as it had been the night before when I went to bed. Everyone was
normal; my father, my mother ... just the way they always were; but
nothing like the way they were at night. I would think, he couldn't
possibly have done such things; she couldn't have allowed such things
to go on. They wouldn't look so normal now if they had gone on. Then,
I would be sure that I had made the whole thing up. I would think
how hideously evil I must be to invent such thoughts about my own
loving parents.

Clinically, then, this is a 5-year-old patient whose perception and experi­

ence of reality are already split into two mutually exclusive sets of mental
events, an object world traumatically tom asunder at precisely the time
when integration of disparate part objects is of tantamount importance.
Here, good and evil do not come together. They are isolated not only, as
with borderline personalities, to preserve and protect the good self and ob­
ject representations from the envious, murderous, devouring wishes of the
bad but, even more fundamentally, to artificially construct and create a core
sense of sanity and order, essential to survival, where circumstances have
conspired to allow no such haven of predictability and safety to exist. For the
self, there is only the threat of annihilation or of insanity—destruction from
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 107

the outside world of abusive, sadistic others or from the festering, evil, in­
sane world within. /
The sad epilogue to this patient's story is, Unfortunately, not atypical. At
the age of 12, approximately 2 years after the cessation of her father's abu­
sive behavior, and feeling overwhelmed by her own sense of evil and insan­
ity, Melissa finally spoke the forbidden words to both her sister and her
mother. Obviously desperate for confirmation, Melissa recalls:

My sister looked at me with this kind of glazed-over iciness, her eyes

were opaque, I couldn't see into them, and she said she hadn't the
slightest idea what I was talking about, and she refused to discuss it
any more or ever again. I begged her to tell me just this once that she
remembered the same things I did ... but all she said was that I was
crazy; she remembered no such things. It was even worse, if possible,
with my mother. She got that same odd look in her eyes, but she be­
came agitated and rather frantic, screaming about what a filthy and
disgusting mind I had. She said the same thing, though, that maybe I
was crazy. That I had always been a little odd, even as a child, and
maybe I was really out of my mind. The thing is . . . the important
thing now is ... I think that was the first day . . . [whispered] the first
day I cut myself ... I cut this filthy, crazy, disgusting, thing that I was.

Melissa made one further attempt to disclose the events in her home. She
tried confiding in an adored English teacher; and, although the teacher had
been gentle and sensitive to Melissa in all other ways, in this instance, she
simply told her that young children often imagine frightening scenes that in­
clude their parents, and these stories are seldom, if ever, true.
It would be impossible here to chronicle the subsequent years of this pa­
tient's treatment, the extraordinary courage she brought to bear in facing the
horrors of her early life and the insidiously invasive reality distortions im­
posed on her by circumstances. However, an unusual denouement seems
particularly compelling and apropos.
The patient remained in analytic treatment for approximately 8 years. At
the time she terminated treatment, her condition was much improved. She
had established her financial independence from her mother in a job that
gave her both personal satisfaction and room for professional growth.
Although she was not, at the time of termination, involved in a serious love
relationship, her social life was active and rich, and she was capable of main­
taining serious, long-term commitments. She had recovered vivid and ex­
plicit memories of her early abusive experiences and had grown, with extra­
ordinary effort, to accept the reality of these experiences and the enormously
disruptive consequences that had been imposed on her life. In spite of this
progress, however, she was still subject to periods of intense self-doubt and
108 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

would wonder out loud if there were any chance that she could have "made
up" a substantial part of what she remembered.
A year after terminating treatment, the patient contacted her therapist, os­
tensibly to obtain a referral for her sister, who now appeared ready for ther­
apy. At the time the patient reported that the post-termination time had been
difficult, but, all things considered, she believed that she was doing well.
The therapist heard nothing more from the patient for approximately 4
years, after which time she received the following letter:

The most extraordinary thing has happened. It is not so much the

event itself, which could have been anticipated ... but the remarkable
effect it has had upon me, even after all the years of analysis. My sister
has remembered her abuse! She flew in last weekend just to talk to me.
She said she could not bear to talk of it on the phone. We both sat up
all night long ... I guess it had to be at night. We talked and cried all
night long. Some things we remembered exactly the same ... some
things slightly differently . . . but all the essentials were close enough!
But back to the effects I mentioned. Literally within seconds of real­
izing what it was she was about to say I experienced the most extraor­
dinary and overwhelming sense of relief. It is truly difficult to put the
sensation, the experience of mental and physical release, of tension ac­
tually flowing from my body into adequate words. My immediate im­
pulse was to scream my sanity from the rooftops. So many of the tears
were for my dead crazy self. She died so fast after all these years of vi­
tality. My sister said it was all real; one other human voice in my mid­
night prison, and the uncertainty was gone. I was irrevocably sane!
I've thought a lot, lately, of the others. Those who were alone in
their dream. There is inside of me now a place I can reach. It is palpa­
ble ... a place of ineffable sadness, for the girl I once was, and for all
the others who can never entirely escape the endless, maddening,
doubts. What is real? What was a dream? How can you possibly know
who you are, if you can't first determine where you have been?

Chronic Doubting and Therapeutic Validation

We report Melissa's experience in some detail, because it is perhaps only as

her endless doubting comes to an end that we along with the patient herself
can comprehend the maddening entrapment that such an unfamiliarity with
one's own basic experiences can engender. Adult survivors of childhood
sexual abuse begin treatment with dramatically different degrees of confi­
dence in their own childhood memories. Many patients begin with vivid
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 109

memories of the abuse they suffered as children, along with a high degree of
confidence in the reliability of such memories. Others, however, begin with
no memories at all, or only the vaguest sense7 that all was not right along
with a history and symptom picture that brings to mind the possibility of
childhood sexual abuse. Where such memories begin as nonexistent or
vague—and only emerge in clear form for the first time during therapy—the
patient's confidence in the reliability of such memories is subject to the most
intense doubting. This could be expected. Of enormous interest, however, is
the fact that, even when patients begin treatment with vivid incest memo­
ries, a sense of chronic doubting and questions about the accuracy of these
recollections almost inevitably plague the therapeutic process. Chronic
doubts about what did and did not happen, along with a persistent inability
to trust one's perceptions of reality, are perhaps the most permanent and ul­
timately damaging long-term effects of childhood sexual abuse. Such doubts
make it extremely difficult for the patient to arrive at a point where she can
come to believe in her own life history. It would be hard to exaggerate the
pain an incest survivor feels as she struggles to regain confidence in the
working integrity of her own mind or the intense pressure that such doubt­
ing induces in the analyst to either confirm or disconfirm the patient's ques­
tions about the reality of her own abuse.
It is ironic that the whole issue of childhood sexual abuse comes to the
fore at a time within the theoretical evolution of psychoanalytic thinking in
which there is serious question about the possibility of establishing historical
truth within such a treatment setting. Certainly, the current momentum
within psychoanalysis is toward the recognition of narrative truth within a
social constructivist model (Hoffman, 1991). Such truth grows out of the on­
going interaction and mutual interpretive dialog between patient and thera­
pist, with a sense of history^ and reality growing not out of some special ac­
cess to the past but out of interpersonal experience as it emerges within the
therapeutic encounter. Such a theoretical preference presents unique prob­
lems for the clinician working with incest survivors, where the balance be­
tween memory and fantasy in the establishment of personal history becomes
all important (Slavin, 1992). Is such a theoretical and clinical dichotomy rec­
oncilable within the actual clinical work?
Most clinicians who work regularly with survivors of childhood sexual
abuse are all too familiar with their patients' needs for validation and con­
firmation of early abuse-related memories. Particularly in the case of incest,
where the unconscious participation of the nonabusing parent is so often a
part of the clinical picture, the therapist's open and frank readiness to be­
lieve in the patient's reports are often critical to the working-through of the
traumatic material. Indeed, most of the literature on the subject is unequiv­
ocal on the therapist's need to substantiate the patient's beliefs, or else
risk a reenactment of the parental neglect or denial that accompanied the
110 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

original abuse. When the patient offers up her early memories with cer­
tainty, the therapist must stand ready to believe in their essential truth.
Our own experience, however, indicates that the working-through of
chronic problems with reality testing in general, and the patient's relentless
doubts about incestuous memories in particular, is rarely as simple as this
formulation would indicate. The mere expression of therapeutic support, in
fact, does little to effect permanent change in these areas of ego dysfunction,
and, although it is often necessary, it is rarely sufficient to end relentless
doubting. The patient who is convinced of the reality of her abuse and the
dubious or denying therapist are only one form of reenactment that may
occur around this issue. Indeed, there are at least as many times when it is
the therapist who becomes adamant about the conviction that the patient
was sexually abused as a child and the patient who remains doubtful or
staunchly denying. Here, the therapist walks the ever-controversial line be­
tween therapeutic zeal and transferentially reinforced suggestion. The reen­
actment in the transference-countertransference can go one of two ways:
either the patient prematurely "accepts" the therapist's experience of reality
as her own and begins to construct incest "memories" in a transferential
need to please the therapist; or, as is more often the case, the patient becomes
uncomfortable exploring her own trauma-related images and memories, be­
cause the therapist's certainty about their meaning forecloses on her own
psychic elaboration of these thoughts. Here the therapist treads dangerously
close to the parent who superimposed his view of reality onto that of the
child during the original abuse. In either of these two scenarios, something is
being forcefully inserted into the experience of the child. In the first scenario,
the patient submits to the therapist's construction of "truth"; in the second,
she fights back by keeping the therapist's formulations, although true, from
penetrating her defenses. Either alternative seriously distorts the patient's
capacity to apprehend her own reality.
Most often, the roles of "believer" and "denyer" shift back and forth be­
tween patient and therapist in all forms of transference-countertransference
reenactment. As the therapist becomes more convinced of the realities of the
patient's early traumatic abuse, it is not uncommon for the patient to begin
expressing more questions and doubts: "Could it all be made up, a creative
invention of fantasy?" Selma Kramer (1983) was one of the first clinicians to
describe this process of shifting belief and disbelief. Kramer called this
process "object-coercive doubting", but believed it to be present only
in cases of maternal incest occurring before the completion of the separation­
individuation process. Here the shifting of doubtful experience between pa­
tient and therapist was viewed as a failure in boundary functions between
mother and child, reenacted in the transference. Such an enactment of this
process could happen around the question of whether or not the incest oc­
curred but could also be argued about any two mutually incompatible views
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 111

of a reality-based situation. Kramer reports on a patient who argued vehe­

mently with the therapist about whether or not she was wearing a pin on the
lapel of her blazer.
Although we agree with Kramer's clinical depiction, our experience has
shown this process to occur in most cases of parental incest, regardless of
whether the perpetrator was the mother or father. We view it as a reenact­
ment via projective identification in the transference-countertransference of
the dissociation, intrusion, and boundary distortion suffered by the adult
survivor. It would seem that the therapist firmly convinced of the patient's
abusive history, becomes an object of envy to the survivor ripped apart by
endless misgivings, leading to an activation in the transference of the pa­
tient's sadistic introject. Here, in a game of turnabout, the patient, in identifi­
cation with the abusing parent, begins an insidious attack on the therapist's
reality-testing functions. One can also view this sense of confusion and unre­
ality to be further enhanced by the presence of verbally unencoded trau­
matic residues that are both felt to be there but are as yet unnamed and un­
recognized.
How, then, should therapists deal with the patient's doubting and uncer­
tainty, both as a resistance to understanding her own experience and as a coun­
tertransference experience that tends to confuse and derail the therapist's hold
on what is occurring in the clinical situation? If we hold to a belief that history
will essentially repeat itself within the transference-countertransference drama,
we can direct ourselves toward the emerging relational reenactments within
the treatment situation in order to illuminate this often circuitous route.
Indeed, within such a model, the patient's and therapist's very real doubts
about the historical accuracy of incestuous images, especially those doubts
that volley back and forth between the two participants in the analytic process,
will serve to reinforce rather than undermine the truth of such suspicions. For
such a volleying of belief and disbelief in the accuracy of one's perceptual ca­
pacities does reflect a reenactment of the invasion of body and mind associ­
ated with childhood sexual abuse.
Therefore, all issues related to the patient's and therapist's opposing
views of reality, particularly those that emerge during therapy, should be
carefully attended to. As they are addressed directly between patient and
therapist, certain changes will occur. First, as patient and therapist together
explore their versions of the therapeutic interaction, differences in percep­
tion will be unavoidable. As these are explored, negotiated, and compro­
mised, the patient's reality-testing skills will be indirectly called into service.
There will be points of agreement, points of continued disagreement, and
compromises that feel wholly satisfactory to neither. It is not the specific
content of what is in dispute that is essential but the way in which patient
and therapist, together, create an environment where disagreement, compro­
mise, and ambiguity can intermingle. If agreement, disagreement, and com­
112 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

promise are reached without a loss of integrity on either side, the process of
negotiation itself will precipitate a repair in seriously affected reality and
boundary functions. To give in on a point without losing oneself; to hold on
to one's own view without shutting out the other person's experience en­
tirely; to hold rigorously to what one believes, beyond doubt without undo
aggression and devaluation, are the interpersonal avenues of such ego re­
pair.
Second, the therapeutic process should highlight ways in which early,
traumatic abuse permanently affects a child's sense of reality even in areas
not directly related to the incest itself. The unsymbolized nature of traumatic
memory, the dissociation that keeps such memories unintegrated with any
others, the fact that incestuous abuse is rarely, if ever, spoken of between
perpetrators and their victims, the fact that most sexual abuse occurs at night
when the child is already in a semisomnolent state all contribute to the men­
tal disorganization that accompanies the reemergence of such memories. As
the historical meaning of such confusion is interwoven with the day-to-day
negotiation of reality issues in the immediate treatment setting, the therapist
should begin to see serious shifts in the patient's willingness to evaluate the
accuracy and primacy of reenactments as they occur in therapy and to expe­
rience a significant diminution in his or her own sense of confusion and dis­
orientation with regard to traumatic memory.
One cannot emphasize enough that, ultimately, it is the patient who must
come to know and believe in the reality of her own incestuous experience. It
is, concretely, the patient who chooses the words with which to give voice to
her own internal states—and thus labels the connection between these states
and historically significant events in her life. When the therapist's construc­
tions and words lead the therapeutic journey, the patient's difficulties with
reality and boundary issues are never addressed, and the treatment itself be­
comes a reenactment of yet one more form of invasive control by a powerful
and needed other. In most cases, the specific difficulties with reality testing
that are manifested by adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse are not re­
lated to the accuracy of sexual abuse memories per se, but they are sec­
ondary to the ongoing mental invasion implicit in such abuse.

Compromises in Reality Testing

In examining the complex compromises in reality testing that result from

chronic childhood sexual abuse, one can look specifically at the dual nature
of ego organization emphasized in the preceding section. For the adult
patient who presents for treatment, the effects of chronic abuse on reality­
testing skills are subtly interwoven into characterological patterns and par­
ticular nuances in interpersonal relatedness, such as (1) the capacity to toler-
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 113

ate dramatically different experiences and interpretations of specific events

simultaneously; (2) the tendency to organize one's understanding of reality
around the perceived needs of important objects; and (3) the tendency to­
ward obfuscating truth and meaning as expendable, unreliable, and, ulti­
mately, unknowable.
There are three specific areas of developmentally mediated ego impair­
ment that serve to impede the consolidation of reality orientation in adult
survivors of childhood sexual abuse. The first involves the individual's abil­
ity to relinquish the world of infantile fantasy and magical omnipotence and
deal with the realistic frustrations and anxieties that inevitably arise without
recourse to a regressive reactivation of this infantile state. The second im­
pedes the ego's capacity to contain contradictory experiences of self and
other, to move beyond projection and projective introjective mechanisms,
to ultimately move beyond a rigidification of object relationships at a part­
object level. The third involves the complete disruption of ego functioning
brought on by recurrent flashbacks of traumatic events in the individual's
life. Such flashbacks are a reactivation of earlier memories that bring on a
loss of orientation to time, place, and person.

Magical Thinking and Omnipotent Control

Developmentally, the capacity to adequately apprehend reality and enter
into experiences of mutual intersubjective relatedness (Benjamin, 1990) pre­
supposes the necessary renunciation of magical thinking and omnipotent
control (Ogden, 1986; Winnicott, 1951). Without reviewing the entire devel­
opmental literature, it can surely be said that, for such steps to be taken, the
child must come to believe in the essential benevolence of the world outside
herself. Such a notion includes the order and predictability of Erikson's
(1963) "basic trust," the exquisite, fine tuning of Winnicott's (1960) "good
enough mothering," the presymbolic internalization of Bollas's (1987)
"transformational objects," Kohut's (1971) notions of "transmuting internal­
izations," Bion's (1962) ideas about "containment," and a plethora of others
that might have been singled out. Despite their theoretically divergent
points of view, these works, when taken as a whole, weave an intricate back­
ground pattern of developmental prerequisites for adequate ego structural-
ization. The "good enough parent," to borrow Winnicott's notion, must nur­
ture, organize, respond empathically, withstand assault, and, ultimately, not
retaliate.
How different is the experience of the sexually abused child. Here the
world is dangerous and invasive; there is no order and predictability; people
are either betrayers or abusers. The child's emerging sense of efficacy and
mastery is demolished by repeated experiences of traumatic helplessness. At
a time when magical thinking, defensive idealization, and omnipotent con­
114 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

trol of others should be giving way to more realistic experiences of success

and failure, this extreme helplessness strikes a devastating blow. The world
is shown to be unsafe, significant others betray or fail to protect, and the self
is experienced as hopelessly inept and worthless. .
It is only in a world of fantasy that such bad self and object representa­
tions can be omnipotently disposed of and make-believe saviors magically
empowered. It is a world created as the temporary hiding place of an abused
and helpless child, whose reality-based adaptational alternatives have failed
to offer protection. It is to this world of rescue, retribution, and control that
she learns to retreat during abusive episodes, although it is, unfortunately,
also this world that eventually comes to hold her captive. Vulnerable in the
extreme to experiences of personal inadequacy (because they are the ratio­
nalized excuse for abusive parental behavior), the world of magical wish­
fulfillment becomes too compelling an alternative at any point of personal
frustration and struggle. Thus, the childhood development of realistic self­
soothing skills is severely constricted; narcissistic resilience based on suc­
cessful experiences of struggle and mastery are prematurely aborted in fear­
ful avoidance of an infusion of poisonous self-representations. Fantasy
remains an easily accessible and overused alternative, and the boundary be­
tween fantasy and reality becomes potentially problematic. It is this world
that the therapist enters when she begins to work with a survivor of trau­
matic abuse. It is a world of profoundly depleted and magically empowered
others who begin to inhabit the transference-countertransference field of the
analytic work. The world so constructed between patient and therapist ulti­
mately introduces the therapist to the internal world in which the adult sur­
vivor has stayed hidden.
Certainly, the very circumstances of abuse would appear to mitigate
against realistic adaptation and, by extension, integration. Though many the­
orists have struggled with the question of illusive thinking, of exactly what
gratification of developmental need maximizes the transition from one more
primitive mode of relating to another higher order, all apparently agree that,
at least in part, the slow accretion of positive, nurturing, empathic, relational
experiences prepares the self to withstand the potentially disruptive contain­
ment of negative self and object representations (Kemberg, 1976; Klein, 1952;
Ogden, 1986.) Where abuse prevails—and adaptational skills are so dramati­
cally constricted—where omnipotent fantasy and magical thinking represent
the most compelling alternative to frustration and struggle, this safe, protec­
tive, context for aggressive fantasy is never internalized. There is no safe
holding environment, to contain and contradict the angry projections of a
rageful child. It would appear, in fact, that the natural developmental pro­
gression toward integration is reversed. Rather than fostering a movement
out into the world of healthier, more gratifying object-related experiences,
integration threatens to flood the entire structure with poisonous and malev­
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 115

olent representations of self and other. Integration of primitive self and ob­
ject representations rarely occurs, therefore, in those whose histories are
marked by episodes of serious child abuse. Psychic organization is main­
tained via a fragile balance of primitive defenses: splitting, projection, pro­
jective identification, idealization, and devaluation. The subjective experi­
ence is essentially a paranoid one, with experiences of both pain and danger
attributed to external loci of origin. Such failure of integration in concert
with the generalized infusion of fantasy and magical thinking described cre­
ate fertile breeding ground for psychotic-like experiences, particularly trans­
ference manifestations, not unlike those of patients more traditionally diag­
nosed as suffering from borderline personality disorders. (See chapter 3 for
discussion of this diagnostic issue.)

Ego Regression1™ the Adult Patient

The adult survivor's reality testing is further compromised by the fact
that she is subject to recurrent "flashbacks," regressive reenactments of abu­
sive childhood experiences that completely overwhelm and flood the ego. At
these times, the patient loses all sense of orientation to time, place, and per­
son. She is the child. The memories are a current reality, and the therapist,
no longer a protective figure, recedes into the background, a passive ob­
server to the patient's childhood experiences. Here reality testing fails in the
extreme, and therapists unfamiliar with this population are often astounded
by the rapidity and depth of such spontaneous regression. Although such
episodes are spoken of in the literature as "cathartic," they are, without cer­
tain therapeutic parameters, a reliving of traumatogenic events and a reacti­
vation in the treatment of these earlier forms of helplessness, terror, and
pathogenic overstimulation.
It has been our experience that even during periods of extreme ego re­
gression and disorganization, the presence and observing function of a
more integrated aspect of the personality is a part of the experience for
many adult survivors. Such a presence distinguishes this kind of traumatic
flashback from other types of brief psychotic reactions. This observing
"other" is described by patients as paralyzed and unable to take action.
However, she is an observer to the regressive scenario, and can later de­
scribe with startling detail and emotional clarity what transpired during the
episode. Interestingly, although her reality testing appears to remain intact,
it exerts little, if any, influence on the ensuing process of disorganization
and regression.
Jane was a 29-year-old, single executive with a large commercial bank.
Her professional life had been unimpaired by her early history, and she was
enormously successful at work. Personally, however, she found herself un­
able to sustain a long-term sexual relationship. The patient had no memories
116 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

of having been sexually abused by her mother when treatment began. Two
years into the analysis—just before the analyst's 2-week vacation—these
memories began to break through in a series of terrifying flashbacks.
Parenthetically, it should be said that the return of memories just prior to a
therapist's leaving on vacation is not unusual. The therapist's departure can
come to symbolize the abandonment of the passive, unprotective parent
and, thus, gives rise to an ominous sense of danger—often to precise flash­
backs such as Jane's. The entire abusive experience is thus brought, via the
transference, into treatment.
In Jane's case, this particular vacation stimulated a true psychic crisis. She
assured her analyst, upon leaving the office, that she would be fine. She pro­
ceeded directly to the supermarket, where she bought an enormous amount
of food, went directly home to her apartment, bolted the door behind her,
called work and said she would be out "sick for 2 weeks—doctor's orders."
Only later was she able to describe her experience to her analyst:

I knew I was being insane. I literally stayed in bed for the whole 2
weeks . . . completely overtaken by these horrifying scenes. I suppose
now I should call them memories; that's what they were . .. but then I
had no idea. There was my mother, and this little girl—she looked like
me . .. and the mother was doing these terrible things. [Long silence;
tears] And then, I remembered. I got under the covers, and I hardly
ever came out. I knew I just had to stay alive until you got back, that
then I would be okay. It was the craziest that I ever was in my whole
life.
The odd thing was, though, that some part of me knew how crazy I
was being; and I kept telling myself that it was okay. If I knew that I
was acting crazy, then I hadn't lost complete control of my mind. It
was as if some sane part, some older part, perhaps, was watching, just
to make sure things didn't go too far. But still, I couldn't come out of
bed.

Jane's description of being a witness to her own psychic decompensation

is echoed again and again by adult survivors of childhood abuse, and cre­
ates, as will be discussed, a therapeutic configuration different from other
such experiences of regressive behavior.
Such a dichotomous experience of self, based, as described here on a de­
fensive duality in ego organization, creates for the patient overwhelming
confusion and intrapsychic tension. The move to dissociate experiences of
abuse—and with it the more primitive levels of ego functioning—and thus
render the two states mutually impermeable, preserves and safeguards the
sanity of most adult survivors. Although the ego functioning of the adult
persona is by no means unaffected, the full store of primitive, persecutory
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 117

thought that belongs to the abused child and threatens to infuse and drown
out all else can at least be isolated and contained.
/

The Consequences of Impaired Reality-Testing Abilities

What legacy is passed on, then, to the adult who sustained serious child­
hood abuse? Although in most cases she has an intact observing ego, capable
of assessing reality with some equanimity, particularly in neutral situations,
the adult survivor, already prone to dissociation as a major, defense, can
choose to ignore, elude, or separate out unpleasant or contradictory aspects
of experience. Her reality tends to be focused around each individual object
relationship, such as pleasing and being accepted by those around her.
Consequently, she is something of a chameleon, taking on the personality
characteristics important to those significant others in her life. Contained
herein is the hypervigilant child, ever cautious, always watching, struggling
futilely to ward off the next experience of abuse, to seek allies who might
protect her from her abusive family. In attempting to create safe havens for
herself, she has become an expert at reading and interpreting the nuances of
other people's behavior; she has, in effect, become pathologically attuned to
the needs of the adults around her.
The adult patient instinctively and unconsciously moves to ally herself
with these important "good" and "bad" objects at all cost. Her reality is de­
fined not by personal experience but exclusively by the needs of the signifi­
cant other. Unfortunately, she will say, be, or do anything to secure the love
of—and placate the potential abuser within—the other, rarely, if ever, expe­
riencing her own needs in the situation or taking the long-term conse­
quences of her actions into account. In effect, she revictimizes herself, sub­
suming the reality of her own needs under those of another. Out of her fear
of being abused or abandoned by one who is unhappy with her, she secures
yet a different kind of masochistic surrender and abuse. In order to feel safe,
the adult survivor must say what she believes the other person wants to
hear. Truth is perceived as necessarily expendable, and dissociation permits
disparate pieces of reality to exist in alternate states of consciousness.
So completely can the adult survivor shape her experience and perception
to conform to and complement that of the significant other that it would be
accurate to say that she does not, in fact, perceive reality. Rather, she con­
structs it anew within the limits and needs set forth by each individual rela­
tionship. For this reason, subtle discrepancies in the realities unique to each
dyad create the potential for contradiction. What is true in one relationship
may be experienced quite differently in the context of another. Aspects of
self, character, specific physical abilities, and aptitudes can be enhanced or
obfuscated depending on the perceived need of the all-important other. This
characteristic becomes particularly significant in a treatment setting, where
118 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

adult survivors can become almost uncannily attuned to the conscious and
unconscious needs of the therapist.
Issues of honesty, integrity, and truthfulness become important here.
Because of their unusual capacity to use dissociation in order to ignore,
elude, or separate out unpleasant, or contradictory aspects of experience,
adult survivors are often "caught" in lies or other forms of deceitfulness and
diagnosed as exhibiting psychopathic features. The external "real" world of
consensual validation has proven to be so ever-shifting and basically unreli­
able that allegiance to important figures often outweighs any greater, higher-
order principles of truth and morality. Although such is not the case for all
survivors of childhood sexual abuse, this pattern accounts for serious misdi­
agnoses and occurs with enough frequency to warrant mention.
Self-cohesion at the moment of interpersonal contact is crucial, and often
such cohesion is purchased at the expense of personal integrity. Pleasing the
object and ensuring his or her continued benevolence and protection are
paramount. Although we do not wish to ignore the patient's sadistic fan­
tasies toward the object or the ways in which "distortion" helps the patient
to achieve omnipotent control of the object (indeed, we believe that reaching
this level of discourse is critical to successful treatment), such interpretations
are often made prematurely. The patient's need to secure the protective
benevolence of the other at all cost is what is often more available.
It is thus possible to observe in many adult survivors of childhood sexual
abuse what would appear to be forms of pathological lying existing side by
side with scrupulously honest character traits. Conscious misrepresentation
is not the compelling factor, but rather the patient's willingness to bargain
and deal with reality, as if such compromises were negotiable. From an ego-
psychological stance, it is a defensive regression in reality-testing capacities
and overall sense of reality; from an object-relational perspective, it is a
pathological misalliance with objects who are, threaten to become, or upon
whom are projected, sadistic motivation and abusive intent.

Implications for Treatment

Such distortions in the ego's capacity for reality testing are a constant consid­
eration in psychoanalytic work with adult survivors, for the analytic process
rests heavily on the patient's capacity to distinguish reality from fantasy, in­
ternal stimuli from external ones, thought from action, and, ultimately, past
from present. Certainly, the use of the couch in order to promote regression
and fantasy; the classical neutrality and relative unresponsiveness of the an­
alyst's position; even the "fundamental rule," the free-associative task of
saying everything that comes to mind; all take on questionable new dimen­
sions in the work we are here considering. Indeed, one could ask, Why
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 119

choose a treatment method that in itself is technically orchestrated to facili­

tate fantasy and regression, particularly for a population so vulnerable in
this regard? ‘
The answer, fortunately, is clear. No other treatment method will permit
so thorough an investigation of the actualities of the abusive experience, the
long-term intrapsychic adaptation, and the powerful interpersonal corollaries
as will psychoanalysis. However, work with any survivors of real chronic
trauma forces us to reconsider several of the key assumptions that structure
and organize our analytic approach. Here we will focus specifically on those
which appear to impinge most powerfully on the ongoing dialectic tension
between reality and fantasy. We will explore ways in which the treatment set­
ting must be accommodated to the specific needs of our patient population.
We have gone to some length to demonstrate how the adult survivor of
childhood sexual abuse approaches treatment with a flawed hold on reality
and a consequently diminished capacity to trust her own interpretations of
experience. Her own reluctance to interpret events is often greater than what
should ensue from the particular ego deficiencies we have mentioned.
Nevertheless, when taken in concert, these two difficulties place the entering
analytic patient in a very vulnerable position and present the therapist with
several striking and paradoxical dilemmas.
Above and beyond all else, victims of childhood abuse need to begin to
understand the kinds of interpersonal difficulties that recur with regularity
in their lives, so they can begin again to trust their own perceptions and in­
terpretations of emotional interactions with others. Until patients can believe
in and, therefore, come to defend their own view of the world, they are sub­
ject to constant manipulation and insidious abuse by others, even those with
the most well-meaning intentions. Submission to another person's interpre­
tation of events, regardless of whether that view is more or less accurate, is
experienced by an adult survivor as a symbolic reenactment of the mind
rape that exists at the heart of all child abuse. Clearly, patients need to have
their experiences validated. But the therapeutic dilemma is clear. How do
we validate the experience of those patients whose reality testing we have
just called into question? How do we encourage them to believe in their own
experience if we ourselves, in another voice, continue to reframe and reinter­
pret these same events according to our own emotional urgency or theoreti­
cal preconceptions—if, in other words, we presume our own reality to be of
a higher order?
Adult survivors must, by slowly confirming interactions with significant
others, rebuild a sense of confidence in their own interpretive skills. Here,
the therapeutic interaction becomes particularly important, an arena in
which to repair such capabilities. Such a task, however, requires a closer look
at some of the subtle nuances of analytic practice, with particular emphasis
on the processes of transference and resistance interpretation.
120 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The Process of Interpretation

Some of the long-held psychoanalytic cornerstones deserve to be reevalu­
ated. First, we look at the notion of the analyst as a blank screen upon which
the patient plays out via projection and displacement early, pathological ob­
ject relationships. The very notion of such unresponsiveness in work with
our patients is dangerous. It was, after all, the denial and indifference, the, if
you will, blank stare of the nonabusive parent that allowed the trauma to
continue. Often, adult survivors flee treatment or regress unnecessarily, be­
cause this "opaque parent" becomes symbolically reactivated in the transfer­
ence. Here, the patient's rage is so intense, with such a disorganizing effect
on ego functioning, that even the most active interpretation will fail to re­
verse what essentially becomes an iatrogenic retraumatization. It is a psy­
chotic transference unlikely to generalize to the rest of the patient's function­
ing but that nonetheless makes interpretation less useful and certainly less
intense than the symbolic damage that can be done.
During the initial phases of treatment, many adult survivors of childhood
sexual abuse appear highly resistant to interpretations on the part of the ana­
lyst that suggest a new or different way of looking at old behavior. Clearly,
such interpretations threaten the tenuousness of the patient's own point of
view and challenge long-held patterns of relating to internalized self and ob­
ject representations. Such interventions are therefore capable of causing con­
siderable disorganization. To the extent that the analytic environment is one
of omniscient commentary by the analyst, not of collaborative inquiry by
both parties involved, such resistance is intensified. Patients report feeling
overwhelmed, penetrated, or out of control. The analytic situation is, again,
dangerously close to the original trauma. In addition, the omniscient stance
of the analyst is subtly infantalizing and consequently undermines and un­
dervalues the patient's own contributions toward understanding his internal
life.
It has been our experience in treating adult survivors that the process of
mutuality and collaboration in the analytic work becomes at least as impor­
tant as the content of the therapist's communications. This includes the ana­
lyst's attempts at collaborative inquiry and, of course, the patient's resis­
tances to it. We believe that, particularly at the outset of treatment,
interpreting such resistances to a more mutual investigation will further the
analytic process, whereas prematurely penetrating interpretations of content
threaten to incur the patient's frightened, self-defensive foreclosure on any
further uncovering. Work with those who have been sexually abused must
proceed at the patient's pace. Those clearly sensitive to experiences of
forcible penetration and humiliating exposure must, initially and to some
degree throughout, feel control over the process of self-disclosure. Of course,
the time will come when the patient reports feeling forced, penetrated, or
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 121

humiliated by the analyst despite all these adjustments in technique, and to

some extent this is necessary. Patients must begin to explore their particular
sensitivities in this area. It is only when a strong foundation of equality, mu­
tuality, and respect has been laid, as a context for exploring more abusive,
potentially disorganizing negative transference reactions, that this crucial as­
pect of the work can be carried through without a complete loss of reality
testing.
Similarly, when transference is viewed as an asymmetrical, one-sided af­
fair, where the patient's observations of the analyst are repeatedly denied
and viewed as pathological distortions that come solely from the patient's
own early life, the enhancement of the patient's reality testing is dealt an­
other serious blow. Though the tradition of eliminating the therapist's own
behavior from analytic scrutiny has recently been questioned for all patients
(Aron, 1991; Gill & Hoffman, 1982; Greenberg, 1991; Hoffman, 1983, 1991) it
is particularly deleterious in the case of abuse survivors. So often it is
viewed, transferentially, as the analyst's attempt to abrogate responsibility
for his or her own behavior, to indirectly blame the patient. Here, too, the
transference becomes inextricably confused with the patient's traumatic
past, where parental behavior was obfuscated and responsibility external­
ized onto the patient. Past and present, fantasy and reality blur, and verbal
interpretation is often inadequate to redress the resulting confusion.
Quite different is the dialog that ensues when transference is regarded as
the patient's more or less unique response to more or less selective aspects of
the analyst's real behavior (Hoffman, 1983). Distortion is a mutual process,
with the past of each participant casting an intense shadow on the perception
of the other. Certainly, the therapist's personal analysis proves indispensable
in disentangling the views and observations of each; however, no one's
analysis is infallible, and distortions and misperceptions occur on both sides.
Where the analyst listens to the patient's observations with respectful consid­
eration, not strained forbearance, such respect is internalized, and the patient
proceeds with an enhanced capacity for self-reflective activity.
Transference interpretations are most difficult. Although an extra-trans­
ference interpretation can be offered to further a patient's understanding in a
particular area, to enhance her experience of an event by offering parallel
meanings, a transference interpretation, as used by some therapists, implies
distortion or exaggerated response on the part of the patient. The analyst is,
in effect, saying, "No, I have not done what you say . .. you experience me in
this way, because. ..." Here we tell the patient, "What you think is happen­
ing is not happening . . . you only misperceive it that way ... do not trust
your own perceptions." How confusing to tell the patient to trust in what
she suspects happened in the past but not to trust what she knows to be hap­
pening in the present. And yet, what of the analyst who truly believes that a
major distortion is occurring in the transference?
122 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The most contemporary literature on countertransference and projective

identification (Gill & Hoffman, 1982; Grotstein, 1981; Joseph, 1989; Sandler,
1987; Tansey & Burke, 1989), considers the possibility that the patient has ac­
curately perceived some aspect of the therapist's behavior of which the ther­
apist is unaware. We believe the patient's behavior and her unconscious
fantasy invite certain activity by the analyst, particularly the kind of pene­
trating, overstimulating activity the patient is most hypervigilant to.
Likewise, we believe that the analyst's behavior invites similar responses on
the part of the patient. By seriously considering his own behavior as a pow­
erful precipitant to certain transference reactions, the analyst accomplishes
two important clinical tasks. First, he opens up for analytic scrutiny certain
unconscious processes within himself and the patient that, via projective and
introjective identification, might otherwise remain elusive. And, second, he
acknowledges that the patient's transferences are often rooted in very accu­
rate perceptions of the analyst's behavior, therefore supporting the patient's
capacity to accurately perceive and interpret her world.
Therefore, we listen with great interest to the patient's perceptions of the
therapist's behavior and to her interpretations of and fantasies about the
possible meanings of such behavior. We ask specifically what aspects of the
therapist's behavior led the patient to the conclusions she has drawn. We ask
her to explore all the possible reasons she can come up with for why she be­
lieves the analyst may have reacted in such a way. Particularly when the pa­
tient accuses us of being abusive, intrusive, controlling, sadistic, seductive,
overstimulating and so on—words that speak to significant reenactments in
the transference-countertransference process—do we focus our attention not
on what this tells us about the patient's past, but what it can illuminate
about the therapist's experience in the present. If, for example, the patient
experiences the therapist as unnecessarily seductive, the therapist could in­
terpret this perception as a simple displacement from a past significant rela­
tionship; or he can integrate an awareness of his own seductive behaviors
into his attempts to clarify the unconscious or as yet unformulated (Stem,
1985) aspects of transference-countertransference paradigms being reenacted
in the present therapeutic situation.
Again, we are placing therapeutic communication via an attention to
process over therapeutic communication via interpretation of content; intent
in our belief that a process of mutuality and respect ensures that content will
follow. Though we can suggest that in certain cases the patient may have
misinterpreted the meaning and intent of certain aspects of the therapist's
behavior, one should not assume that this is the case. It is equally likely that
the patient has simply perceived or experienced some aspect of the thera­
pist's behavior or attitude that has remained defensively dissociated and
needs to be integrated into the current therapeutic dialog.
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 123

The Nature of Resistance

Similar issues emerge when considering the particular resistances that
often impede the progress of treatment for adult survivors. From the incep­
tion of psychoanalysis, therapists have tried to remove the negative connota­
tions from the word resistance. Although all therapists struggle with this,
particularly in formal teaching situations or written material, the informal
dialog about "resistant patients," belies the unconscious negativity inherent
in the term. After all, resistance is, by definition, an opposing force. Those of
us who think developmentally, however, regard the capacity to resist, to say
no, to disagree as a developmental milestone. It is necessary for survival; it is
endemic to separation and individuation. Without this capacity, the patient
lives in constant fear of impingement, invasion, and ultimately mental anni­
hilation. However, adults who have survived significant childhood sexual
abuse are severely limited in their ability to say no. As children, physical re­
sistance was a threat to survival; mental resistance could occur only via dis­
sociation and outward compliance.
Because our patients have so little faith in their capacity to discern what is
true from what is false, what is helpful from what is destructive, what is
pleasurable from what hurts, the invitation to consider an interpretation,
particularly one that challenges the patient's perspective on an issue, can set
in motion an experience of intense anxiety, even panic. The patient finds it
enormously difficult to reject an interpretation. Such a rejection would, in
essence, stimulate abandonment terror commensurate with that of the
abused child who could not question his parent's denial or distortion of real­
ity. The child could not depend on the parent whose reality testing, that is,
sanity, was at question. Therefore, transferentially, the analyst's intellect,
judgment, and ultimate superiority must be absolute. Critical appraisal and
evaluation, because of the partial rejection implied, is out of the question.
Grateful for the thoughtful attention and concern, patients can, on occasion,
accept any and all interpretations in a dramatic show of outward compli­
ance. The interpretations are, therefore, perceived as "brilliant" and can
stimulate an exciting outpouring of eager associations. The power of the
therapist, at the outset of such treatments, is unrivaled, an example of the
dangerously compliant misalliances described earlier. What then, becomes
of interpretations that are incorrect? At such times, splitting is reinforced.
Disagreement and objection, along with the anger and anxiety they generate,
are relegated to the domain of the dissociated child persona and of her abu­
sive counterpart. Conscious idealization dominates the analytic space.
As always, the most dangerously seductive resistance lies in counter­
transference. Being loved by a patient who has searched so long and hard for
a savior is intensely moving for the analyst. What more could be asked by
124 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

anyone than to be brilliant and virtuous, simultaneously. Nonetheless,

within this magical province of unmitigated mutual regard, an insidiously
invisible malignant growth proliferates. For the patient is swallowing up,
whole, the analyst's view of her own internal reality. There is no loyalty to
self, and where there is no conflict, there can be no integration. Having been
prostituted for mere survival, the patient is more than willing, even eager, to
repeat this pattern in order to secure a long-sought-after, idealized love. The
dissociated underside of conscious, mutual idealization is abusive control
and forced submission. Under the cloak of the powerful countertransferen-
tial experience, it becomes one of the most easily missed resistances to the
analysis.
Ultimately, the therapeutic task in such a situation involves questioning
the patient's unremitting and outward compliance. Does she ever disagree
with an interpretation? How is it that the analyst is always so smart? Does
she ever say what she thinks the analyst wishes to hear rather than what she
believes to be? If the analysis succeeds in helping the patient to see how she
supplants her own reality with that offered by the analyst or any idealized
other, the therapist and patient together can explore the most crucial ques­
tion of where the patient's own experience of reality has been hidden. We
can rest assured, in our work with child abuse survivors, that such a reality
has been held safely intact, in a clearly dissociated system of self and object
representations.
A supervisee complains during a recent supervisory session that his pa­
tient has become "argumentative, nitpicking, and highly resistant." He com­
plains that she rewords whatever he says and in each and every instance
feels compelled to take exception to some component of the interpretation,
no matter how inconsequential. She questions his competence, demands to
know what training he has had, whether he is a certified analyst.
The therapist insists that he has "interpreted the resistance time and time
again, but the patient will not hear it!" "My pointing out her resistance
seems to make her angrier." The patient threatens to leave the treatment.
Perhaps the therapist is too inexperienced. The supervisor feels that the ther­
apist is whining and somewhat petulant. What has the supervisor done or
not done that this once-perfect treatment has now gone seemingly sour?
The patient is a 36-year-old female attorney with a history of sexual abuse
between the ages of 4 and 9. She is regarded by her colleagues as a successful
litigator, and her thinking, as revealed in sessions, is incisive and logical. The
early phase of her treatment has been a "honeymoon period." She has
worked eagerly, and although she has been angry on occasion, there have
been no periods of protracted negative transference. She has responded to
interpretations with willingness and, in general, has taken care to fuel her
analyst with steady doses of gratitude and appreciation. She has asked rela­
tively few "tough questions," and appears to have assiduously avoided any
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 125

areas of potential vulnerability in the therapist.

Now she has begun to quibble over interpretations; to,demand certain in­
formation about her analyst. The therapist is annoyed; he calls her resistant;
he wants the supervisor to tell him how to deal with her resistance. He
wants his good little, obedient—perhaps seductive—girl back.
Here is an example where the most dangerous resistance is not the most
obvious one. The patient is not becoming resistant, she is simply changing
from a form of resistance that the therapist found highly enjoyable to one he
experiences as more distasteful. She is probably doing this because the thera­
pist and supervisor have not been quick enough in calling her attention to
the more subtle process. They have been distracted by the powerful content.
The patient is doing everyone a favor. Was it not odd that this incisive
thinker, this highly successful litigator, had never made an objection, never
asked her therapist to state his credentials, up front, for the record? Did she
not have a right to do this?
Of course, the patient is confused and angered by being called resistant.
In her mind, she is simply being self-protective, critically evaluating ideas
before she accepts them, and asking for the training credentials of the thera­
pist to whom she has entrusted her emotional future. It is this confusion that
is making her so frightened and angry; the impingement of a reality so dif­
ferent from her own, by a therapist whose protection and good wishes she so
values. Does she succumb to his view of the matter as she has all along, or
assert her own mind, and risk losing all?
The most appropriate question to ask clinically is not why she is resisting,
but why it has taken so long for the patient to exercise her most fundamental
rights in this interpersonal situation. Far from going sour, the treatment has
progressed to a point where the patient trusts her therapist's integrity and
good will enough to permit z the emergence of more negative transference
constellations. Hopefully, the therapist's resistance will not impede the
progress of this treatment.
We do not mean to suggest here that masochistic compliance is the only
manifestation of transference resistance in adult survivors. Certainly, it is
equally possible for the patient to express her fear of abuse or abandonment
via an unremitting counterdependent stance, in which she rejects any and all
interpretations offered. Our point is only to emphasize this less obvious ex­
pression of negative transference that is often missed.

Assaults on the Therapist's Reality-Testing

There is one further interface between reality-testing ego functions and
the process of psychoanalytic treatment for adult survivors. It is a phenome­
non well-known to those who work in this area, and it has to do with the pa­
tient's attempts to destroy the analyst's reality-testing capabilities. This can
126 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

occur at particular crisis points in the treatment, or it can weave its way, like
a leitmotif, throughout the course of therapy. Clinically, it almost always
bears some connection to the emergence of the sadistic introject, that is, of
that part of the patient who is closely identified With the abusive parent and
is now remobilized within the transference. As these aspects of the patient's
personality emerge, often in dissociated form, the therapist can become, via
projective identification, the subject of several different forms of confusion.
When the sadistic introject emerges in a purely dissociated form, there
can be direct assaults on the analyst's reality testing. One patient, a 26-year-
old incest survivor, would repeatedly rearrange the cupboards and take
food from a refrigerator in the kitchen off her therapist's waiting room. The
therapist began to feel that she was going crazy. Only when it became clear
that these experiences always followed this particular patient's sessions did
the therapist feel calmer. The patient, however, strenuously denied any in­
volvement in these activities and was so offended by the analyst's sugges­
tion that the treatment was seriously jeopardized. It appears that this behav­
ior occurred while the patient was in a dissociated state. Only when she
began to recover memories of how her mother had constantly rearranged
her things when she was a child so that she never knew where anything was
at the same time that she had denied being in the patient's room did a look
of recognition came over her face, and the dissociative gap was bridged.
Here, the patient was reenacting in a dissociated form the kind of "mind at­
tack" that she was subjected to as a child. The analyst becomes the victim­
ized child and is allowed to experience some of the confusion, fear, loss of
control, and disorientation that filled her patient's early years.
Because victims of sexual abuse can slip in and out of dissociative states
so quickly and imperceptibly, patients can say and not say things simultane­
ously. This can go on between sessions, or from moment to moment within
the same session. Patients can recount vivid memories of their abusive expe­
riences on one day and then claim no recall of what was discussed at their
very next session. Similarly, patients can say something during the course of
a session, yet look mystified and confused when the therapist responds to
the statement, claiming no memory of having said the remark referred to.
The latter usually takes the form of, "You must have heard me wrong ... I
never said that." When this becomes a pattern, a therapist unfamiliar with
the vicissitudes of dissociation can become either deeply enraged or deeply
confused and troubled about his own sanity.
Another very common way in which survivors attack their therapists'
hold on reality, one that often threatens to destroy the treatment entirely, is
the "I'm sorry, I made the whole thing up" phenomenon. Rarely is a thera­
pist as shaken as she is the first few times this happens. However, it is almost
to be expected, because it represents a reenactment of the abusive experience
on so many different levels. On the simplest level, the patient strives to re­
 Reality Testing and the Question of Validation 127

dissociate material she has begun to recover, so that it truly feels for a while
like something she may be making up. One patient used to say, ''These
words come out of my mouth, as if a strange/ lives inside of me. I don't re­
member these events, but the stranger is trembling and hysterical. Why
would she be so scared if this wasn't real?" This process of recovery and re­
dissociation of traumatic experience can be expected to continue for some
time.
Although such a sudden reversal represents a redissociation of traumatic
memory on one level, at a deeper level, it represents a further reenactment of
the traumatogenic object relationship. Here the patient as abuser turns to the
unsuspecting therapist, and with a direct frontal assault on her reality says,
"This terrible thing we've been going through together ... forget it ... it
never happened." Here again, through a form of projective identification,
the patient has communicated to her therapist the deep confusion and terri­
ble despair of being told by her attacker, "This never happened ... we will
never speak of it again."
The most vicious form of this attack on the therapist usually comes from
patients whose abuse has been particularly sadistic and humiliating in na­
ture. Here, the patient's reversals are infused with powerful contempt, in­
voking in the analyst not only a sense of confusion and disorientation but
also a humiliating experience of extraordinary stupidity and gullibility. One
can almost see the evil core of this introject rearing its head to further tor­
ment and torture the victim by mocking her capacity to love and trust. Here
the self-loathing of the child-victim/analyst is palpable. "How stupid to
have believed in and trusted someone else." Our experience reveals, how­
ever, that, rather than creating untenable doubt for the therapist, such a dra­
matic reversal should serve as a confirmation by the patient that the abusive
reality-distorting experiences recounted in the therapy experiences did, in
fact, take place.
There is one final place where the therapist's loss of reality testing ap­
pears to signal a reenactment in the transference. The critical experience here
is one in which language appears to lose all meaning for the patient, the ther­
apist, or both. The patient stares blankly at the therapist, seemingly mysti­
fied by the most basic of interpretations. The meaning of words seems to fail.
It is difficult, if not impossible, for the therapist to reach the patient. We un­
derstand this experience as a reactivation in the treatment of a childhood ex­
perience where the grownups spoke and the child could not comprehend the
meaning of their words, when, because of multiple deceptions, the child had
no faith in the content of what was being said, therefore abandoning any in­
terest in, or commitment to the spoken word. When the communicative
value of words fail, the therapist must be aware that he or she is dealing
with the split-off child persona, and all of the ego deficits detailed come into
p!ay.
128 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The opposite transference-countertransference paradigm can also become

activated in the treatment setting. Here, through a form of complementary
projective identification, the therapist fails to make any sense of the patient's
words. The experience is one of incredible stupidity. The therapist feels that
the patient is speaking a foreign language. The particulars may take many
forms, but the overriding experience is one in which the therapist listens in
disbelief, unable for protracted periods of time to make any sense out of the
patient's words.
In all of the situations described, the therapist can easily be moved to ex­
periences of intense rage. Sadistic retaliation or angry withdrawal are both
common responses. It is imperative that the analyst remember that these are
induced countertransference responses, designed to communicate verbally
inexpressible phenomena. When they are used by the therapist to facilitate
the patient's recovery of further memory or of a vivid first-hand experience
of her own internalized sadistic wishes, they can be among the most critical
and ultimately curative moments in the treatment.
In attempting to integrate a conceptual frame with a clinical-experiential
substrate, it is critical to remember that the abused child's life represents an
ongoing compromise with reality. Such distortions as we have described
should not be surprising. Nor should they necessarily be viewed as repre­
senting an underlying psychopathy. Rather, they are an accommodation, a
mode of relating to experience that allows unspeakable events to occur and
not occur simultaneously. Although survivors can dissociate and repress the
particulars of their past abuse, the specific modifications in ego structuraliza-
tion described continue to permeate the individual's psychic adaptation and
interpersonal relations on all levels.
 CHAPTER 7

Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of

Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse

HALLENGING SUCCESSFUL TREATMENT of many survivors

C
of childhood sexual abuse is the dazzling array of violent, often self­
destructive behaviors in which these patients frequently engage.
From suicidality to self-mutilation, substance abuse, promiscuity, reckless
driving, eating disorders, self-battering, stealing, and repeatedly placing
themselves in potentially dangerous situations, such as walking on deserted
streets alone at night or hitchhiking, survivors often put into action rather
than consciously experience and process memories, affects, self-representa­
tions, identifications, and fantasies that threaten to seriously endanger them.
The relentlessness and drama of a survivor's self-destructive enactments can
overwhelm the therapist as well, endangering the therapeutic alliance and,
ultimately, the treatment.
It is thus crucial that a therapist working with a sexual abuse survivor be
familiar with the purposes and meanings of violent enactments within this
patient population. We will in this chapter look at (1) an exploration of the
multilayered psychic meanings of violent, acting-out behavior within a psy­
choanalytic framework; (2) an integrated model for the psychologically and
physiologically mediated eroticization of fear and for the compulsive self­
mutilating behavior that often accompanies it; and finally (3) an attempt to
integrate this multidimensional model into specific treatment recommenda­
tions that will, it is hoped, bring about a cessation of compulsively self-abu­
sive behaviors. We attempt to describe here the cyclical and synergistic pat­
tern we have come to expect with patients as they volley endlessly between
intensely sexualized hyperarousal states and the kinds of satiated, exhaus­
tive aftermath of periods of intensely dangerous and life-threatening expo­
sure to self-abuse.
130 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The Significance of Self-abuse to Psychic Equilibrium

In recent years, violent, self-abusive behaviors have been associated most

often with diagnoses of borderline personality disorder. Through such work,
clinicians have become familiarized with the view that violent acting-out be­
havior represents the intensification of sadomasochistic identifications and
interpersonal relations with which borderline patients struggle. This, exacer­
bated by poor impulse control, diffuse boundaries, and an envious need to
defeat the therapeutic efforts of the therapist by controlling via imperious
demands on the therapist the therapeutic endeavor have all come to serve as
the therapeutic bedrock of understanding of this type of behavior.
However, newer research on the subject shows that between 75% and
87% of patients diagnosed with borderline personality disorder also have
histories of violent childhood abuse (Herman et al., 1989). Furthermore, clin­
ical reports also show the consistent relationship between self-mutilation
and histories of childhood physical and sexual abuse (children with histories
of repeated surgery can also show such a symptomatic picture). In fact,
Simpson and Porter (1981) summarized the clinical findings in this way:
"Self-destructive activities were not primarily related to conflict, guilt and
superego pressure, but to more primitive behavior patterns originating in
painful encounters with hostile caretakers during the first years of life " (pp.
428-438).
One can consider the way in which self-inflicted abuse turns a passive
trauma into an active one for the sexual abuse survivor who is attempting to
gain mastery over early trauma and its aftermaths. Through self-destructive
behaviors, the survivor regulates the timing, pace, and severity of her vic­
timizations, paradoxically experiencing a sense of empowerment. Ostensibly
no longer at the mercy of an external perpetrator, the patient assumes con­
trol of her abuse. We say "ostensibly," because the self-destructiveness, in
fact, assumes both continued bondage to the abuser and identification with
the abuser's ruthlessness. In addition to providing an illusion of control,
such enactments help the patient to manage potential disruptions of her in­
ternal and external worlds by keeping at bay traumatic memories with their
associated mental contents and affect states. This aspect of coping may be
particularly important for the patient who has no conscious memories of her
abuse, or maintains an apparently loving relationship with her abuser.
For example, Katie was tied to a bed and sodomized by her uncle, who
lived with her family, over many years of her childhood. When she pre­
sented for treatment, she had no memories of her sexual abuse; she knew
only that she felt vaguely frightened and constricted in her uncle's presence.
Shortly after beginning therapy, Katie begem a relationship with a mem who
liked to engage in "rough" sex, including binding her to the bed during anal
intercourse. This was not her first involvement with a man who bound and
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 131

sodomized her. During these sexual encounters, Katie reported feeling both
terrified and intensely aroused.
In this case, the reenactment of sexual activities reminiscent of her abuse
protected Katie from contacting the memories of her actual victimizations by
channeling emerging traumatogenic material into real adult relationships.
Furthermore, voluntarily engaging in bondage and anal intercourse allowed
Katie to relive her abuse at least apparently on her own terms. This enact­
ment also preserved the homeostasis of her internal world, preserving at­
tachments to her uncle and to her parents who had failed to protect her from
exploitation. Finally, the almost exact duplication of her childhood trauma
embodied in the enactment, combined with her intense, ambivalent affective
state, communicated the nature of her early sexual victimizations long be­
fore Katie consciously remembered them.
Most survivors who engage in violent enactments are aware of wanting
to punish themselves. These patients, at their core, are convinced that they
are unfit human beings. Filled with shame, they experience themselves as
profoundly defective and horribly toxic. Often, they have internalized the
scourges hurled at them in childhood: whore, bitch, manipulative devil,
worthless shit, lying little dummy. Frequently told by their abuser(s) that
they provoked and wanted the sexual attacks, survivors see themselves as
malevolently powerful. Moreover, they often reach adulthood with intro-
jected, lying, malevolent, worthless, toxic self representations long ago split
off and projected by the perpetrator (Fairbairn, 1943). As adults, when some
internal or external event evokes a sense of having been "bad," survivors
may physically attack themselves or take life-threatening risks to punish
themselves.
Pauline was told by her father that, if she ever told anyone about the in­
cest, he would cut her tongue out. Long before she consciously remembered
this threat, Pauline stuck her tongue with a safety pin whenever she was fu­
rious with herself and watched in detached satisfaction as droplets of blood
fell from her mouth. In this case, the method of self-punishment was also an
enactment of the punishment threatened by Pauline's father and can be
viewed as an attack by her abusive introject. Literally possessed by a bad ob­
ject, the patient put into action the threat she had yet to recall to conscious
memory. Not surprisingly, Pauline pricked her tongue frequently when she
began to talk about her abuse in therapy.
Although being victimized is painful for the survivor of childhood abuse,
it is also familiar. Often, being a victim is the most secure identity the sur­
vivor has. To initiate self-protective behavior as an adult means to loosen the
survivor's attachment to her internalized objects and to her most familiar or­
ganization of self. In addition, at an often deeply unconscious level, contin­
ued victimization in adulthood validates for the survivor the reality of the
violations of the past; to relinquish victimization today is experienced by
132 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

some survivors as undermining their own and others' belief in the veracity
of the earlier sexual abuse. In a confusion of past and present, these patients
similarly feel that, if they protect themselves from danger now, it proves that
they are capable of preventing abuse, and it suggests to them that they could
have and should have protected themselves from childhood exploitations.
They deny the differences in physical prowess, autonomy, cognition, and re­
sources that separate children from adults. All these factors contribute to the
difficulty some survivors have in ending enactments that position them as
actual or potential victims.
Always juxtaposed alongside the survivor's identification as victim, run­
ning parallel to it—though less consciously available—is her equally strong
identification with the perpetrator of her abuse. The ruthlessness and icy
sadism survivors can display toward their own bodies, minds, and emotions
are shocking to witness. In part, this often represents an identification with
the abuser's blatant lack of regard for his or her child victim. The enacting
survivor takes up where the perpetrator left off, turning fury and frustration
against herself in appallingly vicious ways.
The patient's identification with her abuser preserves relational bonds to
the internalized and often external victimizer, as well as to other nonabusing
but unavailable early figures. Many survivors enter treatment with current
ongoing relationships with their abusers. Often, neither the adult survivor
nor the perpetrator has spoken of the abuse. Even if the survivor is no longer
in contact with her victimizer, a strong attachment to the internalized object
is tenaciously protected and preserved. This may be particularly potent if the
survivor has not yet remembered her abuse. Identification with victimizing
aspects of the abuser pays tribute to the survivor's real and internalized rela­
tionships, protecting the patient from experiencing painful object loss.
In addition to preservation of relational bonds, the survivor's identifica­
tion with the perpetrator protects her from contacting the helplessness and
vulnerability of her victimized self. Survivors report a paradoxical sense of
power and control when they cut themselves, drive recklessly, or engage in
sex with men they hardly know. Identifying with her perpetrator, the sur­
vivor experiences this illusory empowerment, denying that her self-abuse is
hurtful. In fact, survivors report, especially early on in treatment, that they
do not feel physical pain when they cut, bum, or batter themselves. Like
their victimizers, they successfully split off a sense of themselves as vulnera­
ble, scared, and out of control.
To help a survivor to recognize that she has incorporated and identified
with aspects of her abuser is difficult work. The more she has remembered,
affectively relived, and integrated her sexually abusive experiences, the
more the idea that she is in any way like her perpetrator is anathema to her.
Interpretation of this element of enactments must be handled sensitively, lest
the survivor's already potent sense of toxicity and malevolence be intensi­
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 133

fied unbearably. If that occurs, the survivor may become disorganized and
enact even more intense self-abuse, this time in an attempt to concretely de­
stroy the internalized object.
If survivors are loathe to acknowledge that their enactments betray an
identification with their abusers, they are equally reluctant to recognize that
their behaviors convey thoughts, feelings, or fantasies about current figures
in their lives, including the therapist. Quite often, however, survivors self-
destructively enact powerful reactions to others in their lives. Terrified of the
imagined power of envious, rageful, hateful feelings, survivors may deny
the interpersonal implications of these affect states, instead turning them
against themselves. As children, they introjected their abuser's badness and
projected their own goodness onto others to preserve the hope of eventually
receiving love and care. Now, adult survivors continue this process; they
deny the relational failings of others, assuming the mantle of responsibility
for making relationships work. When someone the survivor loves or needs
disappoints or angers her, these feelings are often turned back on the self. At
the core of this process may be a dreadful fear of abandonment.
For example, Winnie was sexually abused by her father, who told her she
would be sent to an orphanage if she told anyone about the incest or failed to
perfectly comply with his instructions during sexual activities. As an adult,
whenever Winnie's fiance criticized her or let her down, Winnie outwardly
placidly accepted his behavior. Later, however, she inevitably dug tweezers
into her thighs. She was conscious only of blaming herself for provoking the
relational disappointments, a position consistent with her perception that
she had "made" her otherwise wonderful father molest her. It was a long
time before Winnie was able to accept and integrate the idea that her self­
abuse stemmed in part from the hurt and anger she felt toward her fiance
but was afraid to express directly, lest he refuse to marry her.
Most difficult for survivors to acknowledge is that, once they are in treat­
ment, their violent enactments almost always contain a transferential com­
ponent, the acting-out element of enactment. Like their parents once were,
the therapist becomes a needed figure depended on by survivors to see them
through the terrifying and painful working-through of their abuse and its
consequences. As survivors loosen their grip on real and internalized objects
and are confronted with those losses, the therapist assumes an even greater
importance in their lives. As they once protected their parents from their
mistrust, terror, and rage, they also deny negative reactions to the therapist
and, instead, act them out, often self-destructively. Sometimes, the enact­
ment represents a vicious attack on the therapist's ability to contain and to
heal, a ruthless attempt to disrupt the interpretive and integrative work of
treatment. At other times, the enactment speaks for the survivor's bitter hurt,
voiceless rage, and desperate envy.
134 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Compulsive Self-abuse and the Erotization of Fear

For some adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse, self-injurious behaviors

truly reach frenetic intensity. Many become life-threatening, and even when
this is not the case, the ongoing moment-to-moment struggle between enact­
ment and self-control becomes relentless, consuming an ever-increasing per­
centage of the patient's conscious sensorium. Like the perpetrator who once
kept his victim in a state of fearful anticipation of the next abusive episode,
the survivor, session after session, holds the therapist hostage to the possibil­
ity of the patient's impending self-mutilation or death. As the situation goes
on, the therapist may move from feeling deep concern and empathy to expe­
riencing terror, impotent rage, and eventually, numbness and seeming indif­
ference to the outcome, countertransferentially enacting the abused child's
earlier responses to abuse. The therapist may even begin to think, "Okay,
okay. Just do it, and get it over with," a countertransferential response simi­
lar to the victimized child's impatience for the abuse to occur again just so
the unbearable anticipation is relieved.
Such behavior becomes clearly compulsive, and the pressure to perform
this painful, self-abusive activity is essentially addictive in nature, a quality
that is underscored by its therapeutic intractability and resistance to all
forms of interpretation. Indeed, there are patients for whom active interpre­
tation appears only to intensify the cycle of overstimulation and abuse. Such
abuse includes nonlethal forms of cutting, burning, bingeing, vomiting, and
compulsive, often painful forms of masturbatory activity. In this area, psy­
chodynamic formulations alone prove inadequate and must be integrated
with knowledge gained about the specific psychology of adult survivors,
and about the psychophysiology of abuse and its aftermath.

Hyperarousal, Erotization, and Guilt

One thing we have come to know about adult survivors of childhood sex­
ual abuse is that they have an enormously difficult time modulating even
mild-to-moderate degrees of arousal (Kardiner, 1941; Kolb, 1987; Pittman,
Orr, Laforgue, & De Jong, 1987; van der Kolk, 1988). It is often irrelevant
whether such arousal presents in the form of anxiety, fear, pain, pleasure, or
anticipatory excitement. The slightest trigger can catapult the patient into a
maelstrom of breathless, physiologically mediated hyperarousal that proves
to be disorganizing and unmodifiable in the short rim. Such hyperreactivity
is one of the unquestioned long-term effects of traumatic childhood abuse
(van der Kolk, 1988). This process appears to be controlled by a complex sys­
tem of emotional, maturational, and physiological factors.
Certainly, an individual's sense of safety and control is strongly influ­
enced by the supportive presence of those to whom he or she is positively at­
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 135

tached. When a person can no longer cope with traumatic situations by rely­
ing on his or her own internal resources, the presence of auxilliary support
in the form of loving others helping from the hutside becomes even more
significant. We know that the presence of loving and supportive others plays
an important role in helping children to contend with the extreme states of
hyperarousal specific to traumatic situations. Likewise, traumatized chil­
dren, alone or in the presence of strangers, are likely to experience extremes
of under- and overarousal that are physiologically mediated and cognitively
disorganizing (Finkelhor & Brown, 1985). Such decreased capacity to modu­
late physiological arousal by relying on the presence of loving and trustwor­
thy others would also explain the patient's inability to call upon reliable in­
ternal representations of loving and supportive others at times of acute
distress. Indeed, there is a decreased ability to use symbolic mental opera­
tions at all, and under the sway of such arousal and disorganization, where
mental processes fail, the trauma survivor becomes used to responding to
threats or perceived threats via action rather than thought.
In adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse, these states of emotional
and physiological hyperarousal have by dint of constant pairing and funda­
mental learning paradigms become intensely sexualized as well. Those arbi­
trary triggers that have become conditioned stimuli for traumatic levels of
responsiveness, particularly those that elicit fear or anxiety reactions, will
also generate states of intensely eroticized hyperarousal. In response to im­
ages that evoke frightening possibilities or the anticipation of pain, such re­
actions set the groundwork for a reciprocal and synergistic intensification of
fear, hyperarousal, and sexualization of the entire situation, that often spirals
desperately out of control, creating havoc in the patient's life and within the
therapeutic relationship. Yet, such a connection between the fear and antici­
patory anxiety that accompanies chronic abuse and later eroticization of sim­
ilar "trigger" situations is virtually unavoidable.
For example, Tracey was an adult survivor of particularly sadistic and
harrowing abuse at the hands of her psychotic and dramatically sadistic
mother. Beginning when Tracey was four, at which time the patient must
have begun to masturbate, her mother would insist on "checking" her to
make sure that she had not been "touching herself in her evil parts or think­
ing any evil thoughts that would make her be wet down there." Tracey's
mother would send her to her room, ordering her to strip and lie down on
her bed with her legs apart "as wide apart as you can get them." Tracey
would lie there, stripped naked, completely vulnerable and exposed for in­
determinate lengths of time ranging from what she remembers as minutes to
hours. Occasionally, her mother would look in to make sure she was lying in
the right way. Terrified and shivering from the cold and from the physical
and psychological exposure, Tracey would anticipate the many things her
mother had done in the past: inserting objects into her; cold and hot water
136 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

douches; examining her with knives that she sharpened as the child lay wait­
ing, her panic and hysteria escalating out of control. Tracey would begin to
contract her vaginal muscles in the only form of protection she could use to
bar her mother's entry. Of course, the contraction and release of these mus­
cles, accompanied by the hyperarousal state, was intensely stimulating. Her
mother would finally enter the room. "It's time to check you now," she
would say. Inserting her finger deep into the child's contracted vagina, and
massaging it along the way, she would coo, "You love it, you love it you
know; wet like a little whore you are!" Too young to know that it was her
mother's growing sexual arousal and sadistic behavior that was in fact creat­
ing the sexual stimulation, Tracey could do nothing but accept the horrible
truth of her mother's hideous proclamations.
Although this example may seem extreme, it is, unfortunately, only one
of hundreds of such stories we have heard in our work with survivors of
childhood abuse. To most of us, such sadistic and mind-bending torture is
inconceivable in actuality, and, yet, we assume that to the reader of this
book, the story as told is at least mildly arousing. One cannot help but re­
spond to such raw and eroticized sadism. If we monitor our own responses,
our own guilt at being sexually moved by such a hideous story, we can only
begin to comprehend the confusing panoply of bodily somatic states and
conflicting psychological reactions that become embedded and recorded
around this mental representation of Tracey and her mother. An organiza­
tion of experience that clearly defies any coherent verbal representation, yet
continues to exist in the naked cold body, the contracting vagina, the
mother's sadistic laughter, the sense of self as evil, unlovable, and twisted
beyond comprehension.
The realization that frightening and painful situations or fantasies are
likely to stimulate intensely sexual responses is one aspect of the intrapsy­
chic organization of adult survivors that most confirms and maintains the
survivor's sense of inner badness and blame. Such stimulation becomes for
the survivor a perverse confirmation that she in fact "enjoyed" her abuse,
that she was, as her abuser may have tormented her, secretly turned on and
excited by the incestuous activity. Indeed, therapists themselves have on oc­
casion used the fact that a patient masturbated to the image of incestuous
memories to try and demonstrate the "pleasureable part of the incest" or the
"patient's complicity and participation in the incest." We believe such an in­
terpretation to be not only wrong, failing to take into account the intense
eroticization of fear that we have been discussing, but also destructive in its
reification of the patient's guilt and self-blame as well as a serious risk factor
in potentiating new rounds of self-punishing and self-abusive behavior.
Of course, we realize that some incestuous behavior can at the outset
seem pleasureable to the young child. It is often the case that when one par­
ent is absent or emotionally unavailable such activity is the most intimate
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 137

contact available. Before it becomes too physiologically intense or too physi­

cally painful; before familial complications secret the patient in a hidden and
isolated world cut off from those she has previously turned to; before threats
are made to ensure that she will maintain her silence; before she begins to
wonder why no one protects her from this frightening and overstimulating
process; before all of this begins to crystallize, there may be moments of
pleasurable physical sensation—moments that may even interface with spe­
cific preabuse fantasies. It is these very fleeting moments of pleasure that the
adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse holds to tenaciously as the living
testament to her eternal sense of shame, rottenness, humiliation, and damna­
tion. It is her proof positive of complicity and unconscious participation in
the dreaded events. When such vague and far-away memories are but­
tressed by the current awareness of a sadomasochistically oriented sexual or
fantasy life, when painful self-abuse or dangerous situations leave the pa­
tient highly aroused, these horrific fears of complicity and guilt are rein­
forced. This is when the vicious and rapidly burgeoning cycle occurs of anxi­
ety, leading to fear, escalating to hyperarousal, ultimately eroticized, leading
to guilt and mortification, creating yet greater levels of terror and hyper­
arousal also eroticized, and so on—all in a context devoid of others who can
help to soothe or contain or devoid of the mental representations of others
who have in the past helped to soothe and contain. It is ultimately possible,
although this would be a subject for future research, that it is the very capac­
ity to evoke such soothing representations of self with other in an atmos­
phere of safety and containment that protects those who have not suffered
such object-related trauma from the states of escalating hyperarousal we
have described. Certainly, analysts have, for many years, recognized an in­
formal connection between the infants' early experiences of their parents
and certain self-regulatory ego functions. Although analysts have under­
stood this connection in terms of identifications and transmuting internaliza­
tions, might not the capacity to evoke soothing images of self and object to­
gether, in itself, prove to have a powerful impact on the physiological
mechanisms that control arousal and reactivity?

Hyperarousal and Transference-Countertransference

For the adult survivor of traumatic childhood sexual abuse, the establish­
ment of repetitive patterns of self-mutilation becomes the internalized and
ever-present representation of the abused self in perpetual, never-ending re­
lation to the abusing other(s). By engaging in endless struggles to protect
herself from what is experienced as the overwhelming drive to hurt and
punish herself, the adult survivor, in essence, lives the original abusive expe­
riences, on a continuing basis every day of her life, remaining at least in part
absorbed with the cast of characters around whom the abused child's inter­
138 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

nalized system of self and object representation was organized and split off
in dissociated form. The victim, the abuser, the idealized savior, as well as a
host of unseeing others who failed in their protective duties toward the
child, come into the immediate foreground of. the patient's life with the
arousal of each self-destructive, particularly self-mutilating thought. As this
system of self and others becomes crystalized in the foreground, as the pa­
tient struggles against her self-abusive behaviors, trying to control the cut­
ting, burning, bingeing, purging behavior that wreaks havoc in her day-to-
day existence, the same state of physiological hyperarousal and dramatic
anticipatory erotization described is symbolically triggered. Most patients
are not only bewildered by the connection between self-mutilation and sex­
ual responsiveness but also take it as further proof of their ultimate guilt, re­
sponsibility, and perversity. They are usually unable even to articulate it and
terrified beyond all else to mention it to the therapist.
Further reinforcement of this synergistic and escalating process flows
from the fact that, as transference-countertransference paradigms become
triggers for the somatic sensations embedded within the patient's relation­
ship to her abuser(s), the patient will also experience these episodes of eroti­
cized hyperarousal vis a vis the therapist. For many survivors, this is the
most unbearable aspect of reenactment in the treatment, and it can lead to
abrupt terminations, escalating self-abuse, or suicidal behaviors if not inter­
preted and worked through during sessions. Because of the abuse victim's
inability to modulate any state of arousal, and because most of these states
become sexualized, any experience of intensification in the treatment setting
can result in such erotic responses to the therapist, even an intensification of
the positive and loving feelings within the dyad. However, arousal that ac­
companies the reemergence in the transference of the sadistic introject is
what is most intensely shameful and simultaneously incomprehensible and
disorganizing. To be enraged at one's therapist and sexually aroused at the
same time, merely confirms for the patient her own worst fears of horrible
perversity. Likewise, the position of being sexually aroused at a time when
the therapist has been moved to a frighteningly angry position. Let us return
to Tracey, with a vignette that will hopefully highlight some of these issues.
Tracey arrived for her session one day enraged, because the therapist,
who usually returned her "emergency" phone calls, had failed to do so the
night before. The therapist was expecting an either angry or depressive re­
sponse but did not anticipate what followed. The patient's words conveyed
her feeling at being uncared for and unloved by the therapist and of being
convinced now that the therapist's proclamations of concern were a sham,
just like everyone else's. She claimed to feel suicidal, not worthy of living,
too alone and unloved to tolerate life any longer. She had, she stated, de­
cided it was time to die, and, although she did not state so explicitly, she
made it clear that it was the therapist's failure to respond that had "made her
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotizatton of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 139

mind up for her." It was as if this one failure, this one event, erased all other
positive experiences that had gone before, a clear example of splitting in the
transference. Although Tracey was clearly upset by what had happened, and
although her words were sad and depressed, her mood did not seem de­
pressed. In fact, she appeared palpably energized by her anger. Her energy
was almost frenetic, uncontainable, and yet oddly pleasurable for the pa­
tient, who clearly felt that in her game of "I gotcha," she had the therapist in
a vulnerable position. She seemed eager, beyond words, to extract her guilty
pound of flesh, and she made it clear from the beginning that she was going
to enjoy the process.
At first, the therapist fell right in with the therapeutic agenda, attempting
to bring into focus both the times when she had failed the patient and the
many times she had in fact "come through for her"; the coexistence of loving
and hating feelings; and her faith that the patient could experience both
without destroying or being destroyed. Although the interpretation sounded
right, the patient became more excited, more abusive, and seemed more out
of control. The therapist was clearly trying to defend herself, and this only
enhanced the patient's experience of sadistic glee in her identification with
her own abuser. She flounced down in a chair, the otherwise nondescript
black dress she had been wearing slipped seductively off one shoulder, a
large satchel-type bag she was carrying placed across her lap. She smiled
with startling triumph and began to breathe noticeably harder:

Patient: I want you to know that I have a gun in my bag (she placed both
hands inside the pocketbook), and I intend to shoot myself with it
sometime before I leave your office today. I'm sorry to do this, but re­
ally you leave me no choice. You've lied to me and deceived me for the
last time.
Therapist: I see ... [The therapist is aware that her heart has begun to race
and that she is compellingly drawn into the horror of the moment. She
has known the patient for a long time and doubts that she truly has a
gun, yet this is a patient with a long history of self-abusive behavior,
and it is certainly not outside the realm of possibility that she is in fact
telling the truth. In the absence of anything brilliant to say, the therapist
chooses to work toward the obvious need to contain the patient's now
out-of-control behavior.] You know that I can't let you do anything to
hurt yourself in my office. And you know, too, that you can't bring a
gun in here. We need to talk seriously about how you're challenging the
strength of our relationship right now. Clearly, you want to see how far
I will go, and let me be clear that I won't go this far!
Patient: I don't care what you want anymore, bitch! Go ahead and try to
stop me. [The patient begins to almost writhe in her chair, she is invit­
ing the therapist to pull her pocketbook away, to try and restrain her
140 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

physically. She is hyperventilating and moving her hips in a particu­

larly erotic way.] I'm loading the gun now. [She moves her hands in­
side the pocketbook.],Let's see how many bullets I will be needing.

[The therapist's breathing is also escalating. She feels frightened and

rather helpless. She hopes that if she finds just the right words, the right in­
terpretation, she can contain the patient's behavior and reverse what is hap­
pening in the session. But she feels stupid and unfit to the task. Perhaps this
patient is too much for her. However, she is certainly energized, alert, at her
peak, and even, to her momentary horror and mortification, slightly sexually
aroused. With this recognition comes a glimmer of the emerging transfer-
ence-countertransference paradigm being reenacted in the moment, and of
an obvious shift in tactics with the patient.]

Therapist: If only I can say the right thing to you ... if only I can be good
enough and smart enough and clever enough, then maybe I can say
something . .. maybe I can say or do exactly the right thing, and you
won't do these terrible deeds.
Patient: [Looks momentarily confused and disoriented] What are you
talking about, bitch, don't try and confuse me . .. you're a tricky little
thing aren't you ... very slippery . ..
Therapist: Can you hear that you even sound like your mother now.
"You little bitch." That's what she always called you, wasn't it? I think
you're showing me in the most powerful way you can what it was like
to be you when your mother teased and tormented you in the same
way you're teasing and tormenting me.

In an obviously unconscious move, the patient pulls her dress back

around her shoulders. This signals to the therapist that she is on the right
track and that the patient is feeling more contained, less anxious, and there­
fore less aroused. Perhaps, there is also a beginning shift in the dissociated
self and object relationships available to the patient and therapist.

Therapist: I don't know what's real and what's not real. I don't know if
you'll do this terrible thing or not. I don't know if you're awful for
making these abusive threats, or if I'm awful for forcing you to do it.
Patient: I'm not being abusive. You are. You're the one who didn't call
me back. Don't turn this whole thing around on me like she did . . .
that's abusive.
Therapist: I agree with you on that, and I'm not trying to blame you ... I
don't think either of us is to blame. You're angry at me . . . very angry
. .. maybe rightfully . .. maybe not ... all that seems less important
right now than what you're doing with that anger. You sound like
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 141

Mommy. I think this is the Mommy that lives inside of you. She comes
out when you're angry.. . . She threatens me, but she also threatens
you . .. like when she wants you to hurt yourself ... I think you want
me to help you to control her, so that you can learn to do that when I'm
not around. She's very scary, and very confusing, and very hateful,
and I have to say more than a little exciting."
Patient: Exciting, what do you mean exciting?
Therapist: When you were so enraged and you started to provoke and
tease, for a minute I thought the whole thing was a little sexual in a
way.
Patient: That's disgusting ... what kind of a pervert are you ... you're
supposed to be helping me . . . first you say I'm letting the mommy in
me come out. . . then you say she turns you on. My god! You're no bet­
ter than she was! [The patient has begun to breathe heavily again, shift­
ing around in her chair and frantically scratching at her wrists.]
Therapist: But that's the point, I think.... I'm reacting just as she did ...
and so are you . .. between the two of us, we're re-creating exactly
what used to happen between you and Mommy.... She would terror­
ize you, and the more scared you got, the more excited she would get
... You saw that, maybe you couldn't put it into words back then, but
you could see it. .. you've called it the funny look in her eyes . .. you
said she'd be breathing funny . .. she was sexually excited by your fear
... as you got more and more scared, she'd get more and more
aroused. Your body couldn't help but get overstimulated too ... in all
ways ... by that kind of sexual provocation .. . just as mine couldn't. I
think you call me disgusting because you've always lived with the fear
that being sexually aroused meant that you liked what happened.
Patient: So now you know ... of course, I must have wanted it ... or I
wouldn't have reacted that way . . . my body wouldn't have done what
it did.
Therapist: And I think you feel that way even more strongly in here
sometimes when we're fighting and you start to feel too aroused ... or
when you're at home hurting yourself also . . .
Patient: [Crying now] Okay, so it's not you, it's me, you stop it... I'm the
disgusting one. I know that. I'm not stupid. I've known that all along.
Therapist: But it's not disgusting ... and it doesn't mean that you wanted
your mother to do the things she did ...
Patient: [The patient looks up, stops crying, stops scratching at wrists,
seems to really be listening for the first time in this session.]
Therapist: Sure you may have been stimulated. The vagina is a bunch of
nerve endings; you rub a child's vagina, and it responds; but that
doesn't mean you were aroused for all those years and continue to be
now, because you liked the things that your Mommy did. It happens to
142 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

all kids who've been so badly abused . . . she stimulated your vagina at
the same time that she scared the daylights out of you and enraged
you beyond words, so many times and with such relentlessness that
the terror and the sexual feelings and the rage got all mushed together.
Now, they come as a package ... it's almost impossible to sort them
out. Now when something scares you it also arouses you; when you
get aroused, you also get scared and feel like something bad is going to
happen. It all makes you furious, and by the time you're finished,
you're left with exactly the confusion of feelings we've both been
through in this session.

This very dramatic vignette helps not only to elucidate how such a trans-
ference-countertransference reaction can trigger the described states but also
to convey an understanding of how active interpretation of the relational
paradigms being reenacted can help to undercut these terribly complicated
moments in the treatment. It should be noted that this example comes from a
point quite late in Tracey's treatment, when she was able to tolerate this level
of interpretive work. It is an example of the kind of analytic work that can
and must occur with adult survivors. However, it should be emphasized
that the therapist needs to assess the patient's capacity to sustain such inten­
sity at earlier points in the treatment.

Stress-Induced Analgesia
As if the cycle of terror, hyperarousal, and self-abuse was not confusing
enough, there is one more bewildering complication. From animal research,
we learn that organisms exposed to inescapable shock, the experimental par­
adigm believed to most resemble chronic childhood abuse, develop stress-
induced analgesia when they are reexposed to stress shortly afterward
(Amir et al., 1980; Miczek, Thompson, & Shuster, 1982; van der Kolk, 1989).
In humans, Vietnam veterans with diagnosed PTSD demonstrate an anal­
gesic effect (equivalent to an injection of 8 mg of morphine) after watching
15 minutes of a combat movie. Thus, it would appear likely that self-abusive
behavior may produce the same effect as the administration of exogenous
opioids (van der Kolk, 1989). Van Der Kolk (1989) concludes:

If recent animal research is any guide, people, particularly children, who have
been exposed to severe, prolonged environmental stress will experience extra­
ordinary increases in both catecholamine and endogenous opioid responses to
subsequent stress. The endogenous opioid response may produce both depen­
dence and withdrawal phenomena resembling those of exogenous opioids.
This could explain, in part, why childhood trauma is associated with subse­
quent self-destructive behavior. Depending on which stimuli have come to con­
dition an opioid response, self-destructive behavior may include chronic in­
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 143

volvement with abusive partners, sexual masochism, self-starvation and vio­

lence against self or others (pp. 401-402).
/
Therefore, although we have shown how the anticipation of self-mutila­
tion triggers a state of hyperarousal, disorganization, and erotic overstimula­
tion, the abusive act itself can come to serve as a conditioned stimulus for the
release of endogenous opioids, which will in effect tranquilize and relax the
out-of-control patient. Most patients tell us that they feel better after they
have cut or burned themselves. They describe a pattern in which the trauma
reaction is triggered by some internal or interpersonal event, the hyper­
arousal response builds to an uncontrollable and intolerable level, some act
of self-mutilation is performed; and with the pain comes the sought-after re­
lease of uncontainable arousal. A sense of calm follows the self-abuse. The
physiologically addictive nature of most self-mutilating behavior and the
connection between such symptomatology and histories of childhood abuse
and violence are now an accepted part of the literature on post-traumatic
stress, but they have not been incorporated into our understanding of the
psychoanalytic process with compulsively self-abusive patients (Graff,
Mallin, 1967; Pattison & Kahan, 1983; Rosenthal, Rinzler, and Wallsh, 1972;
van der Kolk, Herman, & Perry, 1987).
It is imperative that the therapist explain to the patient this process of ad­
diction to self-abusive behavior and its connection to histories of childhood
trauma, along with the kinds of intrapsychic interpretations of self-abuse
described. Such an understanding on the patient's part serves a twofold
purpose. First, it alleviates, via a kind of biological normalization, the in­
tense shame and humiliation that accompany most compulsive self-abuse,
and it encourages the patient to incorporate her self-destructive symptoms
into the therapeutic dialog without reexperienceing this shame and mortifi­
cation within the transference. Given that such an experience in the trans­
ference could in itself trigger a cycle of self-abusive acting-out behavior,
such a short-circuiting of this enactment will go a long way toward facilitat­
ing a safer holding environment for the patient. Second, by encouraging the
patient to talk of her self-mutilating activity in sessions, such an under­
standing of these acts will allow patient and therapist together to explore
other forms of self-soothing behavior that the patient can turn to at times
of extreme stress. These therapeutic options will be discussed in the next
section.
Ultimately it is only in the context of a thorough working-through of the
relational paradigms implicit in the triggering and escalation of the hyper­
arousal states and in an elucidation of the physiological and psychological
addiction to the maintenance of such behaviors that the intractible and dan­
gerous violence one sees in the acting-out behaviors of adult survivors will
begin to give way to healthier adaptations.
144 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

, Therapeutic Implications

It goes without saying that episodes of violent or self-abusive behavior will

call forth powerful countertransferential reactions, involving the therapist in
oftentimes dramatic therapeutic reenactments of the relational paradigms
with which the adult survivor organizes her internal object world and her
external interpersonal relationships. Inherent in such enactments are the
seeds of a power struggle for control of the patient's body and mind. This
struggle, once lost by the abused child, may be fought to the death or near
death by the adult survivor, who is convinced that control of her own person
is more important than any other single motive in her life. Against the force
of such violent assault, the therapist working within a psychoanalytic frame
will find it impossible to maintain a neutral position. Here the therapist will
be ultimately forced to act—and in so doing will become an active partici­
pant in the patient's enactment.
To the extent that the therapist remains neutral, committed to a purely in­
terpretive role in the process, it is almost inevitable that she will be seen as
reenacting the role of the uninvolved parent who either implicitly or explic­
itly allowed the child to be abused by standing by and doing nothing. In
such a case, the patient will up the ante, escalating the violence and danger­
ousness of her behavior until the therapist does something to try and control
the situation. Even very experienced analysts have been moved to what can
only be considered "counterabusive" behavior in an attempt to control the
patient's escalation of violence within the session. Having maintained a
purely interpretive position up to a point—and having stood by helplessly
as the patient's violence became more and more uncontainable—they clearly
found themselves in the role of the victim who faces her abuser with a sense
of increasing desperation and rage. One senior analyst, in describing his
work with an adult survivor, recalled guiltily how he had "virtually wres­
tled her to the floor" in an attempt to get hold of a bottle of lethal pills she
was threatening to consume in his office. "I was convinced," he said, "that
she was going to take the damned things and this was the only way to save
her life. As I grabbed them from her, she smiled at me in triumph, 'Go ahead
and hit me,' she claimed, 'You know it was only a matter of time.'" Here the
therapist's attempt at maintaining a position of neutrality called forth a full-
scale attack by the internalized sadistic introject to involve him in a com­
pletely dissociated reenactment of her violent physical abuse by an out-of-
control mother.
To the extent that the therapist remains disengaged from the survivor's
violence, he or she may repeat the neglectful parent's unavailability or stim­
ulate an episode of dissociation and projective identification within which
she reenacts the patient's terror and helplessness in the face of an out-of-
control abuser.
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 145

On the other hand, the therapist who moves too quickly to try and stop the
patient's self-inflicted violence challenges the adult's right to autonomous
control of her own person. Here the therapist is likely to be experienced in the
transference-countertransference paradigm as an abusively controlling and
intrusive object, unempathically blind to the fact that self-inflicted injury is
both empowering and addictively sedating. It feels good. Oftentimes, the
therapist who is eager to contract with the patient for complete cessation of
self-abusive behavior is viewed as the intrusive parent who prohibited mas­
turbation or other forms of self-soothing behavior.
Arlene's mother would sexually molest her whenever she caught the
child masturbating in bed. She would "put something in there to keep me
from doing it and then tie my hands behind my back. I had to try and fall
asleep that way. I couldn't stop the throbbing in my vagina ... I knew I was
a bad girl for feeling that way . . . for wanting to touch myself . . . but I knew
that only touching myself would make the feeling stop." Here is the quintis-
sential example of the sexually abusive parent's assault: to overstimulate;
project blame and responsibility; and ultimately to prohibit self-soothing be­
havior. Arlene became a compulsive wrist cutter, beginning in adolesence.
As she and her therapist struggled to recover memories and piece together
the fragments of her story, this behavior escalated to alarming proportion.
Arlene's frantic attempt to maintain her right to engage in such actions
clearly became the symbolic equivalent of her need to masturbate despite
her mother's prohibitions, and to do it, transferentially, in full view of the
therapist seen as her intrusively controlling mother. Interpretation of this
reenactment did little to stop or lessen the self-abuse. In fact the interpreta­
tion itself became the "thing in the vagina" artificially inserted and overstim­
ulating. It was only when this interpretation of the reenactment was coupled
with the therapist's acknowledgement that the self-abusive behavior was in
fact soothing to Arlene and that she used it often to control her feelings of es­
calating panic and helplessness that the patient could attain any distance
from the dangerous situation. At that point, patient and therapist could
work together to find other ways of self-soothing that were less potentially
lethal. In Arlene's case, temporary medication, followed by learning specific
behavioral, self-relaxation techniques slowly broke the cycle that had be­
come so addictively entrenched. Only when the wrist cutting behavior no
longer served as an addictively self-soothing behavior could its symbolic
power and its embeddedness within the transference-countertransference
reenactment be interpretively incorporated by the patient.
So here, as therapists, we dance on the head of a pin, caught maddeningly
between the dangers of under- and overreaction to the patient's violent be­
havior. We assume, as we have all along, that we will fall prey to both ex­
tremes of the countertransferential valence. It is only as we fail the patient
that we enable her to rework the dissociated matrices of relational para­
146 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childrood Sexual Abuse

digms that have become her unique legacy. However, we are well aware
that in this particular aspect of reenactment, we move from the symbolic to
the dangerously concrete.. It is important to remember that sexual abuse sur­
vivors are two to three times more likely than nonabused women to make a
serious suicide attempt (Bagley & Ramsay, 1986; Briere & Runtz, 1986). Their
suicidal proclivities must, therefore, be taken seriously.
We have found it most effective to combine active interpretation of the
therapist's dilemma, i.e., whether to underreact or overreact and the result­
ing transference-countertransference paradigms, with acknowledgment of
the physiologically and psychologically addictive qualities of the behavior
itself. We have had our best successes in helping patients control their self-
abusive behavior when interpretation of the emerging relational patterns has
been accompanied by acknowledgment of the patient's addiction and active
efforts to search together for gradual substitutes for this self-soothing activ­
ity. In such situations we go to great lengths to educate our patients with the
latest research on the physiological processes underlying addiction to self­
abuse. We acknowledge its soothing potential and try to find other ways in
which the patient can achieve the same or similar effects. Such methods vary
from patient to patient but have in our experience included meditation, self­
hypnosis, yoga, writing in a journal, playing or listening to soothing music,
drawing, painting, and so on. The sadomasochistic struggle for control be­
tween patient and therapist becomes replaced by a joint effort to control the
dangerous acting-out behavior of the dissociated abusive introject. We do
wish to emphasize, however, that such substitution of more appropriate
forms of self-soothing for the self-abusive behaviors described is by no
means a simple process. Such a change may take years of active interpreta­
tion, containment, and struggle—with many many failures along the way. It
may be helpful to remember that when the therapist is most angered and en­
raged by the abusively out-of-control patient, feels most challenged and
teased, and verges on all forms of counterabuse, she is indeed struggling
with a dissociated aspect of the patient's identification with her own aggres­
sor. Behind this challenging and out-of-control patient is a terrified and
abused child waiting to be shown a way out of her endlessly violent and life­
threatening nightmare.
Unfortunately there will be times, particularly with patients who have
been very sadistically abused, where all attempts at interpretation will fail,
and the patient's behavior will reach life-threatening proportions. Here the
therapist must err in the direction of taking whatever measures become nec­
essary to safeguard the patient's life. It is ultimately the therapist's responsi­
bility to show the patient that whatever measures are necessary to stop her
abuse will be taken. By containing the lethal intentions of the sadistic intro­
ject, therapists symbolically communicate to the patient that they will not let
her life be threatened, that they will stand by her and do whatever is neces­
 Exposure to Danger, the Erotization of Fear, and Compulsive Self-abuse 147

sary to protect her from her abuser—now, of course, dissociated and inter­
nalized.
If the patient cannot or will not contain life-threatening enactments, hos­
pitalization may be necessary. Optimally, the therapist will maintain some
therapeutic contact with the patient during this hospital stay. When the pa­
tient is released, it is crucial that the therapist pursue transferential reactions
to the hospitalization. Was the clinician experienced as a cruel abuser, taking
away the patient's freedom by placing her in captivity? Or did the therapist
appear to be a strong, resourceful parent capable of protecting the patient
when the latter could not protect herself? Inevitably, some mixture of posi­
tive and negative reactions will be discussed.
Whenever Diana felt abandoned by the therapist or by some other figure
in her life, she soothed herself by walking, alone and at night, from the east
side of New York's Central Park to the west side and back again, along
winding pathways off the main roads. When Diana disclosed this habit to
the therapist, the latter pointed out the suicidality inherent in the behavior.
She commented that it was only a matter of time until Diana was mugged,
beaten, raped, or killed on one of her nocturnal strolls. Furthermore, the
therapist suggested to the patient that if she could not contain this behavior,
hospitalization would have to be considered in order for treatment to con­
tinue. The patient was enraged, recalling how she had always been labeled
the "crazy one" in her family. On a deeper level, she feared being sent away
by the therapist because she had spoken to her of the abuse. However, Diana
was also relieved at the therapist's clear and forceful stance, and her night­
time walks were not repeated.
A similarly active position is required when the survivor is engaged in
enactments that present an acute threat to her health and availability as a pa­
tient. The survivor who chronically abuses alcohol or drugs must be willing
to participate in rehabilitation or a 12-step program designed to maintain so­
briety. A survivor who is actively anorexic or bulimic must agree to work
with a physician who monitors her physical symptoms and viability. Again,
it is important to pursue the transference reactions to the therapist's insis­
tence on these ancillary treatments.
Finally, the therapist is committed to an active, forceful stance whenever a
patient discloses that a child is being abused. The abuse must be reported to
the appropriate state or local agency. In fact, it can be a reparative and thera­
peutic experience for the survivor to make the report herself if she is willing.
At all times, the message from the clinician is that continued work with the
survivor depends on cessation of the abuse and protection of the child. Here,
it is important to keep in mind at all times the patient's ultimate identifica­
tion with her own victim. This therapeutic stance clearly differentiates the
therapist from others in the patient's life who may have passively allowed
physical or sexual violations to go on for years. It communicates to the pa­
148 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tient the therapist's commitment to protecting the helpless child, whether

dissociated and internalized, or dissociated and projected onto another inno­
cent victim, and it emphasizes the imperative that cycles of abusive violence
can and must be stopped.
Therapists repeatedly confronted by the violently enacting survivor must
have a substantial tolerance for chaos and for dissociatively, split-off, and
behaviorally expressed sadism. They must be able to bear, sometimes for
protracted periods of time, powerful feelings of shock, fear, impotent rage,
and potential impending disaster, much like those the survivor experienced
as a child in relationship with her abuser. Furthermore, they must be willing
to forcefully and actively meet potentially lethal enactments, a level of activ­
ity that may be unusual for some clinicians. The strain of this work should
not be underestimated; it can be exhausting, disorganizing, and emotionally
draining. It is most helpful for therapists working with violently enacting
patients to consult regularly with colleagues familiar with this population, as
isolation only increases the stress under which the clinician labors—as well
as the overwhelming responsibility and potential guilt.
 I

CHAPTER 8

The Impact of Trauma on

Transference and Countertransference

HERE ARE FOUR major traumatogenic complications to analysis of

T
the transference and countertransference in work with adult sur­
vivors of incest and childhood sexual abuse. The first is the extent to
which these patients present with unorganized, unsymbolized experiences
that begin to emerge during treatment, frightening and confusing the sur­
vivor and often threatening the continuation of therapeutic work. The sec­
ond complication is related to the survivor's use of dissociation as a coping
skill, defense, and vehicle of communication. Third, there is the more gen­
eral defensive structure common to sexual abuse survivors—splitting, de­
nial, acting out, omnipotence, projective identification. Finally, there are
countertransference reactions related to the clinician's personal attitudes or
experiences with trauma and to her transference to psychoanalytic thinkers
and mentors.

t
The Effect of Unsymbolized Experiences

Many adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse arrive in treatment with no

conscious memories of their abuse or with only vague, hazy impressions.
Often, the traumatic experiences remain unorganized and unsymbolized
within the patient's psyche. Once treatment is under way and transference­
countertransference paradigms reach a critical level of intensity, these un­
symbolized memories begin to emerge, frequently in the form of unexpected
reactions to external stimuli. At this point, the patient often feels besieged,
literally, as if she were possessed by terrifying, formless affects and body
sensations for which she has no words and over which she is able to exert lit­
tle control. In Fairbairn's (1943) terms, the patient is possessed by the emerg­
ing return of bad objects who once physically and emotionally overstimu­
lated her and over whom she had no control. During this period of
150 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

treatment, patients who were functioning very well in many areas of their
lives may suddenly experience a dismantling of ego functions that disorga­
nizes and scares them. In addition, the patient's anticipation of the disorga­
nization accompanying the emergence of unsymbolized memories is itself
experienced as traumatic and recapitulates the child's fearful anticipation of
sexual abuse. ■
One highly successful attorney unexpectedly found herself feeling physi­
cally little—about the size of a 5-year-old girl—whenever the demanding se­
nior partner of her firm asked to see her. Entering his office, her vaginal
muscles began to contract; she felt pale, dizzy, shaky, and terrified of some
unnamed danger; she was unable to muster her characteristic assertiveness
and spunk. This continued for months until she began to recover memories
of her uncle's sexual abuse. It was this uncle who had helped her secure her
current position; the senior partner who suddenly terrified her had been her
uncle's law school classmate.
To fully appreciate the power of these unsymbolized memories, it is im­
portant to differentiate them from the return of the repressed. The traumatic
aspects of abusive experiences represented in these memories were never
symbolized and then repressed. So overwhelming were the traumas to body
and psyche that they were experienced as huge, formless, nameless, and
dreadful and were stored unorganized and unrepresented. In treatment,
they emerge the same way, and it becomes the task of therapy to help the pa­
tient to name, form, and symbolize them. For this to happen, the patient
must remain in treatment.
Not surprisingly, the patient struggling with these unsymbolized experi­
ences is often tempted to precipitously bolt from therapy. She quite accu­
rately attributes the emergence of these dreadful feelings and sensations to
the deepening of the therapeutic relationship. To her, the solution appears
simple—end the therapy, and the assaults on mind, body, functioning will
also stop. It is sometimes helpful to interpret the role and meaning of emerg­
ing unsymbolized memories. Interpretation, at this point, begins to establish
some understanding of and control over these phenomena; it starts to drive
a wedge between past and present. Some patients will, nonetheless, end
treatment at this time. Those who stay challenge the holding capacity of the
therapist and of the psychotherapeutic space.
First, it is crucial that the clinician assure the patient that the unorganized
affects and somatic reactions being experienced have meaning, meaning that
patient and therapist together can discover and name. It is helpful when the
unsymbolized experiences occur more and more in the consultation room
and less and less in the patient's extratherapeutic life. This localization
within treatment can be assisted by the therapist's requesting the patient to
imagine and relive each incident in the room associating to the disturbing
stimuli and resultant reactions. Understandably, patients often resist enter­
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 151

ing or staying with these experiences, and it is up to the clinician to encour­

age without demanding that the patient do just that.
During this stage of treatment, the explicit and implicit messages from the
therapist are that (1) the clinician can bear the intensity and confusion of the
patient's unsymbolized experiences; (2) unlike the original trauma, the pa­
tient is not alone now; (3) therapist and patient together can eventually sym­
bolize the currently formless; and (4) the patient can control the timing and
pace of this segment of the work. The therapist, in other words, remains con­
sistent, available, able to think when the patient's capacity to think is over­
whelmed; able to reason, judge, and function when the survivor's ego func­
tioning is flooded and faulty. Maintaining thoughtfulness, integration,
confidence, and clarity is not a simple task for the therapist working with a
patient beset by unformed memories. Like the patient, the clinician fre­
quently is besieged by frightening, formless countertransferential experi­
ences and projective identifications that challenge the integrity of her func­
tioning. We have felt inexplicably nauseous, terrified, bigger, or smaller,
have had tingly skin, numbness in an extremity, headaches, dizziness, vagi­
nal pain, or contractions, or have experienced states of sexual arousal, all of
which were disorienting and alien to a normally functioning ego. Like the
patient, the therapist may be tempted to "bolt" therapy by withdrawing in
self-protectiveness from this overstimulation and chaos. It is, of course, im­
perative that the clinician marshal observing and processing capabilities to
manage and contain these transference-countertransference reactions.
Consultation with colleagues experienced in this work often provides a
much-needed container for the therapist struggling to hold and contain the
survivor.
The dreadfulness for the patient of this period of treatment should not be
underestimated. She feels crazy, regressed, disorganized, out of control.
Frightened, her transference shifts between increased need for the clinician
and increased mistrust, with a concomitant desire to get away from the ther­
apeutic situation. Extra sessions or between session phone contacts are often
vital in maintaining the holding and containing function of the therapy.
Sometimes, just hearing the therapist's voice is enough to hold the patient
until the next session. Although the increased availability of the clinician is
often vital at this point, there is also a danger that the patient will be fright­
ened by her increased dependency on the clinician. The delicate balancing
act for the therapist is to offer herself as dependably available without mov­
ing in too quickly or overwhelmingly. Offering too much too soon can be
viewed by the patient as an interpretation that the survivor is unable to con­
tain her experiences while continuing to function. Here, the clinician is chal­
lenged to be just good enough (Winnicott, 1960b).
Although the importance of the holding capacity of the therapist and the
corresponding transference to the clinician as a container during this phase
152 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

of treatment should be emphasized, this transference-countertransference

paradigm is not the only one in play. The therapist urging a patient to stay
with an overwhelming, disorienting experience is not uncommonly viewed
as a sadistic abuser, perhaps "getting off" on the victim's agony and help­
lessness. At other times, the therapist is perceived as a stupid, unseeing, un­
available adult who fails to rescue the survivor from her victimizations. The
very availability of the therapist can be seen as a seductive promise to com­
pensate the patient for all that she has missed and suffered. The clinician, of
course, experiences corresponding feelings of abusiveness, ineffectiveness,
and a wish to rescue. What is challenging about the emergence of transfer-
ence-countertransference paradigms during this phase of treatment is that
the patient frequently is as unable to symbolize and articulate these reactions
to the therapist as she is to symbolize and name the traumatic memories
with which she is struggling. Her symbolic capabilities are temporarily sub­
merged in formlessness, and transferential reactions to the clinician become
another thread in an unsymbolized mass. Much of the interpersonal action
occurring between therapist and patient at this point is communicated non­
verbally, and it is thus particularly important that the clinician be available
and attend to his countertransferential responses. They are the map guiding
the clinician through the hidden shoals of the transference during this period
of treatment.

The Impact of Dissociation

An equally challenging complication to analysis of the transference and

countertransference with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse is the
patient's use of dissociation. We have discussed the phenomenology of dis­
sociation and have stated that successful treatment depends on the analyst's
willingness to fully enter into the dissociative world of the patient. If the
clinician is willing to be guided in this way, the abused child ego state will
lead the therapeutic triad (adult patient, abused child self, therapist) to the
memory/affect bank of trauma.
Clara is a 36-year-old survivor of particularly horrific incest and physical
abuse that included bondage, burning, sodomy, and rape. When Clara's dis­
sociated self emerges, therapist and patient engage in a ritual that signifies
entry to the store of traumatic memories, fantasies, and affects. This little-girl
part of the patient asks the clinician a series of questions, "Do you have the
flashlight? Do you have a sword? Do you have a map in case we get lost?
Did you eat your breakfast?" The therapist answers affirmatively, saying, for
instance, "Yes, I ate and am fortified for this journey with you."
Thus assured, the child "takes" the clinician down a long hallway, lined
on both sides with closed doors, and eventually opens the one just beyond
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 153

the last one entered. Inevitably, the patient then relives an aspect of the
trauma, often poignantly reexperiencing physical and emotional pain.
Although many interpretations of the whole process and of the ritualized
questions come to mind (e.g., "Did you bring the flashlight?" means, "Can
you help me shed light on the experiences I had as a child?," and, "Do you
have the sword?" means, "Can you protect us both from all those who
would do us harm [and from our murderous impulses toward each
other]?,") the therapist frames responses that primarily represent participa­
tion in the child patient's drama and only secondarily, if at all, bring into
awareness the anxieties encapsulated in the inquiries. We advise uninter­
preted enactment here, because the patient's traumitized child self is en­
gaged in something new; she is trusting a grown-up person with the abuse
she endured, risking to relive it within the clinical space.
Once the therapist has made the decision to proceed in this way, the
transference-countertransference complications become apparent. One is the
pluralization and rapid shifts in transference and countertransference para­
digms associated with dissociative phenomena. These, in turn, are linked to
two sources—temporal shifts in the dominance of each ego state, and in­
traego state changes in reactions to the therapist and to the other ego state.
A patient presenting with two autonomously functioning ego states will
shift from one state to another during session. At times, these shifts are
rapid, resulting in kaleidoscopic parallel changes in the transference and
countertransference. Shifts may be triggered by the emergence of traumatic
material or by the attempt to defend against emergence of that material. A
case example clarifies the way in which this occurs. The following material is
taken from a session of a patient whose dissociated abused child self held
the memories and affects associated with father-daughter rape. The dissoci­
ated child had relived much of the abuse with the therapist, and the adult
patient was aware of the content of the trauma, although she looked with
contempt on the child part of herself.

Patient: I went to my parents' house to do laundry yesterday—my

mother had called complaining that I hadn't been over in a long time.
While my clothes were washing, I had tea with my mother and father.
Therapist: How was it for you being there?
Patient: It was fine. Why wouldn't it be? Actually, I was aware of how
stiff I am around them. But I don't know if I've always been stiff
around them, or if I feel stiff now because of this stuff I've been telling
you. Frankly, I'm not sure it's true at all. Maybe you're getting off on
all this. And even if it isn't a lie, who wants to know this stuff? If it did
happen, it's over and done. It happened to another part of me any­
way—that disgusting kid part we've been talking about. She probably
asked for it anyway—and you think she's so fucking innocent! If you
154 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

like her so much, why don't you fucking adopt her or something and
leave me alone, the both of you. [At this point, the patient begins to
cry, turns over on the couch, curls up, and continues in a very little-girl
voice.] I was so scared going there yesterday. My Daddy still is really
mean to me—he said it was a waste to send me to college—I should
just get married and raise more dummies like me. My mommy just
laughed and said, "Oh, Dad, you know you don't really mean that.
Drink your tea." I didn't say anything, because I didn't want Daddy to
yell at Mommy. But I wish I could've been here where it's safe. I wish
she/I didn't have to go there all the time.
Therapist: You sound very scared talking about being with your mommy
and daddy. I'm glad you can talk about that here.
[Now, the patient sighs, straightens out on the couch, and looks at her
nails.]
Patient: What is going on here? I get so confused. One part of me thinks
you're right—another part thinks my father's right. My whole life is
unraveling thanks to my alleged therapist and this stupid kid part of
me—monster part of me, I'd say. And I'm supposed to feel safe? She
thinks it's safe here? The only place that's really safe is home alone in
my apartment with absolutely no one around me.
Therapist: The different parts of you have different ideas about who and
what is safe right now. To the kid inside you, at this moment, I'm safe—
I guess because I listen to her. To you, I'm at best well-intentioned but
misguided; at worst, stupid, abusive, blind to what's really going on in
front of my eyes. The solution you suggest—being alone, taking care of
yourself—is one you've relied on for many years. It's worked well in
some ways and not so well in others.

This vignette illustrates the kaleidoscopic changes in transferential mater­

ial accompanying interego shifts in dominance. The abused child self's trans­
ference, at this point, is most clearly trusting and dependent, although one
might wonder at the child's less available transference to the clinician as
someone who "lets" the adult ego state take her back to her parents. The
adult patient, on the other hand, is furious at the therapist, experiencing her
as an abusive object, sadistically "getting off" on violent sexual abuse or as a
naive object, duped into accepting the lies told by the abused child self,
much as the patient's mother once accepted her husband's facade, failing
and continuing to fail to see and address her spouse's abusiveness. In the in­
terpretation, the clinician addresses all the manifest transferences, accepting
the current disagreements between ego states. At this point, uninterpreted is
the adult patient's identification with the abuser in her contemptuousness
toward the abused child self and the therapist.
Working with transference and countertransference in the patient who
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 155

dissociates is something akin to doing couples or family therapy. Each ego

state has a plethora of transferences to the therapist and to the other ego
state. In this vignette, for instance, the adult patient holds the abused child in
contempt, thus defending against experiencing the child's—and, therefore,
her own—vulnerability. At this point in treatment, the predominant trans­
ference of the abused child self to the adult patient is one of mistrust, with
expectations of betrayal and invalidation. The task of the clinician is to en­
able all participants in the therapy to observe and work through the various
transferences and countertransferences. Because the adult patient and the
dissociated abused child usually begin their work with each other with mu­
tual hostility, mistrust, resentment, and envy, the clinical task is difficult.
Gradually, the abused child part of the patient must learn to trust the adult
part, empathizing with her strivings to function in adult domains of her life.
Through the therapist's acceptance and interpretation of the adult's suc­
cesses and ways of relating, the abused child ego state can come to respect
the ambition, decisiveness, thinking capacities of her adult counterpart.
Similarly, the adult must learn to trust, respect, and parent the traumatized
child part of her. As the adult patient incorporates the traumatic memories,
affects, and fantasies long borne alone by the child, she recognizes the
strength and resiliency of her child self. As the mutual hatred and mistrust
abate, adult and child grieve together the loss of fanstasied good parents and
of a fantasied, unmarred childhood. Concurrently, the adult patient fre­
quently rediscovers the playfulness, creativity, and spontaneity long split off
and held by the dissociated child self. One survivor, for instance, joyfully
told of putting up a Christmas tree for the first time in years, explaining how
she "let" the child part of her choose the tree and a number of new orna­
ments.
Eventually, the third stage of the emergence of the transference and coun­
tertransference gives way to the fourth stage, in which the rigid boundaries
between the ego states relax. This stage extends for a protracted period of
time, as adult and child get to know and gradually come to terms with one
another. It is through the therapist's patient, consistent acceptance, and in­
terpretation of each ego state's existence, memories, feelings, fantasies, trans­
ferences, and countertransferences—to the clinician and to each other—that
the two grow toward mutual understanding, respect, and affection. For a
long time, the subjective experience of each ego state is that she is a separate
entity, having an autonomous cognitive, affective, and relational existence.
Neither wants to relinquish her independence; both want to preserve the
hard-won closeness they now enjoy. Psychically isolated for so long, each
ego state cherishes having a trustworthy other around all the time. The ther­
apist must respect the subjective experience of the patient(s), continuing to
analyze both the transferences and countertransferences of each ego state to
the clinician and to each other. In our experience, this clinical stance facili­
156 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tates a gradual integration that occurs in barely perceptible, yet definite,

steps until there is one patient sharing the therapeutic space with the thera­
pist. Often, the adult survivor will signal that integration is occurring by
mourning the loss of the reified little girl, reminiscing with the therapist
about their journey from the "bad, old days" of mutual fear and disdain to
the current situation in which the child cannot quite be found anymore. As
one patient said, "I know her qualities and memories are still with me, but
now they are me. I don't see her standing outside me or even curled up
under my ribs anymore. It's so bittersweet—I'm much more whole, but I
miss her. She was a neat kid." The therapist will often find himself counter-
transferentially also grieving the departure of the abused child ego state.
Saying this brings to light a potential countertransferential pitfall. In
working with the patient presenting with dissociated ego states, the clinician
must beware of "playing favorites" between the ego states, just as the cou­
ples or family therapist avoids overaligning with any one member of the sys­
tem. Some therapists might be much more comfortable with the abused
child self, and their matemalism, protectiveness, or rescue fantasies elicited
by her fragility and brokermess. Other therapists might be more at home
with the adult patient's verbal acuity and intellectualism. Because the ulti­
mate therapeutic aim is integration of the disparate ego states, the clinician's
position must be equidistant from each ego state, with an overriding con­
nectedness to the whole, integrated person, who, for a long time, exists only
as a potential. Although a dissociated ego state cannot be iatrogenically cre­
ated, it can be iatrogenically perpetuated by a clinician who becomes in­
vested in a continuing relationship with a fragmented part of the whole
rather than with the whole person. In other words, it is critical to the thera­
peutic process that the clinician accept and validate both patients/partici­
pants—both ego states—without being particularly curious about or in­
vested in either more than in the other. This can be especially difficult when
it comes to the abused child self. Dissociation itself is fascinating; the emer­
gence and treatment of the child ego state are fascinating. The tricky job for
the therapist is to do the work without being too fascinated. Once again, we
exhort the benefits of collegial consultation to work through potential coun­
tertransferential acting out in this area.
Although with most patients the process of integration proceeds natu­
rally, it can happen that a survivor becomes invested in continued dissocia­
tion to defend against examining present-day dynamic conflicts. One pa­
tient, for instance, who initially had rejected vehemently the existence of the
child ego state, eventually integrated all the abusive memories of the trau­
matized child. As far as could be told, the adaptive and communicative func­
tions of dissociation had been worked through. The patient faced, however,
a number of thorny present-day relational conflicts, for example, whether to
end or continue a long-standing affair with a married man. Whenever the
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 157

therapy turned to these issues, the "little girl" suddenly appeared on the
scene. In this case, the clinician chose to interpret the resistance. Interpretation
was chosen to address the patient's use of what had become by now an old,
growth-inhibiting relational pattern.
We want to stress again that the level of dissociation we discuss repre­
sents that found in the prototypical survivor that we treat. We certainly see
patients who come to treatment with full memories of their abuse and who
dissociate not at all or only to a minimum degree; their treatment will not in­
clude the emergence of a dissociated ego state. On the other hand, we also
treat patients whose abuse was so early or so horrific that dissociative phe­
nomena include three or more autonomously organized ego states. These
patients often warrant the diagnosis of multiple personality disorder, and
the analysis of transference and countertransference is correspondingly
more complex and chaotic.

The Effect of the Patient's Typical Defensive Constellation

Adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse typically employ a constellation

of defenses that include splitting, projection/introjection, denial, acting out,
omnipotence, projective identification, and dissociation. We have discussed
dissociation at length. Now, we focus on the impact of the other defenses on
the development and analysis of transference and countertransference in
sexual abuse survivors.

Splitting
Denial, acting out, projection/introjection, omnipotence, and projective
identification all are, to some extent, variants of splitting. In denial, the
patient splits off and disavows knowledge or affect; the person acts "as if,"
what is true is not. For the survivor of childhood sexual abuse, this parallels
her childhood experience in which the abuse was denied. In acting out, be­
havior is split off from thought and verbal processing. Rather than knowing
about and understanding a conflict or set of feelings, the survivor enacts
them, much as the abuser once enacted, rather than contained and
processed, sexually aggressive impulses. In projection, disavowed self rep­
resentations or affects are split off and placed in fantasy onto someone else.
For the sexual abuse survivor, this often replicates the nonabusive parent's
projection of self-loathing onto the patient and the subsequent attribution of
the victim's experience as self-induced. In omnipotence, the survivor splits
off an inadequate, vulnerable self representation, defending against its
emergence into consciousness through presentation of an invulnerable, all-
powerful facade. For the survivor who was once so helpless and vulnerable,
158 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

omnipotence often also represents an identification with the abuser who

seemed himself totally dominant and powerful. Finally, in projective identi­
fication, one set of self representations is split off from others and transferred
onto the therapist, with the clinician identifying with the projected aspect of
the patient's self. Splitting thus becomes both a defense and a manner of pro­
cessing internal and external stimuli. Transference and countertransference
phenomena will therefore reflect the patient's use of splitting in its various
derivatives.
Grotstein (1985) offers a good definition of splitting. He positions splitting
as both a defense and a cognitive organization of the self, object, self-object,
and object-object interactions. He stipulates first that aspects of the self can
be split from one another, as when an incest sexual abuse survivor perceives
herself as wholly bad and "whorish," splitting off any self representations of
herself as good, worthy, respectable. Next, Grotstein suggests that aspects of
objects can be split from one another, as when the father-daughter incest sur­
vivor consciously clings to a perception of her father as totally warm and
caring, splitting off his exploitative, abusive aspects. Finally, Grotstein states
that the internalized relationships of objects to one another can be split. This
can occur, for instance, when a grandfather-granddaughter incest survivor
holds fast to a perception of her mother's relationship with the perpetrator
as wholly unsatisfactory to her mother, splitting off the aspects of the rela­
tionship the mother obviously enjoyed. This is done to protect her internal­
ized mother from rage and disappointment.
For the sexually abused child, especially the incestuously abused child,
splitting is a mechanism vital for psychic survival. The persistent sexual and
emotional betrayal of a child by a loved and trusted other represents an as­
sault against the ego that is too overwhelming to be handled by repression
(Scharff, 1982). Instead, the child must split off the bad aspects of both the
abusing and nonabusing family members. The child, after all, needs her fam­
ily. Because of her need, helplessness, and dependency, the sexually abused
child splits the object into good and bad and then further splits her own ego,
identifying with the bad object and projecting her own goodness onto the
family. In this way, as poignantly captured by Fairbairn (1943), she pre­
serves internal representations of good parents and assumes the mantle of
badness herself, thus preserving the hope that she can obtain love and care
by learning to be be good enough. Further, splitting is imposed by the perpe­
trator and by the family system that refuses to acknowledge or name the
abuse or frequently blames the child for bringing the trauma on herself.
Splitting thus becomes the fundamental basis for the organization of self and
object representations and it is carried into adulthood where it becomes the
relational template upon which interpersonal relationships are forged and
understood. Because the failure of splitting releases extremely potent memo­
ries, affects, self and other representations, the patient unconsciously, yet
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 159

tenaciously, clings to this defense and relational processing mechanism. As

Gill (1982) stipulates, the defense—in this case splitting—is an intrapsychic
process that becomes evident through the transferential relationship with
the analyst. The primary early mainfestation of splitting in the transference
is resistance to awareness (Gill, 1982) of the full range of transference reac­
tions to the therapist. We see this most particularly in resistance to aware­
ness of negative feelings about the clinician that are acted out or conveyed
through projective identification rather than being consciously observed and
expressed.
As the child once protected her internal relationship with her parents by
projecting her goodness onto them and introjecting their badness into her
self representations, the adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse ostensibly
protects the therapist from rageful, hateful reactions by denying them, con­
sciously maintaining a positive image of the clinician and turning the rage
and hatred toward herself. Such acting out also involves unconscious fan­
tasies of victimizing the therapist by shocking and by rendering the clinician
powerless. Because the split-off rage and hate are so potent, their acting out
can be quite impressive, including suicidal gestures or attempts, self-mutila­
tion, substance abuse, reckless driving, potentially dangerous sexual promis­
cuity, and anorexia or bulimia. Transference expressed in this way not sur­
prisingly evokes powerful countertransferential reactions that are important
to process and understand.

Acting Out
It is important to understand that acting out by the adult survivor once
she is in treatment always has some transferential component. This is not to
negate genetic or current extratherapeutic factors; a given piece of acting
out is usually multidetermined. Once the patient has arrived in treatment,
however, reactions to the therapeutic relationship are always involved in
acting out.
Vivian is a father-daughter incest survivor who presented to treatment
with a history of nonlethal cutting of her forearms. When she began treat­
ment, she was engaged in an affair with a married man about the same age
as her father. During one session, Vivian and the therapist were once again
exploring the meaning of this relationship. By now, Vivian had become
aware of some of the dynamics enacted through the affair—it allowed her to
gain mastery of the abuse by having some control over the sexual relation­
ship with her lover/father; it provided the opportunity to express hostility
toward the lover's wife/the patient's mother by sleeping with this man; it
enacted the self-representation of a whore—the name her father called her
during the abuse; and it revived a sense of triumph in winning the oedipal
battle. The evening after the session in question, Vivian's lover canceled a
160 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

date at the last minute. On the phone, she responded with placid under­
standing. About an hour later, she dug into her forearm with a scissor. She
reported the entire episode at the next session. Despite the clinician's at­
tempts to explore what the cutting meant in terms of the analytic relation­
ship, Vivian attributed the self-mutilation entirely to her rage at being stood
up by her lover. Even this rage was not consciously experienced but was ac­
cepted intellectually as "making sense."
It was only much later in the treatment, after a number of similar
episodes, that some transference reaction involved in the cutting was made
explicit. Like Vivian's lover, the therapist set the terms of her availability to
the patient. The clinician was not necessarily on hand when Vivian most
needed her but was available only at certain times, times over which the
therapist had more control than Vivian did. To Vivian, both the therapist
and her lover seduced her, then set the parameters of their relationship with
her, much as her father once totally controlled his relationship with her. In
addition, both lover and clinician, albeit in different ways, insisted on the
confidentiality of their relationships with her, to some extent replicating the
secrecy of the incest. When Vivian's lover canceled dates, it evoked uncon­
scious rage toward him in the current situation, unconscious rage toward
her father's control and secrecy, and unconscious rage toward the therapist,
who was also—to some degree accurately—perceived as unilaterally dictat­
ing the boundaries of the "secret" analytic relationship. The cutting in this
case represented an attempt to self-regulate and contain powerful split-off
affective reactions to past and present figures.
It is imperative that the therapist address the transferential meanings em­
bodied in acting out. Not to do so invokes the image of the abuser who dis­
claimed responsibility for the victimizations or of the nonabusing parent
who looked but did not see. A very tempting countertransferential position
to assume when confronted by a patient who cut her thighs to ribbons after
the last session, or who got drunk, picked up a man, and engaged in unpro­
tected sex the night before the current session, however, is to deny the trans­
ference meaning of the behavior, focusing instead on genetic or current ex-
tratherapeutic factors. This countertransference stance protects the clinician
from experiencing the patient's vicious assaults on his goodness and caring
by erecting a fantasy within the therapy that the abusiveness is "out there"
rather than "in here." However, this stance will also ensure continuation of
the acting out, often in ever-escalating intensity or frequency.

Projective Identification
The other major way in which the adult survivor resists awareness of neg­
ative transference reactions while indirectly communicating them is through
the use of projective identification. Projective identification is a slippery con­
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 161

cept for which many definitions have been proposed (Grotstein, 1985;
Kemberg, 1976; Klein, 1952; Ogden, 1979; Porder, 1987). Most definitions,
however, include at least two steps. First, the patient projects a split-off inter­
nalized self representation onto the therapist to control good or bad aspects
of the internal world. Second, the clinician identifies with the projected as­
pects of the patient's self, subjectively experiencing himself in a way that is
usually ego-alien but perfectly congruent with the projected contents.
When projective identification is occurring, there are often three levels of
relational interaction simultaneously in play. One involves the patient's
conscious experience of the therapist and whatever countertransferential re­
actions that evokes. The second level encompasses transference reactions
that are currently out of the patient's awareness that can be brought to con­
sciousness gradually through questioning and interpretation. These trans­
ferences are accompanied by an expected range of countertransference re­
sponses. Finally, at the level of projective identification, are profoundly
split-off transference reactions that are projected onto the therapist, with
which the therapist identifies, and against awareness of which the patient
tenaciously defends. Because the transference communicated through pro­
jective identification is so intense and so alien to the therapist, the clinician's
reactions frequently include disorganization of her thinking capacities.
A clinical example helps elucidate this elusive concept.
Helen, a 40-year-old survivor of father-daughter rape, sodomy, fellatio,
and regular beatings, had been in treatment for 6 months. She frequently cut
her thighs with a razor some hours after a session and spoke weekly of
struggling not to drive her car off a river embankment. In session, she stead­
fastly denied any transferential meaning to these self-destructive thoughts
and behaviors. In fact, Helen denied that the cutting and suicidality were re­
lationally associated with anyone, stipulating that they encompassed only
her contempt for her "stupid, worthless self." Helen's conscious experience
of the therapist was of a warm, caring professional, who, for some unfath­
omable reason, was interested in helping her. At another level—unconscious
but tolerable for Helen to explore in session—was a perception of the clini­
cian as well-meaning but naive, duped into believing there to be something
worthwhile about Helen, and blind to her "obvious" lack of substance and
intelligence. This transference was to the therapist as the patient's mother
who failed to see the obvious within her own family. Helen was unaware of
the contempt encapsulated in this transference, consciously expressing lik­
ing and respect for the therapist. The clinician's countertransference to this
level of transference were maternal feelings of caring, mild annoyance at the
contempt for her power of discernment, and dismay at the patient's lack of
self-worth. Coexisting with these two transference-countertransference con­
stellations was another paradigm secured within a projective identification
that conveyed more primitive experiences of self and object.
162 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Although consciously and somewhat intellectually defined as worthless,

Helen, at a deeply unconscious level, identified with the vicious sadism of
her abusive father. Through the apparently self-victimizing cutting and suici­
dality, she launched a powerfully sadistic attack on the therapist's containing
and healing functions. Each time she left a session, acted out, then reported it
in the next session,‘Helen was unconsciously saying to the clinician what her
father once said to her, "Take this, you bitch. You're a worthless nothing who
will never amount to anything. You're a nothing piece of shit." Identifying in
this way with her father, Helen projected her victimized self representation
onto the therapist. Furthermore, the clinician identified with the projection,
experiencing herself as paralyzed, frozen with terror and impotent, unex-
pressible rage, much as Helen had experienced herself as a child.
The clinician in this case dreaded Helen's appointment time and felt a
sinking, hopeless feeling in her stomach when the waiting room door
opened, signaling Helen's arrival. This very much paralleled the patient's
childhood dread when she heard her father's footsteps outside her room at
night. In session, the clinician felt beaten up by the relentlessness of Helen's
self-mutilation and suicidal ideation. She felt terrified that Helen would in
fact die and was impotently enraged at the ongoing attacks on her therapeu­
tic effectiveness. The therapist, identified with Helen's projected victimized
self, was afraid to confront the patient's sadism, fearing an escalation of act­
ing out. Again, this was congruent with Helen's induced speechlessness as a
child. As the therapist began to sort through and process the projective iden­
tification, she gradually loosened herself from the countertransferential
stranglehold and began to openly address with Helen what was happening
between them.
Although projective identification is a disorienting, deeply disturbing ex­
perience for the clinician, it is also, like dissociation, an invaluable venue for
communicating information about the self that is intolerable for the patient
to consciously know about and express. Through projective identification,
the therapist comes to know about aspects of the patient's self-experience at
a visceral level that can result in heightened empathy and understanding. It
is helpful for the therapist working with an adult survivor of childhood sex­
ual abuse to anticipate that projective identification will be an important
component of work in the transference and countertransference. If it is ex­
pected, the clinician is less likely to self-protectively withdraw from the
powerfully ego-alien disruptions inherent in projective identification, a
countertransference pitfail that unconsciously communicates to the patient
that the self aspects being transferred onto the therapist are unacceptable. As
such projections are already unacceptable to the patient, the therapist's with­
drawal from the projective identification renders the projected self represen­
tations of the patient unanalyzable and, ultimately, threatens continued
treatment.
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 163

The turbulence of development, emergence, and analysis of transference­

countertransference work with adult survivors of incest and childhood sex­
ual abuse is clear. The violence, intrusiveness, seduction, and betrayal inher­
ent in this therapeutic endeavor evoke countertransference reactions derived
not only from the work itself but also from analysts' transferences to psycho­
analytic tradition and from personal experiences with abuse, if any.

The Impact of Therapist Attitudes

On a personal level, it is crucial that therapists examine their attitudes and be­
liefs about childhood sexual abuse before embarking on a therapeutic journey
with a survivor. Analytically oriented clinicians are all products of a theoreti­
cal and clinical tradition that underestimated the frequency and pathogenic
impact of childhood sexual abuse; they are also members of a society that
only recently began to open its eyes to the victimizations of children. The
therapist's willingness to acknowledge the reality of a patient's abusive his­
tory, to engage in the demanding transference-countertransference constella­
tions inherent in the work, to be guided by the patient's need for the clini­
cian's full participation in the relational matrix emerging from the work, to
stretch the parameters of analytic therapy to include work with a dissociated
child self may be complicated by countertransference reactions that are, in
fact, embedded in perhaps long-standing transferences to supervisors, train­
ing programs, theoreticians, and, generally, traditional and even more con­
temporary understandings about development, pathology, and acceptable
ways of conducting analytic work.
For example, a therapist who works with a number of incest survivors
participates in a supervision group led by a senior clinician. One day, a col­
league presents his work with a patient with whom powerfully disruptive,
sadomasochistic transference and countertransference paradigms have been
set in play. In discussing the patient's history, symptoms, character struc­
ture, and relationship with her therapist, the clinician who works with sex­
ual abuse survivors begins to wonder if the patient may have been sexually
traumatized earlier in life. She suggests this to her colleague who is present­
ing the case. He acknowledges that he has not asked his patient about a his­
tory of sexual abuse and, further, is concerned that such questions could be
suggestive to this patient whom he has conceptualized as "severely border­
line."
At this point, the senior clinician somewhat teasingly remarks, "Well,
maybe this woman was abused, but you people who work with sexual abuse
also seem to start seeing it everywhere." The senior analyst then offers the
presenting therapist a perfectly plausible formulation of the transference­
countertransference bind with this patient. It is based on contemporary psy­
164 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

choanalytic thinking about borderline pathology and treatment, and it does

not include the possibility of a reenactment of abuse. The therapist who does
work with sexual abuse suddenly feels ashamed and somehow "slimy." She
experiences herself now as outside this peer group, different from them, be­
cause she is "bad" in some way.
Driving back to her office, the therapist begins to wonder if indeed she is
making too much of the prevalence and impact of childhood sexual trauma.
Maybe she even is being suggestive with her own patients. And she hated
that feeling of shame and not belonging she had experienced within the su­
pervision group. Even if she is right when she thinks she detects the possibil­
ity of sexual abuse in a colleague's patient, maybe she just should keep quiet
about it. Her peers do not want to hear about it anyway, and now the senior
clinician, whom she likes and respects and from whom she desires admira­
tion and respect, is making fun of her. It just is not worth it. She can keep her
ideas about sexual abuse to herself and still learn from and contribute to the
peer-supervision group. And they will like her better.
That afternoon, the therapist works with one of her patients who was
abused sexually and quite sadistically by her father for many years of child­
hood. The patient has been struggling for months to accept the reality of
what happened to her. To acknowledge that the abuse occurred requires her
to loosen her grip on and experience the loss of the compensatory internal­
ized good father to whom she has been attached tenaciously. The patient's
relationship with the clinician as a figure who believes in the actuality of the
sexual trauma has been crucial to the patient in this phase of the work.
During that afternoon's session, the patient tearfully states that she thinks
she finally may be able to bear knowing the unbearable truth that her father
abused her and, sobbing now, asks the clinician once again if she thinks it re­
ally happened. Uncharacteristically, the therapist hesitates just a bit before
affirming her belief in the reality of the abuse. Always acutely attuned to the
clinician's internal states, the patient hears the hesitation and panics. She ac­
cuses the therapist of tricking her, of leading her on to accept something that
is not even true, of needlessly robbing her of her good father. It is some time
before the rupture in the therapeutic relationship is healed. Well, what has
happened here?
First, in this vignette, we see an enactment of relational patterns inherent
in sexual abuse at play in the therapist's peer-supervision group. The thera­
pist hears that her colleague's patient may have been abused sexually and at­
tempts to disclose that possible trauma within the supervision group. To this
extent, she enacts the role of the sexually abused child who tries to speak of
her victimizations within the family. Consistent with what might happen in
an incestuous family, the abused child, now located within the therapist, es­
sentially is told that she is crazy; her suggestion that her colleague's patient
may have been traumatized sexually is dismissed. Congruent with her en­
 The Impact of Trauma on Transference and Countertransference 165

actment of a sexually abused child, the therapist assumes responsibility for

what has occurred—she is ashamed and experiences herself as slimy and
bad. She also feels that her acceptance within the supervision group will be
endangered if she continues to bring up the subject of sexual abuse; this is
consistent with the sexually abused child's fear that she will lose her family
if she speaks of the trauma.
As the therapist muses over the peer-supervision session in the car, she
continues an identification with a victim of sexual abuse. She begins to
doubt her own knowledge and reality; she speculates that perhaps she really
does not know what she knows. Furthermore, to preserve her real and inter­
nalized relationship with the idealized senior clinician, she decides to stop
talking about sexual abuse in the supervision group. Like the abused child,
she protects important relational ties by splitting off sexual abuse from the
rest of family life. At this point, also dissociated is the rage the therapist
might otherwise feel toward the senior analyst and her peers for the invali­
dation she experienced that morning. Again, we see congruence with the
abused child's splitting off of rage she might feel toward abusive and/or ne­
glectful others.
Back in her own consultation room, the therapist enacts her internaliza­
tion of and transference to the morning's events in a disruptive countertrans­
ference response to her patient. Now identified with the senior clinician and
her peers, and, in turn, with their more traditional psychoanalytic conceptu­
alizations about pathology and treatment, the therapist subtly invalidates
her patient's growing acceptance of her abusive history. Within the supervi­
sion group, the therapist, at least in fantasy, becomes the silent, compliant,
invalidated child. Within the therapeutic dyad, the therapist enacts the be­
trayal of the patient's early objects. Although one can speculate that there
were dynamics within the treatment that also drew the therapist into this en­
actment, her transference to psychoanalytic tradition as expressed through
the relational matrix of the supervision group seems to have been the pri­
mary source of the countertransferential empathic failure.
As this vignette indicates, to successfully enter into analytic work with a
survivor requires the therapist to rethink her understanding of psychoanaly­
sis and psychoanalytic psychotherapy. It often necessitates that the clinician
brook the disapproval of actual and internalized supervisors, mentors, col­
leagues, and personal analysts who may strenuously disagree that what the
therapist is engaged in is at all congruent with analytic tenets and tech­
niques. The analytically oriented therapist engaging with the patient in the
way described may struggle with strong internal dissonance created by dis­
crepancies in what she perceives as necessary and effective treatment strate­
gies and the real or fantasied skepticism or criticism of important transferen­
tial figures in her own life. This struggle may manifest in the treatment as
inconsistencies in therapeutic stance that confuse and even frighten the pa­
166 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tient who is especially hyperattuned to inconsistency. We again recommend

consultation with colleagues working with survivors as a way to identify
and work through countertransference emanating from transferences to psy­
choanalytic writers, supervisors, and colleagues. >
Therapists who are also survivors may be especially susceptible to partic­
ular countertransference complications. First, they may not remember their
own abuse and may begin to recall traumatic memories through work with a
survivor. This may require them to reenter treatment, evoking a myriad of
transference reactions to former and new analysts, as well as strong counter­
transference feelings about the patient(s) who "caused" the memories to
emerge. Therapists who know they are survivors may assume a persistently
masochistic position with patients, provoking ever-escalating sadistic at­
tacks through their patients' self-destructive or abusive acting out. This posi­
tion is often multidetermined. Through it, clinicians maintain an uncon­
scious attachment to their own abusers by remaining victims in the
therapeutic relationship. By ignoring patients' victimizing transference reac­
tions, clinicians also preserve an identification with their own nonabusive
parents who were blind to the abuse going on before their eyes. At the same
time, the therapists avoid experiencing their own often disowned abusive­
ness by unconsciously agreeing that patients will enact those feelings for
them. Another countertransference stumbling block for survivor/therapists
may be a reluctance to allow themselves to be fully experienced by patients
as bad objects. Uncomfortable with their own aggression and even more un­
comfortable with any identification with their own abusers, clinicians may
subtly, or not so subtly, defuse patients' aggressive transference reactions.
This countertransference position preserves the therapist as a good object, a
self representation she may have worked hard in analytic treatment to
achieve and believe in. Keeping the relationship with patients primarily lov­
ing and "nice" may also represent survivor/therapist attempts to compen­
sate patients and themselves for the wonderful childhood neither ever had.
It is also true that survivor/therapists bring their traumatic backgrounds
to their work in ways that enhance their effectiveness with patients.
Certainly, they can empathize with the terror, rage, and loss encapsulated in
childhood sexual abuse at levels nonabused clinicians may never reach.
Ultimately, it is the extent to which they have worked through traumato­
genic issues within the transference and countertransference of their own
analyses and within their supervisory relationships that allows them to use
their experiences to further rather than restrict analytic work with patients.
 CHAPTER 9

Eight Transference-Countertransference
Positions

E HAVE FOUND that there are eight relational positions, ex­

pressed within four relational matrices, alternately enacted by
therapist and survivor in the transference and countertransfer­
ence, that repeatedly recur in psychoanalytic work with adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse. These include the uninvolved nonabusing parent
and the neglected child; the sadistic abuser and the helpless, impotently en­
raged victim; the idealized, omnipotent rescuer and the entitled child who
demands to be rescued; and the seducer and the seduced. Although these, of
course, do not account for every aspect of the transference and countertrans­
ference with every patient, our experience is that these eight positions and
four matrices are enacted with sufficient regularity that a thorough familiar­
ity with their clinical manifestations is invaluable to the analytic work.
Because they encompass self and object representations that are frequently
split off from the consciousness of the patient, these eight relational positions
are often identifiable only through the therapist's careful attention to his own
countertransference. It is in the countertransferential reactions that the clini­
cian experiences powerful projective identifications with aspects of the
patient's self and object worlds. It is the intensity of the countertransference
experience, along with rapid shifts in transference-countertransference states,
that complicates analysis of the transference and countertransference with sur­
vivors. Further challenging the therapist is the extent to which, for a pro­
tracted period of time, these relational positions and constellations are enacted
rather than verbally identified and processed. The relational matrices emerg­
ing from the clinician's and patient's enactments come alive in the consulting
room with an affective loading and sense of action unlike that which takes
place with many other, nonabused patients. Sexually traumatized children are
abused motorically—in action. Healing for the adult patient demands an
engagement with transference-countertransference roles that is similarly ac­
tive, even when motoric discharge is contained. It is the therapist's willingness
168 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

to embrace and enact, through the creation of an illusion in the analytic space
(Khan, 1971b), the'relevant transference-countertransference positions that
eventually allows the patient to identify, tame, and integrate long split-off ele­
ments of her self and object worlds. In fact, unless all combinations and per­
mutations of relational roles are experienced and worked through in the
transference and countertransference, the treatment will not be complete. At
the same time, we stress that enactment alone is not enough. It is the enact­
ment and interpretation of transference-countertransference phenomena
combined that facilitate integration and healing.
In presenting our understanding of these four essential relational matrices,
we hold fast to a conviction about the vast ambiguity of human experience.
Truly creative work in the transference-countertransference cannot be under­
stood as a search for preconceived structures or mental configurations. Rather,
we think of our schematization of these powerful relational paradigms as of­
fering the reader what might be considered points of orientation; beacons of
directional light when the storm of transference-countertransference enact­
ments becomes otherwise blinding and cognitively disorienting.

The Unseeing, Uninvolved Parent and

the Unseen, Neglected Child

Whenever a child is sexually abused, someone's eyes are closed. Certainly,

when the abuse is incestuous, one or both parents deny the violations of the
child's body and mind and present themselves as emotionally detached
from the victim. Some contemporary trauma researchers (Steele, 1986; van
der Kolk, 1987) cite the loss of secure attachment that is emblematic of
parental neglect as a profoundly damaging trauma preceding the more
vividly identifiable sexual trauma. One can speculate, in fact, whether child
sexual abuse could extend over time if parents were awake, attached, and at­
tuned to their children's behaviors and emotional life.
One aspect of the internalized world of the adult survivor, then, is a rela­
tionship between a neglectful, unavailable parent and an unseen, neglected
child. Because this parent was also loved and needed by the child, this rela­
tional constellation is split off from consciousness. The patient preserves a
conscious image of a loving, available parent while setting into motion
within the treatment the long-held-at-bay relational configuration just de­
scribed. Within the transference-countertransference, the patient enacts ei­
ther side or both sides of the relational matrix sequentially, while the thera­
pist projectively identifies with and enacts the complementary role.
Manifestations of this transference-countertransference paradigm are varied.
At times, the patient identifies with her parent and enacts the latter's
coldness, unavailability, and rejection in the therapy sessions. The patient
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 169

may be profoundly withholding, remaining silent for long periods, or she

may respond minimally to queries or overtures from the clinician. When
identified with the uninvolved parent, the patient may accuse the therapist,
verbally or nonverbally, of "bothering" her; of demanding more attention
from her than she is willing to give. The patient may appear bored, disdain­
ful, narcissistically preoccupied, hostile to the interpersonal engagement
sought by the clinician. During these periods of identification with the ne­
glectful parent, the patient treats her own vulnerability, emotional needs,
and affect states with the same cold neglect that she heaps on the therapist.
The patient may even verbally berate herself for any detectable emotional
"weakness," much as her parent(s) once overtly or covertly dismissed her
feelings and yearnings to be cared for.
When the patient is identified with her uninvolved parent, the clinician
frequently countertransferentially takes on the role of the patient's disowned
self representation of a neglected, unseen child. The therapist experiences
herself as unwanted, unimportant, utterly bereft of vital connection with the
patient. The clinician may begin working very hard to reach the patient, and,
when these efforts fail, as they once did for the child struggling to make con­
tact with her parent, the therapist sequentially may feel frustrated, inade­
quate, enraged, and, ultimately, depressed. The therapist also may cringe at
the coldness with which the patient addresses her own vulnerability and af­
fect, finding the patient's hostility toward her own needs almost unbearable.
Eventually, the clinician may be tempted to give up, withdraw interest from
and empathy for the patient or may even wish the patient would just go
away.
It is crucial for the treatment that the therapist resist the temptation to
abandon the patient emotionally, thus replicating the original parental dis­
avowal of the child. Remembering that the nonabusing parent(s)'s often hos­
tile neglect was in many ways as damaging to the patient as the overt sexual
abuse, the clinician must continue to strive to stay alive and in relationship
with the patient. She must be particularly vigilant to signs of emotional
withdrawal like sleepiness, daydreaming, and inattention. The therapeutic
message to the patient is that the clinician can bear the unbearable; that she
can tolerate, contain, process, and, ultimately, make explicit the profound
negelct the patient suffered as a child.
In another enactment of the uninvolved parent/neglected child para­
digm, the patient identifies with herself as a child and responds to the clini­
cian as she once did, at least initially, to her parent. Here, the patient denies
her own needs and feelings in order to care for the therapist. Certain that the
only way to obtain emotional supplies from the clinician is to tend to the lat­
ter's perceived needs, the patient is solicitous of and, at least superficially,
compliant with the therapist and the demands of the therapeutic situation.
Associations may appear to flow freely, but, in fact, the patient "protects"
170 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

the clinician from her deepest pain, rage, and bereavement. She also is quite
likely to "protect" the therapist from the memories of her abuse, much as she
once shielded her parent from the reality of the sexual victimizations.
During this period of treatment, the therapist'may collude with the rela­
tional matrix being enacted by not seeing the "false self" (Winnicott, 1960)
aspects of the patient's presentation. If this transference-countertransference
configuration extends for some time, the patient is likely to become enraged
at once again not being truly seen or heard. As she did when she was a child,
the patient may split off rageful responses in order to maintain a tenuous at­
tachment to the therapist/parent. Instead of expressing them in session, the
patient may act out her rage in extratherapeutic relationships or by engaging
in self-destructive behaviors such as cutting, substance abuse, or promiscu­
ous sex, or she may become increasingly depressed. With this relational ma­
trix in play, the therapist may feel bored, annoyed, increasingly angry as she
senses that the treatment is mired in apparent superficiality. Once again, it is
vital that the therapist use the countertransference eventually to make ex­
plicit the relational constellation enacted in the consulting room rather than
self-protectively withdrawing from, or in some way castigating, the patient
as the parent did earlier in the survivor's life.
Finally, an overt transference to the therapist as an unseeing, uninvolved
parent may develop, in which the patient experiences the clinician as ne­
glectful. Sometimes, the patient angrily and repetitively berates the therapist
for somehow "missing" her; for not noticing, hearing, correctly interpreting,
remembering feelings, behaviors, facts, dreams, memories the patient con­
siders crucial. Here, it seems that nothing the therapist does or does not do is

In this case, the patient is once again identified with a hostile parent who
expected to be cared for by the child and who berated the patient for her in­
eptness in meeting the adult's needs perfectly. Overtly or covertly, this par­
ent threatened abandonment if the child failed to attune to and gratify her
parent's emotional needs. Beneath the sometimes amazingly intellectualized
criticism and carping is a wildly terrified patient, who, literally beside her­
self, strives to hang on to the therapist by a relational thread in the only way
she knows how without directly exposing her vulnerability and need.
Countertransferentially, the therapist, much to her or his chagrin, may enact
stupidity, forgetfulness, inadequacy. It is with such a patient that therapists
uncharacteristically double-book a session, miss an "obvious" connection
among associations, or forget dream material. The clinician, again identified
with split-off aspects of the child, feels panicky, stupid, frozen, and inade­
quate. She may begin to dread sessions with the patient. Once again, it is im­
portant for the clinician to use the countertransference experience to gradu­
ally help make explicit the split-off terror of the patient and to refrain from
self-protectively emotionally abandoning the survivor.
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 171

The relational matrix of the uninvolved parent/neglected child is

frequently the first transference-countertransference paradigm to emerge in
the treatment. We agree with other writers (Bernstein, 1990; Burland & Raskin,
1990; Gabbard, 1992) that until this transference-countertransference configu­
ration is enacted, identified, and at least partially worked through, it is
unlikely that the patient can tolerate fully the recovery, working-through, and
integration of traumatic memories. Even the patient who presents to treatment
in crisis due to unsymbolized body memories, nightmares, or flashbacks usu­
ally shifts into the uninvolved parent/neglected child aspect of the therapeutic
work once the crisis has abated. She only returns to work through more thor­
oughly traumatic material once this transference-countertransference para­
digm is at least partially resolved. Reemergence of this relational constellation
occurs, however, at various points in treatment, sometimes as resistance to
proceeding further with the recovery of painful memories. Similarly, the next
relational matrix to be discussed, the sadistic abuser/helpless, impotently en­
raged victim, may be in evidence sporadically, long before it becomes central
to the treatment.

The Sadistic Abuser and the Helpless,

Impotently Enraged Victim

One focal aspect of a sexual abuse survivor's internalized self and object
worlds is a relationship between a greedy, sadistic, impulsive abuser and a
terrified, helpless, impotently enraged victim. Like the patient's internalized
relationship with the uninvolved parent, this relational paradigm frequently
is split off from consciousness in order to preserve a positive image of the
perpetrator. This is particularly true when the victimizer was also a loved
and needed parent. Split off from awareness, the relational constellation is
detectable in powerful transference-countertransference phenomena that
emerge in the treatment. Working within this relational configuration is par­
ticularly upsetting for both therapist and patient, both of whom experience
themselves and each other as victim and victimizer. Because this relational
paradigm is so pervasive within the patient's internal and external relational
worlds, the transference and countertransference manifestations are intense
and varied.
We know that any child who is sexually traumatized over time, especially
by a parent, will internalize and identify with those aspects of the perpetra­
tor, who is also a loved and trusted figure in the child's life. Through this
identification, the child attempts to preserve her bond to the perpetrator by
becoming like him. As an adult, the patient's unconscious identification with
her victimizer allows her to keep at bay experiences of herself as helpless,
terrifed, violated. Instead, she projects her "weakness" on to another, thus
172 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

feeling to some extent empowered. Then, she constructs a relational view, in

which the other deserves the devaluation she visits upon him. The whole
process, of course, replicates the defensive maneuverings of the original
abuser. Finally, the patient's identification with her abuser also facilitates the
expression of contempt and rage that she usually carefully keeps out of
awareness because of its power.
In the transference, one manifestation of a patient's abusiveness is her
tendency to penetrate and invade the therapist's personal and psychic
boundaries. Some patients, for instance, literally burst on the treatment
scene, entering the room in an intrusive, forceful manner. Occasionally, pa­
tients have knocked on the door of the consulting room or even opened the
door, knowing very well that the clinician was in session. In addition, some
patients have a way of staring intently and penetratingly at the therapist as if
they are trying to get inside and control him. Other patients persistently no­
tice and comment on many aspects of the clinician's personal appearance or
office. These comments are often disparaging or seductive, and, even when
they are complimentary, their relentlessness can be unsettling. Adult sur­
vivors also often are attuned to the therapist's moods; their accurate and in­
sistent interpretations of these to the clinician have an invasive and un­
bounded quality. Finally, these patients are often creatively determined to
learn about the therapist's personal life. One patient, for example, met and
slept with her therapist's son, creating a therapeutic and personal quagmire
for the clinician.
Through her invasion of the therapist's boundaries, the patient betrays
her identification with her abuser(s). In all the transferential manifestations
of this identification, the patient communicates an unconscious fantasied in­
tention to intrude on and control various elements of the clinician's personal
and professional life. In so doing, she is replicating in the treatment her per­
petrator's ruthless lack of respect for and greedy smashing of physical and
psychological boundaries. For the abuser, nothing was sacred. For the pa­
tient attempting to master her early trauma while keeping at a distance her
vulnerability and fear, unconscious identification with and enactment of her
abuser's lack of boundaries offers some sense of power and inviolability.
Countertransferentially, the therapist being intruded on by the patient
may experience great discomfort at and anticipatory anxiety about being ex­
posed and penetrated. Identified with split-off victimized aspects of the pa­
tient, the clinician may find himself dressing differently, straightening up
the office, trying to be in the "right" mood, and avoiding eye contact with
the patient in order to stave off episodes of intrusion. The clinician may
think about upcoming sessions well in advance with anxiety and dread. At
this point, of course, the therapist is reenacting many of the behaviors and
emotional states the patient experienced in relationship with her abuser(s)
and tries to protect himself from the inevitable intrusions by guessing what
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 173

might "set off" the patient and fixing it ahead of time or by avoiding real en­
gagement with the patient. All this, of course, replicates the kind of strate­
gies the patient employed to try to protect herself from her victimizer(s).
Another way in which a patient can abuse her therapist is through enti­
tled demands for attention, such as extra sessions, between-session phone
contact, lengthened sessions, and so on. Often, the clinician has set the stage
for this by responding to crises with increased availability. For example,
when a patient is struggling with disorganizing body memories or flash­
backs, the clinician may offer more frequent contact, responding to a real
need in the patient. Suddenly, however, the therapist is besieged by de­
mands for more and more until he feels overwhelmed. Initially, he may sub­
mit to the patient's escalating demands, even blaming himself for initiating
this pattern. Gradually, however, the therapist begins to feel used, furious,
but helpless to extricate himself from what has become a regular way of re­
lating with this patient.
Here, is we have another dramatic recreation of an early relational matrix
within the transference-countertransference of the treatment. The patient, in
this case, exploits the willingness of the clinician to be available and, as her
perpetrator did before, develops an insatiable demand for more. In turn, the
clinician experiences aspects of the patient's victimized self; the therapist as­
sumes the blame for the abuse, feels violated and enraged but helpless to do
anything else but accede to the patient's demands.
Yet another manifestation of the patient's identification with her perpe­
trators) is the self-destructive or violent enactments in which the patient
often engages. Here is the transference-countertransference meaning of act­
ing out that bespeaks the patient's role as abuser within the treatment. When
the patient acts self-destructively and presents the therapist with a fait ac­
compli, often accompanied by disturbing, visible physical evidence such as
cuts or bums, it is, at one level, a vicious attack on the therapist's holding
and containing effectiveness. There is often a sense of the patient saying,
"Take this. Don't think for one minute that you can really have an impact on
me because, in the end, I'll do exactly what I want."
The clinician confronted with a patient's self-destructive acting out often
is shocked and paralyzed by the intense rage and violence inherent in the
acts. Frequently, the clinician feels unable to interpret or to intervene in any
way, fearing that to do so will provoke an escalation of action. The therapist
feels attacked, helpless, and fearful about where the acting out might ulti­
mately lead. The therapist also feels trapped by the patient's acting out; he
may search for exactly the right intervention in order to prevent his patient
from spinning completely out of control.
In this paradigm, we see still another enactment of the patient's relation­
ship with the abuser, in which she assumes a victimizing role. Like her
abuser, the patient translates impulses into direct action, action that terrifies
174 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

and impotently enrages the therapist, who, in turn, assumes the role of vic­
tim. Identified with the victimized aspects of the patient, the therapist feels
trapped, paralyzed, and intent on somehow preventing escalation of action.
This, of course, is congruent with what the patient experienced as a child as
she struggled to prevent escalation of sexually abusive activities.
There is at least one more way in which these patients enact identifica­
tions with their abusers, and that is to destroy hope. In most cases, adult sur­
vivors are terrified that good things cannot last, that promises will always
ultimately be broken. Rather than waiting for the inevitable disappointment
to occur, patients with sexual abuse histories often intervene in the buildup
of anxiety that accompanies hope by assuming control of the situation and
shattering what they are convinced is only an illusion anyway. They do this
by threatening premature termination, resuming self-destructive acting out
after long periods of abstinence, developing new symptoms such as psycho­
somatic disorders, or sabotaging extratherapeutic successes in relationships
or jobs.
Countertransferentially, the therapist feels deflated by these attacks on
hope that often occur when things seem to be going particularly well in the
treatment. The clinician may become depressed and is sometimes tempted to
passively accede to hopelessness through relational withdrawal, loss of en­
ergy, muted affect.
In this paradigm, we see another reenactment of the patient's past. Often,
the sexually abused child experiences periods of hope, during which the per­
petrator stops abusing for one reason or another, presenting himself more
consistently as the good object for whom the child yearns. Inevitably, how­
ever, the abuse resumes, or a younger sibling begins to be victimized by the
same abuser with our patient's knowledge. In treatment, when things are
hopeful, the patient may identify with the perpetrator and seemingly smash
to bits progress and hope. Identifying with the victim, the therapist experi­
ences the despair and deflation once held by the victimized child.
Therapists working with a patient who is enacting an identification with
an internalized abuser find themselves executing a delicate therapeutic bal­
ancing act. To the extent that they ignore or minimize the patient's abusive­
ness, they recreate the unseeing, uninvolved parent and, ultimately, lessen
the perceived safety of the analytic space. To the extent that they remain
locked into a countertransference experience of victimization, they are likely
to evoke intense feelings of toxicity and guilt in the patient. These patients
perceive themselves to be powerfully toxic anyway and struggle with
chronic, free-floating guilt. When they sense unconsciously that they have
victimized the therapist, unbearable states of shame and guilt are engen­
dered. Protecting themselves from conscious awareness of these intolerable
affects and self-representations, they project them onto the therapist, who
then is perceived as toxic and deserving of attack, and the cycle begins again.
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 175

Eventually, the transference-countertransference paradigms in play have

to be made explicit, so that the patient can begin to tame and integrate cur­
rently disowned self representations and identifications. This is delicate
work when the self representation or identification that is activated is that of
abuser. More than any other relational position, the adult survivor of child­
hood sexual abuse eschews acknowledging and making explicit her identifi­
cation with her abuser(s). The thought that she might actually sadistically
mistreat another after having been so badly used herself nauseates and en­
rages her. Premature interpretation, which can be precipitated by the clini­
cian's desire to extricate himself from the role of victim, can engender defen­
sive denial and rage, along with further splitting off and enactment of the
identification. Too early interpretation also can evoke intensified guilt and
self-punishment, with concomitant submerging rather than integration of
the abusive self-representation.
Some classical writers (Greenacre, 1949,1950, 1967; Shengold, 1989, 1992)
explain the adult sexual abuse survivor's abusiveness in terms of the reacti­
vation of early sadomasochistic impulses and fantasies. There is no doubt
that the relational paradigms encapsulated in psychoanalytic work with
these patients contain and express both sadism and masochism. We feel,
however, that the classical viewpoint overlooks both the loving attachment
to an abuser that is preserved through identification, as well as the mindless,
wordless terror encompassed in the self representation of victim against
which the patient defends through enactment of an identification with the
perpetrator. To keep these factors in mind can help therapists to tolerate and
process their countertransference responses to the patient-as-abuser. Then,
they can focus their interventions on the love, pain, and terror around which
the patient is organized when she is abusive.
It is crucial for the treatment for the therapist to experience and enact the
role of victim to the patient/abuser. Only in this way can the clinician begin
to truly appreciate at a visceral level the terror, paralysis, hopelessness, and
impotent rage lived by the patient when she was a child. At the same time,
we advocate gradually making explicit, and when necessary setting limits
on, the patient's attacks and intrusive demands. We find this works best
when the underlying terror and love of the abuser are also discussed with
the patient. Her abusiveness can be framed as an attempt at relational
preservation and mastery rather than being presented as a pejorative criti­
cism of sadomasochistic impulses.
During psychoanalytic work with a survivor, a transference-countertrans-
ference configuration of patient-as-victim and therapist-as-abuser will alter­
nate with the constellation just described and will become evident in a vari­
ety of ways.
First, there are elements inherent in the treatment situation that can evoke
feelings of victimization in the patient. The relationship is not equal, no mat­
176 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

ter how egalitarian we perceive ourselves to be. We engage the patient in

"treatment," during which, if we are successful, we "penetrate" defensive
barriers to "get inside" the patient. The patient "submits" to a fee and a
frame of our making and agrees to "open" herself by freely associating and
sharing her psychic contents. All of these aspects of psychoanalytic work are
often particularly conflictual for the adult survivor of sexual abuse; they can
evoke a transference to the therapist as abuser, while the patient assumes a
familiar victim role. The patient may readily and passively accede to the de­
mands of the therapeutic situation, failing to make explicit doubts and re­
sentments about the frame. Or she may rail in rage against every element of
the clinical parameters. In either case, the therapist may begin to feel abusive
about usually minimally conflictual frame issues. To rid himself of this dis­
turbing self-experience, the clinician may bend the frame, not in response to
real patient needs but simply to avoid feeling abusive. Suddenly, the roles
switch—the therapist feels victimized, and the patient is viewed by the clini­
cian as manipulative. In fact, the therapist acted out in order not to feel abu­
sive!
Sometimes, the therapist unconsciously enacts an intrusive, controlling
role with the patient, because she consciously is intent on not duplicating the
patient's uninvolved parent. When this occurs, the clinician often intrudes
on the patient to limit some form of self-destructive acting out. Here, the
therapist assumes control of the patient's mind and body by unnecessarily
hospitalizing her or by engaging her in complicated, essentially unenforce­
able contracts about her behavior. Often, the patient plays a complementary
role. For a protracted period of time, she may have provocatively and abu­
sively taunted the therapist with her behavior, unconsciously wanting the
clinician to take control of her functioning. Finally, the therapist reacts and,
again, there is an immediate exchange of roles. The abusive patient becomes
a victim of the victimized therapist's countertransferential abusiveness. The
patient rails at the clinician for the latter's betrayal, and the therapist is left
confused and guilty.
A very similar enactment occurs when a therapist who has been berated
contemptuously by a patient, perhaps for months, "suddenly" explodes into
a verbal assault on the patient. The formerly abusive patient is now the
wounded victim; the previously abused clinician is, correspondingly, a ver­
bally sadistic victimizer.
Other, more subtle ways in which the therapist enacts abusiveness are
through premature interpretations, intrusive questioning, or encouraging a
patient to stay with a traumatic memory beyond what is therapeutically in­
dicated in order to satisfy voyeuristic fascination with the abusive experi­
ence. In each case, the therapist, in an enactment of victimization, exploits
the patient's vulnerability and dependency as once the patient was exploited
by her abuser. The patient, in turn, may respond with woundedness, or she
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 177

may passively submit to the victimizing aspects of the therapist while stor­
ing up uncommunicated, impotent rage.
/

Sexual Encounters between Patient and Therapist

The most serious enactment of analyst abusiveness/patient victimization
occurs when the parties engage in an explicit sexual relationship. Here,
as during the original trauma, identifications, in the form of transference­
countertransference reactions are expressed in actuality, rather than symbol­
ically. The result, of course, is the tragic reabuse of the patient. It is tempting
to account for all such experiences by assuming serious therapist psy­
chopathology. Some form of unresolved pathological identification is, in
fact, a factor in all explicit sexual encounters between a therapist and his
patient. In addition, the clinician is ultimately responsible for maintenance of
necessary therapeutic boundaries. At the same time, the fact that sexual en­
counters with therapists are most often reported by adult survivors of child­
hood sexual abuse (Kluft, 1990c) also bespeaks the power of transference­
countertransference pressures to enact rather than symbolize; these pressures
must be acknowledged in work with this population.
In her identification with her abuser, the adult survivor of childhood sex­
ual abuse plays out a truly dazzling array of seductive, cajoling, pleading be­
haviors that, via projective identification, are capable of evoking within the
clinician confusion and disorientation comparable to that of the child whose
experience of reality was so seriously impinged upon. Here, the abuser
within the patient maintains an intense investment in reenacting—with the
roles reversed this time—the childhood trauma. This compulsion to repeat
the sexual abuse within the therapeutic relationship represents the ultimate
triumph of the sadistic intrpject. Although the patient may experience con­
sciously an illusion of mastery—she will initiate and control the sexual activ­
ities this time within a truly loving relationship—the enactment also offers,
tragically, equally illusory "proof" that she is a powerfully seductive and
dangerously toxic figure who can drive any man to lose his mind.
In one common manifestation of the drive to repeat, the patient, in her
most appealing wounded child persona, appeals to the therapist as protector
and savior. She has been so sexually traumatized by her original perpetrator
that she "needs" a different loving experience of sexuality that "only her
therapist can give." It will be therapeutic, she claims, in her most seductive
and persuasive incarnation. Here, she enacts an identification with a needy,
infantile, cajoling abuser. In the countertransference, the therapist may feel
empowered toward acts of sexual "reparenting and redoing" that attempt to
salvage the sexual future of the patient hidden within a grandiosity that is
the analog of the abused daughter's attempt to salvage and nourish a perpe­
trator who is believed by the child to be bereft.
178 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

In a very different scenario, the patient becomes intrusive and assaultive

in her sexual demands. The therapist receives erotic phone calls, is stalked or
followed by the patient, or is confronted with the patient undressing before
him. Here, the patient enacts an obvious identification with the abusive par­
ent. The clinician, in what becomes a "she asked for it" countertransferential
response, identifies with that part of the patient who blames herself for the
abuse she suffered.
These two scenarios are only two of many possible ones. What is clear is
that whenever an actual sexual relationship comes about between clinician
and patient, any hope for future therapeutic work is destroyed. Sexual con­
tact has replaced much-needed interpretation and explication of relational
paradigms. Reality falls on the therapeutic space, as it once did much too
early on the patient's childhood, with a cruel and deadening thud. What is
left is an abusive therapist who mislabeled aggression, need, retaliation, and
projective identification as allowable attraction, even love, and a badly, per­
haps dangerously, retraumatized patient.
As disturbing as it is for both therapist and patient to relate as abuser and
victim, it is only through the enactment, observation, and eventual interpre­
tation of these transference and countertransference constellations that the
sexual abuse survivor can integrate into her internal world these split-off self
and object representations. This process is protracted and constitutes a cen­
tral aspect of psychoanalytically oriented treatment with survivors. As the
patient works through and resolves experiences of herself and the therapist
as victim and victimizer, she begins to more fully affectively process the loss
of her childhood innocence and of her fantasied good parents. At this point,
another relational matrix, present in the therapy from the beginning, moves
into sharper focus and assumes a focal role in the treatment.

The Idealized, Omnipotent Rescuer and the Entitled Child

Throughout treatment with an adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse,

there are times when the therapist is powerfully drawn into enacting the role
of omnipotent, all-giving rescuer. It is a countertransference enactment that
may be easily evoked for many clinicians anyway; we have chosen, after all,
to live our lives as professional helpers. The abuse and neglect reported by
sexual abuse survivors and the evidence of psychic damage with which they
present, however, often elicit strong caretaking responses. These can mush­
room into more driven enactments of rescue when, for example, patients are
besieged by body memories or flashbacks or are reliving traumatic events in
the consultation room. Suddenly, we find ourselves wanting to save the bro­
ken child before us from the torment she continues to suffer as abusive inter­
nalized relationships are revitalized through the therapy. Perhaps guilty for
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 179

"making" the patient remember and relive awful childhood events, we now
unconsciously resolve to make it all better.
In part, the countertransferential position of omnipotent rescuer can be
viewed as an identification with an enactment of the patient's childhood at­
tempts to rescue her abuser by sacrificing her own needs and growth.
Abused children, as do all children, unconsciously attune to the relational
yearnings and the psychological damage within their victimizers. At great
personal cost, they strive to repair the brokenness of adults they love. One
root of a survivor's pervasive shame, in fact, is her perceived failure to res­
cue the victimizer whom she desperately loved despite his abusiveness.
Although clinicians working with adult survivors may experience and
enact a wish to rescue throughout the treatment, we have found this coun­
tertransferential stance to be particularly potent when the patient begins to
integrate and more fully affectively mourn the loss of her childhood and of
the fantasied good parents. The pain associated with this phase of treatment
is acute, perhaps even surpassing that connected with accepting the reality
of the sexual traumas. The patient, stripped now of her compensatory fan­
tasies, is bereft and lost. One patient said: "This is too much. I can deal with
the abuse ... I think .. . maybe I can. But the idea that this is all there will
ever be, that when I think of being little, all I feel is pain and terror and
aloneness ... that's too much ... I can't live with that. I can't stand knowing
I never was and never will be a child."
There is tremendous poignancy to this phase of treatment. It challenges
the therapist's capacity to withstand the patient's despair and the limitations
of the clinician's own ability to alleviate suffering. During this phase, the
pull to rescue is often great. However, because the patient must be allowed
to experience and express her grief in full measure, it is important that the
therapist refrain from presenting herself as an omnipotent rescuer, thus
truncating the patient's complete working-through of horrendous losses.
Monitoring fantasies of omnipotent rescue is one way for the clinician to do
this.
It also frequently happens, particularly during the mourning periods of
therapy, that the patient enacts a long split-off self representation of a
wounded child who expects to be compensated for all that she has suffered
and lost. A universal fantasy among sexual abuse survivors seems to be that,
once she relinquishes the fantasied childhood that came complete with
good-enough, loving parents, someone will provide a new, wonderful child­
hood. That someone often turns out to be the therapist. In this case, the pa­
tient reasons that, because the clinician "made" her know what happened to
her and somehow got her to give up her fantasied good objects, it is now up
to the therapist to make up for all the pain and loss. At times, the patient's
demands for compensation become strident and entitled. Often, the clinician
who has been deeply moved by the patient's courageous therapeutic journey
180 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

finds the patient's demands to be perfectly reasonable and sets about to pro-
vide the asked-for compensation. We have had fantasies of including pa­
tients in holiday or vacation plans, of sharing afternoons in the park, of
going on exciting shopping sprees in special toy stores.
Here, the clinician once again is challenged to proceed with delicate bal­
ance. In part, the emergence of entitled demands for compensation for a lost
childhood represents the reawakening of long-buried relational strivings
and yearnings to play, an activity often alien to sexual abuse survivors. For
those healthy strivings to continue to unfold, it is crucial that the therapist
allow the creation of an illusion within the therapeutic space (Khan, 1971b)
in which clinician and patient can play, and fight, and love, and hate with
the shameless passion and vitality known only to children. At the same time,
the patient must be allowed to rail against and grieve the original losses as
well as the limitations to reparation available within the therapeutic relation­
ship (e.g., sessions do end, clinicians take vacations, therapist and patient
will not spend Christmas together in a a concrete way). If the work of this
phase goes well, however, the internalized presence of the therapist will ac­
company the patient on vacations and at holidays in a way that encourages
passion, play, and continued relational unfolding.
As in other transference-countertransference constellations discussed in
this chapter, patient and therapist each will enact relational positions of res­
cuer and entitled child.
We have already described the extent to which abused children try to res­
cue the psychologically damaged abusers with whom they are in relation­
ship. As adults, this striving is combined with the need all patients experi­
ence to cure their therapists (Searles, 1975) and is manifested in treatment
through the patient's attempts to rescue the therapist. Patients who were
sexually abused often are remarkably sensitive to and accurate about their
therapist's moods and dynamics. Frequently, if a patient senses that her
therapist is distraught or in pain, she will move quite lovingly to repair the
clinician. We are aware, of course, that these loving efforts coexist with the
patient's anxious fear that she must tend to the therapist, lest the attachment
be threatened. At this point, we selectively focus on the love and gratitude
encapsulated in the wish to repair.
One evening, for example, a patient accurately perceived that the clinician
was preoccupied with something worrisome, and she cared for her by talk­
ing about interesting and funny job-related issues. The therapist, in fact, felt
better by the end of the session. When the session was later discussed, with
the relational aspects of it made explicit, the patient expressed great joy that
she could have a curative impact on the clinician. Over the course of treat­
ment, she referred to this incident many times with gratitude that the thera­
pist had allowed the patient to attend to her in this way. We certainly are not
advocating mutual analysis (Ferenczi, 1932), in which the analyst regularly
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 181

shares personal problems with the patient and uses the latter as a therapist.
We are suggesting, however, that one transference-countertransference en­
actment that will arise in work with a survivor is the patient as rescuer of the
clinician and that, when this spontaneously occurs as in the vignette above,
it can be therapeutic for the patient to succeed in curing the therapist.
Among other things, it relieves the patient's intense sense of herself as toxic.
In addition to specific attempts by the patient to rescue the therapist, psy­
choanalytic work with sexual abuse survivors pushes clinicians to the limits
of their creativity, mindfulness, and availability. We have heard over and
over again from therapists working with this population that these treat­
ments stretch them beyond the parameters of their training, their more tradi­
tional ways of thinking, the processes and outcomes of their personal analy­
ses; these observations are certainly congruent with our own experiences.
Work with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse demands an aliveness,
a presence, a relational combination of strength, availability, and vulnerabil­
ity that are both terrifying and transforming. Clinicians who allow it will be
changed by this work, "rescued" if you will, from personal and professional
limitations.
Finally, we look at the therapist as entitled child. This countertransferen­
tial response often is elicited when the clinician feels that she has given and
given and given to the needy patient only to be asked for more, with no ex­
pression of gratitude from her. At these junctures in the treatment, the thera­
pist may identify with a split-off self representation of the abused child who
gave and gave to the abuser only to be required to do and to give more. The
therapist may feel used and entitled to some recognition of her therapeutic
efforts. It may be tempting for the clinician to retaliate by withdrawing from
the patient who then feels abandoned and bereft.

The Seducer and the Seduced

Pervading the psychoanalytically oriented treatment of adult survivors of

childhood sexual abuse is an ambience of seduction. Throughout the work,
therapist and patient seduce and are seduced by each other. If therapy is suc­
cessful, however, there will be, over time, a shift in the nature and experi­
ence of mutual seductions.
Early in treatment, and for a protracted period, the patient is likely to ex­
perience split-off self representations that include flirtatiousness or more
overt seductiveness as horribly dangerous. These are qualities, after all, that,
in the patient's mind, got her into trouble in the first place. Yet, from a young
age, this patient was trained to seduce and to be seduced to maintain a pri­
mary relationship. It is what she knows how to do best. Early on in treat­
ment, then, the patient's seductiveness is split off and enacted or projected
182 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

while she consciously preserves a sexually conservative, even rigid, attitudi­

nal facade through which she disdains sexiness in others.
First, the patient may present provocatively dressed and openly flirta­
tious while evidencing a total lack of awareness Qf her impact on others. The
totality of the split between her physical appearance and mannerisms and
her consciously held beliefs about herself can be startling to the clinician.
One patient, for example, regularly appeared for sessions dressed in skin­
tight mini-skirts and halter tops. As she sat provocatively draped in the chair
and gazed invitingly at the therapist, she frequently decried the sexual objec­
tification of women in modem society and railed against men who made
passes at her.
The therapist confronted with this split-off, yet intense, seductiveness
may feel both attacked and sexually aroused. There is an aggressiveness to
the patient's seductions at this point that are often experienced by the clini­
cian as coercive. At the same time, the therapist may respond erotically to
the raw sexuality of the patient before him and then feel guilty about having
sexual feelings toward a patient who once was abused badly by an authority
figure. Whether experiencing himself as victimized or aroused, the therapist
feels overstimulated, much as the patient once did, and may be tempted to
self-protectively withdraw from emotional engagement with the patient. It is
important, however, for the clinician to remain engaged while processing
the countertransference reactions. To withdraw is likely to evoke shame and
feelings of toxicity in the patient.
Not all survivors present with their seductiveness split off from a provoca­
tive facade. Some patients dress and make up appropriately, or even asexu-
ally. Still, in the early phases of treatment, there is likely to be a strong sense
of split-off seductiveness that will come into play within the treatment space.
Another way in which the patient initially seduces the therapist is to tease
the clinician with partial disclosures about her intrapsychic and interper­
sonal life by presenting tantalizing fragments of traumatic memories. This is
not the patient's painfully difficult struggle to retrieve memories or to finally
speak the unspeakability of her abusive history nor her fear of being seen
and exposed through her verbalizations. It is a split-off seduction that is un­
consciously designed to overstimulate and frustrate the therapist. Once
again, we see a reenactment of the sexual abuser's sexual and relational
overstimulation and frustration of the patient when she was a child. Here, as
before, it is the clinician's attention to his countertransference that allows
him to differentiate seductive teasings from the patient's shame and fear­
based difficulties in speaking openly. When seductiveness is in play, the
therapist can set limits, as the abused child never could, on unending tanta-
lizations by wondering with the patient about the relational paradigm en­
acted in the consultation room, eventually making explicit the transference­
countertransference issues in force.
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 183

The therapist, too, seductively engages with the patient in the early days
of treatment. He or she may hear an uncharacteristically flirtatious tone in
his voice when addressing the patient or he may tease the patient to reveal
more about herself in a way that is erotically tinged. On the other hand, the
clinician may be so concerned and guilty about sexualized reactions to the
patient that, in a process parallel to the patient's own, the therapist splits
them off and, instead, presents a rigid, overcontrolled facade that deadens
the treatment and evokes terror in the patient about the power of her own
sexual impulses.
During this extended phase of treatment, the therapist is challenged to
convey to the survivor that sexual feelings and seductiveness are acceptable
aspects of human experience, while maintaining the integrity of the thera­
peutic boundaries. It is this combination of acceptance, availability, and
boundaries that eventually allows the patient to differentiate between be­
nign and malignant seductions, opening a pathway to integration of her own
sexuality. Newirth (1992) outlines this well when he says: "The successful
treatment of sexually abused patients involves the development of a positive
identity as a woman who can experience herself as sexual and desireable
without experiencing guilt, shame, or sadomasochistic relatedness. . ..
Sexual feelings in the countertransference can involve recognition of the pa­
tient's capacity to be a sexual person without the threat of action. ... The
ability to recognize patients as sexual subjects, as women who have desire
and are desireable is an important part in the personality intergration of the
sexually abused patient's self" (pp. 15,17).
As patient and therapist grow to accept and even enjoy sexual feelings
about each other, the nature of mutual seductions between therapist and pa­
tient begins to change.
A very touching period pf treatment with an adult survivor encompasses
a phase during which the patient and clinician engage in a form of oedipal
romance that facilitates a reparative reworking of the former victim's long-
held-at-bay sexual impulses. At first tentatively and shyly, the patient, now
more consciously, flirts with the therapist about whom she experiences
childlike, romantic feelings. She may compliment the clinician on his appear­
ance, present him with flowers, food, poetry, or other small gifts, and pro­
duce overt associations or derivatives suggesting jealousy about real or fan­
tasied partners and other patients in the therapist's life. There is a possessive
longing for the therapist at whom the patient gazes with childlike adoration.
The clinician, in turn, feels flattered, moved, and wryly amused at the oedi­
pal forces at play.
We suggest that the therapist acknowledge and play within the patient's
oedipal romance. Adhering to our position that new relational strivings be
enacted rather than made explicit, we delight with the patient about her ro­
mantic feelings. Like a good-enough parent (Winnicott, 1960), we make our­
184 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

selves available to the patient's oedipal fantasies while maintaining thera­

peutic boundaries. The patient, at this stage of treatment, will be alert to any
sign of disapproval or rejection of her rebudding sexuality. At the same time,
she will be hypervigilant to signs of impending abuse. Still not wholly con­
vinced that her sexuality did not provoke the abuse as well as the accompa­
nying parental neglect, thus rendering her forever dangerous and toxic, the
patient will watch carefully for signals that the therapist is uncontrollably
aroused or stiffly intimidated by these new relational overtures.
If this treatment period proceeds well, the patient will, at some point,
seemingly leap into a more adolescent burgeoning of sexual strivings di­
rected toward the clinician. The shy, tentative child is suddenly a postpubes-
cent teenager experimenting with new hairstyles, makeup, and fashion state­
ments. Like a real adolescent who struggles to integrate and make sense of
her sexuality, the patient appears one day as a little girl in bib overalls, then
as a businesslike professional, then as an amazingly sexy young person
shooting off electric sexual sparks. At the same time, the patient tests the
therapist's capacity to allow her to engage in intimate extratherapeutic rela­
tionships. Often, the sexually abused adolescent, especially the father­
daughter incest survivor, is clung to possessively by the abuser or is com­
pletely rejected by him when she seeks the companionship of peers. In
treatment, therefore, the patient will be hyperalert for evidence that the clini­
cian intends to prohibit appopriate extratherapeutic relational strivings or
that he will abandon the patient entirely for seeking intimacy outside the
therapeutic dyad.
The clinician working with the adult sexual abuse survivor during this
treatment phase may be quite startled at the patient's newly shown off sexu­
ality. The therapist, in fact, may feel jealous, possessive, abandoned as the pa­
tient pursues new or more imtimate extratherapeutic relationships, may envy
the patient's enhanced attractiveness and sexual vitality. Finally, of course,
the therapist may find himself sexually aroused by and drawn to the patient
in a way that is disconcerting and evocative of guilt or shame. The clinician's
ability to acknowledge and process his countertransferential responses to the
patient's emergence as a more integrated sexual being, neither abandoning
the patient nor possessively clinging to her, will ultimately facilitate the pa­
tient's increased comfort with and ownership of her sexual impulses.
An impressive piece of work has been accomplished when an adult sur­
vivor of childhood sexual abuse and her therapist relatively nonconflictually
accept and appreciate each other as sexual beings who share a range of feel­
ings and fantasies about each other—some erotic—but who also respect the
boundaries between them.

For the sake of simplicity and clarity, the eight transference-countertrans-

ference stances are presented here in terms of four relational matrices that
 Eight Transference-Countertransference Positions 185

comprise complementary interactive configurations. Life in the consulting

room, of course, is not so neatly schematic, simple, and clear. As we sug­
gested earlier, the transference and countertransference shifts in this work
are rapid and confusing for protracted periods of time. At one moment, the
therapist experiences himself as abusing the patient with a premature, pene­
trating interpretation, only moments later to be cast into the experiential role
of victim by the patient who is berating the clinician for his stupidity.
Moments later, perhaps when the abused child self has emerged and is
curled up weeping on the couch, the therapist becomes a rescuer, fantasizing
about tucking the patient under a warm quilt. In the end, it is the clinician's
ability to assume, enact, observe, and, ultimately, to help to make explicit all
of the relational stances taken on by each member of the therapeutic dyad
without becoming locked into any particular role or relational paradigm,
that moves the treatment along, facilitating the patient's identification,
working-through, and integration of long-fragmented self and object repre­
sentations.
 CHAPTER 10

Transference and Countertransference:

A Case Example

O CLARIFY FURTHER the way in which transference and counter­

T
transference develop and are analyzed within the treatment of a sex­
ual abuse survivor, this chapter is devoted to an extended case vi­
gnette.
Belinda is a strikingly attractive, 36-year-old woman who has long, wavy
black hair and big green eyes. She has been in twice weekly psychoanalytic
psychotherapy for 6 years.
This patient was the only child in an upper middle-class family in which
both parents were successful professionals. After graduating summa cum
laude from a small, regional college, Belinda's mother attended on scholar­
ship an Ivy League professional graduate school where she met Belinda's fa­
ther, Timothy. Angela and Timothy married the week after they graduated,
and Belinda was born 3 years later. The pregnancy was unplanned and re­
sented by Angela who felt that it had cost her an important promotion.
Timothy, on the other hand, welcomed the birth of his daughter.
Belinda's perspective on her parents' marriage was that Angela belittled
her husband for failing to live up to his potential and to promises he had
made to her before they were married. Although successful, he was not as
career-driven as his wife, and Angela apparently resented this. By the time
Belinda was 7, her mother's verbal denigration of Timothy was consistent
and vicious. Angela worked later and later more and more often; Timothy
frequently slept in the guest room, and he began to drink heavily at night.
Belinda now surmises that her mother engaged in one or more extramarital
affairs during Belinda's childhood.
Belinda's childhood relationship with her mother seemed focused around
a morning ritual during which the child watched in fascination as her
mother carefully attended to dressing and arranging her hair and makeup.
Except for this daily interaction, Belinda saw little of her mother and was left
primarily in the care of her father and a series of nannies. Belinda's sense
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 187

was that, as a child, she yearned to be as important to her mother as

Angela's career seemed to be. Belinda felt inadequate and somehow
"wrong" for her inability to win her mother's interest or affection.
On the other hand, Belinda adored her father and also felt sorry for him.
They often dined alone together in the evening. Sometimes, Belinda sat in
her mother's chair and "toasted" her father as she had seen the grown-ups
do at parties. After dinner, father and daughter frequently watched TV to­
gether; eventually, Belinda learned to mix her father's scotch and sodas.
Occasionally, when Angela returned home and found Timothy and Belinda
together, she made sarcastic remarks that positioned her husband and
daughter as a couple. Belinda recalled one such remark, delivered scathingly
by her mother, "Well, isn't this a lovely little domestic scene. I must admit,
Tim, she's about your speed. But, Belinda, darling, you could do so much
better." Belinda was 6 years old at the time.
When Belinda was 7 years old, her father began to sexually abuse her. As
they watched TV together, with Belinda on Timothy's lap, he kissed her in­
appropriately, licked her ears and neck, and fondled her thighs, telling her
how soft and sweet she was and calling her "Daddy's special little lovey."
One night, shortly after these activities had begun, Belinda awoke to the
smell of scotch and found her father lying next to her, pressing against her
with his erect penis. Terrified, confused, but also wanting to care for her fa­
ther, Belinda lay still while Timothy placed his penis between her legs and
moved both of them back and forth until he had orgasm and ejaculated. As
time went on, the molestations began to occur almost nightly and escalated
to include fondling of Belinda's breasts, digital penetration of her vagina, fel­
latio, and cunnilingus. The abuse ended abruptly when Belinda was 13 after
her father had intercourse with her for the first time. After that incident,
which may have frightened Timothy, Belinda perceives that her father with­
drew from her completely; he was seldom at home, spending most of his
evenings at a downtown bar.
Once, when she was 9 years old, Belinda tried to tell her mother about the
abuse. She said to her mother, "Mommy, Daddy sometimes comes into my
room at night and his thingy gets big, and he rubs it on me." To this, Angela
sarcastically responded, "Belinda, please, don't be ridiculous. Your father is
totally incapable of getting it up, even with a 9-year-old. You just wish he
was that much of a man. But he never was, and he's not now. So we're both
out of luck."
At some point, Belinda began to dissociate her father's abuse and also
split off her mother's hostilely neglectful response to her disclosure. By the
time she arrived at boarding school, a year after the sexual abuse ended,
Belinda had few memories of the sexual traumas and, in fact, recalled few
specific details about her childhood at all. Her parents seemed like dream­
like figures to her with whom she would feel vaguely uncomfortable during
188 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

visits home. Belinda began to arrange to spend holidays at the homes of

friends, stayed at school for two summers, ostensibly to take extra courses,
and convinced her parents to send her away as a camp counselor for another
two summers.
At boarding school, Belinda performed well academically and made two
close friendships that have lasted into adulthood. Other than these two girls,
Belinda remained removed from most of her classmates; she remembers
being on the periphery of a number of groups but never entered the center of
any of these. During her high school years, she dated a number of boys from
a brother boarding school; she did not engage in sex with any of these young
men, and, in fact, several relationships ended because the boys found her
sexually unresponsive. At the same time and unknown to any of her school
friends, Belinda was sexually promiscuous with "townies," older, working­
class boys and young men she met in a bar in the city in which her school
was located. During her boarding school years, Belinda also began to drink;
by her senior year, she was consuming more than a pint of scotch every
night. Although she tried marijuana once or twice, she never became in­
volved in any drug except alcohol. Also during her high school experience,
Belinda began to cut herself occasionally with a razor, carefully making non-
lethal slits in her upper thighs, between her legs where her father had once
placed his penis. In addition, she developed a bulimic pattern of bingeing on
sweets several times a week, after which she vomited. After vomiting or cut­
ting, Belinda would "feel better," although she was never sure in what way
she felt "bad"; she simply remembered a release of tension after the self­
destructive activities.
After graduating from boarding school, Belinda attended a Seven Sisters
college where she majored in literature and history. Repeating her boarding
school experience, she did well academically, made two close friends while
remaining only peripherally connected to other women, and split her rela­
tionships with men between primarily nonsexual dating relationships with
college men and promiscuous sexual adventures with working-class, usually
older men. By the end of college, her drinking had escalated to a fifth of
scotch a day, and she continued to cut and binge and purge.
After commencement, Belinda spent several months in Europe at her par­
ents' expense. These 6 months are still a blur of drunken partying, hang­
overs, and sexual promiscuity to Belinda. Often, she awoke with a man and
had no memory of who he was or how they had ended up together for the
night. Frequently, these were older men, sometimes married, whom she had
met at parties or in a bar.
Returning to the United States, Belinda obtained a job as an assistant to an
account executive for a major advertising agency. Professionally, Belinda did
very well, quickly being promoted until she reached a position of account
executive for one of the agency's most important clients. She was respected
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 189

by agency and account people alike for her ability to understand and ad­
dress both the business and creative needs of the client. A persistent criti­
cism during performance reviews, however, was that Belinda drank too
much during the entertaining that was a part of her job. Unfortunately, her
alcoholism worsened during the 6 years she was with the agency; when she
was 29, she was fired. At that point, she was drinking more than a quart of
scotch a night. The following year, she began therapy.
During the 6 years she worked in advertising, Belinda lived alone. She
maintained relationships with her four friends from boarding school and
college, seeing one or more of them weekly, but, beyond that, had no friend­
ships with women. Belinda also continued her pattern of nonsexually dating
"nice" men while promiscuously sleeping with older men, many of whom
were married, heavy drinkers whom she met in bars. Occasionally, she
never learned the name of a man with whom she had spent the night. She
had little contact with her parents through these years, and she periodically
continued to cut herself and to binge and purge.
Shortly after she was fired from the advertising agency, one of her board­
ing school friends had a serious talk with her. This woman confronted her
about her drinking, about the episodic bulimia, and about her sexual acting
out, which Belinda's friend suspected despite Belinda's attempts to keep it a
secret, even from herself. Something about this woman's concern moved
Belinda; the next morning, she attended her first AA meeting. Over the next
year, Belinda became well connected in AA, selecting and working with a
caring sponsor. As she sobered up, she began to examine the chaos and con­
tradictions in her life; she also started to experience disturbing physical sen­
sations—her vagina contracted whenever she saw a bottle of scotch, she
sometimes felt her thighs get big and swollen, and she became intensely
nauseated at the smell of Old Spice men's cologne. Finally, she dissociated;
she often felt numb and "spacy," with time taking on a dreamlike quality.
An AA associate, who was an incest survivor, recommended that Belinda go
into therapy. She decided to do so and obtained a therapist's name from an­
other therapist who conducted an intake and suspected a sexually traumatic
background.
Belinda was almost 30 when she presented for treatment. Despite the
years of drinking and self-abusive behaviors, she was strikingly attractive.
For a long time, she arrived for sessions dressed alternately in very tight
jeans, high-heeled boots, and provocatively low-cut, usually red or black
tops; in loose-fitting, pastel sweat suits that evoked in the therapist an associ­
ation to children's playclothes; or in expensive, sharply tailored, "preppy"
clothing. The therapist would later learn that these outfits reflected different
parts of Belinda's ego organization and, in turn, bespoke shifting levels of
functioning.
For the first 6 months of therapy, Belinda was in crisis. She was besieged
190 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

by unsymbolized traumatic memories, body memories, and dissociative

episodes that terrified and disorganized her. She wondered if she were
going crazy. Often, the only way she could end a disturbing experience was
to cut herself; this would temporarily return her. to "normal" functioning.
Transferentially, she sought in the therapist an omnipotent rescuer onto
whom she could collapse and on whom she could depend to relieve her suf­
fering. More subtly, she looked to the therapist to take control of her mind,
body, and functioning so that she would not have to experience the pain
and chaos with which she was trying to cope. The clinician responded to
Belinda by assuring her that the disorganizing experiences she was having
contained meaning, meaning that therapist and patient together could dis­
cover. Increasingly, these reassurances soothed her, reducing the panic she
felt about the experiences.
It was primarily outside of the sessions that Belinda experienced dissocia­
tions, unsymbolized body memories, and intense affects. In the consultation
room, the patient usually sat rigidly still, reporting these events with ab­
solutely no affect. Split off from her feelings, Belinda conveyed the emo­
tional wallop of her experiences through projective identification; it was the
therapist who felt nauseous, terrified, spacy, and who had seemingly inex­
plicable physical sensations such as vaginal pain and contractions and per­
ceived shifts in body size.
As Belinda became convinced that the therapist believed her experiences
held meaning and indicated an ability to tolerate the power of that meaning,
the patient began to associate to rather than simply report what was happen­
ing to her. When she did this, she started to recover the memories of her fa­
ther's sexual abuse and her mother's hostile neglect. This occurred primarily
through the emergence of a dissociated abused child imago.
It was during this period of treatment that the therapist realized that there
were, in fact, three aspects to Belinda's organization of self. The adult pa­
tient, embodied in Belinda's preppy look, had only hazy, impressionistic
memories of her traumatic past. Interpersonally isolated, highly intellectual-
ized, affectless, it was this part of Belinda who had worked successfully, or­
ganized the financial side of her life, and dated "nice" men. A dissociated
traumatized child ego state, concretely represented by Belinda's playclothes,
was much more primitively organized than the adult patient; it was this part
of Belinda that remembered the childhood traumas. Finally, an adolescent
part of Belinda, bespoken by tight jeans and sexy tops, acted out the rage
and hatred associated with the traumas. It was this aspect of Belinda that
drank, cut, vomited, and engaged in dangerously promiscuous sex.
A typical session during this phase of treatment often included the se­
quential emergence of all three aspects of Belinda. The adult part of her usu­
ally arrived for session. Her primary transference to the therapist encapsu­
lated a yearning for the clinician to make sense of her experiences, to think
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 191

when she could not and to integrate for her that which was fragmented. At
the same time, Belinda feared the therapist's very ability to penetrate the
chaos and confusion that, after all, protected her from knowledge of her
traumatic past. Both these transferences of the adult patient had a distant,
intellectualized quality to which the therapist internally responded with dis­
tance and some indifference. Here, transference to the clinician as a hoped-
for rescuer and an abuser was. conveyed by the patient through an identifica­
tion with and enactment of her internalized mother's unavailability. In turn,
the therapist also felt mildly indifferent toward Belinda, repeating, albeit to a
much lesser extreme, Belinda's mother's neglect.
When the dissociated abused child aspect of the patient emerged to ver­
balize and enact the trauma, more intense transference-countertransference
constellations were set into play. There were two primary transferences of
the abused child imago to the therapist. One was to the clinician as an ideal­
ized, omnipotent rescuer who would finally listen and alleviate the pain and
terror inside which this child had long been trapped and isolated. To this
transference, the clinician responded with intense feelings of wanting to save
and nurture. Deeply moved by this abused child self's pain, neediness, and
resiliency, the therapist often fantasized about mothering this aspect of
Belinda.
Another transference of the dissociated traumatized child was to the
therapist as victimizer, one more adult who would ultimately betray
or abuse her. Most specifically, the child part of Belinda feared that the
clinician would "make" her get closer to the patient's adult part. Acknowl­
edging that as the ultimate therapeutic goal, the therapist felt like an abuser
and betrayer of childlike trust. Sometimes, the therapist was tempted to
abandon the analytic work by promising to care forever for the dissociated
abused child. This, of course,.-also would repeat Belinda's father's insistence
that his daughter remain tied to him in a way that precluded growth and au­
tonomy.
Yet other transference-countertransference configurations coincided with
the emergence and work with adolescent aspects of Belinda. Identified with
the omnipotence, rage, and underlying terror enacted by both her parents,
the adolescent part of the patient consciously and defensively viewed the
therapist with contempt, as a bumbling, ineffectual intruder who only could
"screw up the works" for her. Less consciously, the adolescent part of
Belinda yearned for and simultaneously feared an adult figure who would
set appropriate limits on her compulsive wrecking by helping her to contain
and express her rage in more hopeful ways. In other words, the adolescent
self longed to hope but, trusting no one other than herself, smashed hope in
order to maintain control and to stave off a bitter, inevitable disappointment.
This adolescent part of the patient also railed at the clinician who was expe­
rienced as trying to seduce Belinda into believing empty promises that heal­
192 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

ing could occur through the therapeutic work. In turn, the therapist fre­
quently felt intimidated by the power of the adolescent self's rage and by the
impressive array of acting-out behaviors this part of the patient displayed.
When Belinda "proudly" displayed a fresh gouge she had inflicted on her­
self hours after the last session or "bragged" about sleeping with a new­
comer to AA, thus enacting her father's abusiveness, the therapist experi­
enced herself as viciously attacked, abused, helpless, and impotently
enraged. On the other hand, when the clinician attempted to elicit coopera­
tion and trust from Belinda, she often felt shamelessly seductive and won­
dered if, in fact, she was beguiling the patient with a promise of hope and
healing on which she could never deliver.
As the adult Belinda became aware more fully of the heretofore dissoci­
ated child and adolescent aspects of her and became more conscious of their
memories, motives, and defenses, she felt betrayed by the therapist who she
experienced as forcing her to look at and work with memories and self and
object representations of which she wanted no part. Why could not the clini­
cian and the other parts of her just go away and leave her in peace?
Frequently, the clinician identified with the hope the patient was afraid to
feel and incongruently responded with optimism to the patient's pessimism
and anger. Sometimes, this replicated Belinda's neglectful mother, narcissis-
tically preoccupied with professional success, and thus out of touch with
Belinda's internal states and affects.
In addition to the transferences and countertransferences between the
therapist and each aspect of Belinda, there were transferences and counter­
transferences bespeaking each part's reactions to the others. For example,
Belinda the adult utterly hated the little girl part of her, blaming her for the
current pain and disorganization, as well as for the original abuse. Belinda
wanted to "kill that kid right out of me." The child self, on the other hand,
felt that Belinda the adult had betrayed her by growing up and, thus, could
not be trusted. In session the child self would petulantly refuse to share her
memories with her adult counterpart, feeling that the adult Belinda would
only hold them in contempt as once her mother did. Belinda's adolescent
self, on the other hand reacted to the child with a superior protectiveness.
She agreed that the adult should stay out of the kid's life, asserting that she,
the adolescent, would take care of both the child and herself. The child, on
the other hand, feared the adolescent's rage and potential for acting out en­
capsulated within the adolescent aspects of the patient while respecting the
feistiness of this part of Belinda. The adolescent self held the adult patient in
complete contempt, berating her for her "wimpiness" and refusal to ac­
knowledge the sexual abuse. The adult patient, at the same time, feared the
intense rage and hatred embedded within more adolescent parts of her;
Belinda the adult wanted to just let the adolescent self "be." It was the thera­
pist's task and challenge to introduce each part of Belinda to the others in a
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 193

new way, interpreting the motives, fears, pain, and defenses of each to the
others.
At the end of about 4 years, the therapy entered a new phase. By now, the
adult, child, and adolescent parts of the patient were acquainted and shared
mental contents (e.g., traumatic memories, knowledge of each other's activi­
ties and moods). Although the patient was far from whole, disparate ele­
ments of her had achieved a modicum of acknowledgment and accommoda­
tion. The crisis period of extreme extratherapeutic dissociation and the recall
of trauma through unsymbolized and body memories had passed. It seemed
as if Belinda, now conscious of many aspects of her childhood abuse and ne­
glect, once again put the sexual trauma to the side in order to more fully ex­
plore and work through her pre- and posttrauma relationship with her
mother.
For a protracted period of time, Belinda's therapy centered on her rela­
tionship with her narcissistically involved, hostilely neglectful mother.
During this phase of treatment, Belinda often identified with her internal­
ized mother, withholding from and depriving the therapist. There were long
silences on the part of the patient during which she deflected any attempt by
the clinician to make contact. Frequently, the therapist felt ravenously hun­
gry after a session and, in general, experienced herself as rejected, frustrated,
and in despair at not being able to connect with Belinda. The therapist found
herself working harder and harder to engage with her patient, countertrans-
ferentially enacting Belinda's attempts to elicit her mother's attention and in­
volvement.
During this period of treatment, there was also a transference to the thera­
pist as victim and as victimizer. Certain that she was incredibly toxic,
Belinda recurrently fantasized that she was filled with small, filthy, black
bugs that might crawl out onto her body, shocking and disgusting the thera­
pist. The bugs represented remnants of the poisonous psychological feed­
ings Belinda had received from both parents; she felt possessed by them and
feared that they would frighten and disorganize the clinician as Belinda was
once terrorized and rendered internally chaotic. When Belinda talked about
her bugs, the therapist experienced a wish to rescue; she fantasized about
cradling Belinda in her arms, gently picking off the bugs, or about allowing
Belinda to vomit the bugs into the waste basket while she held her hair back
out of her way.
Beneath the transference to the therapist as victim of Belinda's toxicity
was, of course, a paranoid fear that the clinician, reacting to Belinda with
disgust, would victimize the patient by abandoning her. In fact, Belinda
sometimes verbalized her fear that the therapist would "throw (her) out of
therapy." This transference included elements of the therapist as seductress,
offering an availability and constancy that was tenuous and could be shat­
tered, and of the clinician as hostile mother who would abusively abandon
194 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

the patient to her bugs as her mother once abandoned her to her father.
Sometimes, the therapist responded to these transferences as an omnipotent
rescuer and felt guilty about such necessary "abandonments" as vacations or
sick days. At other times, the clinician experienced herself as victimized by
Belinda's implicit demand that she continously prove and reprove her will­
ingness to stay in’ relationship with the patient for the duration of the treat­
ment.
Toward the end of this phase of treatment, Belinda risked becoming more
vulnerable with the therapist, explicitly expressing both loving and hateful
feelings. Now, the clinician became in the transference a long yeamed-for
good-enough mother, neither ideal nor narcissistically neglectful. Belinda, at
this point, seemed to move out of a paranoid/schizoid relationship with the
therapist into a depressive position in which gratitude and disappointment
could coexist, inform each other, and be openly expressed. The establish­
ment of the therapist as a good-enough mother ushered in a phase of thera­
peutic work in which the sexual abuse was once again of paramount impor­
tance.
Signaling entry into this period of treatment was Belinda's repeated dis­
cussion of extratherapeutic interactions that were portrayed as abusive or,
conversely, spoken of with a contempt that betrayed underlying fear of both
their power and their attractiveness. At the same time, Belinda wondered
why the therapist would want to work with incest survivors, suggesting that
perhaps the clinician "got off on" stories of abuse. Sometimes, the therapist
felt abusive and unnecessarily voyeuristic, and questioned her own motives
for involving herself in this work. Belinda frequently expressed fury at and
contempt for interventions she experienced as intrusive or as ridiculously
impotent. Here, Belinda unconsciously bespoke an identification with her in­
ternalized mother, belittling the clinician as inadequate as Angela had once
devalued Timothy. At another level, however, Belinda adaptively was giv­
ing voice to the fury at having been abused that she had never been able to
convey openly during the childhood victimizations. Now, the adolescent as­
pect of her grew closer to the adult patient, as Belinda transferentially hurled
hate and rage at the therapist rather than self-destructively acting it out.
Although the power of Belinda's anger was impressive, the therapist was ex­
cited and enlivened by the patient's free verbalization of these feelings. It
should be noted that, during this phase of treatment, Belinda would at times
defensively retreat to enactment of transference reactions more reflective of
her relationship with her mother.
As Belinda's working through of her fury waned, she entered a phase of
intense mourning for her lost childhood, and new transference-countertrans-
ference paradigms were set into play.
During this period of treatment, Belinda acutely experienced the pain of
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 195

her lost childhood, as well as the loss of her compensatory fantasied good
parents. Now, the dissociated little girl became closer to the adult patient
who keenly felt childlike neediness and bereavement. Belinda, at this point,
reacted to the clinician as an evil seductress, who, promising healing and
health, had stripped Belinda of her defenses, leaving her aware and alone.
Also experiencing the therapist as a vicious abuser, Belinda accused her of
taking control of an innocent patient and forcing her to face things that
might have been better left untouched. The therapist, railed Belinda, knew
what would happen if treatment went on, and now look at what had hap­
pened. Belinda's world was shattered. She knew too much. She knew more
than she had ever wanted to know. And what, Belinda wanted to know,
was the therapist going to do about all this. Now that she had robbed
Belinda of her childhood and her defenses, how was the clinician going to
make up for all this loss? Frequently, the therapist experienced the full mea­
sure of guilt that Belinda's parents should have felt for betraying, abusing,
and negelcting her. She found herself fantasizing about all kinds of ways to
make reparation, from bringing Belinda home with her to bake chocolate
chip cookies, to planning trips to Disneyland that she and Belinda would
share. It was difficult but, as the therapist knew, imperative to avoid trun­
cating the patient's mourning process. At the same time, however, she en­
couraged Belinda to fantasize about and express ways in which she wanted
the analyst to come through with reparation. Belinda and the therapist then
played with these fantasies in session, with the clinician tacitly acknowledg­
ing the legitimacy of her patient's needs and relational strivings.
Eventually, as Belinda's grief was worked through, the patient transferred
her longings to appropriate extratherapeutic objects; she got a roommate,
made new friends, and began dating an emotionally available and playful
man, for the first time combining sexual and emotional intimacy in one rela­
tionship.
Now, another phase of treatment began during which Belinda experi­
enced and reworked an oedipal conflict. During this period, Belinda's trans­
ference to the therapist was as a fantasied romantic partner, a possible
abuser who would inappropriately put into action romantic fantasies, and as
a potentially dangerous sexual competitor. Romantic feelings about the clini­
cian were primarily communicated nonverbally, through looks, tone of
voice, and small gifts of flowers and food. Derivatives bespoke Belinda's at­
traction to the therapist as pretty and full of life. The patient also more
overtly expressed jealousy about other patients with whom she had to share
the therapist and about the clinician's husband, who had not been men­
tioned by the patient until this time. Countertransferentially, the therapist
delighted in Belinda's shyly expressed romance and felt protective toward
the patient, wanting nothing to disrupt the natural unfolding of this work.
196 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Derivatives, including references to a friend who had been sexually abused

by a psychiatrist with whom she was in treatment, allowed the therapist to
know that Belinda was unconsciously attuned to the clinician's reactions to
her, alert to any signs that the therapist might sexually abuse her. This in­
creased her sense of protectiveness toward Belinda.
At the same time that Belinda was engaging the therapist in an oedipal
romance, derivatives suggested that she also was reacting to her as a poten­
tially envious and dangerous competitor who would narcissistically crush
her childlike sexuality. The clinician had a recurrent fantasy of herself as
Snow White's wicked stepmother, so threatened by a child's loveliness that
she was driven to have her killed.
Finally, at least in terms of the transference and countertransference is­
sues discussed in these chapters, Belinda moved into a period of startlingly
powerful adolescentlike sexuality, during which she seemed totally im­
mersed in identifying and experimenting with herself as a sexual being. She
arrived for sessions appropriately yet seductively dressed, sporting new per­
fumes, colors, hairstyles, and makeup. Her transference to the therapist vac­
illated between come-hither seductiveness, competition, and terror that the
clinician would either cling to her possessively or reject her entirely.
Within the seductive transference to the therapist, Belinda's flirtations
were more clearly sexually tinged than ever before, and she sometimes se­
ductively draped herself on the couch, exposing more of her legs than usual.
To this, the therapist responded with frank sexual arousal and wry amuse­
ment at the sexy teenager her once-terrified patient had become. At the same
time, Belinda also competed with the clinician. She sometimes compared
their outfits or hairstyles, subtly (or not so subtly!) devaluing the therapist as
just not quite fashionably "with it." The therapist, in turn, found herself
wondering if, in fact, it was not time for a new wardrobe and a makeover. In
addition, the clinician experienced envy, but also appreciation, of Belinda's
newfound sexual freedom and vitality; it was clear that, for the first time in
her life, Belinda was finding comfort in her sexuality. Finally, Belinda openly
expressed concern that the therapist disapproved of her deepening relation­
ship with her boyfriend, indicating a fear of the clinician's potential posses­
siveness. Belinda also worried that the therapist might feel that she no
longer needed therapy, thus abandoning her as her father once did. In fact,
the clinician experienced deep satisfaction, albeit combined with a sense of
loss and some envy, that Belinda was involved in a wonderful extrathera­
peutic romance. The therapist also recognized, however, that continued ther­
apy would be needed for some time.

This clinical vignette presents examples of the emergence of various

transference and countertransference configurations in the psychoanalyti­
 Transference and Countertransference: A Case Example 197

cally oriented treatment of one adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse. It

is necessarily somewhat schematic and does not reflect all the shifts, dra-
matic and subtle, that occurred over the course of an extensive treatment.
We think, however, that the work with Belinda outlined here does provide
the flavor of the myriad of relational paradigms with which the analyst is
confronted in psychoanalytic treatment with this population.
 CHAPTER 11

Technical Considerations in Treatment

N EACH OF THE CHAPTERS presented thus far we have looked at the

I
psychoanalytically oriented treatment of adult survivors of childhood
sexual abuse from one of a series of different, often overlapping perspec­
tives. At the risk of being occasionally redundant, such a format best com­
municates our belief that, although every treatment is a unique experience
between patient and therapist, work with adult survivors involves the reca­
pitulation of certain characteristic issues that the working clinician can come
to anticipate with some degree of confidence. The manifestations of these is­
sues as they emerge in the transference-countertransference unfolding serve
the therapist as points of reference, beacons of light through the enshrouding
fog of passionate, shifting, and endlessly mind-boggling reenactments as
they occur in therapy. Ultimately, we hope to familiarize clinicians with the
implications of certain therapeutic choice points, at a time when the capacity
for quiet reflection and introspection are undisrupted by the heat of the
transference-countertransference moment.
In this chapter and the next, we wish to move toward the evolution of a
treatment model for psychoanalytically oriented work with adult survivors
of childhood sexual abuse. In so doing we wish to shape a model that has the
fluidity to move with the contours of each particular therapeutic interaction
yet serve as an effective map for traversing what we have come to know as a
particularly hazardous course. Although the map allows room for many
routes via which different patient-therapist dyads can reach a common
point, critical choices along the way must be made with an eye toward the
strengths and weaknesses of the particular travelers, as well as the respectful
recognition that each route involves the necessary negotiation of certain crit­
ical, equally precarious and potentially explosive obstacles.
We will begin with a review of the assumptions made throughout this
book about the particular psychic organization of our patients, the nature of
the therapeutic experience, and our beliefs about the mutative factors im­
plicit in our notion of treatment. Where such a review becomes redundant to
the reader, we apologize; we viewed such an attempt to synthesize and inte-
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 199

grate the treatment recommendations scattered throughout this work as a

pressing clinical need, worthy of some repetition. z
/

Assumptions about the Patient

The adult survivor of childhood sexual abuse is a victim of chronic trauma

that varies only by degree and is subject to all the long-term sequelae we
have come to associate with PTSD and delayed PTSD, such as dissociation,
sudden regression, disorganization of thought processes, visual and so­
matic representations of as-yet unformulated memory. We maintain that a
psychoanalytically oriented treatment is the best way to resolve the now-
internalized system of pathological identifications and counteridentifica­
tions that volley in dissociated form between therapist and patient with truly
dizzying rapidity and to work through the reality/distorting/preserving
system of defenses established to maintain a sense of integrity against
overwhelming ego assault. However, such treatment needs to incorporate
without exception a familiarity with clinical research on traumatic responses
and to reach an accommodation between such contemporary research and the
conduct of the psychoanalytic encounter.
Any such treatment must, above and beyond all else, take into account
the primacy of dissociative mechanisms around which the adult survivor
has organized her internal world. The separate and mutually exclusive orga­
nizations of particular aspects of self in relationship to often disparate repre­
sentations of significant others emerges from the literature as the single most
common way in which adult survivors attempt to recapture the perplexity
bom of the fact that their abusers and those who ignored or permitted their
abuse were often, at other times and places, loving and beloved objects. Only
through dissociation can the adult survivor find the capacity to maintain
such irreconcilable and disparate experiences of significant others and to ac­
commodate the representations of self that grow out of such polar experi­
ences with others. The earlier the abuse, the more chronic the abuse, and the
closer the relationship between abuser and victim, the more pervasive the
dissociative structure of the personality will be.
Where such dissociation becomes the hallmark of personality organiza­
tion, some, most, or all of the patient's memories of childhood sexual abuse
come to be cordoned off into a separate internalized system of self and object
representations that can then either be maintained unformulated and out of
awareness or coexist in alternative, yet mutually exclusive, patterns of ac­
cessability to consciousness. These dissociated states also involve different
affects, different levels of ego organization, and different physiological states
incorporating the unsymbolized somatic representations of intense danger
and the bodily memories of specific abuse. Such separately structured and
200 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

dissociated states, organized around inescapable threats to the patient's ego

integrity, prove to be particularly sensitive to external environmental trig­
gers reminiscent of the original trauma. Certainly, the reenactment of early
relational paradigms in the transference-countertransference experiences
that unfold within psychoanalytic treatment can serve as powerful examples
of such triggers, signaling the return of state-dependent memories unique to
the traumatogenic experiences. The return of such experiences may occur as
the accessibility of memories previously forgotten, but is equally as likely to
involve a reenactment whose meaning will be formulated for the first time
as the situation is interpreted by patient and therapist together.
The clinician unfamiliar with the return of such previously dissociated
material may initially become alarmed by its particular qualities. Dissociated
material intrudes disruptively and without apparent meaning. It has never
been symbolized, and its appearance is unexpected, triggered by arbitrary
and, at first, unidentified events. Such events may be external or part of the
transference-countertransference enactment between patient and therapist.
Either way, the manifestations are often intense, disruptive, only vaguely
embedded in any kind of identifiably meaningful context, and are all too
often confused with the early symptoms of a burgeoning psychotic process.
The difficulty with such a formulation is that, in equating it with serious
mental disturbance, therapist and family are often moved toward heroic ef­
forts to recontain and silence the emergence of these alarming states, thus
foreclosing for a second time on the all-important opportunity to establish
meaningful connections between these experiences and past events.
Hospitalization, excessive or inappropriate medication, even shock treat­
ments have been used in well-meaning, though misguided, attempts to
avoid what initially looked like a severe decompensation. Although we be­
lieve that medication and occasionally hospitalization may be necessary in
helping the patient to effectively contain the reemergence of traumatic
events, it is imperative for the success of the treatment that such efforts be
made with a knowledge and understanding of dissociative processes, and in
the spirit of containment—not foreclosure. In this chapter, as we focus on
specific treatment strategies, we will consider ways in which the therapist
can help the patient to contain such unbearable anxieties and, in so doing, fa­
cilitate the patient's availability for treatment. Such containment is a neces­
sary precondition for further work but it is not in itself a goal of therapy.

Assumptions about the Therapist's Role

Our assumptions about the nature of the therapist's role in the treatment of
adult survivors begin with the fundamental belief that such traumatic dis­
ruption in early object bonds as that which we have come to associate with
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 201

childhood sexual abuse can only be ameliorated within the confines of an in­
tense therapeutic relationship—specifically, the kind we know to occur in
psychoanalysis and psychoanalytically oriented psychotherapy. Although
the full, emotionally charged abreaction of traumatic memory is essential to
successful treatment, we also know it to be insufficient in accomplishing the
kind of long-term changes we seek in the patient's current interpersonal
world. Such changes require not only a thorough recovery of otherwise dis­
sociated traumatic object relationships and related fantasy—via the triggers
embedded in transference-countertransference reenactments—but also a
systematic working-through of the particular constellation of pathological
defenses used by the patient to preserve some semblance of adequate exter­
nal functioning despite the most intense forms of external and internal pres­
sures.
The art of such a treatment rests with the therapist's capacity to strike an
optimal balance between reworking the old and cocreating the new.
Although we do not aim at reparenting the patient—in fact, regard such at­
tempts as seriously inhibiting the mourning process intrinsic to our treat­
ment model—we do consider the establishment of a safe holding environ­
ment against which passionate, often violent, enactments can safely occur to
be imperative to therapeutic success. As Winnicott (1954-1955) believed that
each baby required two mothers, "an environment mother" and "an object
mother," we hold that each adult survivor of traumatic abuse requires two
therapists: one who will, like the environment mother, hold, integrate, regu­
late, and modulate, and another who, like the "object mother," will survive
the onslaught of intensely passionate and violent reenactments ultimately
drawn upon herself.
By allowing for, even encouraging, such a dissociative split in the patient's
experience of the transference, within transference-countertransference reen­
actments, therapists are capable of reproducing the same coexistent levels of
meaning that define the adult trauma survivor's experience of both the inter­
nal object world and the external world of interpersonal relationships.
Within such a construction of the analytic frame, analysts can evoke multi­
ple, yet simultaneous, experiences of self and other that make possible the
maintenance of an erratic and unpredictable but set course through the pow­
erfully turbulent storm. As the "environment therapist" functions ade­
quately in such a role, new structure-building experiences of other and self
in relation to other are forged and internalized. This process occurs in syn­
chrony with the most violently disruptive reenactments between patient and
"object therapist" imaginable. It is, paradoxically, the moments of most sav­
age and frenzied reenactment that speak to and strengthen the extraordinary
holding powers of the adequately functioning "environment therapist." As
the vehemence of each untamed crisis gives way to understanding bom of
active interpretive work, the patient is strengthened by the growing capacity
202 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

to withstand and, ultimately, transcend. In seemingly endless progression,

the self and object world are tom apart by traumatic reenactments, working
toward the illusive reconfiguration of the old internal matrices, but always
with the only vaguely perceptible presence of a 'secondary transference­
countertransference constellation that holds, soothes, heals, and ultimately
potentiates new, integrative organizations of such traumatically sundered
internal representations. We believe that in such a way the age-old contro­
versy between the therapist as creator of new and healthier experience and
the therapist as interpreter of old and pathological experience can finally
come together and coexist with fluid grace.

The Treatment Model

In chapter 1, we outlined five components we believe to be endemic to the

treatment of adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Although we do not
believe that such components involve specific and orderly stages of the
work, we do believe that they comingle, moving in and out of positions of
primacy as different issues take shape within the therapeutic interaction.
These constituent elements are: (1) containment; (2) recovery and disclosure
of traumatic memories and fantasied elaborations; (3) symbolization and en­
coding of memory and experience; (4) integration of disparate self and object
systems and of other reality-distorting defenses; and (5) internalization of a
new object relationship.

Containment
One defining feature of work with patients who suffer from previously
dissociated aspects of traumatic states is the psychologically and physiologi­
cally mediated states of terror and hyperarousal that repeatedly flood at­
tempts at therapeutic clarification. The activation of such regressive states of
disorganization and confusion by unidentified conditioned stimuli in the en­
vironment and within therapy renders the patient unavailable for the kinds
of ego-mediated, cognitive interventions relied on in traditional psychoana­
lytic work. The resurgence of such uncontained states of hyperarousal dur­
ing the course of treatment are concretely experienced by the patient as re­
traumatizations by the therapist who stands by, apparently ineffectually,
while the patient is overwhelmed by the same states of meaningless terror
that once accompanied experiences of abuse. Such perceived helplessness on
the part of the therapist reinvokes the image of the ineffectual parent who
could do nothing to protect her child from extreme forms of abuse.
Interpretations, at such times, are at best ineffective and at worst are experi­
enced as foreign and hostilely motivated penetrations of the patient by the
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 203

therapist/abuser in the transference-countertransference enactment. In ei­

ther case, such regressive states of confusion, disorientation, terror, and hy­
perarousal render the patient unavailable for analytically oriented interven­
tions.
Clearly, the therapist must be active in helping the patient to contain such
disorganizing and repetitive experiences of terrifying regression. Such activ­
ity, we believe, involves the action of both the "environment" therapist and
the "object" therapist. Ultimately, it becomes the task of the "environment"
therapist, facilitating emotional and cognitive availability on the part of the
patient, that will allow the treatment to progress from interventions aimed at
symptom abatement to those focusing on insightful reconstruction and inter­
pretation of the abusive and counterabusive reenactments in the transfer­
ence and countertransference. As the "environment therapist" helps to con­
tain and achieve cognitive availability on the part of the patient, the "object
therapist" draws to herself the recapitulation of toxic introjects, working
from the inside to diffuse via reenactment and active interpretation their re­
ality-distorting potential. Therapists are always shifting between "holding"
from the outside and reworking from the inside; between the background of
containment and integration and the foreground of active interpretation of
transference-countertransference paradigms, ever conscious of the patient's
struggle to contain traumatic levels of highly sexualized overstimulation.
This is by no one's standards an easy task, especially as one of the defining
features of "trauma" rests in its pernicious and tenacious assault on the ex­
perienced integrity and survival of self. However, the struggle to maintain a
sense of control during the recapitulation of abusive childhood traumas does
persist as a thematic subtext throughout the course of such turbulent treat­
ments. It falls to the therapist undertaking this work to play both melody
and harmony in concert with the patient's as yet unstudied attempts at a
counterpoint duet.
In the end, the new, intense, and trusting bond between patient and ther­
apist—that which survives and emerges out of the maelstrom of relentlessly
hazardous exposure to transference-countertransference challenges and
threats—will, it is hoped, come to serve as the most reliable and intransigent
buffer between the patient and her world of traumatic objectlessness.
Internalization of the therapeutic relationship will forever change the pa­
tient's internal system of self and object representation organized around
traumatic memories. For, as these memories are reenacted and worked
through with the therapist, they no longer exist in the world of isolation and
despair that was for so long the home of the abused child. However, such
steadfastness of object constancy in the face of the kinds of therapeutic inter­
actions we have described is a goal of the treatment, not a bedrock of the
therapeutic process either at its initial stages or as it traverses some of the
dangerous terrains to be anticipated.
204 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Certain specific interventions can be helpful when the holding functions

of treatment and of the therapist are strained to the limits. Any therapeutic
attempts to enhance the patient's experience of control, mastery, and compe­
tence in the face of terrifying disorganization can only facilitate the therapy.
Certainly, the analyst must learn extreme patience, allowing the patient to
control the timing and progression of reconstructive work, as she struggles
to keep anxiety and panic within tolerable limits. Seen as the concrete sym­
bolic embodiment of the abusing other, the analytic process must not be al­
lowed to overtake the patient's ego-coping mechanisms. At first, the respon­
sibility for timing and pacing lies with the therapist, but one of the
therapeutic tasks is the slow and steady relinquishment of this ego function.
By assisting the patient to time and control the emergence of traumatic mem­
ory, the treatment process symbolically speaks to the patient's growing ca­
pacity to control and set limits for her abuser. Such control is often further
enhanced by helping the patient to anticipate when the return of certain
memories or the reenactment and interpretation of certain events in the
treatment situation may trigger a period of particularly regressive experi­
ences. For example, memories themselves can become equated in the pa­
tient's mind with the powers of the abusive other; certain therapeutic strate­
gies can help to contain the disorganization that often accompanies memory.
Amelia was a 29-year-old law student whose treatment had focused on a
prolonged period of rather sadistic sexual abuse at the hands of her maternal
grandfather. Between the ages of 5 and 7, when her family had been forced
to move in with her maternal grandparents, Amelia's grandfather had terri­
fied and overwhelmed the child by insisting on various forms of painful sex­
ual contact. The patient never told her parents or her grandmother, as she
was unwilling to destroy what she described as an otherwise close-knit fam­
ily; and although she remembered the fact of the abuse, she had been unable
thus far to recall specific incidents with full emotional accessability during
therapy. Her experience, however, was that her grandfather's presence had
dominated her life, that "even the happiest times were infused with his dan­
gerous and powerful presence."
Amelia's upcoming wedding to a fellow classmate was scheduled one
month prior to the time in treatment to be described. Approximately a year
earlier, her fiance had been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness that re­
quired extensive surgery and a long recuperative process. As the surgery
had been judged a complete success and the doctors had just announced
Amelia's fiance to be entirely "disease free," the upcoming wedding was
likely to be a singularly joyous occasion in the patient's life, a dual celebra­
tion for the couple and for the families involved.
As the day of her wedding approached, Amelia became plagued by a se­
ries of nightmares that began to portend the reemergence of many of the spe­
cific memories that she had sought in her treatment. As one would expect,
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 205

her moods became erratic, her nights sleepless, her anxiety was reaching un­
manageable limits, and she was plagued by vague yet painful and inexplica­
ble somatic symptoms. The therapist was in a quandary. Clearly, the analytic
work was moving toward the recovery of some critical material, and yet the
timing of this "breakthrough" could not have been worse. The patient herself
felt what she described as an "urgent, driven pressure to continue remember­
ing, whatever the cost!" It was the therapist who ultimately had to call a
moratorium of sorts on the work of recovering traumatic memories, remind­
ing the patient that somehow her grandfather's presence had ruined so many
significant and potentially happy moments for her. "It's as if the grandfather
within you has planned the return of these memories; he cannot allow you
this uniquely joyous time without somehow exerting his presence on the pro­
ceedings." The therapist went on to add, "We have so much time after the
wedding, after your honeymoon; why not wait. Why not tell your grandfa­
ther that we are not going to let him spoil this occasion like he's spoiled so
many others?" The patient began to cry quietly. She clenched her fists as if
ready for a fight, saying only, "That's right, this is mine ... this is mine."
While the patient was away, she sent the therapist a brief note: "There
was a lurking presence; the hint of a shadow. He was there, but only in the
background. It was clear that for the first time I had the upper hand; I had to
be aware, stay in control ... but in the end the day belonged to me." When
the patient returned, she had no difficulty resuming the work that had been
interrupted in this way. Indeed, the work seemed easier; the patient was in
more control of dosing and containing traumatic memories; and there were
fewer times when she became overwhelmed and disorganized by them.
In most situations, such a complementary and shifting focus on contain­
ment and interpretation will be sufficient in dealing with the emerging clini­
cal material. However, where the abuse was particularly overwhelming to
the child, either because of a particularly sadistic process, a particularly early
onset, or because of the nature of the relationship between victim and
abuser, the patient and therapist may be unable to fend off the disorganiza­
tion and regression that accompany any attempt to deal with this material.
Here the therapist must resort to other techniques that will enhance the pa­
tient's sense of control and prevent the experience of retraumatization.
We have found that many patients do well with a combination of behav­
ioral and psychoanalytic techniques. Although we do not recommend the
use of hypnosis by the therapist in facilitating disclosure, as this is often
viewed by the patient as a form of therapeutic domination and invasive con-
tol and has proven to be unnecessary in facilitating the disclosure of trau­
matic memories, it has been our experience that such techniques can be used
by the patient to enhance her experience of control and containment (Spiegel,
1986). The patient is taught any of a number of deep-relaxation exercises,
processes akin to self-hypnotic techniques, that promote a form of physical
206 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

and mental self-control and sense of well-being and can be used before, dur­
ing, and after the disclosure of traumatic memories. In a typical case, the
therapist chooses a relaxation technique and teaches it to the patient in ses­
sion until it can be used effectively to help the patient to modulate gradually
escalating degrees of anxiety, working up, eventually, to experiences of sex­
ualized traumatic overstimulation. This technique can also be used by the
patient outside of therapy in dealing with uncontrollable flashbacks and ex­
periences of panic secondary to such flashbacks. It is important that the ther­
apist explain the relaxation technique as a process designed to enhance the
patient's self-control. It empowers the patient to do clinical work without an
experience of disorganization and retraumatization that otherwise could not
be done. If the process is used only to help the patient to control this anxiety
and later on to more effectively shut down the repetitive flashbacks that
plague her extratherapy hours, it is not likely to arouse a paranoid suspicion
of violation and attempted control. If it is attempted too early, or if the thera­
pist is less than scrupulous in the ways such techniques are used, it may
have the effect of fortifying the patient's paranoid defenses, and prevent fur­
ther clinical work. If used effectively, self-hypnosis can serve a crucial role in
preventing unnecessary regression, avoiding the need for excessive medica­
tion or even hospitalization during the working-through process.
Although the specifics of such techniques are well beyond the scope of
this book, many excellent texts describe the use of behavioral techniques in
the treatment of PTSD (see, for example, Spiegel & Spiegel, 1978). We recom­
mend that analytically trained clinicians working with adult survivors of
any childhood trauma familiarize themselves with these methods and think
through before the need arises any resistances they may have to using them
in the context of an analytically oriented treatment. In working with adult
survivors, crises emerge erratically and unpredictably; and there are many
occasions in which some nontraditional parameter must be used to fend off
a complete decompensation. Schooling the patient in noninvasive, deep­
relaxation techniques prior to the crisis often gives the clinician a relatively
benign way of helping the patient to cope with the panic without foreclosing
on the emergence of the problematic clinical material.
Within the context of a psychoanalytically oriented treatment, such exer­
cises can be used to serve another, primarily symbolic function. If patient
and therapist have worked together in achieving the kind of deep relaxation
that can facilitate the emergence and containment of traumatic memory, the
exercise itself will come to symbolically evoke the therapist's presence at
critical times when she is not available to the patient. The ability to symboli­
cally evoke the therapist's presence, particularly at times of crisis but also be­
tween sessions, in the middle of the night, during vacations, and so on, forti­
fies a growing capacity for object constancy that renders the traumatic
isolation of the abused child less toxic. As the patient becomes increasingly
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 207

able to evoke the therapist's symbolic presence at times of intense hyper­

arousal, she is assuming responsibility for her own psychic survival and is,
by so doing, also addressing the often desperate dependency she feels on the
therapist—in and of itself a source of dangerous overstimulation.
Adequate containment also involves dealing in a protective way with the
patient's violent, self-abusive, and suicidal threats. Failure to do so involves
a reenactment of the role of the denying and unseeing parent, but attempts
at too strident an intervention suggest experiences of domination and inva­
sive control. Either contribute to a decreased experience of safety and con­
tainment for both patient and therapist and threaten to abruptly terminate
the therapeutic endeavor through transference or countertransference acting
out. In addition to the active transference-countertransference interpretation
required to identify the place of such violence in the psychic equilibrium of
abused patients, the relaxation techniques offer the patient a concrete substi­
tute for the sedating, self-regulatory aspects of self-abusive behaviors de­
scribed in chapter 7.
When all else fails, the therapist must be ready to use medication and, ul­
timately, hospitalization to contain the patient's unbearably painful or vio­
lent and self-abusive behaviors. Many medications can be effective in help­
ing to contain experiences of panic, dissociation, and depression (Courtois,
1988, van der Kolk, 1988; ), and active research continues with new drugs
and new applications of already available substances. A psychiatric consul­
tation may be necessary when states of traumatic hyperarousal become un­
manageable; however, the referring clinician should make sure that the psy­
chiatrist chosen is familiar with the treatment of traumatic stress disorders
and capable of adequately differentiating them from other psychotic
processes.
Where hospitalization becomes unavoidable, the therapist should make
sure that this occurs at a facility where she will be able to continue treating
the patient in concert with the hospital's treatment team. It is almost un­
avoidable that the patient will view such a hospitalization as a therapeutic
abandonment in which the therapist was either unwilling or unable to tri­
umph over the patient's internalized abuser; and in which, simultaneously,
via dissociative processes, the patient was cast out by an angry therapist, dis­
appointed with the patient's therapeutic efforts. Only a continuing therapeu­
tic accessability will maximize the potential value of a brief hospitalization
and allow for the interpretation of these transference-countertransference
patterns. Where the inpatient team views the patient's hospitalization as a
therapeutic failure, so informing the patient and preventing continued con­
tact between patient and therapist, such transference-countertransference
distortions are reinforced and dissociative processes strengthened. Though
therapeutic failures will undoubtedly be seen by inpatient teams, a working
familiarity with the kinds of transference-countertransference paradigms en­
208 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

acted by adult survivors must be used to evaluate the patient's and the ther­
apist's representation of the events leading up to hospitalization and to pre­
vent a possible premature, abortive, and ultimately destructive cessation of
the ongoing treatment. Whenever possible, the inpatient treatment team can
serve as consultant to the therapist-patient dyad, attempting to clarify the
problematic aspects of their interaction and, in so doing, "unsticking" the
embeddedness of the transference-countertransference enmeshment that
may have precipitated the hospitalization. Such cooperation, consultation,
and, when necessary, training and supervision are almost always preferable
to a new referral for the patient. Although necessary on occasion, the trau­
matic potential of such a move should always be a factor in the deliberation
of the hospital team. Asking a patient to choose between an old and a new
therapist, or forcing a patient to turn against an ambivalently loved former
therapist are situations replete with the potential for unnecessary retrauma­
tization.

Recovery and Disclosure of Memories and Fantasied Elaborations

Recovery and disclosure of memories are obviously among the most sig­
nificant aspects of work with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse.
Although it is not in itself sufficient in accomplishing the kinds of necessary
long-term characterological changes in the internal organization of the pa­
tient's self and object world, it is nonetheless the bedrock of therapeutic ac­
tion. There is some controversy in the field about how to best promote the
return of pathogenic memory. It is our contention that the elusively shifting
interplay in the transference-countertransference configurations played out
between patient and therapist remain the most powerful way to potentiate
the reemergence of traumatically dissociated experience. If allowed to wend
their way unrestricted through the internal map of the patient's and thera­
pist's memory, experience, and fantasy pool, all forms of long-forgotten or
unformulated history will be recreated within the analysis. In such a transi­
tional arena, the potential is unlimited, shaped only by the unconscious, dis­
sociated, and unformulated aspects of experience contained within the
bounds of the particular patient-therapist dyad.
Cognitive psychologists posit that memories are often state-dependent;
that is, they can only be retrieved under conditions reminiscent of those in
which the experience was first embedded. How then to recreate an experi­
ence of traumatic child abuse without retraumatizing the patient? Is this
possible? An infinite number of memories are systematically encoded and
organized around separate categories of self- and object-related experi­
ences and will emerge into consciousness if such a self and object constella­
tion is triggered by some internal or external event. Such triggers,
frequently intense and passionate, often outwardly meaningless and arbi-
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 209

trary, are best unearthed in the free, open, and mutual play between pa­
tient and therapist. It is inherent in the process that trauma, when trauma
there is, will impress the particularities of Its template on the malleable
surface of the analytic experience; that it will be embossed there, in stark
relief for those familiar with its interpersonal imprint, as its manifestations
emerge in specific, trauma-related transference-countertransference para­
digms.
In assessing the role of the therapist in psychoanalytically oriented treat­
ment of adult survivors, it is impossible not to respond to current controver­
sies regarding the reliability of early memories and the subtle ways in which
therapists can suggest certain formulations that, via the power of the trans­
ference, become unconsciously incorporated into the patient's personal nar­
rative (Loftus, 1992). Reconstruction of any kind in analytic work must take
into account the therapist's transferentially derived power to dangerously
distort and misshape the patient's evolving understanding of personal his­
tory. Likewise, one should not underestimate the primary importance of fan­
tasied elaborations of the traumas suffered by victims of childhood sexual
abuse. Nor is it an easy matter to untangle memories from their fantasy-
imbued versions. However, fantasied elaborations of traumatic memories
most often evolve from the real event, rather than from the transformation of
instinctual drives, and they are designed to protect in some way the patient's
internalized self and object relations. Our position on the issue may be one of
emphasis; when listening to what our patients say, we attune ourselves to
the traumatic experiences endured, rather than turning our ears primarily
toward the fantasies elaborating the facts. In so doing, we remember that we
are working with people who as children often disclosed their abuse to an
adult who ignored, vilified, or disbelieved them. Although in the end both
fantasy and reality must be analyzed, we feel that these patients need thera­
pists who are prepared to hear and bear witness with them to the reality of
their horrific childhood experiences.
It is nevertheless important to make perfectly clear our position that it is
never the therapist's task to tell the patient that she was sexually abused. Analysts
cannot tell their patients what did or did not happen to them. We have no
special capacity to see into the past. The most elegant reconstructions can be
wrong. Analysts are often made anxious by stories of abuse, because they
presume that it is their task to distinguish what actually happened from fan­
tasied elaborations. In truth, this is impossible.
Any reconstruction that includes childhood sexual abuse can arise only out
of the therapeutic reenactment within the transference-countertransference
paradigms, observed jointly by therapist and patient in their shared roles as
actors in and observers of their own unfolding drama. It is the patient's task
to discover and define personal meaning. As we attend to the pathological
defenses and disruptions in reality-testing functions secondary to early
210 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

trauma, the patient becomes a more acute observer of this process and
stands ready to believe in her own explanatory constructions. Such a con­
struction, which includes the possibility or even the likelihood of traumatic
sexual abuse, will emerge out of the unfolding treatment. It must not be the
therapist's veiled agenda to lead the patient to such a determination.
As analysts, we are open to what we hear; we reflect without prejudice
the possibility of certain explanatory reconstructions; we presume an inter­
mingling of reality and fantasy in all of our patients' communications. We
also, however, bring to our work a knowledge of developmental processes
and of the long-term consequences of childhood abuse, and a familiarity
with the appearance of dissociation in clinical work and the inextricable link
between dissociation and child abuse. We learn to identify certain symptoms
as we listen to our patients' narratives, and, finally, we watch with great care
the emergence of the transference-countertransference reenactments that we
have come to associate with histories of traumatic childhood abuse. In short,
we become increasingly informed and thoughtful about those phenomena
and processes that should alert us to the possibility of traumatic abuse. In
the end, we listen with a different ear to our patients' associations and stand
ready, when necessary, to validate the experiences that emerge honestly
from the analytic work.

The Symbolization and Encoding of Experience

Throughout the complex task of helping the patient to piece together the
dissociated fragments of her personal history, the clinician must remember
that truly traumatic memories are rarely, if ever, semantically encoded in
memory. As described so many times, most memories of childhood sexual
abuse recur as intrusive eidetic imagery, strange and inexplicable mood
shifts, undiagnosable somatic complaints, dissociative episodes, ideational
and or emotional flooding with only vague and seemingly arbitrary precipi­
tants. The more terrifying and sadistic the abuse, the more confidently one
can make this statement, because fear itself comes to mediate the forms of re­
gressive disorganization that render verbal capabilities inoperative. This
phenomenon can be accounted for along a multidimensional axis.
It is as if the memories of abuse and the entire system of self and object
representations organized around those memories come to be trapped, en­
cased within a wordless world. In the first place, the actuality of the sexual
abuse is rarely, if ever, spoken of between victim and abuser—and certainly
not in the wider family, where it threatens to destroy the entire familial sys­
tem. The patient is warned repeatedly that only continued silence will guar­
antee the continuity of the family as she knows it and her continued exis­
tence within its protective embrace. With the victim's survival at stake the
victim's continued secrecy is all but assured. In addition, sexual abuse usu­
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 211

ally occurs at night, when the patient is already in a somnolent, dreamlike

state; and it is, therefore, never clearly differentiated, from dream states,
hypnogogic states, and fantasy states. Darkness, wordlessness, and the ex­
treme discontinuity of the patient's object world as it appears in this form
compared to its more protoypical daytime personification also contribute to
the profound sense of unreality, an unreality that defies verbal representa­
tion.
It is, therefore, unusual for adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse to
be able to recall their experiences in a clearly articulated form. The psycho­
logically and physiologically mediated forms of terrifying hyperarousal,
often perversely sexualized, give rise to an ego regression and subsequent
disorganization that make linguistic symbolization of experience virtually
impossible. The images are, therefore, hidden, like embedded pictures, in the
intricately woven pattern of clinical material, more easily articulated as fore­
ground against background when the observer is relatively familiar with the
patterns that may emerge. In the absence of words, such patterns leave their
mark on the analytic relationship, creating a steady flow of traumatic reen­
actment in this arena. Via projective-introjective mechanisms, actively poten­
tiated by the inaccessability of language, patient and therapist alternate in
their roles as subject and object, as victim abuser, savior, and neglectful
other.
It is only as traumatic scenarios replay themselves within the analyic rela­
tionship that meaning can emerge out of the chaos and panic of continu­
ously frenzied reenactments. Between patient and therapist, words can fi­
nally be used to represent the activity that replays itself between them with
such consistency; words can likewise be used to provide meaningful links
between these reenactments and the events, as well as the possible events, of
the patient's past. As past and present are brought together, each elucidating
the other, the intrusive imagery, extreme mood shifts, somatic symptoms,
and so on that have plagued the patient's life with meaningless suffering can
at last be placed within a contextual frame bearing on internalized relations
and their contemporary external manifestations. The first therapeutic task is,
thus, not simply the analysis of fantasied elaborations of actual instances of
sexual abuse but also, insofar as that abuse is traumatic, the forging of histor­
ical and interpersonal intelligibility out of overwhelming chaos and disor­
der. The construction of meaning must here precede its analysis. Therapist
and patient together must learn to listen to an unfamiliar language of im­
ages, moods, and somatic experiences—a language, in large part, strange
and unfamiliar to practicing psychoanalysts. Patient and therapist together
must also come to believe in the notion that such phenomena are as much a
part of the memories that must be woven together as are those the patient
can verbalize. Memories that recur in the form of recurring intrusive images,
mood shifts, night terrors, bodily sensations, and so on are simply manifes­
212 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tations of experience that have been mentally preserved in a different way

and at a point in time when appropriate words failed.
The importance of verbally encoding and symbolizing the kinds of expe­
riences that overwhelm many survivors of childhood abuse cannot be
overemphasized. Ultimately words must be found to describe and make
sense of these moments. Such semantic symbolization must facilitate the pa­
tient's capacity for self-reflective awareness, ultimately serving to reinforce
her profoundly incapacitated sense of reality. For how can we expect the pa­
tient to believe in something about which she has never been able to speak?
Such a process also facilitates communication between the dissociated as­
pects of the patient's world. That system of internalized representations of
self and other, existing within the context of ongoing abuse and dissocia-
tively split off from the rest of consciousness, can at long last speak of the
terror, the betrayal, the loss of control, and even at times the loss of con­
sciousness. Such experiences can be shared with another internalized system
dissociatively shut off from this knowledge and with a therapist, who, by
her very presence and empathic resonance, stands ready to relive the devas­
tating and unfathomable experience of horrifying aloneness endemic to the
traumatogenic ordeal. It is only via the use of language that such debilitating
breaches of consciousness and of experiencing self and other can be mended.
Another issue is the omnipotent destructiveness with which many incest
survivors imbue their words. Because the patient has maintained such a
painful silence about her abuse, over so many years under the threat of ex­
posure, retaliation, or expulsion from the family unit, her words themselves
become symbolically infused with fantastically intensified potential for de­
structiveness and devastation. The patient believes that speaking of the abu­
sive events carries in the present the same power to destroy her world that it
did when she was a completely dependent child. As patient and therapist
name together the traumatic events and those who perpetrated them, as they
express the rage, helplessness, and terror, at the same time working through
associated experiences of guilt and fantasied participation, words become
divested of their power to destroy. Again, there is a shoring up of the critical
distinction between the symbolic and the actual. As the therapeutic pair sur­
vive the use of such angry words directed at the abuser, they can begin to di­
rect angry words at each other, as well, without the previously ubiquitous
dread of abandonment or annihilation.
Running parallel to our emphasis on symbolization is the equally com­
pelling proviso that the words chosen must be the patient's own—carefully
selected, always subject to change and reformulation. The therapeutic
process, like a piece of sculpture, brings the patient ever closer to a final con­
struction with which she can feel satisfied; but the work remains "in
progress" for some time. We remain cognizant here that each word spoken
between patient and therapist captures a piece of the patient's nightmarish
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 213

world; yet, in so defining experience, it also limits that which can be under­
stood through the analytically experienced and understood illusion.
/

Integration of Dissociated Self and Object Systems

One of the primary goals of working with adult survivors of childhood
sexual abuse from a psychoanalytic position is the opportunity of working
through via transference-countertransference reenactment and interpreta­
tion the split-off systems of self and object representation secondary to trau­
matic childhood abuse. Although the literature on traumatic responses
makes clear the undeniable association between trauma and dissociation,
most of the treatment literature focuses on the need to help the patient to re­
cover memories of the abusive situations. However, although such recovery
of traumatic memory is necessary, it is barely sufficient to accomplish the
necessary character changes in interpersonal functioning and inner harmony
which we seek. Our position remains that traumatic abuse results in the
dissociation not only of memories but of the entire system of complicated
self and object representations associatively linked to those chronic abusive
circumstances. It is the enactment, semantic encoding, and ultimate work­
ing-through of these internal matrices of self and object that account for true
and long-lasting structural change for adult survivors. The patient must ulti­
mately come to understand not only what happened but also how those
events became a template for the internal organization of all subsequent ex­
perience.
We are often asked about the place of hypnosis in the recovery of trau­
matic memories. We have several concerns and believe that our treatment
strategy of evoking traumatic memories through the triggers embedded in
the transference-countertransference enactments offers a preferable alterna­
tive. It is our experience that trancelike states emerge naturally and regularly
in working with adult survivors of childhood abuse. After all, dissociation is
a state of trance, and it has become a very natural and central aspect of
the adult survivor's defensive armamentarium. As specific transference­
countertransference paradigms related to the abusive circumstances are
reenacted during therapy, the patient will gently fall into such states without
the introduction of any artificial induction. After all, the transference itself is
an alteration of consciousness that permits illusion to temporarily preempt
an interpersonal reality.
On the other hand, the dangers of using a formal hypnotic induction pro­
cedure are complex. Surely, the patient would feel invaded by a powerful
and disarming force. The relinquishment of control could be reexperienced
as a traumatic submission to the all-powerful therapist/abuser, and the re­
covery of memory as yet another violation of mind and body. Memory must
emerge only as the patient sees fit and feels ready. She must feel herself to be
214 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

in control of the process of recovering memories. Indeed, one of the most

problematic aspects of flashbacks to abusive situations is that they tend to
flood the patient's experience and leave her feeling invaded by intruding
and uncontrollable thoughts. It is the therapeutic task to help the patient to
feel more in control, so that memories can reemerge slowly and be reinte­
grated into the patient's experience. Techniques that try and overcome such
defenses can only fail, even if they offer an initial appeal to patient and ther­
apist alike. Our use of hypnosis is thus restricted to deep-relaxation tech­
niques described above, techniques designed to enhance rather than over­
whelm the patient's capacity to contain the reemergence of traumatic
memory.

Internalization of a New Object Relationship to the Therapist

Underlying our philosophy of treating adult survivors of childhood abuse
is a more broad-based therapeutic belief that memories of all kinds are ulti­
mately organized around the significant object-related experiences of an in­
dividual's life. It is, therefore, a natural extension of this perspective to be­
lieve that the soothing, undoing, and redoing that must be accomplished
with adult survivors can only proceed and be internalized in the context of a
significant object relationship between patient and therapist. Traumatic
memories can be "abreacted," but abusive relationships cannot be so easily
excised.
It is extremely important that the therapist working with an adult sur­
vivor understand that, by dint of his very presence, the original traumato­
genic situation is altered. As the therapist bears witness to the reemergence
of traumatic memory, as he validates the patient's memories as they resonate
with his own countertransference experiences, as he helps to demystify the
sense of unreality that pervades the patient's waking experiences, he perma­
nently alters the survivor's experience that pain, fear, and rage can only be
safely experienced in isolation. In an abusive home, the child's helplessness
is ensured by the flooding of internal resources and the unavailability of
auxiliary ego support within the family. Where there is someone to listen, to
share, to confirm, and ultimately to assist with containment, the pathog­
nomic effects of such helpless solitary confinement become reconfigured.
Within this therapeutic relationship between patient and therapist, it is
not only the past that is reworked but a future prematurely foreclosed that is
once again reopened. We witness a growing capacity to resonate with the
emotional timbre of significant other; to trust in their essential goodness, at
the same time that anger, envy, greed, and other negative feelings can be ex­
perienced and known as essential aspects of interpersonal contact without
the fear of destroying or being destroyed. We also see the willingness to
know and be known by the other without the disorganizing anxiety sec­
 Technical Considerations in Treatment 215

ondary to an experience of hostile penetration. To touch and be touched by,

to move and be moved by, to influence and be influenced by, can all, once
again, or perhaps for the first time, emerge as significant aspects of the inter­
personal negotiations by dint of which we all strive to carve out a safe sanc­
tuary in our otherwise anonymous worlds.
The reemergence and containment of traumatic memories; the symbolic
formulation and verbal encoding of these memories; the integration of previ­
ously irreconcilable self and object representations organized around these
traumatic experiences; and the participation and ultimate internalization of
the all-important self and object representations organized around the ana­
lyst all are essential aspects of the therapeutic work to be done. We are re­
minded of a particularly lucid effusion of primary process, uttered by a
highly intelligent, schizophrenic woman with whom one of the authors had
been working. Following a particularly moving session in which both pa­
tient and therapist had felt riveted to the material emerging, the patient got
up to leave with the following words: "Well, thank you, doctor.... You cer­
tainly have given me food for thought... or maybe it would be more accu­
rate to say thought for food.. .. Oh, I don't know which it is ... probably
both... . What I'm trying to say is that, today, we certainly did some good
work together, you and I."
 CHAPTER 12

Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical

Implications and Reconsiderations

YOUNG WOMAN sits in her therapist's office. She is in her late

A
twenties, depressed, slumped over, relatively expressionless, and,
as usual, rather noncommunicative. She is overweight, sloppily
groomed, and untidily dressed. Her speech is garbled and her words almo
inaudible. The therapist struggles with her own sense of hopelessness and
frustration. The patient is enormously successful at a job that requires her to
be both articulate and intellectually disciplined; yet, in the therapy hours, she
is almost intolerably slow and obtuse. The patient has been coming twice a
week for over 6 months, and, yet, the therapist believes that she knows little
about this woman's life. She has tried any number of ways to engage with her
patient, but all efforts have failed. There seems to be little she can do but wait.
Suddenly, the patient leans forward; her eyes begin to fill with tears; she
emits a plaintive sigh and opens her mouth as if to speak. The therapist is
aware that her heart has begun to beat a little faster, that she leans slightly
forward in her own chair, striving to meet her patient's unconscious expres­
sion of diminishing distance with excited anticipation. Perhaps, this will be
the moment. A second, fleeting though it may be, of some authentic emo­
tional engagement. A revelation, perhaps that will reward her for the long
months of oppressive and deadening isolation. The therapist feels alive for
the first time in this session, as she strains to catch those first precious words.
For a moment, there is eye contact between patient and therapist. An
ephemeral fusion of genuine need and therapeutic receptivity. An experi­
ence that will clearly not go unmarked by the two participants in this en­
deavor. But just at this moment of precise emotional complementarity, the
tide begins to recede. The therapist watches in horrifying disbelief as the pa­
tient's eyes reabsorb her tears, just at the instant they promise to spill over
and resuscitate the parched analytic interior. The patient sighs again, vehe­
mently shaking her head, "No," and slumps back in her chair. She turns to
her therapist, again establishing a fleeting eye contact, and in that second
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 217

communicates the pain of a lifetime filled with endless numbers of such

failed attempts. The therapist herself feels close to tears.
During the next year of treatment, such exchanges repeat themselves in
monotonous, wavelike, almost hypnotizing repetitions of this unverbalized
pattern; long, unbroken periods of dejection and withdrawal, made tolerable
only by such fleeting yet tantalizing windows of access to the patient's pal­
pable pain and longing. Experiences of hopelessness, despair, engagement,
and arousal, fatigue, boredom, guilt, and reengagement localize themselves
alternately in the inner experience of patient and therapist, switching per­
spectives with a dizzying rapidity. Because they exist to a large degree out­
side the dialog of this treatment, which remains focused on gaining access to
the patient's past life and on understanding how these past experiences in­
form the present transference manifestations, such parallel experiences of
transference and countertransference, embedded as they are in the present,
remain virtually unformulated. This, despite the fact that the intense emo­
tional valence carried by such experiences contains the only shared reality
that exists between patient and therapist.
In an effort to remain therapeutically alive and engaged, the therapist ini­
tiates a series of three consultations, which parenthetically and retrospec­
tively seem to mirror the unfolding trends in psychoanalytic theory. The first
supervisor listens with growing concern that the therapist's active attempts
to engage the patient in a dialog have unwittingly provided the patient, in
identification with her aggressor, with an ever-ready venue for manipulative
control and sadistic frustration of the therapist, essentially, a negative thera­
peutic reaction in the form of a sadomasochistic deadlock. This consultant
recommends increasing the patient's sessions to three times a week, insisting
that she use the couch, and limiting the therapist's participation signifi­
cantly, thus reestablishing what he terms, "the temporarily lost atmosphere
of therapeutic neutrality and abstinence." From the vantage point of the pre­
sent, we might partially agree with the supervisor's assessment of the clini­
cal situation, but understand his prescription to represent a countertransfer­
entially induced counterattack on the patient, given credibility by its
embeddedness in conventional classical technique.
The second consultant is empathically tuned in to this patient's endless
search for and destruction of hope in the therapeutic relationship. She is im­
pressed with what she sees as the gross deficiencies in this patient's early life
(though relatively little is recalled) and speaks to the need for a therapeutic
holding environment that will facilitate the emergence of developmentally
delayed ego capacities and of experiences of self in gratifying relation to an­
other. She emphasizes the importance of remaining empathically involved
with the patient's struggle and being particularly alert to the kinds of coun­
tertransferentially spurred retaliatory responses she believes to be indicated
by the first supervisor's recommendations.
218 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

The therapist is now completely bewildered. Both consultants have many

years of teaching experience and are well respected in the analytic commu­
nity; yet, it appears that they have recommended diametrically opposite
courses of treatment. The therapist herself feels uncomfortable with the first
suggestion because of the retaliatory overtones already mentioned, and the
second appears to her not terribly different from the approach she has been
following, that is, maintaining some empathic resonance with her distant
and uncommunicative patient. She struggles for some time more and in des­
peration tries one more consultation.
There is an immediate rapport between the therapist and the third consul­
tant. Together, they are able to establish an atmosphere of unusual openness
and mutuality; one that feels itself to be a safe place for fertile self-disclosure.
This supervisor listens to the clinical material and remarks, "I am struck
with how much you do know about your patient. I think the problem is that
you are spending too much time waiting for her words. She is not telling you
about herself, she is showing you. She herself has no words. Perhaps she is
waiting for yours. Go back and speak to her about herself. I think that she is
waiting for you to do that." The therapist presses for clarification, What
should she say? "I don't know what she has told you. And you won't either
unless you listen in a different way; not to the words or absence of words but
to the entire situation; the moods, the body, the gestures, the silences.. ..
Come back in a few weeks, and we will speak again."
It is difficult to concretize the effects of this input on the therapeutic work.
The therapist began to speak of her own experiences in the sessions with her
patient, of her own moments of hope and despair, her experiences of being
helpful to the patient and her sense of frustration and ineptitude. She shared
her belief that the patient wanted desperately to reach out but somehow
couldn't find the words with which to accomplish this. Of course, this was
slowly dosed out over time. As it was new to the therapist, who was here
reaching beyond her own accustomed way of working, we can assume a cer­
tain degree of awkwardness and error in the approach. Nonetheless,
changes in the therapeutic work were palpable. Essentially both the patient
and the therapist woke up. The therapist reported feeling alive, involved,
alert to the nuances of the therapeutic exchange that had gone unnoticed
previously. Years later, the patient described her experience:

It was as if I had always seen the world and related to it through a haze ... a
film or gauze that was translucent. It allowed me to see light, but there were no
shapes or forms. Everything was fluid ... I would identify it, and it would
change. I could not speak or find words for such a thing. When you began to
speak with me about these things, I began to feel that I could somehow hold on
to them too ... at least long enough to feel them ... to understand what they
might be.
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 219

Three months after this shift in the therapy, what then seemed like a re­
markable thing occurred. The patient came into the session noticeably anx­
ious. She reported that, although it had honestly not struck her as important
before, there was something that the therapist might find it important to
know. She went on to describe that the only problem was that she could not
tell the therapist what she needed to in spoken words. At that point, she took
a piece of paper out of her briefcase, wrote something on it, and handed it to
the therapist. Given the context of this book, it will not surprise the reader,
as it did the therapist, that written on the paper was the single word Incest.
The patient continued, "Now I will take the paper back, and we will not
speak of this again, for I cannot know about it. I thought you might need to
know, but I cannot. Please don't say a word." The therapist, respectful of the
patient's wishes, handed the paper back to her, and before the therapist's
unbelieving and dumbstruck eyes, the patient tore the paper into tiny pieces
and proceeded to eat it.
After months of struggling to really understand and apprehend this new
way of working, the therapist felt the sudden emergence of some clarity. "I
think you just helped me to understand from inside myself, what it feels like
to witness and participate in something that desperately presses to be spo­
ken about, yet where solemn promises and commitments make that an act of
betrayal." The patient smiled and again looked tearful. It occurred to the
therapist after the session had ended that this was the first time she had ever
seen this particular patient smile.
We present this lengthy and dramatic clinical summary as an allegory of
sorts: one therapist's search to find a method with which to approach and
give voice to that which remains unspeakable or even unsymbolizable by the
patient. It is a true story, shared with the authors, and coming from a time in
the recent history of psychoanalysis when active use of the countertransfer­
ence was rarely if ever mentioned—certainly not as active a part of the psy­
choanalytic dialog as it is today. We include it here, because we believe that it
highlights some of the most active controversies in the field today. Although
these controversies are not unique to work with adult survivors of childhood
sexual abuse, this particular area of work with its emphasis on the rapidly
shifting and always intense and regressive transference-countertransference
enactments makes the clinical and theoretical resolution of such controversey
an ongoing imperative for the working clinician.
We thus conclude our work by setting forth our own theoretical resolu­
tion of some of these issues and by anticipating some of the reader's ques­
tions, concerns, and criticisms about (1) the therapeutic interplay of illusion
and reality, with particular regard to what we have termed "the child per­
sona"; (2) a reappraisal of the traditional concepts of abstinence and neutral­
ity in working with a population of abuse victims; (3) some thoughts on the
220 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

pathogeneity of projective identification in abused children, and the posture

of psychoanalytic inquiry; and finally (4) a reconsideration of the place of
oedipal dynamics in psychological development and the therapeutic stance
that evolves from such a reconsideration.

The Interplay of Illusion and Reality

It is our hope that the very poignant vignette presented in the preceding sec­
tion makes explicit our overriding belief that psychoanalytic work and
change involve the successful creation of a potential space (Khan, 1971;
Winnicott, 1957), within which analyst and patient together cocreate an illu­
sory world, where past, present, and future, the real, the fantastically elabo­
rated, and the otherwise irreducible, can come alive, occupying for a time
center stage, in this mutually accessible reality. In a world where experience
has defied words, where it has never been adequately encoded, experienced,
and repressed, emergence must come via reenactment. In myriad ways,
transference-countertransference reenactment—intrusive ideation and flash­
backs, somatic symptoms, dreams, fantasies, and so on—the pressures of the
past will make their presence wordlessly felt in this transitional arena. Not
every patient will be as behaviorally articulate as our patient, who literally
ate her own words, but all will find a way of impressing what they simulta­
neously know and don't know on the actively receptive medium of psycho­
analytic discourse.
In the case described, progress was ultimately made by engaging the
"child persona," by commiserating with the burden of her terrible silence
and consequent solitude, and gently and empathically drawing out her ex­
periences of the rather brutal incest she had suffered. Initially, the therapist
had to speak for the child, kept carefully closeted by the "adult"; but, ulti­
mately she was able to speak with the child of all that had happened to her,
to process with her all the ways in which the two of them reenacted the vari­
ous sides of self and object representations specific to the previously dissoci­
ated abusive experiences, the fantasies of victim, abuser, savior, and neglect­
ing other.
When this child self appeared, the analyst spoke as one would to a trau­
matized child, gently, slowly, and reassuringly. She did what was necessary
to protect the child, symbolically and actually, from any dangers that threat­
ened her. These included her own self-destructive and self-neglectful behav­
iors; unnecessarily dangerous counterphobic behaviors, attitudes, and pos­
tures that threatened the continuity of the treatment; assaults on the
effectiveness of the therapist; and so on. They played first on safe territory,
with ideas about the past and present, with ideas about what they might be
thinking, feeling, imagining. As the relationship felt safer, they began to play
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 221

with angrier thoughts and feelings, eventually giving way to the kinds of
passionate reenactments of abusive and counterabusive, scenarios described
earlier in the book. Such reenactments eventually shed their patina of "play"
and became very real and deadly battles for the survival of the treatment­
child. Therapist and patient faced repeated exposure to psychic death within
that analytic interior.
We hold that with such reenactments, past and present are fused, as to­
gether the patient and therapist explore the terror and incomprehensability
of the love, dependence, hatred, and betrayal that mark the organizing expe­
riences of the patient's internal world and, therefore, the boundaries of the
reality within their shared illusory space. In essence, the treatment itself be­
comes an illusory home for the abused child who has never and will never
know any other such safe sanctuary. Such a home allows for a background
of safety and containment, while simultaneously permitting, even encourag­
ing, the emergence of the bitterest moments of betrayal; the most unspeak­
able terrors of childhood abuse; the most profound experiences of abject
hate, in the context of otherwise dependent, sometimes loving attatchments
to another.
Some object to our depiction of the child persona as anything more than
a metaphor (Shengold, 1992); however, for us, the child who emerges time
and time again when we undertake the treatment of an adult survivor is a
palpably real and essential figure in the clinical work. Surely, we do not be­
lieve that there truly is a little person inside of the big person who comes for
treatment any more than we believe we can isolate the physiological locus
of the ego. However, for the working analyst, the child persona is a clinical
reality, albeit a reality born of illusion. She does not usually live in the world
of others but makes her home in the transitional space created between pa­
tient and therapist. In this (space, she remembers, relives, and at least par­
tially redoes, those traumatic relationships which were precipitously fore­
closed as abusive events became dissociated. In an eloquent paper on the
virtue of sustaining paradox in psychoanalytic work, Emmanuel Ghent
(1992) writes:
However true it is that there is no baby living in the adult patient... so often it
happens that the route to truth is through the intensity of illusion. Is not analy­
sis a veritable playpen for transference and countertransference, and what are
these if not vehicles for finding truth by knocking on the walls of illusion? Are
not dreams the quintessential illusions, fictions? Are not most art forms—lines
on a flat plane or ambiguous words in blank verse or people playing roles on
stage—are not these all built on illusion? And do not all these lead us, through
illusion, to encounter a level of truth and reality that is otherwise inaccessible?
(p. 139).

Ghent states with poetic cadence the need to suspend our reliance on ra­
tionality, in order to reach more powerful truths in our clinical work. We be­
222 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

lieve the presence of the child persona represents just such a form of irra­
tional truth. It is only within the confines of this carefully constructed irra­
tionality that the emergence of traumatic childhood memories and their dis­
sociated self and object representations will make their fullest appearance.
We believe, then, that it is only when the analyst can create a home for and
then wholeheartedly enter into the illusory world of the dissociated child
that analytic progress will ensue.
Returning to the patient we are presenting, the reader will be interested in
how and under what circumstances the powerful vow of silence was first
breached between patient and therapist. Almost 3 months after the above
events, during which time neither patient nor therapist spoke of what had
transpired between them, the following events occurred. The patient entered
the session one day in what appeared to be an uncharacteristically "chatty"
and "upbeat" mood. She was quite amused with herself for having confused
two important pieces of correspondence at work and completely forgetting
the deadline on another project. She seemed unusually "dizzy" and ap­
peared to be enjoying this state, not at all like the meticulously careful and
sober-minded perfectionist she usually presented. The therapist became
aware that she "seemed like a different person." (Such an experience should
always alert the therapist to the possible presence of dissociated material.)
As the therapist mused, she heard the patient say with some excitement and
laughter:

Patient: It's amazing to me that sometimes I can just block important

things out of my head like this. They're gone entirely!
Therapist: It would seem to have been a carefully developed survival
technique for you. There were some things you just had to keep out of
your head.
Patient: Oh now, you be careful... you're speaking of something else en­
tirely .. . we made a deal, and a promise is a promise, you know.
Therapist: I'm to be a good girl and never speak of the things I know
about. This is very hard you know, and it feels more than a little bit
crazy.
Patient: I don't know what you mean.
Therapist: Oh, but I believe that some part of you does. I'd venture to say
that some part of you knows just what I'm saying .. . just what I'm
feeling. I think that that particular part of you is very little .. . and she's
watching to see if I'll be bad .. . because if I am, then maybe it would
be safe for her to speak and to be bad with me.
Patient: [Here the patient lifts her legs up and literally curls herself into a
ball on her chair. She covers her face with her long hair and for a mo­
ment almost appears to be sucking on her thumb. Her voice quality is
strikingly different from any the therapist has heard before.] Are you
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 223

bad? Do you ever do bad things?

Therapist: Lots of times. When I was little, sometimes I did bad things
that I didn't even know were bad. Now, I guess I still do bad things
sometimes.
Patient: When I was little, I did big girl bad things.
Therapist: Can you tell me about them? It might feel better if you could.
Patient: Do you have a bathroom here [the patient, of course, had used
the bathroom on many occasions]. I feel like I'm going to be sick. [The
patient is silent and sits with her hand covering her mouth.] What did
you ask me, again?
Therapist: [Noting the dissociative switch] I asked if you wanted to tell
me about the bad things ... if you thought that might help.
Patient: I really feel nauseous ... like I'm going to throw up.
Therapist: Like something inside wants to come out?
Patient: It was my father ... [the patient is crying now, and her whole
body begins to shake uncontrollably] I can't stop this. I think that's all I
can say now. ...
Therapist: You can say one word a day if that's how you need to do this.
Patient: [Silent for a few minutes, still crying.] It hurted me. [She is un­
aware of her use of language.]
Therapist: I'm sure it did, it must have hurt you a lot.
Patient: [Making eye contact now, and nodding a very childlike yes, still
crying.]
Therapist: You know it hurts to hear about it too ... to see you in so much
pain . . . but, even then, it doesn't feel as crazy as both of us knowing
this thing that we can't speak about.. ..

And so it went. (
This paradox of the interplay between fantasy and illusion leads us to yet
another dilemma. If patients suffer from serious deficits in reality testing,
how can so much of the therapeutic work needed to repair such deficits
occur in a world of illusion? Will this not compound the problem? The an­
swer can only be an unequivocal no. We are asked often about those patients
who show all the symptoms of having been sexually abused, whose dreams
and fantasies seem reflective of experiences of actual abuse, and where all of
the powerful transference-countertransference reenactments we have de­
scribed play themselves out in the analytic work; but, unlike the patients
being described she is never able to recover actual memories of such abuse.
Certainly, such cases exist, and we can never be completely sure of what
happened in the childhoods of such patients, of why they remain unable to
recover their memories.
The luckiest of our patients have their memories verified by family mem­
bers or by the abuser himself (Herman & Shatzow, 1987). Next, come pa­
224 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

tients who are capable of recovering, in full or in part, specific pictorial

memories of their abuse. But one should not assume that such recovery in it­
self resurrects the battered sense of reality that has permeated the patient's
growing-up years. Even here, it is almost universal in work with survivors
of childhood abuse that at many points along the way, patients will question
the veracity of their statements, the reality of their memories. "I must be
making this all up," is commonly heard. Or "How do we know that I'm
telling the truth, this could all be a fantasy." Certainly, these doubts are the
worst for patients who never get to their specific memories, but they exist
and continue to exist for all those who suffer from dissociative disorders.
Here it is essential to remember that childhood sexual abuse is not only
an intrusion into the body but also a transgression of the mind, in which the
intruding other shapes and defines the child's experience. Via projective
identifications from a parent whose own boundary functions are severely
impaired, the child comes to precociously know all forms of experience over
which she or he feels no ownership. It is not the recovery of abusive memo­
ries per se that is essential for the reparation of such ego functioning, al­
though such memory recovery is helpful, but the moment-to-moment inter­
pretation and negotiation of an illusory reality shared between patient and
therapist that ultimately provides the second chance for such developmental
achievements.
Here one can turn to a model of psychoanalysis that appreciates the de­
velopmental importance of reaching a stage of intersubjectivity (Benjamin,
1988, 1990) and of incorporating the need for such an achievement at the
heart of the therapeutic frame. The patient will have a point of view; will
come to "know" her experience of the analytic encounter and of the analyst's
participation in this encounter. She will have her perspective on the state of
the analyst's subjective experience within their interaction. The analyst on
her part will have to greater or lesser degrees a different perspective on the
interaction itself, as well as on the patient as object and subject. Given the na­
ture of the patient's experiences, she will either have little confidence in her
own perceptions, or she will cling to them with a ferocity that speaks to her
repetitive experiences of mental invasion. The analyst may err in the direc­
tion of too much confidence in her particular point of view.
Within a relational model, this will be the jumping off point for the kind
of negotiation that lies at the heart of the therapeutic action of psychoanaly­
sis (Mitchell, 1991). At times, analyst and patient will concur on their percep­
tion of an event. This, of course, will nurture the patient's conviction in her
own perceptions. At other times, the patient's perceptions will hold sway
against those of the analyst, perhaps even bringing about a change in his
particular point of view. At yet other times, the patient will come to change
her perspective, and in so doing learn that she can surrender a point without
mentally losing herself in the experience of another. As patient and analyst
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 225

work together to interpret the illusory world they have cocreated, a kind of
sorting out process ensues, whereby the experiences of each mind come to­
gether, comingle, and ultimately assume a clearly differentiated integrity.
From out of this process, one can hope to see the partial restoration of
boundaries that were so weakened by the early traumatic abuse and by the
constant barrage of projective identifications that flood the experience of
mental and physical integrity within these patients.

The Concepts of Abstinence and Neutrality

We find it significant to remember that Freud's earliest formulations about

psychoanalytic process and technique were based in large measure on his
work with a group of patients he believed to have been victims of prepuber­
tal sexual abuse. Although we no longer hold such abuse to be at the heart of
all psychoneurosis, we have in large numbers been returning to the view
that Freud's early, hysterical patients were sexual abuse victims. In fact,
Freud tells us (1896) that in many of these cases, he and the patient were able
to obtain external confirmation of these assumptions.
In working with adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse today, the
reader should bear in mind that many of the basic assumptions at the founda­
tion of psychoanalytic theory and technique were specifically derived against
this very unique backdrop. For example, the absolute importance of neutral­
ity and steadfast abstinence on the part of the analyst were articulated against
the background of intense transference and countertransference enactments,
such as extraordinary proclamations of love in the transference. Freud was
not about to forget that Breuer's countertransferential response to Anna O's
declaration of transference love (including what appeared to be a hysterical
pregnancy) was to send his colleague fleeing the country on a second honey­
moon with his wife. Breuer was not to return to his pioneering interest in
psychoanalysis on his return. If we assume Freud and Breuer to have been
confronted with the kinds of intense and relentless enactments and reenact­
ments in the transference and countertransference that we have articulated in
chapter 9, Breuer's flight and Freud's compelling response appear in a some­
what new perspective. It was, after all, in his paper "Observations on
Transference-Love," that Freud (1915) first articulated the "rule of absti­
nence." From the same paper also comes contextual support for the notion
that Freud was not writing about simple experiences of tenderness, romantic
fantasy, and yearning we now recognize as common to so many analyses. We
propose that he was, indeed, describing the kinds of erotized reactions that
reenact in the transference and countertransference the sorts of violent
boundary transgressions common to adult survivors of sexual abuse (Blum,
1973; Davies & Frawley, 1992; Levine, 1990). Freud (1915) states:
226 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

There can be no doubt that the outbreak of a passionate demand for love is
largely the work of resistance. One will have long since noticed in the patient the
signs of an affectionate transference, and one will have been able to feel certain
that her docility, her acceptance of the analytic explanations, her remarkable
comprehension and the high degree of intelligence she showed were to be attrib­
uted to this attitude towards her doctor. Now all this is swept away. She has be­
come quite without insight and seems to be swallowed up in her love (p. 162).

It is in relation to this description that Freud first spells out his famous in­
junction. He says:

I have already let it be understood that analytic technique requires of the physi­
cian that he should deny to the patient who is craving for love the satisfaction
she demands. The treatment must be carried out in abstinence. By this, I do not
mean physical abstinence alone, nor yet the deprivation of everything that the
patient desires, for perhaps no sick person could tolerate this. Instead, I shall
state it as a fundamental principle that the patient's need and longing should
be allowed to persist in her, in order that they may serve as forces impelling her
to do work and to make changes, and that we must beware of appeasing those
forces by means of surrogates, (p. 165)

Though Freud later (1919) broadened his view of abstinence as a neces­

sary background against which all analyses should be conducted, many con­
temporary psychoanalysts maintain a definition of the analytic privation
that would appear broader and more all-inclusive than even Freud intended.
Greenson (1967), for example, cautions that overgratification of the patient
by the analyst can cause the transference and countertransference to become
stalemated with the patient in a passive, submissive role and the analyst in
the role of an all-giving savior. Levine (1990), writing specifically of the treat­
ment of adult survivors, warns the reader that the dangers of overstimulat­
ing the patient by gratifying certain aspects of the transference far outweigh
the dangers of narcissistically injuring the patient by interpreting her wishes
vis a vis the therapist. Levine states that, although a departure from what he
terms "the requisite stance of abstinence, neutrality, and analytic inquiry"
may stimulate feelings of intense narcissistic injury in the patient, a failure to
maintain such a position "may stimulate the analysand's fears of the ana­
lyst's corruption or seducibility" (p. 200).
As we move from a classical position to a more relational one, we deem­
phasize the implicit necessity for frustration and abstinence (as originally de­
fined) as we broaden our singular reliance on the primacy of interpretation
of instinctual wishes as the modus operandi of all therapeutic change. We
draw into our understanding of the therapeutic action of psychoanalysis or
psychoanalytically informed psychotherapy an emphasis on the centrality of
the very "dangers" we are cautioned to avoid. We assume that reenactments
will occur in the transference-countertransference unfolding, and rather than
attempting to purify the analytic space to sidestep such experiences, we in
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 227

fact wait patiently for their emergence. We accept that at some point patient
and therapist will become locked into a stalemate with the patient in a pas­
sive submissive role and the analyst in the role'of an all-giving parent/sav-
ior, as articulated by Greenson. Contrary to the position assumed by Levine,
we actually hope that in our treatment of adult survivors, certain patient­
therapist interactions will stimulate fears about the analyst's corruptability
and seducibility. For what could be more important to analyze in the thera­
peutic work with an adult survivor of sexual abuse?
It is of paramount importance that the emergence of such necessary trans-
ference-countertransference paradigms not be viewed as due to "analyst
error" but as watershed markings that the therapeutic process is unfolding
in a way that will allow for the understanding and reintegration of such sig­
nificant object-relational matrices. For us the notion of therapeutic neutrality
lies in countertransferentially maintaining the capacity to extricate the pa­
tient-therapist dyad through interpretation and negotiation from the stale­
mated and entrenched position and, in so doing, make possible a completely
different yet equally problematic interaction. The notion of abstinence rests,
we believe, on the therapist's ability to protect the illusory quality of the
transitional space in which transference and countertransference play them­
selves out, to guard against becoming entrenched in actual, behavioral con­
firmations of the patient's transference experience, unconsciously reenacted
outside the province of therapeutic interpretation and negotiation. Such ac­
tualization of what should remain symbolic in therapy could bring about a
dangerous collapse of the transitional arena and seriously impede further
therapeutic progress.
Knocking on the door of illusion, calling forth the participation of the
child persona within the adult, we run head on into these contemporary psy­
choanalytic conundrums. Most practicing clinicians today would agree that
the idea of conducting an analysis without gratifying many of the patient's
spoken and unspoken needs is impossible, if not absurd. The very nature of
treatment, the fact that the patient is in possession of the analyst's undi­
vided, empathic attention, renders such a conceptualization inconceivable.
As we literally slog our way through the kaleidoscopic shifting of rageful,
bitter, entitled, empty, and deadening transference and countertransference
reenactments—reenactments that shift rapidly and unexpectedly through
the volleying of projective-introjective mechanisms—we find that it be­
hooves us as clinicians to have carefully thought through our position on
some of these issues ahead of time. These include whether or not to gratify
what we perceive to be early developmentally frustrated needs and the place
and extent of the analyst's participation in the course of treatment—imposi­
tions of the analyst's perception where it differs from that of the patient, ex­
plicit countertransference disclosures, and so on. We find that "the heat of
the moment" is not conducive to quiet and introspective reflection.
228 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Having found certain forms of gratification acceptable, therapists find

themselves groping for some guidelines, some reestablishment of appropri­
ate boundaries within which to conduct the treatment. In an attempt to an­
swer such a need, much has been written about where the analyst responds
and where he refrains from doing so. Much of the debate has centered
around the attempt to distinguish between what have been termed "libidinal
wishes" and "developmental needs." In the first case, common wisdom
would have us believe we frustrate, in the second, gratify. We will, for the
sake of parsimony and because the question has been so well articulated
elsewhere (Ghent, 1992; Mitchell, 1991; Shabad, 1993), sidestep the distinc­
tions between needs, wishes, and drives, stating simply our belief that no pa­
tient will ever call forth the therapist's desire to nurture and restore as will
the adult who has suffered serious childhood abuse. Given such an endemic
countertransferential pressure and such confusion in the psychoanalytic lit­
erature, what are we to do?

Gratification and Mourning

How do we steer a course between rigid adherence to an antiquated cari­
cature of treatment and the kind of countertransferential acting out that can
lead to intense overstimulation in the transference, including all forms of ac­
tual rather than symbolic reenactments (including the sexual revictimization
of the patient by the therapist more common among adult survivors of sex­
ual abuse than among any other single group [Kluft, 1990b]. We can attempt
an answer by looking- at both sides of the problem, or why we must avoid
both undergratification and overgratification.
Certainly, work with adult survivors requires certain gratifications within
the transference. Experiences of nurturing, holding, containing, protecting
are intrinsic to work with both the child and the adult persona. The analysis
will simply not proceed without emotional availability on the part of the an­
alyst. Such experiences not only create the potential for the emergence of
traumatic material into the analysis but also carry another essential function.
Such experiences of gratification in the transference essentially awaken long-
denied desires within the patient. All those who work with adults who were
traumatically abused as children know that the combination of wild over-
stimulation in the context of otherwise neglectful parenting has rendered
them as adults virtually dead to experiences of hunger and desire of any
kind. Their salvation was bought at the expense of the most stringent coun­
terdependent defenses, and, like anorexic patients, they no longer experience
feelings of hunger. Any approach that clings to notions of abstinence and
total nongratification serve merely to intensify such defenses, as well as the
shame and humiliation that accompany any experience of need in the thera­
peutic relationship.
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 229

On the other end of this dialectical tension is the analyst who believes that
he or she can make up for all the patient has suffered, that, with the emer­
gence of the child persona, he or she can redo, reparent, in essence salvage, a
childhood that has been permanently lost. We believe this to be impossible.
In chapter 9 we articulated in great detail how such an attempt—an identifi­
cation with the patient's internalized savior—calls forth the sadistic introject
in his most treatment-destroying incarnations. Ultimately, the persistence of
such an attempt at salvation interferes with the mourning process and with
the patient's relinquishing of childhood fantasies revolving around a perfect
compensatory childhood of complete and total parental indulgence. When
such a fantasy is allowed to remain unanalyzed in dissociated form, it im­
poses itself on all other gratifying relationships in the patient's life and ulti­
mately renders them disappointing and empty. For a moment, the analyst
remains all important, but eventually he too will be brought down and ren­
dered helpless and inept by the abuser within the patient.
Last, although we all strive to consider the developmental deficits of our
patients in the difficult process of negotiating such therapeutic decisions, we
believe that it is all too common to ignore the fact that the therapist's own
states of need have had a profound impact on the decision to gratify or not
gratify the patient's needs. All too often, we couch our decisions not to grat­
ify a particular request in terms of how we understand the patient's needs
and wishes, not in terms of how such enactments would impinge on our
own needs and desires. Such formulations are terribly confusing to patients
whose internal experience of self and of reality has been so buffeted by
repetitive projective-introjective cycles. They have been told what they want,
what they don't want, what they feel, and what they don't feel. They have
been told that the sexual abuse they hate is what they really want, and ulti­
mately they end up hating whatever they come to truly want. Often, there
has been only minimal correspondence between the labels given to the pa­
tient's internal experience and the patient's own definition of internal reali­
ties. The therapist who maintains an approach that focuses exclusively on in­
terpretation of the patient's needs and desires without including his own
desires as part of the final decision-making process merely repeats the
trauma of presuming he knows what it is that the patient needs and wants.
In the case being discussed in this chapter, the patient, at a point much
further along in her treatment, decided that she must have at least a month
of her therapy free of charge. She argued persuasively and passionately that
she could never feel secure that the therapist really cared about her unless
she was willing to engage in such an arrangement. The therapist attempted
to interpret the request from every possible perspective; the patient's wish to
be special above all other patients; the patient's identification with her
abuser; the wish to engage the analyst in some form of illicit activity; greed,
envy, and so on all found their way into the therapeutic discourse on this
230 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

matter. The patient's demand continued, however, unabated, in a way that

was experienced as 'relentless and belligerent by the analyst. In desperation
and anger, she yelled back one day, "Look, I just don't want to, okay; I can't
afford it, I won't do it, and I won't discuss it any further!" The therapist felt
that she had completely lost control. However, the patient was quiet for the
first time with regard to this issue. Her only response was, "Oh, I guess that
makes sense. . . . Why didn't you say so originally. ... If you can't, you
can't." She never discussed the issue again, unless it was raised by the thera­
pist, and then she always responded matter-of-factly, "It's a closed issue,
you said so."
Some years later, the patient was able to discuss the event with some
equanimity and great insight:

Patient: You kept telling me what I needed ... what I wanted. You'd
never done that before. I felt like you were making me crazy. I think
you felt guilty about saying no, and I was very demanding ... so I
think you put it all on me. I can't tell you how that felt ... it was like
you were trying to be inside of me . .. like my father. ... I felt para­
lyzed and betrayed. When you finally got angry and just said you
plain didn't want to, I was incredibly pissed off. But that was okay . . .
we were just like any two people having a fight. I knew what you
wanted, so then I could be clear about what I wanted. . . . Angry at
you, not at myself. [With a laugh] I had to push you a long way ... but
you came through for me in the end.

Oedipal Dynamics and Sexual Abuse

One final issue that warrants reconsideration in work with individuals who
have been sexually abused as children is the finer distinction between more
normative and more pathological resolutions of traditional oedipal dynam­
ics. Such distinctions become essential in successfully working through these
developmental issues with adult survivors. In its simplest and most paradig­
matic form, the theory informs us that the positive Oedipus complex in­
volves the child's erotic and sexual longings for the opposite-sex parent and
the inhibitory terror of competition with and retaliation by the parent of the
same sex. It is the fear of such competition and retaliation that ultimately
leads to resolution of these erotic longings and pushes the child along into
latency, where such erotic stirrings are quelled and, at least temporarily,
held in check by the stem injunctions of the superego.
Let us pause here, and reflect for a moment on the child's and parents'
oedipal experience in a more or less typical family. There is little as safely as­
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 231

sured in life as the relatively nonneurotic pleasure parents experience in re­

sponse to the first tender unfoldings of their child's sexual journey. When
such romantic ideation is directed at the parentzof the opposite sex, success is
all but assured. The child experiences herself to be the most delightful of se­
ductresses; her parent, it would appear, is utterly besotted by her most naive
and guileless attempts to seduce and cajole. In this best of all possible
worlds, each has found in the other the perfect lover, passionate, tender, be­
mused, and without rival. Such love affairs exist only in fantasy, and it is
only within this fantasy that they are permitted to flourish unspoiled.
Danger to such illusory perfection in the positive oedipal situation can
come from two directions: the jealous impingement of the same-sex parent,
whose sexual insecurity encourages an experience of her child as a powerful
competitor for her spouse's attentions, or the same-sex parent's inability or
feared inability to keep this affair within the safe confines of psychic fantasy.
Both of these dangers are realized in the case of actual sexual abuse. In a sit­
uation where the child unconsciously experiences or perceives the same-sex
parent's jealousy or the opposite parent's discomfort over her sexual striv­
ings, such experiences of her sexual self will become frought with anxiety
and ambivalence and come to be associated with object-related experiences
of anger or disapproval. Any such future experience of sexual stirring will
revivify these relational paradigms around which her early sexual experi­
ences were organized. In cases where there is an actualization of oedipal dy­
namics in the real sexual contact or overwhelming overstimulation of the
child, there is likely to be a complete foreclosure of such loving and romantic
potentialities. The more tender erotic oedipal experiences come to be re­
placed by an identification with the transgressing parent and it is ensured
that the patient's sexual longings will be similarly expressed (when they are
allowed to be expressed at all) in violent and intrusively demanding ways.
It is at this juncture that we call into question Freud's (1924) belief in the
"dissolution" of the Oedipus complex and take some objection to the idea
that it is primarily superego injunction and fear of castration or loss of love
that brings about the destruction of the complex. Although this may cer­
tainly explain the fate of events in families where jealous impingements and
boundary transgressions have been the hallmark of the Oedipus situation, it
is unlikely to represent the normal course of events in families where the
young child's emergent sexuality has been graciously welcomed and en­
joyed. One may prefer Loewald's (1980) concept of the "waning" of the com­
plex, namely, that it moves in and out of a position of primacy at different
points in the individual's lifetime. However, the possibility exists that the
fundamental oedipal experiences are not subject to "resolution" at all. When
drive theory takes a back seat—and the need for renunciation of infantile li­
bidinal attachments is called into question—we are freed to believe that
Oedipus is not destroyed that the residues of the richly erotic oedipal years
232 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

are merely transcendent, that they form the rich and fertile soil in which ma­
ture love can flourish. Although the superego may become heir to an
Oedipus complex marked by jealousy, guilt, impulsivity, and boundary
transgression, a more positive experience and result lead from early oedipal
romance to the evolution of an ego capacity for passionate and erotically
charged mature love based on healthy identifications with two parents com­
fortably at peace with their own sexualities (see Searles [1959b] for a related
point of view). Might Freud's theories be subject here too to the particular
coloration given them by his early work with adult survivors? Clinical expe­
rience demonstrates the tenaciously stubborn recurrence of oedipally col­
ored crushes, idealizations, and love affairs. Indeed, the early intensely
erotic and passionate beginnings of most love relationships bear many of the
hallmarks of the individual's unique oedipal situations. Such experiences are
not ruled out by successful analyses; on the contrary, such analytic work
often potentiates the possibilities for such love.
How one understands the optimal fate of the oedipal dynamic powerfully
influences the content and timing of certain interpretations, as these dynam­
ics play themselves out in the patient-therapist relationship. In an earlier
paper (Davies & Frawley, 1992a) we stated that work with adult survivors of
childhood sexual abuse would force patient and therapist alike to "think long
and hard, during the course of their work together, about the nature of abuse
and the differences between benign and malignant seduction" (p. 30). We
suggest here that "malignant seduction" is in essence an identification with
the transgressing abusive or overstimulating parent or with the jealous, retal­
iatory parent, reenacted in the transference-countertransference dyad. Its
hallmarks are vengeful, retaliatory eroticized assaults, relentless demands for
actual gratification, and a countertransference response of needing to be ever
vigilant to attempts at invasive transgression of the therapeutic boundaries.
The therapist must interpret actively the appearance of such a sadistic in­
troject—the abusive parent reincarnated in the persona of the beseeching, se­
ductive, highly eroticized patient, pleading relentlessly for any and all forms
of inappropriate gratification on the part of the therapist. Here, the counter­
transference response most naturally and powerfully evoked informs and
directs a therapeutic stance protective of the therapeutic boundaries and vig­
ilantly attuned to not gratifying the patient's experiences of sadistic omnipo­
tence vis a vis the therapist. For the patient, there is little as empathically
powerful as identifying and helping to contain through interpretation the
omnipotent infantile ragings of the internalized aggressor with whom the
patient has identified. This is especially true as via dissociation such a per­
sona can turn its assaultive stance against the patient herself as well as
against the therapist. Such a paradigm should be suspected whether the
manifestation of such a position in the transference is openly attacking or, as
is equally likely with adult survivors, is unrelenting in its attempts at eroti­
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 233

cized boundary impingements and transgressions. Caught within such a

transference-countertransference enactment, an informed and thoughtful
adherence to the rules of abstinence and a focus on interpretively unlocking
the therapeutic stalemate follow naturally.
Of concern here is the way in which such a paradigm can become en­
trenched, so that the therapist identifies the whole patient with the demands
of the sadistic introject, thus assuming a sadistically withholding retaliatory
and overly interpretive stance vis a vis any of the patient's expressed wishes.
This can be disastrous in such treatments; although given the frequency with
which this particular transference-countertransference paradigm emerges, it
is, unfortunately, all too common.
One of the simplest yet most tragic effects of early childhood sexual abuse
is that the child learns to equate her sensual and sexual desires with the actu­
alities of the abuse. She believes that had she not permitted herself such
thoughts, the incest would not have occurred. Such a child learns not to play
with her own thoughts (Bollas, 1989), that fantasy and reality come too dan­
gerously close to permit such free reign. In such a context, there is no oedipal
romance; the child is not free to luxuriate in the exquisite sweetness of child­
hood infatuation. The mutuality of benign seduction endemic to oedipal
love finds no voice, and such interactions are forever associated with malig­
nant penetration and overstimulation, rather than playfulness, sensuality,
and sexual pleasure.
When such oedipal experiences begin to emerge in the treatment setting,
such benign flirtation must be receptively met with a mood of innocence and
playfulness. The analyst in such a scenario must resonate with the harmless
pleasure of the interaction and move from the foreground of active transfer­
ence interpretation to the background of protecting and containing a transi­
tional space, wherein such a prematurely foreclosed developmental neces­
sity can emerge and flourish. Such a shift is enormously difficult,
particularly for the therapist who has been contending with overly eroti­
cized demands in the transference. He or she will hold fast to an interpretive
mode aimed at supplanting insight for the ungratifiable, ultimately self­
destructive demands of the patient and may well miss the important shift
from intrusive demands to playful ones, that is, from real to illusory modes
of interaction. The therapist working with an adult survivor of childhood
sexual abuse must, therefore, be vigilant in his or her attention to the emer­
gence of such changes in the transference. When intrusive seduction is met
with active and accurate interpretation of the patient's identification with
her own aggressor, the result will be an enhanced experience of safety and
containment within the therapeutic relationship. On the other hand, the ac­
tive interpretation of a benign and flirtatious overture toward the therapist
will surely humiliate the patient and set back, if not again foreclose, the de­
velopment of a healthy and heartfelt oedipal love.
234 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

Although we are surely aware that even a benignly flirtatious interplay

between patient and therapist is likely to increase the patient's anxiety, as
well as her experience of the therapist as dangerous and seductive, we be­
lieve, as stated earlier, that such a distortion is inevitable. In the absence of
any inappropriate gratifications that would actualize such a perception, this
transference distortion can be clarified via accurate interpretation of the pa­
tient's fears. However, narcissistic injury secondary to an overactive inter­
pretation of the patient's fledgling oedipal attempts will viscerally resurrect
experiences of humiliation and shame over which words appear to have no
assuaging powers. The capacity to distinguish between experiences of play­
ful flirtatiousness and dangerously intrusive seduction represents an impor­
tant piece of the analytic work, and nowhere can it be done more effectively
than within the transference-countertransference experience.
Having stressed the importance of developing the capacity to distinguish
and negotiate between the benign and malignant manifestations of seductive
behavior, therapists should recognize the difficulty in shifting from a coun­
tertransference position cautiously guarded against assault and penetration
to one that is receptive to the tentative, fledgling flirtations of an emerging
oedipal romance. It is frequently in the countertransference that we are best
able to identify these often subtle shifts. We notice a shift from the demand
for concrete gratifications that allows the therapist more playful latitude in
the realm of symbolic exchanges. In this symbolic and highly illusory place,
the true oedipal unfolding can finally be expressed.
In the case explored in this chapter, it was only after patient and therapist
had fully explored the meaning of their battles over the analytic fee and the
patient's demands for a month of free therapy that a different kind of wish
for gratification could emerge in the treatment setting. As already discussed,
this working-through process involved not only the meaning of the de­
mands as experienced by the patient but also the therapist's experience of
such demands in the countertransference. As the patient became reassured
by the therapist's ability to own and monitor her own experiences without
resorting to an unconscious use of projective defenses and a retaliatory re­
liance on an overly interpretive stance, she became more able to search for
the more profound and hard-to-verbalize wishes beyond her aggressive de­
mands. A highly romanticized fascination with the nuances of the therapist's
life and the wishes to be special, to be loved, to be valued above all others
began to emerge as never before in this treatment. The patient was able to
sustain increasingly intense experiences of vulnerability in this interpersonal
arena, because she became less and less wary of what she feared as aggres­
sive penetration via interpretation. Such interpretations for this patient were
experienced as reenactments of her mother's aggressive assaults; in actuality
they were projections of her own unacceptable identifications.
As such experiences of real intimacy grow in the therapeutic relationship,
 Concluding Thoughts: Theoretical Implications and Reconsiderations 235

moments of true mutuality and shared pleasure can be expressed despite the
accompanying vulnerability of both patient and therapist. The patient is
once again—or perhaps for the first time—safely able to yearn, fantasize,
and dream; and she ultimately becomes able, to bring such aspects of her self
experience into an interpersonal arena where they are most risky. In the end,
we hope that the patient will ask for things that the therapist can give, as an
indication that the patient is once again approaching her own desires with
some belief that gratification is possible. Again, we have no illusions of com­
pensating the patient for early parental betrayal or of recreating a childhood
that was filled with nightmarish terror and betrayal. This would be an act of
the most profound therapeutic grandiosity. Rather, we view the simultane­
ous unfolding of mutually pleasurable and loving feelings in the patient and
therapist as indicative of the successful reconfiguration of the relational ma­
trices that are the pathological defensive consequences of traumatic abuse in
early childhood. Here in stark contrast to the hideous reenactments that
have recurred as a leitmotif throughout the transference-countertransference
struggles is an intensely charged object relationship in which romance, de­
sire, fantasy, and benign seduction can be safely enjoyed.

In closing, let us return to where we began, to the woman who had to

swallow her own words, to the patient who could not cry. Perhaps our point
is best made in what we believe was a pivotal therapeutic exchange. At a
point in treatment, during which the patient became particularly aware of
the therapist's availability and concern, the following interchange took
place:

Patient: I feel like you've managed to touch me. I don't know how. Touch
always hurt so much .. I wouldn't let myself feel it. I was dead to
touch. [Again with tears almost, but not quite spilling over] But you've
touched me, and it doesn't hurt, and I don't feel wildly overstimulated
and crazy. Just touched . . . just touched. [The patient begins to cry for
the first time.]
Therapist: You know, don't you, that you've touched me, too.
Patient: No! [Looking frightened] How? How have I touched you?
Therapist: We've worked together for a long time, and we both know that
there are some things that words can't encompass. You'll just have to
believe me that you have. I think it still frightens you a bit. You look a
little frightened . .. but touching doesn't have to be bad. Being touched
by you doesn't hurt either.

Here the patient began to sob for the first time in her long years of ther­
apy. Throughout her reliving of years of chronic and sadistic abuse, she had
maintained an intense and ultimately exhausting self-control. As the patient
236 Treating the Adult Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse

sobbed, the therapist realized that she too was breathing more deeply and
more freely than she had ever done before in the course of this treatment. In
her own body, there was a resonant release of tension and control that only
became palpable in its absence. The therapist was aware that in the patient's
tears, freely flowing, and in the resonance she felt with such an experience of
release, she felt life and hope. She could, for the first time with this patient,
see past the years of deadening brutality and the finalities of parental be­
trayal to a future filled with living possibilities.
 /

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 Index

Abend, S. M., 18 Aetiology of Hysteria (Freud), 12,14,15-16

Abuser, 7; child's relationship with, 22, Affective responses: dissociation and, 62;
[Link]-75,179,181-82, inability to modulate in, 30,33,34,40,
186-87; encoding of traumatic memo­ 49-50; as sequelae of trauma, 24-25,
ries and relationship with, 44; identi­ 27,30, 33,40,43.
fication of, in clinical versus nonclini- Age of onset of abuse, 35-36,44
cal samples, 34; patient as, 144,162, Akhtar, S., 7,18,20
171.172- 75,177,178,182,185; pa­ Alcohol abuse, 38, 70,189
tient's identification with, 16,23, 111, Alpert, J., 11
130,132,139,146,158,161-62,171-75, American Psychiatric Association, 27,40
177-78,184,191,194,229,232; thera­ Amir, S., 34,142
pist as, 138-39,145,147,152,164,166, Amit, Z., 34
169,171,176-78,191,193-94,196, Analyst. See Therapist
202-3,207,213,228 Anger and rage, 30, 33,47, 60, 72,75,120,
Accommodation, effects of trauma on, 128,133,159,160
28,31 Anorexia, 38, 39, 73,159
Acting out, 157,159; borderline ego Antidepressant medications, 30,52
structure and, 41,130; clinical illustra­ Anxiety, 30,31,40,42, 63,88,89,123,174
tions of, 159-60,190; dissociation and, Armstrong, L., 102
63,73; interpretation of, 146; patient's Aron, L., 4,121
role as abuser within treatment and, Arousal. See Hyperarousal state
173,174; of rage outside therapy, 170; Assimilation, effects of trauma on, 28,31
transference and countertransference Attachments: to abusive objects by adult
and, 133,134,144,159-60,162,166, survivor, 4,172-75; trauma and dis­
173-74,194 ruption of, 27, 28,34
Adams, G. R., 18 Atwood, G. E., 24
Adams, P. R., 18 Axis I disorders, DSM-III-R, 40
Adler, A., 16 Axis II disorders, DSM-III-R, 40
Adolescence, symptoms of sexual abuse
in, 37,38 Bagley, C., 36,40,95,146
Adolescent self: case example of, 190, Balint, M., 21,23
191-92; dissociation and, 73; oedipal Barocas, H. A., 26
romance fantasy and, 184 Baum, A., 27
Adult self in dissociation, 199; case ex­ Beacham, B., 40
amples of, 153-54,190-91,195,220; Behavioral reactions to trauma, 27,30,
emergence of, 67,68-69,70, 73; reac­ 34-35,43
tion to child self by, 192-93, transfer­ Behavioral techniques, 7-8,205-6
ence and countertransference and, Benjamin, J., 113,224
154-55,160-61; treatment and, 73-74, Bergman, M. S., 26
82-83, 85; use of term, 6 Bernstein, A. E., 171
 Index 249

Bion, W., 113 ing, 104-8; recovery of memories,

Blame, 24,29,136 55-58,83-85,116,204-5; regressive
Blum, H., 225 reenactments, 115-16,153; rescuer
Body memories, 171-211; dissociated role of patient, 180; resistance, 124-25;
states and, 190,199; somatic encoding sadistic introject, 126; self-abusive be­
of traumatic events as, 21,28,50; ther­ haviors, 130-31,133,138-42,145,190,
apist's response to, 173,178 192; sexualization of hyperarousal,
Bollas, C., 23,29,113,233 135-36; splitting and, 137-38; 187;
Borderline pathology, 164; diagnostic transference and countertransference,
considerations in, 40; disclosure of 186-97; unsymbolized memories, 150
sexual abuse in, 88; reality testing Child self in dissociation, 199, 221-22,
and, 41-42; self-abuse seen in, 130 227; abusive internalized object rela­
Boundaries: adult survivor and, 49-50; tionship with, 71-72; case examples
invasion by patient of therapist's, of, 70,153-54,190-92,195, 220-23; as
172-73; clinical reality, 221-22; disclosure of
Bowlby, J., 22,27 sexual abuse and, 94; ego structure of,
Braun, B. G., 31,32 67-68,154-55; emergence of, 67-68,
Brenner, C., 18 70-72, 73; "inner child" concept dif­
Breuer, J., 225 ferentiated from, 64-65; omnipotent
Briere, J., 7,35,36,40, 63,90, 95,146 rescuer/entitled child relational ma­
Bromberg, P., 4,63 trix in, 167,178-81; reaction of adult
Brothers, D., 24 self to, 192-93; rescuer role of thera­
Brown, A., 135 pist and, 178-79,191; transference
Brown, P., 31 and countertransference and, 152,
Brown, Z. W., 34 154-55,164-65,169,174,177,188;
Brunngraber, L. S., 96 treatment and, 70-71,73-74,78,
Bulimia, 38,39,73,159,188 82-83, 84-85; use of term, 6
Burgess, A. W., 27 Childhood: amnesia of patient for all or
Burke, W. F., 122 part of, 91; disclosure of abuse by
Burland, J. A., 171 child during, 86-87; idealized, com­
pensatory fantasy of, 74-75,88,155;
Card, J. J., 26 mourning loss of, 179,194-95; 201
Caregiver. See Parent Classical psychoanalytic theory: effects
Case examples and clinical illustrations: of trauma in, 17,18-20,175; neutrality
absence of words to describe memo­ of therapist in, 225-26; oedipal situa­
ries, 55-58; acting out, 159-60; analyst tion in, 231-32; treatment of child­
facilitation of disclosure, 92-93; hood sexual abuse in, 7
biphasic pattern of fantasy, 29; child Cognitive development: effects of
self, 70,153-54,190-92,195,220-23; trauma on, 27,28-29,40,43; memo­
containment and, 204-5; counter­ ries and, 208; posttrauma tic stress dis­
transference, 216-19; disclosure dur­ orders and, 47
ing childhood by child, 87; disclosure Cole, C., 90
in a dissociated state, 94—95; dissocia­ Complex post-traumatic stress disorder
tion, 69-70,74—75, 83-85,153-54, (PTSD), 27
187-88,189-90,222-23; dreams, 100; Compulsive self-abuse, 134—43; hyper­
effects on patient of disclosure, 95-96; arousal and erotization and, 134-37;
erotization of fear, 138-42; flashbacks, interpretation of, 134; stress-induced
101; hospitalization for life-threaten­ analgesia in, 142-43; transference­
ing behaviors, 147; hyperarousal and countertransference and, 137-42,177
transference-countertransference, Confusion of Tongues Between Adults and
138-42; hypnogogic events, 100; ideal­ the Child (Ferenczi), 16-17
ized, compensatory childhood fan­ Containment, 202-8; clinical illustration
tasy, 74-75; pivotal therapeutic ex­ of, 204-5; combination of behavioral
change, 235-36; projective and psychoanalytic techniques for,
identification, 161-62; range of clini­ 205-6; interpretations and, 150, 202-3;
cal presentations, 50-54; reality test­ violent, self-abusive, and suicidal
250 Index

threats in, 146,207-8; therapist and, ing and importance of asking about
146-47,151-52, 203-4 abuse and, 89-91; indications for ther­
Cooper, A. M., 20 apist to speak first about, 92-94; mis­
Countertransference: acting'out and, 134, labeling as oedipal fantasies and,
160; case example of, 186-97; dissocia­ 88-89/negative responses of adults to
tion and, 84-85,156; multiple person­ childhood, 86-87; relational treatment
ality disorder and, 76-77; neutrality of model and, 202,208-10; resistance of
therapist and, 3-4,156,227; patient as therapist to asking about abuse and,
abuser and, 172-73,177,178,182; pro­ 87-89; as risky behavior, 90-91; verbal
jective identification and, 161,162-63; content and nonverbal process in, 90,
relational treatment model and con­ 91, 94; when to speak about, 91-92
ceptualizations of, 4-5; resistance and, Dissociation, 31-33,40,45-46,54, 62-85,
123-24; self-abuse and, 134,144,177; 152-57,200, 232; adolescent self in, 73;
sexual feelings in, 182,183; splitting adult self in, 67, 70; autohypnotic
and acting out and, 158,170; supervi­ states in, 19; case examples and clini­
sors and, 166; therapist's attention to cal illustrations of, 69-70, 74-75,
own, 162,164-66,167,170,179-80, 83-85,94-95,152-54,187-88,189-90,
181,182,186, 216-19; therapist's be­ 222-23; centrality of, 21-22,45,199;
havior and, 122,169,170. See also child self and, 64-65, 67-68, 70-72;
Transference-countertransference clinical implications of, 77-82; con­
paradigm tainment of, 207; continuum of alter­
Courtois, C. A., 7, 35, 36,95,96, 207 native states in, 68-69, 76; definition
Cutting. See Self-mutilation of, 62-63; diagnostic considerations
and, 40; disclosure of sexual abuse
Davies, J. M., 64,65, 225,232 and, 90, 94-95; double bind within
De Jong, J., 134 family and, 32-33; as effect of psycho­
Deep-relaxation exercises, 205-6 logical trauma, 24,31-33,34, 210;
Defense mechanisms: borderline ego emergence of, 67-77; idealized, com­
structure and, 41; dissociation and, pensatory childhood fantasy in,
21, 65, 72,75,95,156-57; integration 74-75,155; integrated model for treat­
failure and, 115; transference and ment and, 60; integration of multiple
countertransference and effects of, experiences of self in, 45, 54-55,
157-63; victimization feelings held by 73-74,78,81,213; internalized object
patient and, 176 relationship in, 71-72; multiple per­
Delayed posttraumatic stress disorder sonality disorder and, 76-77; patient's
(PTSD), 199 investment in continuing, 156-57;
Denial, 41,76,120,126-27,157 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)
Depressive episodes, 38, 39,47,70,104, and, 63,199; rapid shifts and sudden
170, 207 reversals of, 126-27,153-54,199; reac­
Destructive behavior. See Self-abuse and tion of therapist to, 66-67, 200; reality
self-destructive behavior testing and, 118; recovery of memo­
Developmental failures: 2,21,23-24, ries and, 33,64, 66, 71, 73,101,112;
46-47,110,113 relational-developmental model with,
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental 64; repression compared with, 65-66;
Disorders, 3rd ed., revised (DSM-IH-R), research on, 26, 31,45,63-64; thera­
27,40 pist's reality testing and, 126-27; ther­
Diagnostic considerations: borderline apist's willingness to enter patient's
pathology and, 40-42,49; juxtaposi­ world in, 152; transference-counter-
tion of confusing symptoms and, 49, transference paradigm and, 78-79, 83,
50; multiple personality disorder and, 150-51,153-57,164-65, 200,201; treat­
77 ment of two people (an adult and a
Dickes, R., 19, 31, 63, 64 child) in, 67-74;
Disclosure, 2, 7,86,96,120; case exam­ Doubting behavior. See Self-doubting
ples of, 87,92-93,94-95,95-96; disso­ Dowling, S., 18
ciated state and, 94-95; effects of, Dreams, 92,93,100-101,170,223
95-96; facilitating, 87-95; history tak­ Drive theory, 18-19,24,231
 Index 251

Drug abuse, 38, 70,91,129,159,170 analytic process and reality testing

DSM-IH-R, 27, 40 and, 118,119; case example of adult
Ducey, C. P., 28, 29 survivor and, 29; countertransference
Duffy, B„ 27 and, 160; of idealized childhood,
Dupont, J., 17 74-75, 88,155,195; interplay of illu­
sion and, 220,222-23; memory pro­
Eating disorders, 38, 39,129 cessing of traumatic events and bifur­
Ego functions: debate over reality of cation of, 28, 29,42; oedipal conflict
traumatic event, adaptive function­ and, 11,15, 88-89,231; oedipal ro­
ing, and, 2-3; developmental chaos of mance fantasy and, 183-84,195-96,
trauma and, 20, 46-47,54; differenti­ 233-34; of omnipotent rescue, 179-80;
ating effects of "near-trauma" from seduction theory on hysterical pa­
"catastrophic trauma" on, 20-21; dis­ tients and, 11-12,13,14; traumatic
sociation and, 62-63, 67-68,154-56, memories linked to, 18-19,136-37
199; encoding of memories related to Fast, I., 64
overstimulation of, 44-45; loss of Father. See Parent
meaning of language in interpreta­ Fear, erotization of. See Erotization of
tions and, 127; need for validation of fear
memories and, 110; oedipal conflicts Fenichel, O., 18
in treatment and, 89; reality testing Ferenczi, S., 16,17, 64,180
failures and, 103; regressive reenact­ Figley, C. R., 26, 31, 63
ments and, 115-17; repression and, Fine, C. G., 28, 29
65; splitting and, 158-59; transference Finkelhor, D., 35,135
and countertransference and, 155-56; Fish-Murray, C. C., 28, 29
unsymbolized memories and, 150 Flashbacks, 29,33,48,115,171; behav­
Ego-psychological perspective on psy­ ioral techniques for dealing with, 206;
chological trauma, 17, 20-21 clinical illustration of, 101; recovery of
Ehrenberg, D. B., 23 memories and, 95,101,116, 213-14;
Eitinger, L., 26 therapist's response to, 173,178
Encoding of memories, 1,21, 28 Fliess, R., 19, 31, 63, 64
Endocrine system, effects of trauma on, Fliess, Wilhelm, 12,13,14
27 Frank, E., 27
Entitled child role: of patient, 178-81; of Frawley, M. G., 35,36, 64, 65, 96, 225, 232
therapist, 181 Frequency of childhood sexual abuse, 14
Erikson, E. H., 113 Freud, A., 20
Erotization of fear, 135-37; case; example Freud, Sigmund, 12-14,14-15, 65, 88,
of, 138^12; hyperarousal and, 135-36, 106, 225-26, 231; Ferenczi's break
143; self-blame and, 136-37 with, 16,17; repression theory of, 31;
Eth, S., 47 seduction theory and, 11-16
Frey-Wouters, E., 26
Fairbairn, W. R. D., 4,21, 22,31, 63, 65, Fromuth, M. E., 36
95,131,149,158 Furst, S. S., 20
Family: dissociation and double bind
within, 32-33, 200; identification of Gabbard, G. O., 171
perpetrators within, 35, 210-11; oedi­ Gallops, M. S., 26
pal experience in, 230-31. See also Gartner, R., 6
Parent Gatchel, R. J., 27
Fantasied elaborations: accuracy of Gay, P., 12,15
memories in the unconscious and, 13, Gediman, H., 20
15, 209; debate over reality of trau­ Gelinas, D., 70
matic event, adaptive functioning, Ghent, E„ 221, 228
and, 2-3; dissociated child self and, Gill, M. M., 4,121,122,159
64, 74-75; good parent in, 19,155,158, Gold, E„ 36,40
178,179; primacy of meaning of, 44; Grace, N. C., 27
relational treatment model and, 3 Graff, H., 143
Fantasy, 21,74,110,114,122,129,136; Green, B. L., 27,31,63
252 Index

Greenacre, P., 18,175 Identification with abuser: of adult self,

Greenberg, J., 4,121 111, 130,132-33,139,170,177-78,229,
Greenberg, M. S., 30 232; case example of, 186-88,194; of
Greenson, R., 226 child self, 16,23,171-75; interpreta­
Grotstein, J. S., 22,65,122,158,161 tion of, 132-33; invasion by patient of
Guilt: as consequence of early sexual therapist's boundaries and, 172-73;
trauma, 16; dissociated adult self and, object relations and, 22; regressive
70,80; erotization of fear and, 137; reenactments and, 3; relational treat­
identification by patient with perpe­ ment model and, 3; self-abuse and,
trator and, 174; self-mutilation and, 130-31,132-33,173-74; victimizing
138; sexual feelings of therapist and, role in, 173-74
182 Identification with uninvolved parent,
Gunderson, J. G., 41 168-69
Identity: borderline pathology and, 41; as
Habituation, and traumatic stimuli, 48 victim, 131-32
Hales, R. E., 30 Impulse control, and borderline pathol­
Helplessness, 20, 22,132,145,158,214 ogy, 42
Herman, J. L., 7,27, 29, 31,40,42, 63,90, Incidence of sexual abuse, 34
130,143,223 Individuation by abuse survivors, 21,110
Hilgard, E. R., 31, 63 Inert identity of trauma survivor, 33
Hippocampus, and encoding of memory, "Inner child" concept, 65
28 Integration: dissociated child self and,
History taking, 88; importance of asking
64-65,72, 73-74, 78, 81-82,156,
about abuse during, 89-91; symptoms
192-93,195; fantasy and magical
of childhood sexual abuse seen in, 37;
thinking and, 114-15; mourning loss
verbal content and nonverbal process
of childhood in, 179; relational treat­
in, 90, 91,94
ment model with, 202-3, 213-14
Histrionic personality disorder, 40
Internalization: borderline pathology
Hoffman, I. Z., 4,109,121,122
and, 42; of bad parental objects, 22;
Hoke, L. A., 40
dissociation and, 64; relational treat­
Holmstrom, L. L., 27
ment model and, 7, 60-61, 207,
Horst, R., 31, 63
Hospitalization: adult survivor and, 50; 214—15; self-abusive behaviors and,
clinical illustration of, 147; dissocia­ 131,137-38,144; transformational ob­
tion and need for, 66, 200; life-threat­ jects and,113
ening behaviors and, 147, 207-8; Interpersonal relationships: borderline
patient's view of, 207 pathology and, 42,130; disclosure of
Hyperarousal state: borderline pathol­ sexual abuse and, 92, 93, 96; dissocia­
ogy and, 42; clinical illustration of, tion and, 156-57; effects of psycholog­
135-36; containment of, 202,207; as ical trauma on, 27, 33,43,164-65; real­
effect of trauma, 28, 30,40,47-48, ity of patient's childhood as primary
134-35; encoding of traumatic memo­ factor in adult, 21; reality testing and,
ries related to, 44-45; integrated 103,112-13,117-18,119; self-abuse
model for treatment and, 60; neuro­ and, 133; traumatic transference in,
chemical operations and, 30,34; self­ 33,42
abuse and erotization of, 135-37; Interpretation: compliance of patient in
shifts between affective numbing and, accepting, 123-24; containment and,
30, 33, 34, 40; transference-counter- 202-3; dissociation and, 155,157; hy­
transference and,137-42 perarousal and, 138-42; identification
Hypervigilance, 49, 50,104,117,122 by patient with perpetrator and,
Hypnogogic events, and recovery of 132-33,175; initial phases of treat­
memories, 99-100 ment and resistance to, 120; loss of
Hypnosis: recover of memories using, meaning of language in, 127; oedipal
205, 213-14; self-control by patient dynamics and, 232-33; process of mu­
through, 205-6 tuality and collaboration in, 120-21,
Hysterical neurosis, 11-1?, 13,14,15,225 122; self-abuse and, 132-33,134,144,
 Index 253

146; unsymbolized memories and, 114-15; reality testing and renuncia­

150-51 tion of, 113-14; verbalizing recovered
Introjective identification, 3,12,59,122, memories and use of, 59
138,157,177, 203,211, 229 Male survivors of sexual abuse, 6-7
Intrusive thoughts, 47, 66,101-2, 111, 211 Mallin, R., 143
Isolation, 33 Masson, J. M., 12
Masterson, J. F., 41
Janet, P., 26, 31 Masturbation, and erotization of fear,
Janoff-Bulman, R., 28 135-37,145
Jehu, D„ 7, 35,36,122 McDougall, J., 48
Johnson, S. K., 31, 63 McGrath, W. G„ 12
Jones, E., 12 Medical procedures: case example of,
Joseph, B., 122 52-53; as reenactments of sexual
Jung, C. G., 16 abuse, 50
Jucovy, M. C., 26 Medication, 66,200,207
Meissner, W. W., 41
Kadish, W., 32 Memories of childhood sexual abuse: ab­
Kahan, J., 143 sence of words to describe, 54,55-58;
Kardiner, A., 134 arbitrary events as triggers for, 47,
Kemberg, O., 40, 41,42, 71, 88,114,161 200, 208-9; cognitive psychology on,
Kestenberg, J., 26 1,208; controversy over reliability of,
Khan, M. M., 4, 21,23,168,180, 220 64,209; dissociation and lack of, 69,
Kilpatrick, D. G., 27 70; distress of survivor recalling, 13;
Klein, M., 114,161 effects of trauma on processing of, 28;
Kluft, R. P., 21, 27, 31, 32, 63,177, 228 emergence of unsymbolized, 149-52;
Koby, E. V., 28, 29
need for validation of, 109-12; pa­
Kohut, H„ 23-24,113
tient's questioning of believability of,
Kolb, L„ 134
110-11,112; psychosexual theory on,
Kramer, S., 7,18,20, 21,110
15-16; range of, 108-9,223-24;
Krull, M„ 12
repeated verbalizations of, 58-59;
Krystal, H., 20,48, 65
seduction theory and accuracy of,
13-15; symbolic encoding of, 44-45,
Laforgue, D., 134
60. See also Body memories; Recovery
Language: absence of words to describe
of traumatic memories
memories with, 54, 55-58; dissociated
Men: as perpetrators, 35; as survivors of
experience and, 63; failure by thera­
childhood sexual abuse, 6-7
pist to make sense of patient's, 128;
interpretation and patient's loss of Miczek, K. A., 34,142
meaning of, 127; recovery of memo­ Miller, A., 12, 21,22-23
ries and, 98,212-13 Mitchell, S. A., 4, 80, 224, 228
Laufer, R. S., 26 Mood changes, 47, 210,211
Learned responses to traumatic stimuli, Mother. See Parent
48 Mourning, and loss of childhood, 74-75,
Levine, H. B„ 7,18, 20, 21, 225, 226 83,155,179, 201
Levine, S., 36 Multiple personality disorders, 69,76
Lifton, R. J., 27 Mutilation. See Self-mutilation
Lindell, M„ 27
Lindy, J. G., 27, 31 Neurobiological impairments, 27-28,34
Literature. See Sexual abuse literature; Neurotransmitters, effects of trauma on,
Trauma literature and research 27,30
Loewald, H., 231 Neutrality of therapist, 3, 225-28
Loftus, E., 97,209 Newirth,J., 183
Lowenstein, R. J., 76 Nightmares, 31,47,52, 63,66,100-101,
Lying, and reality testing, 118 171, 204, 211
Nonverbal behavior, and disclosure, 90,
Magical thinking, 47, 60; integration and, 91,94
254 Index

Object relations theory, 17,21-23 Physiological changes associated with

Object relations: borderline pathology trauma, 49,50-51
and, 42; dissociation and, 64,71-72, Piaget, J., 28
83; effects of psychological trauma on, Pine, F., 5
43,210; integrated model for treat­ Pittman, R.,'134
ment and, 60-61,213-15; magical Play, and dissociated child self, 74
thinking and integration and, 114-15; Porder, M., 161
multiple personality disorder and, 76; Porter, G. L., 130
recovery of memories and, 102; Posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD),
regressive reenactments and, 3,127; 43,199; behavioral techniques for
sadistic abuser and helpless, impo­ dealing with, 206; biphase response to
tently enraged victim relational ma­ traumatic memories in, 28-29; diag­
trix and, 171; splitting and, 158; use of nostic criteria and sequelae of, 27; dis­
"child self" and "adult self" terms in, sociation and, 63; relational intimacy
6; verbalization of memories and shift and, 33; stress-induced analgesia in,
in, 59 142,143; symptoms of, 24
Obsessive thoughts, 101-2 Posttraumatic stress reactions, 2,47
Oedipal experiences, 230-35; disclosure Primal scene, trauma of exposure to, 18
seen as fantasies in, 88-89; interpreta­ Primitive idealization, 41
tions of, 232-33; romance with thera­ Projection, 41,115,157
pist and, 183-84,195-96,225,233-34; Projective identification, 157,158,160-63,
seduction theory and, 11,15; in typi­ 171-72,211,224; borderline ego struc­
cal family, 230-31 ture and, 41; clinical illustration of,
Oedipal period, psychological trauma 161- 62; definitions of, 161; denial of
during, 24 abuse by patient and, 127; failure to
Ogden, T. H., 4,23,40, 71,113,114,161 make sense of patient's words in, 128;
Omnipotence, 157-58; borderline ego integration failure and, 115; regres­
structure and, 41; idealized, omnipo­ sive reenactments and, 3, 79,127,177;
tent rescuer and entitled child rela­ therapist's response to, 122,161,
tional matrix in, 167,178-81; magical 162- 63,177; transference and counter­
thinking and, 113-15 transference and, 160-63,167,174-75
Orr, S., 134 Promiscuity, 38,39,159,170
Psychic numbing, 30,33,34,40
Pain: dissociative states and, 75; self­ Psychoanalyst. See Therapist
abuse and, 132,143 Psychoanalytic theory: establishing his­
Panic, 47, 70,123,145,206,207 torical truth and, 109; childhood sex­
Parent: developmental chaos of trauma ual abuse and later psychopathology
and loss of secure base of, 46-47,54; in, 11; multiple personality disorder
failure to protect child from intrusive in, 76-77; schools of thought on psy­
abuse by, 17,22,46,131,168; fan­ chological trauma in, 17; seduction
tasied good, 19,155,158,179; incom­ theory in, 11-16; therapist's beliefs
patible representations of, as perpe­ and understanding of, 165-66
trator and loving other, 43; splitting Psychological trauma, 17; affective se­
off bad aspects of, 22,158; tendency of quelae of, 30; behavioral effects of,
adult survivor to protect, 23,88; ther­ 34-35; classical psychoanalytic per­
apist as longed-for, 24-25,183-84, spective on, 18-20; cognitive sequelae
191,194; therapist as uninvolved, 144, of, 28-29; conscious and unconscious
160,170,176,192,202; trauma and meanings ascribed to, 18; develop­
failure of affective attunement be­ mental aspects of, 27-28; differentiat­
tween child and, 24-25 ing "near-trauma" from "catastrophic
Pattison, E. M., 143 trauma" in, 20-21; dissociation linked
Perpetrator. See Abuser with, 63; ego-psychological perspec­
Perry, C. C., 40,143 tive on, 20-21; experience of analytic
Perry, J. C., 40 situation as, 21; fantasy and, 29; mem­
Perry, R., 27 ory processing and, 28-29; object-
Peters, C. P., 40 relational perspective on, 21-23; over­
 Index 255

whelming of ego from excessive stim­ abuse in, 98-99,112; Ferenczi on, 17;
ulation in, 20; relational sequelae of, flashbacks and, 101,116; Freud's se­
33; research on recurrent sequelae of, duction theory on, 11-16; hypnogogic
26-27; self-psychological perspective events in, 99-100; hypnosis for, 205,
on, 23-25; soul murder and, 18-19; 213-14; integrated model for treat­
treatment issues and, 43-44 ment and, 60, 202,208-10; intrusive,
Psychopathology, and role of childhood obsessive thoughts and, 101-2;
sexual abuse, 11,15-17 patient's need for, 64; reaction of pa­
Psychopharmacology, 30 tient to, 116-17; repeated verbaliza­
Psychosexual theory, 15-16 tions in, 58-59, 212-13; regressive
Psychosomatic conditions, 31, 63,174 reenactments and, 79-80,98-99,
Psychotic disorders, 40,41,88 204-5; somatic experiences and, 99;
Psychotropic medications, 30 state-dependency of, 97, 200; symbol­
Putnam, F., 31, 76 ization of, in order to make available
Pynoos, R. S., 47 for analytic examination, 45,54-58,
66; by therapist, of own abuse, 166
Quaytman, M. S., 40 Reenactments. See Regressive reenact­
ments
Racker, H., 5 Regression: "all-or-nothing" response to
Rage. See Anger and rage stimuli and, 48; analytic process and
Rakoff, V. A., 27 reality testing and, 118,119; arbitrary
Ramsay, R., 36,40, 95,146 events as triggers for, 47, 200; border­
Raskin, R., 171 line pathology and, 42; posttraumatic
Reality: interplay of illusion and, 220-25; stress disorders and, 47,199
nature of, for survivor of childhood Regressive reenactments, 129,201,203,
sexual abuse, 103-8 220-21; case examples of, 115-16,
Reality testing: assaults on therapist's, 152-54; demands made of analyst by
125- 28; borderline pathology and, 41; patient during, 82; disclosure of sex­
case example of perception of, 104-8, ual abuse and, 95-96; dissociation
140-41; compromises in, 112-18; con­ treatment with, 3,78-82, 84-85; multi­
sequences of impaired, 117-18; denial ple personality disorder and, 76-77;
of abuse by patient and, 126-27; dis­ neutrality of therapist and, 3-4;
sociation and, 72-73; effects of child­ object-relational perspective on, 23;
hood sexual abuse on, 103,112-13, participation and observation used by
119; ego regression in adult patient therapist in, 4; patient's role as abuser
and, 115-17; forms of pathological within treatment and, 173,177; reality
lying and, 118; interpersonal relation­ testing and, 105-6; recovery of memo­
ships and construction of, 117-18, ries with, 79-80,98-99; relational
119; interplay of illusion and fantasy treatment model on, 3-4, 211; seduc­
in, 220-25; magical thinking and, tive behavior and, 181,182-83; self-
113-15; need for validation of memo­ abusive behaviors and, 130,136-37,
ries and, 110-12; patient's identifica­ 144,145-46; therapist's reality testing
tion with abuser and, 111; regressive and, 126-27; transference-counter-
reenactment and, 115,209-10; split­ transference states and, 167-68,
ting into two mutually exclusive sets 209-10; use of "child self" and "adult
of events in, 106-7 self" terms in, 6; verbalizing recov­
Recovery of traumatic memories, 96-102, ered memories and, 59; working-
208-10; age of onset related to, 35-36; through and, 3, 77
case examples and clinical illustra­ Relational treatment model, 3-7, 202-15;
tions of, 45,55-58, 83-85, 98,99,100, conceptualizations of transference­
101,102,116, 204-5; continuum of, countertransference matrix in, 4-5;
97-98; denial of abuse by patient and, containment in, 202-8; integration of
126- 27; dissociation and, 33, 64, 71, dissociated self and object systems in,
73,101,126-27; dreams and night­ 213-14; internalization of new object
mares as portrayals of, 100-101; expe­ relationships in, 214-15; interpreta­
riencing unsymbolized memories of tion of regressive reenactments in, 4;
256 Index

participation and observation both Seduction theory, 11-16

used in, 4; present book from perspec­ Self: borderline pathology and, 41; devel­
tive of, 7; recovery and disclosure of opmental chaos of trauma and loss of
memories and fantasied elaborations secure parental base and, 46-47,54;
in, 208-10; regressive reenactment in, dissociation and organization of, 27,
3-4; stages of, 202; symbolization and 31-33,43,63,64,199; integrated
encoding of experience in, 210-13; model for treatment and, 60; integra­
therapeutic neutrality in, 3-4,225-28; tion in treatment of patient's multiple
therapeutic relationship as both back­ experiences of, 45; realities of child­
ground and foreground in, 5; treat­ hood sexual abuse and fantasied elab­
ment of male survivors and, 6-7; use orations and, 3; regressive reenact­
of terms in, 6 ments and, 3; sadistic abuser and
Relationships. See Interpersonal relation­ helpless, impotently enraged victim
ships relational matrix and, 171; self-
Relaxation exercises, 205-6,207 abusive behaviors and, 131; use of
Repression, 22,31, 65-66 terms for, 6; verbalization of memo­
Rescuer role: of patient, 180-81; of thera­ ries and shift in organization of, 59.
pist, 178-79,191,193,195 See also Child self, Adult self
Research. See Trauma literature and re­ Self-abuse and self-destructive behavior,
search 38,39,129; addictive nature of, 134,
Resick, P., 27 143,146; adult self and, 70; assuming
Resistance: clinical illustration of, 124-25; control of abuse through, 130-31; case
countertransference and, 123-24, examples and clinical illustrations of,
225-26; as developmental milestone, 130-31,133,138-42,145; childhood
123; interpretation and, 120; nature of, sexual abuse and, 130; compulsive,
123-25; patient's doubting of memo­ 134; containment of, 207-8; counter­
ries and, 111-12; splitting and, 159; transference and, 134,144,160,161;
therapist's reaction to, 124-25,226; desire to punish self with, 131; disclo­
unconscious negativity inherent in sure and, 95; dissociation and, 73;
use of term, 123 familiarity for adult survivor of expe­
Rinzler, C., 143 rience of, 131-32; hyperarousal and
Rosenthal, R. J., 143 erotization of fear and, 134—37; identi­
Ross, C. A., 31,32,41,76 fication with perpetrator in, 132-33;
Ross, D. R., 76 identity as victim and, 131-32; inter­
Runtz, M., 35,36,40, 63, 95,146 pretation of, 132-33,134,139-42,144,
Russell, D. E. H., 7,14,35,36 146; life-threatening, 146-47; patient's
role as abuser within treatment and,
Sachs, R. G., 32 173; posttraumatic stress disorders
Sadistic abuse, 44,135-36,148 and, 47; projective identification and,
Sadomasochistic fantasies, 2,18,19,44, 161; reactions of therapist to, 145-46,
175 148; reactions to others in current
Sadomasochistic identification, 130 lives and, 133; as reenactment of trau­
Sandberg, D. P., 30 matic events, 34,133; shame and, 131;
Sandler, J., 122 significance of, 130-33; split-off rage­
Saunders, E. A., 40 ful responses and, 170; stress-induced
Schaeffer, N. A., 27 analgesia in, 142-43; therapeutic im­
Scharff, D. E„ 21,158 plications of, 144-48; transference­
Scherl, D. J., 27 countertransference and, 133,134,
Schizotypal personality disorder, 40 138—42,160. See also Self-mutilation
Searles, H. F„ 41,180, 232 Self-blame, 24,29,136
Secondary process thinking, and dissoci­ Self-doubting, 24,107-12
ation, 72 Self-hypnosis, 205—6
Secrecy, and childhood sexual abuse, 36 Self-mutilation, 90,91,129; acting out
Seducer role: of patient, 129-£2,159,163, and, 133,134,159-60; childhood sex­
170,177,189,196; of therapist, 160, ual abuse and, 130; clinical illustra­
183,191 tion of, 161-62; containment of, 207-8;
 Index 257

disclosure and, 95, 96; internalization transference and, 157-59,170,171,

of abused self with, 137-38; life­ 181,182
threatening, 146-47; posttraumatic Startle responses, 47
stress disorders and, 47. See also Self­ Steele, B., 21,46,168
abuse and self-destructive behavior Stem, D. N., 22,122
Self-psychological perspective on psy­ Stolorow, R. D., 24
chological trauma, 17, 23-25 Stone, M. H., 40
Separation by abuse survivors, 21,110 Stress response: as sequelae of psycho­
Sexual abuse literature, 35-40 logical trauma, 30,34,48, 50; of thera­
Sexual abuse. See Childhood sexual pist, 148
abuse; Incest Substance abuse, 38, 70,91,129,159,170
Sexual behavior: flirtatious behavior of Suicidality, 38,39; case example and clin­
patient and, 181-82,233-34; flirtatious ical illustration of, 51-53,161-62; con­
behavior of therapist and, 183; oedi­ tainment of, 207-8; disclosure and, 95;
pal romance fantasy and, 183-84, dissociated child self and, 75; intensi­
195-96; patient promiscuity and, 159, fication in treatment setting and, 138;
170; sexual encounters between pa­ as reenactment of traumatic events,
tient and therapist and, 177-78; teas­ 34; splitting and, 159
ing of therapist as, 182-83 Sullivan, H. S., 31, 63,66
Sexual dysfunction, 16, 23, 70 Superego: borderline pathology and, 42;
Shabad, P., 228 oedipal experience and, 231, 232
Shame, 16,131,143,174 Supervisors, and countertransference,
Shatzow, E., 223 166,217-18
Shearer, S. L., 40 Surrey, J., 36,40
Shengold, L„ 7,18,19,63, 64,175,221 Sutherland, S., 27
Shuster, L., 34,142 Swenson, C., 40
Signal anxiety, and repression, 65 Swett, C., 36
Silver, J. M., 30 Symbolization: availability of recovered
Simpson, C. A., 130 memories and need for, 45,54; cogni­
Slavin, J. H„ 103,109 tive psychology on, 1; effects of
Smith, W. K., 31, 63 trauma on, 47; encoding of memories
Somatic complaints: body memories and with, 44-45, 60; integrated model for
encoding of, 21,50,210; dissociation treatment and, 60; relational treat­
and, 63, 70, 73; posttraumatic stress ment model and, 202, 210-13; re­
disorders and, 199; recovery of mem­ peated verbalizations of memories in,
ories and, 99, 204-5; symbolic Repre­ 58-59; somatic symptomatology and
sentation and, 48; unsymbolized foreclosure of, 48
memories and, 149,150 Symptoms of sexual abuse, 36-39; in
Speech, and words to describe memories, adolescent, 38; in adult, 39; in child,
54,55-59, 212-13 37; confusing juxtaposition of, 49, 50;
Spiegel, D., 31, 32,33,41,205,206 disclosure of abuse and, 92,93,95,96;
Spiegel, H., 206 repression and, 65; symbolic repre­
Splitting: borderline ego structure and, sentation and, 48
41; case example of, 137-38,187; as
consequence of early sexual trauma, Tansey, M. J., 122
16, 31; as defense of self, 22,158; defi­ Taxon system, and encoding of memory,
nition of, 158; flirtatious behavior by 28
patient and, 181-82; incorrect inter­ Termination, threats of, 13,138,150,174
pretation and, 123; integration failure Terr, L. C„ 27, 29,97
and, 115; loss of meaning of language Terror, 33,50,174, 202
in interpretations and, 127; multiple Therapeutic alliance: as both background
personality disorder and, 76-77; rage­ and foreground in relational treat­
ful responses and, 170; seductive ment model, 5; conceptualizations of
behaviors and, 181-82; self-abusive transference and countertransference
behaviors and, 131; therapeutic goal in, 4-5; containment and, 203^4; cre­
and, 64; transference and counter­ ation of transitional space in, 59-60,
258 Index

119,201-2; need for validation of ings held by patient and, 176-77;

memories and, 111-12; neutrality of viewed as abuser, 152
therapist and, 3-4,225-28; reparent­ Thinking: "all-or-nothing" response to
ing by analyst in, 83,201 ' stimuli and, 47—48; dissociated experi­
Therapist: abuse of child reported by, ence and, 63, 72; effect of psychologi­
147-48; as adult survivor, 166; cal trauma on, 29,199
assumptions about role of, 200-202; Thompson, M. L., 34,142
child self in dissociation and, 78,165, Titchener, J. L., 27
169; consultation with colleagues by, Transference: acting out and, 159,160;
148,166,217-18; containment and, analyst's behavior in, 121,122; case
146-47,151-52,203-4; controlling role examples of, 180,186-97; Freud as
of, 176; countertransference used by, therapist and, 13; gratification in,
216-19; debate over reality of trau­ 228-29; interpretation of, 121; rela­
matic event and adaptive functioning tional treatment model and conceptu­
among, 2-3; denial of abuse by pa­ alizations of, 4-5; neutrality of thera­
tient and, 126-27; disclosure facili­ pist and, 3-4; projective identification
tated by, 87-95; dissociation of reac­ of negative, 160-61; splitting in, 159;
tion, 66-67,200; as entitled child, 181; traumatic transference in, 33; thera­
entitled demands by patient of, 173, pist as unseeing, uninvolved parent
179-80; eroticized reactions of, 182, in, 133,134,170,176; victimization
183,184,225; evoking symbolic pres­ feelings held by patient and, 176. See
ence of, 206-7; failure to make sense also Transference-countertransference
of patient's words by, 128; fantasies paradigm
of, 180,191,195; flashbacks and, 101; Transference-countertransference
flirtatious behavior of, 183; hospital­ paradigm: arbitrary events as triggers
ization and, 207-8; impact of attitudes for regressions in, 47,200; attitudes
and beliefs held by, 163-66; invasion and beliefs of therapist and, 163-66;
by patient of personal and psychic case example of, 186-97; conceptual­
boundaries of, 172-73; life-threaten­ izations of transference and counter­
ing behaviors and, 146-47; as longed- transference in, 4-5; disclosure of sex­
for parent, 24—25,183-84,191,194; ual abuse and, 92,93,208; dissociative
neutrality of, 3-4,225-28; omnipotent states and, 73, 76, 78-79, 80-81, 83,
rescuer role of, 178-79; participation 153-54,200,201; experience of ana­
and observation both used by, 4; pa­ lytic situation as trauma in, 21; failure
tient as abuser of, 144,162,171, by therapist to make sense of patient's
171—7'7,178,182,185; patient as res­ words in, 128; hospitalization and,
cuer of, 180-81; patient's caring for 207-8; hyperarousal and, 137-42; ide­
and protection of, 169-70; patient's alized, omnipotent rescuer and enti­
doubting of memories and, 111-12; tled child relational matrix in, 167,
peer reactions and, 163-64,165-66; 178-81; interpretation of regressive
projective identification anticipated reenactments in, 4; multiple personal­
by, 162-63; as protector, 147,166,177, ity disorder and, 77; omnipotent res­
201,220; rage experienced by, 128; re­ cuer and entitled child relational ma­
ality testing by, 125-28; regressive trix in, 178-81; rapid shifts in, 110-11,
reenactments and, 79-80,84-85; re­ 167,199,208,217; reality testing and,
parenting by, 83,201; repeated ver­ 110, 111, 220; recovery of memories
balizations of memories and, 58-59; and, 208; regressive reenactments
resistance to asking about abuse by, and, 78-79,167-68,209-10; relational
87-89; role as victim for, 174; seducer positions and matrices in, 167-85;
role of, 160,183,191; sexual encoun­ roles of "believer" and "denyer" shift­
ters between patient and, 177-78; ing back and forth in, 110-11; sadistic
trust and acceptance of, 19; under­ abuser and helpless enraged victim
standing of psychoanalysis by, relational matrix in, 167,171-78; se­
165-66; as uninvolved parent, 144; ducer and seduced relational matrix
unsymbolized memories and depen­ in, 167,181-85; self-abusive behaviors
dence on, 151-52; victimization feel­ and, 145; self-psychological perspec-
 Index 259

five on, 25; splitting and, 158-59; sym­ Verbalization, 66; absence of words to
bolization of recovered memories to describe memories with, 54, 55-58; re­
make available in, 45,55; therapist's covery of memories and, 98, 212-13
participation in regressive reenact­ Veronen, L. G., 27
ments in, 4; uninvolved parent and Veterans, trauma research on, 26-27,
neglected child relational matrix in, 28-29
167,168-71,192,202-3; unsymbolized Volkan, V. D., 41, 71
experiences and, 149-52; use of "child
self" and "adult self" terms in, 6; ver­ Wallsh, R., 143
balizing recovered memories and, 59 War veterans, trauma research on, 26-27,
Transformational objects, 113 28-29
Trauma literature and research: classical
Weiss, J. M.
psychoanalytic perspective in, 18-20;
Wilson, J. P., 31, 63
dissociation in, 31-32,45; ego-psycho­
Winnicott, D. W„ 4,5, 21,23,59,113,151,
logical perspective in, 20-21; object-
170,184, 201,220
relational perspective in, 21-23; post­
traumatic stress reactions in, 2,40-41, Wolf, E. K., 11
43; psychoanalytic perspective on Working alliance, 4. See also Therapeutic
treatment and, 1,44-48; self-psycho- alliance
logical perspective in, 23-25 Working-through: dissociative states in, 65,
Trauma. See Psychological trauma 73,75,79,85,156; hyperarousal and,
Trust, and acceptance of analyst, 19 143; need for validation of memories in,
Turner, S. M., 27 109,110; regressive reenactments and, 3,
77,85; repressed memories in, 65; thera­
Ulman, R. B., 24 peutic relationship and, 5; transference­
Unconscious: seduction theory and, 13, countertransference positions and, 168,
15; self-psychological perspective on
171; uninvolved, nonabusing parent
trauma and, 24, 25
and unseen, neglected child relational
Uninvolved parent: in relational matrix,
matrix in, 171; verbalizing recovered
136-37,138; therapist as, 133,134,
138-39,144,160,170,176,192, 202 memories and, 59
Unwin, A., 40 Wyatt, G., 14,35

Van der Hart, O., 31, 63 Yager, T., 26

van der Kolk, B. A., 27, 28,29,30, 31,32, Young, M. B„ 29,33,41
34,40,46, 48, 63.97,134,142,143,168,
207 Zaidi, L. Y., 90
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