What do you do when you’re the nation’s most recognised child sex abuse victim and whistle blower – and your therapist of 5 years is charged with historic child sex offences? That is the dilemma I faced at the start of this year.
The basic story was his “psycho ex-wife” wanted custody of their kids plus the substantial family assets he had just inherited. The ex violated a Family Court order by taking the daughter three states away. She then had her daughter from a previous relationship, who had just been date raped, make a statement that my therapist took a bath with her when she was 4 and she accidentally touched his penis.
The cops took my therapist’s phone and loaded it with dating site invitations from young women asking to meet up with him and bring their 10 year old daughter. It seemed an obvious sting attempt.
The claims against my therapist grew wilder and the case unravelled with time and document disclosure. Nothing added up. Statements contradicted each other plus what the step-daughter had told her counsellor during her teens. Besides, these allegations emerged under EMDR – rendering them inadmissible in court.
Then there was the psycho ex’s bizarre behaviour. My therapist booked a trip to Bali with his son who had chosen to remain with his dad. Flight Centre sent a copy of my therapist’s booking details to his ex-wife who, in true psycho form, booked the same Bali resorts and dates for her and their daughter. Suddenly, my therapist is on holiday when his ex and their daughter approach him at the resort.
I went into shock at the vicarious trauma the revelation caused. “No-no-no,” I banged my head on the table. “This is not happening.” I gathered myself. “You wanna know what I reckon?” I asked him.
“I don’t wanna hear any conspiracy theories!” he snapped back. “I know you told me when we started that they would come after me for working with you, but the cops have a lot of reasons to target me. There’s a class action against the police which depends on my reports.”
My fellow victims, and their therapists, immediately concluded, ‘That’s the end of that relationship! Even if he’s innocent, there’s no way Fiona can continue.”
“It can’t be true!” I argued. “He’s done such effective work with me. He believed my story, even the crazy bits. I’ve seen him react in revulsion at and anger at what was done to me, as it emerged. You just can’t fake that kind of reaction.”
“But maybe he’s an opportunist?” my fellow victim suggested. “You haven’t read the brief. You only know what he’s telling you.”
To everyone’s surprise – including my therapist’s – I didn’t ditch him. I made my decision to stay the first day he broke the news. I will never forget the expression on his face as he picked up his notepad and prepared himself for the session. It melted my heart. Later, when I was alone and I thought of that pathetic facial expression, I just wept. I couldn’t abandon him. I was too loyal and caring and altruistic. Admittedly he had been quite the asshole therapist at times over the past years and there were times when I almost ditched the selfish, egotistic, lazy prick. But not now. I couldn’t kick a man while he was down.
My friend concluded, “You always present as very in control. I knew that other side to you existed but I didn’t see it until that time you decided to stick with him.”
Few people don’t realise the depth of my concern for people in general, and my ability to empathise – to put myself in others’ shoes. Sure, at times I wondered whether my therapist was lying to me, whether there was some substance to the allegations. But even then I thought, I don’t care. I even promised him that if he were convicted and sentenced I’d visit him in prison. I realised what a blow to his masculinity being branded a kiddie-fucker is, and the impact on his self-esteem as a therapist. So, I went easy on him. Where I previously provoked and fought with him, I now went soft and acknowledged what a good therapist he had been and why. I built him up and tried to compensate for the attack on him.
The reward for sticking with my therapist is that our relationship took on a nature that allowed me to process deep set material that could never otherwise be accessed. Following his being charged, my therapist became more approachable, and he paid the type attention my case needed for me to progress to the next level of memory reprocessing. We made a connection that wasn’t there before.
My therapist, himself traumatised at his arrest, adopted a bit of a “fuck it” attitude that paid off for me. His flexibility and willingness to go with the flow allowed me to access my earliest childhood memories and the original trauma. We processed the abuse that occurred in the University of Sydney’s Madsen Building under the auspices of violent and sadistic pedo rapist Antony Kidman.
As we approached our 5th anniversary of working together, I persuaded my therapist to having a beer with me to celebrate. On the day, my therapist arrived and I offered him the usual cup of tea. At this he threw his hands in the air as if to say, Where’s the promised beer?
“Oh, you want a beer now?’ I exclaimed, ‘During therapy? So, we’re gonna combine EMDR, hypnosis – and beer?”
My daughter was within earshot and didn’t approve.
“Oh, no, just give me a tea,” he relented.
“No, I’ll get you a beer. What the fuck could go wrong, eh?”
So, we both sat down to start our therapy session with a frothy topped beer in hand. As my daughter went to exit the house and leave us to our devices, she shot both of us a vicious look of disapproval and spat: “It’s not the sixties, you know! You can’t just experiment!” and gruffly marched away.
“Wow, she’s uptight,” my therapist commented as I pissed myself laughing at the absurdity of the entire situation. The world was ending, we were in Covid19 lockdown, I had permanently fucked my social standing by publishing shit like this, my therapist had been charged with pedo crimes, and we were drinking beer in session. Sorry, but I found it all quite hilarious.
Somehow, that beer incident convinced most of my parts to finally attach to this therapist for the purpose of processing the deeper material and integrating the well-hidden alters. As I wrote in my book, attachment can only occur when the patient feels equal to the therapist and the ‘us v them’ stereotype is abandoned. This certainly had occurred and I attached. That was 2-3 months ago.
I warned my therapist that I had attached. This had occurred once before and I detailed the experience in my book. My therapist has refused to ever read my book which was published over a year ago. I repeatedly asked him to read it so he could fully understand and cater for my particular needs. Standard therapy approaches simply do not work with MK-Ultra victims, and my book explains why.
MK attachment requires me to trust the therapist to handle whatever happens while this phase is occurring. Attachment is not permanent, as I wrote in my book. I clearly told my therapist that I had attached, that I was incredibly vulnerable – and terrified. Soldiers don’t like relinquishing control. I had no idea what might unfold, what might surface, and I was blindly trusting him with my life. I clearly warned my therapist I had now transferred my feelings toward my perps onto him, and that he had a lot of power of suggestion, just as my perps did. I said he could really hurt me in this vulnerable state.
“Well, that will allow us to go deeper,” he responded.
Thanks to this attachment process, we accessed and identified a bunch of Mengele created alters that I had never realised existed. The defender of this system actually grabbed my therapist by the throat – something I had warned him I feared. But he was unfazed by this and handled it meticulously. My beta programming also surfaced for the first time, but I diffused this by verbalising exactly what their plans were, and this disarmed it.
A highlight of this time was when I, mid intense memory recovery, leant forward and asked my therapist, “Hey, have you ever considered that I might be a complete psycho and have made all of this shit up?”
“Yeah,” he responded, “like everyone else on the planet.”
I erupted into uncontrollable laughter which lasted minutes, and my therapist joined in as I convulsed and doubled over in hysterics. After the beer session, this memory is my second-favourite “fuck it” moment.
So, we broke the rules. We crossed boundaries. Rules and boundaries I was well aware of considering my own training. But I didn’t care. I was in therapeutic bliss for the first time in my life, because finally someone was breaking with the conventions that simply don’t work with MK victims, and doing what actually fucking worked. Sometimes I hugged my therapist who responded exactly as I needed at the time. It was never sexual. And I sensed he sometimes needed a hug as much as I did, due to his own trauma and generally shit situation. I couldn’t believe he held it together as much as he did. I didn’t expect he got physical comfort from anywhere else, since “Hey I’ve been charged with fucking kids” can’t be a good pick-up line. And he had confided that he had given up on the prospect of a marriage and kids.
Conventional therapy says the patient must learn to self-soothe by hugging yourself, and that hugging a client creates dependency. Yeah well, fuck that academic bullshit. It doesn’t work. My friend who has been through the same type of abuse once told her therapist, “You could cut five years off therapy if you just held me.” He didn’t, she never progressed in 20 years of therapy, and she remains DID.
But then came my most recent therapy session. At the start, my therapist announced, “Hey, I have some news. My charges were dropped.”
I squealed and literally jumped on him in delight, such that my daughter stick her head against the screen door to see what all the commotion was about. Then suddenly, I felt nauseous. So nauseous and light headed that I lay on the floor. “You can talk to me from here,” I moaned. “It’s just sensory overload. I think I got too excited and overwhelmed.”
We launched into the session which consisted of a combination of hypnosis and EMDR. We had perfected this approach which ripped the head off my repressed memories and unleashed a flood of flashbacks in-session. It’s not something I recommend others do, but I was built to absorb trauma. My recovery time is phenomenal. Also, like my therapist I am a risk taker, an adrenalin junkie. We are both high IQ, easily bored, and gravitate to ER type fast paced stimulation. We had done this countless times before and this session ought to be no different – but it was.
Usually, when I recall memories, I do so in what I call cartoon form. They do not appear as flesh and blood. My friend’s experienced therapist noted that this a protective mechanism that DID victims typically experience. But the hypnosis-EMDR combo could turn cartoon memories into real flesh-and-blood memories. I learnt this the hard way when I reprocessed the incident in the University of Sydney’s Great Hall where Kidman and his camp entourage flayed and crucified a 5 year old boy alive. I drew the cartoon memory as I originally recalled it. But this time, I recalled a different aspect of it, and I had a real life flashback of seeing the child screaming for his mother who sat in the 4th row, and an image of his subcutaneous fat being exposed as he was skinned. That was fucking horrible and left me in a right state. But I don’t regret it.
During our last therapy session, I recalled being dressed up as a Candy Girl doll at age 4 years. A bunch of dolls dressed the same as me were processed on a dummy conveyor belt located on the Madsen Building’s ground floor, and they fell I a pile on the floor at the end of the conveyor belt. Then I was driven along and I was told that if they broke me they could simply make a new doll. This was a means of creating multiple brain compartments. I had flashes of different images, such as a doll being rocked back and forth until it cried “ma-ma” followed by Kidman thrusting me back and forth until I cried for my mother. I still don’t recall Kidman’s sexual assault of me, but it was so horrific that for the first time ever, I was not allowed access to the memory. I just felt the labour type stomach pains associated with his penetration of my 4-year-old form.
Then I had flashbacks of different coloured Candy Girl dolls based on different coloured and flavoured hard boiled candies: black based on liquorice, blue for blueberry flavour, apple green, cherry red, etc. A colour and flavour for every sexual proclivity.
Then came the earlier childhood memories. I had an image of being in a white crib in a small room with pale blue coloured walls and natural wood veneer doors. Someone stuffed a sand coloured teddybear over my face and almost suffocated me. My mother said she had never seen such a scene, so I don’t know where it occurred. But I see a glimpse of Kidman’s woolly hair.
I then recalled being very young, about 2 years old. I was dressed in an awkwardly fitted Cult robe and watching murders and dismembering of bodies in the cavern system beneath BoysTown. I had no concept of what I was seeing.
These memories were real-life in appearance, not cartoon. The incidents occurred prior to the proper establishment of my brain compartmentalisation. The memories involved the initial feelings of terror that I experienced as a preschool child.
In response, under deep hypnosis and dissociation, I climbed up next to him like a little girl and clung to him. Usually, he would hug me back. But this time was different. The charges had been dropped – and so had I. He pushed me away and snapped at me in anger and disdain. He began labelling me “mentally ill” whereas before he praised my mental stability compared to all his other clients. He couldn’t understand how I, who had experienced the most trauma he’d ever encountered, was so functional compared his other clients who “can’t tie their own shoelaces.” Suddenly, my therapist began defending people who had offended me and blamed their behaviour on me and my “major depression.” Get your mother or husband to hug you, he coldly, glibly asserted, knowing the attachment to my mother was violated by pairing with ipecac and committing blood – a conditioned response still present. And ironically, when I subsequently tried to hug my husband – he too angrily pushed me away, rejected me just as my therapist had. Oh, but the marital problems I had confided in my therapist were now, suddenly all my fault, all in my head because I was depressed.
“You’re rejecting me,” I lamented in shock and confusion.
“How am I rejecting you when I drive here every fucking week to see you!” he exclaimed.
A surge of physical pain shot through my nervous system and set my spine on fire. For me, psychological pain manifests as physical pain, and the pain of premature de-attachment is the worst pain I know. He had severed it like a can knife through bamboo and I just toppled. In that dissociative state, it dawned on me, “You don’t need me anymore, now that your charges are dropped.”
He suddenly realised “I haven’t pulled you out yet. Let’s do that.” He had often left me in a hypnotic state and forgotten to count me out. As soon as he counted me out, I took a gasp of air and ‘woke up’. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like a 2-year-old. “I’m sorry,” I lamented. “I-I…” I struggled for words, for an excuse. “We do this hypnosis and rip my head open and-…”
“You’re fragile,” he glibly, condescendingly noted. Then he jumped up off the lounge, stood and asked, “Do you want to walk me to my car?”
No, I didn’t. But I followed routine. As he put his shoes on, I asked, “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you read my book.”
He signed, “You still want me to read your book.”
“Is it just laziness?” I suggested.
“Yeah, maybe.” His body language suggested I had given him an out. “I don’t want to spend my weekends working. I like to keep work and private time separate.”
I staggered to the car in shock and confusion at his glibness.
“Are we good?” he asked.
“I-I…” and I don’t remember what else I muttered.
He drove off without his conscience.
That night, every time I fell asleep a shock of electricity jolted me awake. Over the following days I consumed valium for breakfast and managed to keep a little bone broth down. I struggled to close the vortex opened, and dress my psychological wounds for healing.
I phoned the only person in the world I knew would understand my position, my friend who had been through the exact same thing. I wish I could relay precisely what my friend said because it was eloquent and accurate. She basically told me that at the end of the day, every therapist she’s ever been to has promised to do things differently, but eventually they all fall into the same behaviour. The moment my therapist was let off the charges, it was “back to normal” and his priority was his professional reputation. I had met a need has had while under threat, but the moment that threat was removed, he discarded me like a dirty rag. When all is said and done, my friend asserted, we victims of extreme abuse can’t relay on anyone – not our therapist, husband, family members or friends. In the end, we have to do it our fucking selves.
I wondered, What have I always done to cope with major trauma? I always write. I give my parts a voice. Right now I have a bunch of preschool child parts in a state of extreme distress and I’m battling to comfort them. So, that’s why I’m sharing this with you now. I could swallow food only after I composed an email to my therapist that, as my friend asserted, will likely fall on deaf ears. I will once again survive this blow, since my perps built me to absorb extreme trauma.
People knowingly, consciously make choices. I’ve had close friends who suddenly decided to end their friendship with me because I make them look at who they are, and when they examine who they really are they don’t like what they see. My therapist is no different. He doesn’t want his New Age occult beliefs and practises challenged. He doesn’t want to read my book because it might contain information he doesn’t want to hear, words like this:
If a therapist is not altruistically motivated to be concerned for victims, when the client’s condition becomes critical, and the therapist is forced to choose between the client and their café lifestyle, registration, reputation, research, business, overseas holidays, long weekends, interstate conference with all-inclusive wine tour, private school fees, regular restaurant dining, latest Tinder date, intellectual pursuits, social recognition, or personal safety – they will not choose the client. Most therapists will sell out and suddenly change a client’s diagnosis to ‘mentally ill’ the moment the client exposes their professional inadequacy, insincerity, incompetence, and unwillingness to deviate from their ‘money for old rope’ routine.
If a victim bonds with one of these secular professionals for the purpose of processing extreme abuse, they risk being prematurely abandoned at a most crucial time. It is safer not to commence the recovery process at all, rather than die halfway through. And do not think the therapist will take responsibility for their part in the victim’s downfall. They will justify their abandonment according to their code of therapeutic engagement and management, and ultimately blame the victim for their poor choices. The client was after all, just another personality disordered nut, and they have a filing cabinet full of those to fill the void. All mental health workers reserve their perceived right to hide behind a façade of professionalism. Arrogant or not, they will in times of stress, fear, or ignorance, revert to this default setting. Every psychologist and psychiatrist I have ever consulted fits this behavioural pattern.
Let’s not end this tale on a depressing note. Let me share with you the remarkable content of a therapy session that comforted me and left me with a sense of hope during these crazy times.
So, I was in a therapy session some weeks ago, under hypnosis. I recalled sitting in Mengele’s dentist chair located in his lab beneath the U.S. embassy in Canberra. The fat fuck was getting me to focus my attention on a pinpoint of light that I created using meditation and hypnosis. Suddenly the prick of light expanded into a tunnel. I entered the swirling tunnel and approached a light. I exited the tunnel chest first, in a backbend and landed on green lawn.I stood up and thought, ‘Forbidden. I’m not supposed to be here.’
I looked up and saw a city of white gold shimmering on a distant hill. Then I noticed I was standing vertically to a path that was about 3-4 metres wide and made of translucent yellow gold bricks. Then I noticed people walking around, but I could only see the outlines of their bodies because they shone bright like light bulbs. Then I noticed that this path wove over a series of rolling green hills, to the city. Then I noticed the sky was blue.
Then I was standing on the path, facing left. Then I noticed a man approaching me, walking along the path. His skin and hair were a golden light colour and he was dressed in a white, ankle length robe, a gold cord belt, and an ankle length royal blue vest. His eyes were bright blue.
Then I marvelled at the blue sky because it contained bright stars in broad daylight. Then those stars flew closer until they transformed into men. They landed in tight formation behind the main man. They looked like ancient gods, with golden skin and wavy short hair and were dressed in knee length white tunics.
Then I was terrified. I thought, I’m going to die.
The lead man spoke, ‘Fiona, what are you doing here?’
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ I frantically explained. ‘They made me come here. They sent me here.’
Next, I was on my hands and knees before the man. Then he knelt down on one knee, placed his hand on the back of my head, and said, ‘It’s okay. It will all be okay.’