The Sandy Hook shooting happened in 2012, about the same year my own life came crashing in on me. When I saw the photos of Adam Lanza online, I cried not for those he killed, but because I felt so much love and compassion for the boy. When I told a friend of mine how she reacted in horror. "How can you say you feel for him? He wasn't human. He was a monster."
I began to read about Adam's life, feeling driven to learn the truth. Much written in the media was speculation at first, but slowly the truth came out. When I heard that Adam had been abused by his therapist, I sure wasn't surprised. "Bingo," I told myself.
I knew, then. Therapy abuse is rarely ever talked about. People like me and Adam who were abused by therapists are routinely silenced or told it never happened. Yet therapy abuse can wreck a person's life and even cause that person to explode in some fashion, maybe like Adam did.
My therapist abused me in a narcissistic fashion. She had her rules and policies about me, a seven-page contract that she routinely broke herself or changed to suit her whims. Her therapy, if you could call it that, consisted of bossiness, power-plays, manipulation, false accusations, constant threats, sectioning and other use of police.
I was over 50 years old at the time and was being treated by Maria for anorexia nervosa. I had to see her twice a week, go to my PCP once a week to get weighed against my will, and saw my psychiatrist once a month. Often, Maria threatened to incarcerate me if I didn't gain as little as half a pound. She accused me of vomiting and other things I never did. She called me a liar, saying all anorexics lie. She told me over and over that she was the one who could cure me, yet in the same breath accused me of not following orders well enough. During the course of "therapy" my friends, who could hardly comprehend that a therapist could abuse like that, made a slow exodus out of my life.
Many of my friends, who are now exfriends, decided that my wildly fluctuating statements about Maria must have been a sign of mental illness or paranoia. I am saddened today that it was so hard to get anyone to listen. I joined a church in hopes of finding allies there, but instead, I was only treated like an unwelcome nutcase. A skinny monster. I hated that people there shied away from me.
I didn't recognize that Maria was such a narcissist for an entire year. Instead, I worshipped her. I know now that therapist-worshipping is often a sign of abuse, ironically. This is called Stockholm Syndrome. I'd say I had a full-blown case of it.
Early in 2012 I quit Maria in utter disgust. My hope was that this would mean my troubles were over, but I was wrong. I had to deal with the anger and grief I felt. Would anyone listen? Did anyone even believe me?
Unfortunately I couldn't get anyone around me to listen nor care. I became angrier and angrier. "Why don't you believe me?" When I called people I knew, hoping for conversation, they wouldn't answer nor call back. A few times, people in church rolled their eyes at me. Some of them noticeably avoided me when I saw them around town.
I tried calling my buddies from grad school where I had recently finished. I never got a callback, nor were my messages returned, and a number of them unfriended or hid me on Facebook. I concluded that no one wanted to hear the ugly truth, and I wondered where I could take this story. Would I have to keep it bottled up inside?
I had no friends left, my neighbors were hostile to me, and my family members had barely spoken to me nor visited in a long time. That is when I began to notice that days would go by and I would not speak, not because of shyness but because no one was there to listen. I tried begging for a phone call on Facebook, just one call please. This only resulted in more unfriending.
My psychiatrist, whom I had been seeing over a decade, told me it was "impossible" that Maria was abusive. She called me paranoid over and over. She tried to drug me to silence me. Several times she acted hysterical toward me, telling me I'd better be silent, or, she said, she'd get in trouble.
During that time I was called a monster more than once. I was called "ugly" by my neighbors, who had never bothered to learn my name. The police came to my home, forced their way in, and accused me of future dangerousness a number of times. It was like I was a known criminal. I wasn't!
One day I heard about how badly a known sex offender was being treated in our town, so I found his email and wrote to him! I told him I understood what it was like. I never heard back but I hope he appreciated the email. I don't judge people, because I hated the way I was unfairly judged.
I lived in the most densely populated town in Massachusetts, yet the isolation I was experiencing was unbearable. It's one thing to choose to stick to yourself, but when you want to talk to someone and find others only slam the doors in your face, it's pretty hard not to get angry. I could have gotten over what happened so much easier if only someone had listened to me and taken me seriously. But that didn't happen.
I had nothing left but silence. I never spoke anymore. No one called. Why even have a phone? In the middle of 2012 I decided to take my own life. I was not chronically suicidal and had never been so serious about it before. This time, my plan was thought out well in advance. I never wanted to take anyone with me. I only wanted someone to say, "I believe you." I hoped if I died maybe that would be accomplished.
If they won't listen now, they'll listen when I'm gone. Was that really true? Or would I be dismissed as yet one more nutcase who didn't matter?
My suicide plan flopped, unfortunately. I never made an attempt. Needless to say I felt embarrassed and told no one for a long time, not that there was anyone to tell. In September I began to feel better but after a few months and more lost relationships I lost hope again.
The next spring I tried therapy again. At first the therapist seemed like a breath of fresh air, even though he repeatedly called me "Honey" inappropriately. During the third appointment he asked me out on a date. I called him up and canceled future appointments. I went to my next appointment with my psychiatrist and told her I'd fired my therapist and told her why. She accused me of paranoia! Where could I go? What could I do?
I was angrier than ever. Why was I hitting dead ends over and over? I tried every 800 "Help" number and got no help. I tried getting a lawyer but most just hung up on me.
I thought of relocating. I could go to some other place where I wasn't seen as a monster. I tried looking in faraway cities for places to live. I came up with only Craigslist scams. Was I trapped merely by the negative expectations of others, by a false psych diagnosis I never had, by false rumors and gang hatred?
In late April 2013 I had a massive, four-day binge which resulted in a nearly 30 pound weight gain. Much was fluid. I was concerned about the fluids I couldn't get rid of. I couldn't even get my shoes on. I tried making calls to various medical people. That, too, was a dead end.
I decided the only choice I had was to stop eating altogether. From then on, I restricted rather extremely, limited myself to 500 calories a day for a few weeks, then 350, then 300. After a while, i was only eating 30 calories a day. I was never in my 30 years of having an eating disorder quite so starved. It felt like I wasn't on the earth, where I never belonged anyway. I floated over it.
I tried, during that time, to get help. I found these "help" people were totally clueless, dismissive, and one even jeered at me. I found myself falling a lot when I walked outside. My short-term memory was shot. I lost things at home. Unable to grip onto things, I dropped dishes and they broke. I tried writing emails to people, hoping for some guidance. I was either refused or met with hostility.
I am Adam Lanza. He was not a monster, nor am I. He was a boy who wasn't listened to. He was a boy that very few even spoke to, nor cared for. Can you understand why he did what he did? After he died, apparently the therapist was found and another abused patient of his came forward.
You see, I exploded, but not outward. I exploded inside.
I am the Adam who lived. I tell this story in hopes that it doesn't happen to anyone else. We need to reach out to our friends and neighbors when they are acting uncharacteristically instead of slamming the doors and creating boundaries and fences.
If only someone had taken me seriously, I wouldn't have resorted to starving as I did. I ended up almost dying. I know now that the answer isn't locking people up, which solves nothing. The answer isn't more guns, or no guns. The answer is caring and compassion.
After I relocated in 2014 my whole life slowly got better. I am treated much better by those around me. I volunteer, am a leader in my local Toastmasters group, and am applying for paid work. I have many local friends and am not lacking for conversation anymore. An added bonus was that my eating disorder went away completely. By itself.
Even better, I have taken up a new career in public speaking. This is where I can tell my story and know by sharing it I'm helping others. I feel joyful every day, and live a full and healthy life. People believe me now. And that means everything.