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  I will be 52 years old in a week, and I am still not right. I still have panic attacks, insomnia, flashbacks and intrusive thoughts on a daily basis.

I am a rape victim and have Rape Trauma Syndrome, which is similar to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder but is specific to sexual trauma. I learned about it in a sexual assault advocate training class I took recently, and when I did, I was triggered again.​

I will be 52 years old in a week, and I am still not right. I still have panic attacks, insomnia, flashbacks, and intrusive thoughts on a daily basis. My digestive system is off as well. I believe these symptoms are present because I am constantly preparing for a war I have been in for the past 30 years. These symptoms were supposed to be acknowledged and treated by the same person who caused them because I was raped, groomed, fondled, manipulated, and stalked by my psychiatrist at a university.​

Thirty years ago, I was a naive 22-year-old struggling with adjustment and transition, along with family enmeshment and the lack of opportunity for differentiation. I was labeled and incarcerated unnecessarily by other sick professional psychiatrists’ their motive was money, power, and kickbacks from insurance reimbursement in the 1980s.

I was molested for many years by an uncle as a child. This was minimized for many years by psychiatrists. In my 51 years of living, I have not met a psychiatrist I truly respect or like. I now am present enough to know there is something odd about them. It is not right to stereotype one class of individuals. Though, I am speaking from my own experience.

He was a middle-aged thin white man with children my age. He would not let me leave. How could I let this go on? Yet, I have learned it was not me. This man was a perpetrator and very, very, sick.

He just appeared “normal”. Whatever normal looks like. He was passive-aggressive, calculating, educated, white, and married to a social worker. I write this and understand my confusion. He was also cynical, judgmental, and my abuser.

It was a vulnerable time in my world. I was in a bad car accident, which was not my fault. My brother had attempted suicide and was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

​I came from an intrusive enmeshed family dynamic and was blamed and shamed for everything.

​The psychiatrist isolated and shamed me from the world outside. Instead of working on and through my real-life issues, he confused me. Instead of talking about real issues, he objectified me. He made me call him at his home just to talk. I thought that was what I paid him to do during sessions. Instead, he confused me. I am still confused, as I am now coming out of trenches of true abuse.

​For years I worked 2 full-time jobs and four jobs at a time just to distract myself from the cruelties of my life. I did not see turning 25, 30, 50, or 52. I did not see a future. I was the helper. I was a good girl. I was a virgin and he took all of that away from me.

Shame on him for taking away my innocence and my spirit! Shame on him for taking away my relationship with my family! Especially my dad. Shame on him for taking away my relationship with myself, and the beautiful youthful spirit that went with it!

​Yes, he may have been an honorable psychiatrist, a researcher, a chairman of psychiatry in a university, a husband, a father. To me, he is a rapist, a criminal, a groomer, a stalker, a selfish bastard, a narcissist, and almost a sociopath.

I believe that because of him, I am not able to have those things. I am not able to be those things. I don’t have children. I don’t have partners. I don’t desire sex. I don’t have the inner energy of life. I don’t really desire the stuff I may have had before the abusive relationship with my psychiatrist, my perpetrator, my stalker, my rapist.

This is extremely difficult because I live in a conservative state and although also considered a “blue state”, it has a blame the victim mentality, especially among oppressed groups. If he was a minority, an immigrant, a person of color, a person without a job, or a person with a marginalized job, this would automatically be addressed. He was supposed to be a healer.

He was a serial rapist with me. He was a serial stalker with me. He was incongruent with me. He was judgmental with me. He was condescending with me. He was patronizing with me. I was fearful, in shock, and traumatized to this day. I believe it was cult-like what he did to me.

​I was objectified by a so-called pillar of the community. I hate psychiatrists because I have not met one that hasn’t label reactions to abnormal situations as “normal”. Although I am expressing traumatic symptoms, I am not crazy. The people I was was supposed to trust abused, ridiculed, shamed, and hurt me. Above all, they broke a beautiful spirit.

​When I write this, it is excruciating. It is so painful. My body is immobile, frozen, stiff and I want to die rather than make sense of it. Because it is not sensible. It is not logical.

I lost everything: my potential life, most of my family members, my dignity. I cannot take back history.

This is only because I was a pretty girl, with a nice disposition, and I was objectified by the powerful helper that was a dirty old man with a license to destroy. I look back and really cannot make sense of it. Did I have Stockholm? I didn’t fight. I was in shock.

At times I am still in shock. My coach tells me it is that “deer in the headlights” shock. I questioned everything. I block. I shut down. I am afraid of much of what I remember I endured.

Trauma; that is my secret. Rape; that is my secret. I was silenced by the sickest and most powerful. As I say this, I realize the day of my official rape I was at the university. I was bleeding all over his office. He ran off. I went to the hospital to stop the bleeding. Every doctor said to me “are you sexually active?” ‘Are you sexually active’ in front of the nurses. I was in shock. I said to myself this didn’t happen. It did. It really did.

I cannot pretend to forget the brutality the psychiatrist put me through on his own recognizance. He was so cynical. After the incident, I pretended I was okay. I wasn’t and I was not going to get help. So I went back to working at my four jobs even though I was dizzy and confused. I thought it was from medication to stop the bleeding. I avoided this evil doctor for weeks and he kept calling my “parents” at their home, asking me to come back. I told him I don’t think that was a good idea. He pressured me into a termination session.

As I write this I hate myself for going back to this sick individual. He lied then and has always lied since. He said “he wouldn’t hurt me for the world and we would just talk and he would just prescribe medicine for my depressed mood and anxiety”. I realize now I needed the medication due to him and environmental influences. I also realize during this period my father saw him and didn’t want me to see him. The psychiatrist didn’t tell me this until years later. No wonder the psychiatrist isolated me from my family and cultivated another abusive environment.

Everything he did was by way of controlling me. He would tell me I was obsessing. Yet I would write him letters to stop touching me, which he ignored. There is a block missing in my life that I cannot touch on now. Yes, even now. There was abuse by him and the society I lived in. Everything was about him and his sexual wants. They were not mine. It is sickening.

I am hurting now. My heart is palpitating now. I am safe now.

I remember he would have these porn magazines. I kind of wish I saved them for evidence. Yet, it is too late now. His justification was he was helping me take care of my potential lover. He was so nasty.

This is getting to be overwhelming now.

I told him I don’t want sex. I don’t want a relationship. He talked me into things I did not want. I did not like him. I got sick by him.

When I moved into my own place in the 1990s, I left a message with his secretary that I didn’t want to see him anymore. He came to my home. I had a panic attack and I was crying as well as shaking in the corner of my new unsafe home. He yelled at me and was covering my mouth and he talked me into having him come over for therapy and medication in my home.

He was an asshole. He truly was. I don’t generally swear. I know now a psychiatrist is supposed to empower you; not destroy your being. I didn’t know my rights then. He minimized everything I felt or did. He wanted to play doctor with me. He didn’t want to be my doctor or a real therapist. I would tell him my heart is racing and he would make a joke out of it.

​He was truly a condescending, self-centered bastard. He could be because of the climate in Connecticut. He talked me into doing things I normally wouldn’t do. I would doubt everything I did because he was gaslighting me. Gaslighting is a psychological term “ironically” and a form of mental abuse to favor the abuser by doubting the memory of the victim. That happened with the psychiatrist. He would say to me “you are not remembering things correctly”. Perhaps he meant that I was not remembering the things “the way I want you to”.

As I write here in the present, my body takes me back to that frozen immobile state, my heart is racing, and my neck and shoulders are stiff. My body shuts down as I am preparing for death or survival. Sometimes I don’t know which. Yet it is the body’s way of protecting itself from danger, even though the danger is no longer.

​The traumatized person sees danger and is hyper-aroused. Ironically, this happened by the person who was supposed to help me heal from my trauma. I was unsafe and traumatized by my healer. He retraumatized me for close to 30 years. I now consider him my abuser and a criminal that retraumatized me.

​Before he retired he said that he couldn’t see me anymore, and “how would it look if I emailed or called a patient? I was like “hmm! You also said we were friends. Why did you force yourself into my world? Why did you justify this or that in my head?” I then asked him for other places to see someone. His statement was “You don’t need a therapist you just need a friend” {with his fake smile}.

He messed me up and I didn’t know it. It all felt wrong and abusive. Maybe a year later I saw him at my gym with his daughter. I was not aware of his abuse, as I repressed it deep, down. I could not help but take note that he was acting awkward and funny while I was talking to his daughter. His daughter wanted to fix me up with her fiancé’s friend.

It was the weirdest thing, I thought. Up until then, I thought I was safer. Yet within a week, he called me out of the blue, saying he would be in the neighborhood, that he wanted to see me and he will call when he was in the area. He did this several times. I was questioning him about things. I thought “you can’t see me anymore”. He would reply: “Oh I could not get away”. I would ask, What are you doing? He would reply, “This is our relationship”. He would say things like I was his mistress.

In my head I would say; that does not seem right. I felt like he was my abuser. In my head and heart, I felt like a victim. Because I was. I would have tears running down my face several times while he was doing me. He would stop and say he never saw that before and continued on. Many, times I cried during him in me. He would just continue on in his own world without me. It was the only time I would cry. Since he moved to Maine and later on back to Connecticut, his true arrogant nature showed. He called back again and said that he was in the neighborhood and then didn’t call for a while. I was like he blew me off before. He made promises and never showed up or called hours later and made me wait for him to destroy me over and over. Well, this particular time I left my cell in the car and was talking to my postman. Apparently, he was waiting in the car and very irritated because I made him do something he was above. That is “Be patient and wait like normal regular people”. Well, he was really mad “that cock sucking bastard,” I say now. Though then I replied I thought you were in the neighborhood or something like that. He replied that was an excuse. I was like wow and after doing me briefly and leaving upset. I decided that after careful consideration I would write him a letter about his nonsense. I protected him even then in the letter by not revealing too much info on the envelope and no return address. He replied by phone saying he was afraid to call me and cared. I don’t need that kind of caring.

​It has been several years without his physical presence and I am still shaken up by his abuse of many things. It took years post-therapy to become aware of what truly happened to me. I just realized as of December 2013 that this was rape and abuse of power. It took a couple of years to acknowledge this happened to me. I am still suffering many symptoms to this day. I cannot help but hate and distrust white male privileged psychiatrists of a certain generation. I see one now. Yet thank god very briefly. I don’t like them and don’t trust them. I say now there is something very justifiable regarding my so-called “Trust Issues”. Years prior it was diagnosed almost as a disease.

​I believe the disease is my environment and the helpers of my past. I call them toxic.

​I want to be clear. If I did not confront the psychiatrist, he would continue doing what he did to me, because he could get away with it.

He took away my peace of mind.

This so-called former psychiatrist stole my life. That is a crime. No one can sugarcoat that.

If it feels wrong, it is wrong. Run, don’t respond, and never look back. My dilemma is this. A therapist’s role is to create a safe environment for his client who may or may not be distressed. His role is never ever to help pleasure himself at the client’s expense.

It is incomprehensible what this monster did to me.

I am a 52-year-old woman with the emotional development of 22-year-old because my healer was emotionally a 2-year-old. He only focused on his pleasure. I was mature and empathic when it came to others. My soul and being just died in his hands. He did not have those healthy traits–(e.g. empathy, maturity) –he did not have to. Society protected people like him. I don’t know why.

I want this psychiatrist to be held accountable and ashamed like the confused 22-year girl I was. That will never happen, not in this white, male, heterosexual, privileged, and egocentric world I have come to experience.

​I realize so much time has gone by. I experienced a lot of loss in my development.

​There is still a “blame the victim” mentality by many, especially by the privileged.

That just does not feel right.

When I look at myself I don’t know who that woman looking back is. Where has the time gone? I was surviving a crime created and used as an abusive art form by powerful people. As you can imagine I do not like seeing this old woman in the mirror. It reflects back as loss, pain, hurt, injustice, anger, and trauma. No one will rectify this form of abuse. Because I am a “nobody” to society or this culture. I don’t want people to know or to relate me to a sexual abuse victim by a university psychiatrist.

​One more point: this criminal prevented me from getting the help, support, and information I needed to understand this was a crime. The laws prevented me from taking action. This was a major crime that I repressed to survive. Trauma, rape, and gaslighting are crimes regardless. But when it is a crime committed by a licensed psychiatrist who knows how to groom and play deliberate and dangerous mind games,  there should be no statute of limitations.

​I will never get justice by this prick. Yet, I have to protect his name because why? I didn’t have a chance with this ass. Because of what liability? How about my liability? I am one of many that fall through the cracks of this type of abuse. Yet, it is my criminal that gets protected. Sue me I lost everything because my abuser was soulless

Doctor or not; wealthy or not. All I want is to heal from this horrendous injustice.

​Credit to ReportItGirl

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