Letter to a Now Former Friend 

One of the hardest things about trauma recovery is the process of recognizing which relationships are mutual and supportive and letting go of those that are not.

I’ve done this over the course of years, particularly with family members, most of whom are clearly toxic to me. But also with people who I had considered friends and supporters for many years. I had to let them go after multiple attempts to help them understand that my condition is the result of a lifetime of abuse, especially sexualized violence,  compounded by psychiatric and medical abuse in the last 8 years. Instead of believing what I say about my lived experience, and the neuroscience behind it, they let me know in subtle and not so subtle ways that they think I’m the problem. I’m not taking the right perspective, thinking the right thoughts, or making the right choices. If I would just do what they think I should do, my life would be better.

Recently, I decided to tell a long-time connection why I had backed away. I had enough respect for what had come before and for the person who had been my friend to let her know why I had stopped responding to her messages of encouragement. I wrote her a note that told her how her behavior had affected me and that it was not okay for me to keep being exposed to that.

She responded with a lengthy letter of her own. It said that she hadn’t meant any harm, just that she believed in my potential and she hoped I would see things her way. And she went on and on about her way. There was no acknowledgment of what I’m actually dealing with. Her words made clear that what I had sensed was true. She thinks she has the answers for my life, even though she doesn’t understand it.

I thought about not responding, but I decided to give her an object lesson in case it could help her treat the next traumatized person better. Here’s what I sent:

“Thank you for taking the time to write back. My letter wasn’t questioning your intentions, but describing the effect those interactions had on me. Intent and impact are different.

I know you’ve accomplished a great deal in your life, and I’ve always admired your dedication to your family and community. That’s why I hope you’ll consider something I’ve learned.

From what I can see, you still have unresolved developmental trauma that is limiting your ability to fully understand yourself and others. My hope is that you’ll find a truly trauma-informed therapist and commit to several years of deep work. Once you’ve done that, you’ll be able to see relationships, conflict, and healing in a completely different way.

If my suggestions come across as dismissing your perspective and experience, I’m truly sorry. My intention is simply to encourage you because I believe so strongly in your potential. I can see a future where you’re no longer held back by the patterns you can’t yet recognize. This is offered with love and respect.

If that landed badly, it is because it does exactly what your letter did. It assumes authority over your life, identifies a problem you didn’t ask me to diagnose, tells you what kind of healing you need, predicts what you will think afterward, and wraps it in love and respect. In reality, I would never presume to know more about your life and needs than you do, or prescribe a formula for you to follow.

I don’t need someone to decide what a meaningful life should look like for me. I need people willing to understand the conditions I have lived through and how those conditions have shaped my options, losses, and values.

Trauma has nothing to do with “holding on to pain.” It’s a neurophysiological condition caused by too much demand for too long combined with insufficient social support. Particularly, lack of attunement, compassionate witnessing, empathy, and validation of lived experience from those we turn to for help.

Your view assumes that if I’m not content, I am simply using the wrong strategy. That overlooks how much of my life has involved navigating institutional betrayal, chronic health challenges and disabilities created by medical and psychiatric abuse, how hard I’ve had to fight for appropriate care, the deep financial impact of uncovered care, and the long-term effects of developmental trauma. None of those disappear because someone offers a different philosophy.

My focus has been on building a sustainable life, and surrounding myself with people who don’t keep adding to the harm. Our bodies respond to the conditions in which we live and the relationships in which we engage. When those are grounded in respect, safety, and recognition of reality, we function better. I don’t seek the “control,” you described, but an environment that supports my well-being instead of repeatedly undermining it.

My letter wasn’t asking you to imagine a better future for me. It was explaining why I need relationships where my present and past can be acknowledged without being redirected. Your reply explains why you responded the way you did, and offers more of the same response. Rather than recognition of what has been stolen from me, the focus returned to prescribing a path forward. I understand why you offered that, but it also confirmed what I sensed. Pushing positivity while ignoring the conditions under which I live is like telling a drowning person that everything will be OK if they would just smile hard enough.

I truly appreciate the kindness you’ve shown me over the years, and I will always be grateful for that. At the same time, I recognize that the kind of relational support my body needs is different from what you can offer. There is no blame, simply an acknowledgment of what is essential for my well-being.”

I expect I won’t hear from her again. I’m a little sad that the connection turned out to be the fair weather type, but that’s okay. Letting go of that frees up energy and focus for relationships that are mutual and supportive.

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The Doctors in My Recovery Plan

Many people have trouble believing that caring doctors became an essential part of my Interpersonal Neurobiology-based trauma recovery plan. Some dismiss it entirely because they assume healing relationships have to happen with family, friends, a romantic partner, or a therapist. That was not my reality. By early 2020, two years of repeated psychiatric and medical abuse had narrowed my world so dramatically that doctors became my primary points of human contact. At times over the following three years, I had two or three appointments in a day, sometimes as many as twelve in a week. Those visits were with physicians, specialists, physical therapists, occupational therapists, psychotherapists, and body workers. Most days, arriving on time and within the bounds of good hygiene took almost everything I had. Afterward, I usually needed to go home and sleep. I didn’t have a social life or the capacity to build one. The harm done by the systems that were supposed to help me had stripped those away. Recovery had to begin with the few relationships that were available.

The clinicians who became part of my recovery did not simply provide pills and perform procedures. They became steady, repeated experiences of safe connection. They listened and respected my boundaries. Some stood beside me when others dismissed or harmed me. That counted even more because many were physicians, most were men, and they belonged to a group that had repeatedly held power over me and caused harm. Each appointment became another experience that gently taught my body it could expect better.  Human beings don’t heal in isolation. The quality of our relationships can determine whether we access care, whether our bodies can tolerate that care, and sometimes whether we even survive.

Thanks in large part to how these doctors have cared for me, I have rebuilt some of my capacity to feel safe in connection with others, and have started to build new relationships and deepen older ones, as well as to cast off those that impede my well-being instead of supporting it.

Many people with severe developmental, psychiatric, or medical trauma do not have the capacity to build friendships or community yet. Their reliable human contact may be limited to a few clinicians, home health aides, or other helpers. From an IPNB perspective, those relationships can become part of a person’s relational environment if they are characterized by consistency, respect, attunement, and safety. They are not a substitute for a broader community forever, but they can become the bridge that makes broader connection possible, as they did for me.

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Where Psychiatric Labels Fall Apart

Psychiatry puts forth the idea that a person is one thing, then something happens inside them, a kind of switch, and they become something else. As if so-called “mental illness” appears without context, history, or conditions that accumulate over time. That has never matched my experience.

There was a long stretch of my life where I functioned in a sustained, practical, outward-facing way. I lived in one house for 17 years. I could plan years ahead instead of weeks. I could build things that required follow-through across time.

That material stability was part of a marriage that was not mutual. My partner engaged in passive aggression, emotional absence, and conflict avoidance. Repair was rare to non-existent. The stability provided structure. The marriage reduced relational contact. The structure still shaped what was possible.

In that same period, I was able to become deeply embedded in community life as someone people relied on and invited into ongoing work: political campaigns, homeschooling networks, state associations, boards, and committees. I ran seminars across the state. I helped double membership in a statewide organization in a year and helped create conferences. I supported a variety of organizations in multiple ways.

My community showed up for me, too. When I separated and moved, people came with trucks, furniture, and pizza. When I had surgery, there were people to drive me, to sit with me after, and bring food and good company days later. That was a functioning network of mutual responsibility. I was part of it in both directions. That kind of life runs on continuity, trust, and repeated contact over time.

Looking at it through an Interpersonal Neurobiology lens, I don’t see a “stable personality” versus a “disordered personality,” but a nervous system shaped by conditions.

When housing is stable, the nervous system does not have to spend constant energy on uncertainty. When routines are stable, planning becomes possible. When relationships are reliable enough, even if imperfect, the system can stretch into contribution instead of contraction. When community response is consistent, the system stays more open to engagement because it expects return. Capacity expands because the conditions allow more of the system to be available at once.

Then those conditions changed. When I separated, the material base shifted. Housing and resources changed. The relational network that had been distributed across many people became less accessible. Over time, the pattern changed from accumulation to interruption. Instead of building over years, energy went into re-establishing basic stability.

In that phase, labels like depression or PTSD were applied from the outside as if they explained what was happening. But they do not describe what was lost, or how much functioning is tied to housing, continuity, and reciprocal community systems.

The psychiatric model suggests that a person crosses a threshold and becomes fundamentally different. That there is a before and after that lives inside the person alone. My experience does not show that. It shows variation tied to conditions.

When conditions supported continuity, my life supported long-term building, leadership, and sustained community involvement. When conditions reduced continuity, my functioning narrowed, not because a core identity changed or my brain chemicals suddenly went wonky, but because fewer systems were available to support output, connection, and recovery.

Even in the difficult periods, the shifts were not total. There were still moments of clarity, participation, and contribution. That shows range, not collapse into a fixed state.

Psychiatry takes the lowest functioning point and turns it into a category. Then it treats that category as the explanation for itself. Medications and cognitive reframing are then positioned as primary interventions, as if the main issue is correcting thinking or regulating mood directly.

But thinking and mood reflect the conditions the system is operating under. They change when those conditions change. I learned that as I saw my functioning expand when stability was present and narrow when stability was reduced. I watched community participation grow when I was embedded in place and shrink when I was displaced from it. The pattern was consistent.

Clinical language overlooks that human functioning is not fixed inside a person. It is distributed across housing, relationships, routines, resources, and the reliability of return from the people around us. When those layers add up to sufficient support, the system has room to move. When they don’t, the system contracts. Calling that a mental illness hides the structure that produced it.

I came to greatly distrust psychiatry through repeated exposure, study, and other’s stories of how the industry abused them. And it usually started with the assertion that something in their brain had changed, making them mentally ill like a switch was turned on. But they’re never told what caused the switch. Because psychiatry has no clue.

Years of experience have taught me I can trust Relational Neuroscience, which shows us that the same person naturally has different capacities under different conditions. Capacity is a reflection of how much support the system is receiving at any given point.

When people recognize that pattern in their own lives, the question changes. It stops being “What is wrong with me?” and becomes “What conditions affect what is possible right now?” That question allows choices that support well-being. No diagnosis necessary.

 

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There is No Shortcut to Meaning

A LinkedIn member posted that “Changing ‘why is this happening to me?’ into ‘what is this trying to teach me?’ is a game-changer.” From an Interpersonal Neurobiology (IPNB) perspective, that reframe can actually be harmful because it skips over the most basic needs of the nervous system. When something painful or overwhelming happens, the first priority isn’t to assign meaning, but to restore a sense of safety and regulation. Jumping straight to “what is this teaching me” risks bypassing the body’s natural responses of fear, grief, or anger, which are signals that need acknowledgment and support.

If someone feels pressured to turn every hardship into a lesson, it can create shame when they’re unable to do that. Instead of integration, the nervous system gets stuck in survival mode, carrying the burden alone. Real growth comes not from forcing meaning, but from having the connection, validation, and regulation that allow the body and brain to settle. From there, sometimes meaning emerges naturally, but it can’t be imposed as a shortcut.

 

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When “Patient and Family Relations” Becomes Part of the Harm

The original harm was devastating. What happened afterward taught me just as much about the system.

After the psychiatric abuse, I contacted the hospital so-called Patient and Family Relations Department. I expected a process that was interested in understanding what had happened, looking at where things went wrong, and preventing it from happening again.

Instead, I found a protracted, painful, do-everything-you-can-to-make-the-person-shut-up-and-go-away experience. I have a stack of letters from that department, mostly stonewalling and word salad.

They wondered why I kept coming back. Most people gave up after a few tries. I hung in there probably longer than anybody ever had. Part of the reason was because I wanted to see what the system would actually do. Not just for me, but for anybody who reported serious harm. I took notes on every interaction and saw the patterns.

It took eighteen months just to get a meeting. And the meeting wasn’t even with the psychologist whose actions had caused the harm. Instead, it was with two physicians from the same satellite facility. It seemed like they hadn’t been briefed in advance. Their faces wore matching “thrown under the bus” expressions, with eyes like silver dollars.

Oddly enough, their surprise turned out to be the best part of the whole process. Unlike the Patient and Family Relations personnel, their responses weren’t scripted for legal security. They were genuinely shocked and upset by what I described had happened to me in that facility.

I felt bad for them because it appeared they had walked into a booby trap. Knowing that made me even more determined to treat them with respect. I didn’t go off on them. They weren’t responsible for any of my problems.

I brought with me a list of intervention points that had been missed. Any one of them could have prevented the manufactured mental health crisis I experienced after being given a pharmaceutical “remedy” for the distress that came from a lifetime of abuse. As we went through the list, they became increasingly engaged. They were impressed with what I had put together and asked if they could keep it.

From an Interpersonal Neurobiology perspective, people make sense of their experiences through relationships. Institutions do the same. When a system responds to reports of harm with delay, deflection, bureaucratic language, and endless process instead of curiosity and accountability, it teaches everyone inside it how not to respond. The complaint process stops being a path toward repair and becomes another layer of the injury.

I wonder where those two doctors are today. My guess is they’re long gone from that hospital. It is hard to imagine they could go through that process and go back to business as usual. Who would want to stay in a place that treated patients that way? And who would want to practice medicine in a system that treats its own doctors that way, too?

Unfortunately, the psychiatric abuse was just the beginning for me. The non-consensual gynecological surgery–medicalized genital mutilation–was even worse. I didn’t turn to Patient and Family Relations for help. I knew from prior experience that it’s the soft end of the hospital’s legal department. Its goal is not helping distressed patients and families, but containing their distress, extinguishing their expression of it, and protecting the institution’s fiduciary, reputational, and administrative interests.

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The Problem With Functional Medicine

Functional medicine presents itself as a more complete approach to health, but, like mainstream medical treatments, it focuses on individual physiology and treats the body as the primary site of explanation and intervention. Distress is framed as the result of internal imbalance, measurable through lab values and addressed through protocols, supplements, and lifestyle prescriptions. This determines what is seen and what is ignored.

Functional medicine consistently underaddresses the role of relationships and social conditions in shaping health over time. Human regulation is affected by ongoing interaction with caregivers, partners, institutions, and communities. Early relational harm, chronic insecurity, social exclusion, housing instability, and institutional abandonment leave lasting physiological effects. Functional medicine tends to compress all of this into the category of stress, which reduces complex lived conditions into a background variable rather than a primary driver.

The neurobiological dimension is also treated narrowly. Functional medicine often measures downstream correlates such as hormones, inflammatory markers, or neurotransmitter byproducts. These can describe a state but they do not explain how that state developed or how it is maintained through daily interaction with the environment. Regulation is treated as chemistry rather than as an ongoing process created by safety, predictability, and connection. As a result, cause is often misattributed. Effects of chronic relational strain or systemic precarity are reframed as internal dysfunction requiring individual correction.

This approach aligns well with a market-driven healthcare environment. Expansive lab panels, repeated testing, and long-term supplement regimens are costly and usually paid out of pocket. Promises of personalized answers and root causes appeal to people who have been dismissed or underserved elsewhere. The structure rewards certainty and intervention even when the evidence is thin. When improvement does not occur, responsibility quietly shifts back to the individual for not following the protocol closely enough or for having a body that is too complex.

Another problem is that functional medicine relies on continuity and resources that many people do not have. Trauma, poverty, and housing insecurity disrupt continuity. When care models require consistent attendance, sustained purchasing power, and stable life conditions, they systematically exclude the people most affected by chronic stress and relational harm. The model then interprets dropout or nonresponse as individual noncompliance rather than as a predictable outcome of structural strain.

Functional medicine is not entirely without value. Some practitioners are careful and restrained, and some physiological issues do benefit from closer attention to diet, inflammation, or metabolic health. The problem is that biology is treated as separable from relationship and context. Health is produced through interaction over time, not solely through internal adjustment.

When relational conditions are ignored, care is incomplete. When neurobiology is reduced to lab values, regulation is misunderstood. When social systems are left out of the analysis, individuals are left holding responsibility for conditions they did not create. That is the core limitation of functional medicine. It promises a whole-person approach while leaving out the conditions that make whole-person health possible.

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What Every Sex Abuse Story Has in Common: The Patterns That Protect Predators

Here is a very short list of the most common denominators in sex abuse and trafficking stories, grounded in lived experience, trauma research, and systemic patterns:

1. Power imbalance. The abuser holds more social, economic, institutional, or physical power than the victim.

2. Grooming and manipulation. Trust is slowly gained and boundaries are broken down over time.

3. Silencing systems. Institutions (families, churches, schools, hospitals, justice systems) protect perpetrators and disbelieve or punish victims.

4. Victim isolation.The survivor is made to feel alone, ashamed, or responsible, which keeps them from seeking help.

5. Repeated betrayal.The most lasting damage often comes from those who failed to intervene, covered it up, or blamed the victim.

We have to talk about this. It’s the only way it stops. Abuse thrives in silence, and every time we speak up, we break a piece of the pattern. Because it is a pattern, predictable, repeated, and protected. Jeffrey Epstein, Robert Hadden, Earl Bradley, Larry Nassar, and George Tyndall all operated for years inside respected institutions. They were surrounded by people who looked the other way, made excuses, or actively covered for them. This isn’t about isolated monsters. It’s about systems that enable abuse, discredit survivors, and protect power. Until we name the pattern it will keep repeating. And until we are willing to listen, believe, and hold those systems accountable, more lives will be shattered. Speaking is an act of courage and a necessary disruption.

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Gynecology’s Outrageously Dirty Secret:  Medicalized Female Genital Mutilation

“Gynecology’s Outrageously Dirty Secret: Medicalized Female Genital Mutilation,” watercolors, ink, psychiatric hospital pencil. 12×9

Modern gynecology grew from violent roots. J. Marion Sims, celebrated by some as the “father of gynecology,” performed repeated surgeries on enslaved Black women in the 1840s without anesthesia or consent. He justified it by falsely claiming they didn’t feel pain like white women. He operated on women, over and over–including 30 surgeries in four years on one named Anarcha–to develop techniques he would later use on white patients, with anesthesia. His work is foundational to a field built on exploitation.

From there, gynecology evolved within a broader system that medicalized and pathologized women’s bodies–especially Black, brown, and poor women–often without addressing consent, autonomy, or justice.

That legacy persists today in deeply disturbing ways. One example is the widespread practice of non-consensual pelvic exams performed on unconscious women during unrelated surgeries, often by medical students. These violations have been documented for decades. Only recently have some states passed laws to outlaw them. That these laws are even needed says everything. But gynecologists often perpetrate far worse violations.

Brooke Shields revealed that her doctor performed a non-consensual “vaginal rejuvenation” procedure, tightening her vaginal opening without asking her, then boasted about it. It’s not an isolated incident. Many women still undergo non-consensual procedures, especially under anesthesia.

Today’s gynecology still carries echoes of its abusive roots, especially the way power is often wielded over patients, sometimes with coerced or no consent. Non-consensual surgeries, like the so-called “husband stitch,” where a doctor adds extra sutures to a woman’s perineum after childbirth to increase vaginal tightness for the satisfaction of a male partner, are reportedly still performed. Many women aren’t asked or even told, only discover it later, often after enduring chronic pain, sexual dysfunction, or shame they were told was “normal.”

A Durham University article states that, “The husband-stitch appropriately fits into the WHO’s definitions of FGM [Female Genital Mutilation]. Since both practices include stitching female genitalia without women’s consent for non-medical reasons, they are abusive practices. This means that like FGM the husband-stitch is a human rights violation of bodily integrity, which is the right to have one’s body not touched or interfered with without one’s consent. This includes any forceful breaking or alteration of an individual’s body.”

No clinical, large-scale statistical studies exist that measure the exact frequency of the “husband stitch”. Because the procedure is medically unendorsed, unscientific, and constitutes severe malpractice, doctors who perform it do not document it in medical records or report it to databases.

A University of Miami, Miller School of Medicine study reports that “This procedure has serious negative health consequences, including dyspareunia and vaginal prolapse. There is a lack of treatment options for health consequences resulting from the Husband Stitch. The women expressed social isolation, and while they have not been diagnosed with mental health disorders, expressions of shame and helplessness are DSM-5-TR criteria for depressive disorders and post-traumatic stress disorders, raising concern for mental health consequences that may result from the ‘Husband Stitch.’”

Yet, the mainstream culture seems to be unconcerned. Brooke Shields’ story hardly raised eyebrows over how common this is as a systemic failure to treat women as full, autonomous human beings. Instead, media focus was overwhelmingly on the sensationalism of the individual act as it pertained to a famous personality, as Shields had expected.

A comprehensive global meta-analysis published in the Journal of International Gynecology and Obstetrics established that the global prevalence of obstetric violence sits at about 55%, with non-consented medical care being the single most common violation at 33%. In addition, cross-sectional data collected by advocacy groups like the Birth Trauma Association found that 40% of women reported undergoing physical procedures during labor—ranging from membrane ruptures to vaginal tearing repairs—without providers seeking or obtaining their explicit consent. 

Some women report that their doctor installed pelvic mesh implants without consent. “Many women harmed by mesh have been forced to live with a constant reminder of this lack of consent and abuse of trust, as they deal with significant health problems and difficulties in accessing mesh removal.”

A common gynecological procedure is the perineorrhaphy, in which the doctor cuts away some of the perineum and tightens the underlying pelvic floor muscles with stitches. A survey of gynecologists showed that in 35% of perineorrhaphy cases the practitioner made the decision in the operating room, without necessarily obtaining specific consent. Deep tissue healing, nerve regeneration, and scar tissue maturation in the perineum frequently take 6 months or longer. Because the perineum is a highly sensitive, high-pressure area that moves every time one sits, walks, or goes to the bathroom, long-term discomfort is very common. Gynecologists’ decisions to perform the procedure is based on their “belief” that it helps, but “there is a lack of evidence to support whether this operation benefits patients by measures of improved quality of life, sexual function, or decreased prolapse recurrence.”

Also disturbing, women are often gaslit about their pain after non-consensual gynecological surgery. They’re told it’s in their head, that postpartum sex is supposed to hurt, or that it’s just part of being female. These practices, amplified by posts and testimonies across platforms like Reddit, indicate a pattern of ongoing obstetric and gynecological violence, particularly against women of color, disabled women, and others in vulnerable positions.

The normalization of these abuses extends beyond the doctor-patient relationship in traditional clinics; it is deeply embedded in carceral settings where bodily autonomy is stripped entirely. This is perhaps most starkly illustrated by the 2020 allegations regarding the Irwin County Detention Center (ICDC) in Georgia. There, more than 40 women detained by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) accused a gynecologist of performing invasive, unnecessary procedures, including hysterectomies, without their explicit or informed consent. These acts echo the darkest chapters of American history, including eugenics-era forced sterilizations, and demonstrate how vulnerability–whether based on disability, immigration status, or poverty–is weaponized by a system that treats marginalized bodies as disposable assets for institutional control.

The system still treats many women, especially those most marginalized, as if their bodies exist for practice, control, or someone else’s benefit. It’s not medicine if it’s done without consent. It’s sexualized violence, and often, Female Genital Mutilation. And it’s still happening. Because institutions and organizations permit it.

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Trauma in a White Coat: Why Survivors Are Blamed and Predators Protected

The most dangerous predator is not the stranger in a dark alley, but the familiar one in a white coat, protected by institutional walls, bureaucratic scripts, and a system trained to look the other way. Medical institutions, licensing boards, and state legal systems have built layers of insulation around healthcare practitioners who cause deep, life-altering harm. They treat those harmed as too emotional, too sensitive, or even mentally unstable. This isn’t medicine. This is sanctioned abuse. 

At the core, this is a nervous system issue. When someone undergoes a traumatic medical violation, the brain and body respond with all the alarms of survival: freeze, shut down, or fight to be heard. But survivors are met not with care or co-regulation, but with cold process, scripted statements, and defensiveness. This is a personal betrayal and a systemic rupture.

Through Interpersonal Neurobiology, we know that healing requires safety, attunement, and accurate mirroring. Institutions designed to protect predators do the opposite. They gaslight, dismiss, and shame. They violate again, with legal language instead of pills or surgical tools.

We are told to be rational. To file complaints. To trust the system. But the system operates from a state of emotional disconnection and moral disengagement. It is, in effect, psychopathic: lacking empathy, incapable of repair, and fully invested in preserving its image and authority. It uses cold tone, rigid protocol, and power asymmetries to protect itself, while dysregulating and destroying the nervous systems of those who dare to speak out.

Predators thrive in this environment because the institution does not feel. It calculates to protect the white coat, not the human being whose body was violated. And when survivors are angry, protest, or write letters naming the harm, that becomes the problem. Not the abuse. Not the lifelong trauma. But the survivor’s tone.

This inversion of harm and accountability smashes people. The original assault was too much, and then we face the impossible task of being expected to heal in a world that stands against healing, because it insists nothing wrong ever happened. It punishes the truth-teller, while wrapping the perpetrator in prestige, credentials, and legal armor.

There is nothing healthy about this. There is nothing regulated or relational. This is not how healing happens. It is how trauma metastasizes, generation after generation.

If we want to build a truly healthy system, we must name what this is. And we must stop pretending that a medical culture built on dissociation and denial can offer safety to anyone.

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“You Can’t Count on Anything”: The Birthday Dinner I Never Forgot

On my twenty-fifth birthday, my father took me out to dinner, just the two of us. That had never happened before.

He insisted I order the Oysters Rockefeller. I had never had them. They were incredible. I remember sitting there feeling like a princess. For that one evening, I believed I was being seen, chosen, celebrated.

Toward the end of the meal, he handed me a birthday card. Every birthday and Christmas for years, my siblings and I had each received a check for one hundred dollars. It was predictable. That year was different. Inside the card was a check for fifty dollars. My brother had told him I was struggling financially and that I was counting on that birthday money to help me get through the month. My father knew that. He looked at me and said, “You can’t count on anything.”

People sometimes hear a story like this and think the injury was about fifty dollars. It wasn’t. If he had simply decided to give me fifty dollars that year, it would have been disappointing. Instead, he first created an experience of feeling special. He took me somewhere nice. He encouraged me to order something I never would have ordered for myself. He created a sense of caring. Then, when I was open to receive it, he took away the ground beneath me. That is a very different relational experience. It was premeditated abuse, a classic control tactic called the Idealize, Devalue, Discard Cycle. It is often used by people with strong narcissistic traits, or by individuals setting up an emotional or financial scam.

Our brains constantly learn what relationships mean through repeated experiences. We do not just remember events. We learn patterns. If care is consistently followed by humiliation, the body begins to associate the two..If generosity is followed by punishment, generosity no longer feels entirely safe. If someone repeatedly creates hope only to remove it, hope itself can begin to carry uncertainty. These are the patterns my father repeated throughout my life.

This is one reason developmental trauma is often misunderstood. People focus on the individual events while missing the sequence.

The nervous system always asks, “What usually happens next?” In healthy relationships, comfort is followed by more comfort. Repair is followed by trust. Celebration strengthens connection.

In unhealthy relationships, comfort may become the setup for humiliation. Kindness may become the doorway to control. Safety disappears just when it seemed possible. Over time, the body learns that opening to connection carries risk. That does not stay confined to the original relationship. It can affect how we experience friendships, intimate relationships, healthcare, workplaces, and communities. Someone offers kindness, and another part of us waits for the other shoe to drop because that happened before. Again and again. This is not pessimism. It is learning.

The encouraging part is that learning is not finished. Just as repeated experiences taught those expectations, repeated experiences of consistency, honesty, and respect can slowly reshape them. Our brains continue learning from lived experience throughout our lives.

The birthday dinner has stayed with me for decades, not because of the restaurant or the money, but because it revealed a relational pattern that had been there all along. The lesson my father wanted me to learn was that I shouldn’t count on anything.

The lesson I have spent the rest of my life learning is that some people actually can be counted on, that those relationships change us in ways every bit as real as the harmful ones did, and that at that dinner, my father showed me exactly who he was.

 

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