smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2014-06-27 02:39 pm
smokingboot) wrote2014-06-27 02:39 pm
Entry tags:
The Excitable Counsellor
All rightee, well, keeping things up to date, I am currently seeing a counsellor who specialises in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, because the accepted treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a method called EMDR, and it doesn't agree with me. Today was a big deal, in so much as she wanted us to look at the hotspot in my memories we call 'The Devil's Mask.' What I am about to write may hold triggers for some, so behind a cut it goes and if you are sensitive/vulnerable, please be aware and protect yourself. I do not need you to read this.
It is the most visually horrific moment of the attack: The walls are covered in my blood, the sheets are covered in my blood, and the attacker is covered in my blood...his face is drenched in a wash of blood, pretty much from hairline to jaw, pale red but where it has seeped into his wrinkles and pores the blood is darker, maroon brown, and the smell of iron is everywhere. Then he opens his mouth, and speaks in a lovers voice, soft and low; 'Kiss me.' He repeats it a couple of times. And this is the Devil's Mask; the grotesquerie of him, covered in my blood wanting to put himself inside me and kill me afterwards. But first, a romantic interlude. I'm just relieved he didn't start singing The Girl From Ipanema.
Apparently it is not unusual for survivors to make this connection between the devil and their attacker, the only difference being that, courtesy of a little claret Terry really looked the part. Personally, I am as sure as I can be that there is no devil out there, that it is very human to do so much harm and still beg for acceptance. Still, here it was, staring at me, asking me for a quick snog before my death, asking me to like it, maybe even love it.
Anyhoo, the counsellor decides that I am to make a picture of this devils mask, for we are going to pit it against reality; he didn't get what he wanted,no kiss, no sex, no death,no acceptance, he's in prison, he's not a devil, he's a powerless pathetic junkie. Now here's the method: We are going to make it comedy. So armed with two magic markers, away I go, creating a truly dismal facsimile of his face, teeth and all the wrinkles and blood. There it sits, a childs badly drawn nightmare. Now to remove its power by making it a less scary image...
'We need to put it on a comedic body!' says the counsellor 'Maybe a clown! We could put him in a clown suit! Or a duck? How about a Donald Duck body?' She looked at the eyes, 'We can put those out if you like. The desire comes from the eyes. Get rid of the eyes, get rid of the desire. We can stick a knife in them if you like. And the mouth...we could stitch it right up! He'll never speak again!'
I stared at her. My attacker in a duck/clown suit with knives in his eyes and a sewn up mouth? She and I have very different ideas of comedy. I pointed out my dismay at carrying such an image around in my handbag, though it would certainly take the boredom out of rummaging for my purse. She agreed to keep it until such time as we have 'cleansed' it at which point I am meant to take it to Summerisle home and burn it.
'Don't worry,' she says with a strange glint in her eyes, 'You think this is funny, wait til you see what we do to his penis...'
It is the most visually horrific moment of the attack: The walls are covered in my blood, the sheets are covered in my blood, and the attacker is covered in my blood...his face is drenched in a wash of blood, pretty much from hairline to jaw, pale red but where it has seeped into his wrinkles and pores the blood is darker, maroon brown, and the smell of iron is everywhere. Then he opens his mouth, and speaks in a lovers voice, soft and low; 'Kiss me.' He repeats it a couple of times. And this is the Devil's Mask; the grotesquerie of him, covered in my blood wanting to put himself inside me and kill me afterwards. But first, a romantic interlude. I'm just relieved he didn't start singing The Girl From Ipanema.
Apparently it is not unusual for survivors to make this connection between the devil and their attacker, the only difference being that, courtesy of a little claret Terry really looked the part. Personally, I am as sure as I can be that there is no devil out there, that it is very human to do so much harm and still beg for acceptance. Still, here it was, staring at me, asking me for a quick snog before my death, asking me to like it, maybe even love it.
Anyhoo, the counsellor decides that I am to make a picture of this devils mask, for we are going to pit it against reality; he didn't get what he wanted,no kiss, no sex, no death,no acceptance, he's in prison, he's not a devil, he's a powerless pathetic junkie. Now here's the method: We are going to make it comedy. So armed with two magic markers, away I go, creating a truly dismal facsimile of his face, teeth and all the wrinkles and blood. There it sits, a childs badly drawn nightmare. Now to remove its power by making it a less scary image...
'We need to put it on a comedic body!' says the counsellor 'Maybe a clown! We could put him in a clown suit! Or a duck? How about a Donald Duck body?' She looked at the eyes, 'We can put those out if you like. The desire comes from the eyes. Get rid of the eyes, get rid of the desire. We can stick a knife in them if you like. And the mouth...we could stitch it right up! He'll never speak again!'
I stared at her. My attacker in a duck/clown suit with knives in his eyes and a sewn up mouth? She and I have very different ideas of comedy. I pointed out my dismay at carrying such an image around in my handbag, though it would certainly take the boredom out of rummaging for my purse. She agreed to keep it until such time as we have 'cleansed' it at which point I am meant to take it
'Don't worry,' she says with a strange glint in her eyes, 'You think this is funny, wait til you see what we do to his penis...'