My Therapist Saved My Life

When She Died I thought I'd Die Too

Following is a guest post by the fantastic

April Daniels

on the life-changing benefits of therapy. Please subscribe to her publication here.

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Gauging societal expectations, in the 1980s, I had arrived: Well educated, a charismatic personality blended into a thriving career. Many called me the "rainmaker" with the "Midas touch" boosting my parent's business to unparalleled sales heights. When or I should say "if" he was sober, my father's chest puffed up and I swear he had a twinkle in his eye as he boast of my accomplishments and beauty. Svelte figure, designer clothes, hard working combined with uncanny talent made me the "rain maker."

A Rainmaker¹ with a heart.

I tended to my parent's needs at the cost of my own. They were raging alcoholics on the verge of death. After they hadn't shown at the office for several days, I drove to their home, burst into their bedroom, picked up my mother. Literally, picked her up in my arms, carried her to my car. I had no idea what I'd do with her, but I was sure she'd die if she didn't sober up, soon. Several phone calls from a pay phone at a nearby 7-11, and she was admitted into an exclusive, expensive rehab center.

A few weeks after she'd detoxed, we had a "family" meeting. I learned that adult children of alcoholics typically marry alcoholics. It made sense. Family is derived from the word familiar. A burly, handsome rugby player was my current beau. He was a large man, and easily justified drinking a 12 pack of beer--every night.

"It's Utah Beer, Near beer," he joked, He claimed he could barely feel it. I thought of all the times, I'd picked his wallet as we were leaving The Pub. I thought of him embarrassingly relieving himself by the side of my car.

As soon as I came home from the Family Meeting at the Rehab facility: I called and broke up with him.

The expensive rehab facility couldn't offer me therapeutic services, but they gave me a few names of highly recommended professionals. The first person I called was a woman named Karen Fisher. Before our first appointment, I was concerned that she'd be one of those ivory tower professor types that I knew all too well from the University. I wanted a professional, but I also needed someone who could get down and dirty. I needed someone who would not be in awe of the bluster and bluff and empty show of our lives. I needed someone who understood even polished professionals had ugly problems.

The moment I walked in, I felt at ease. She was smart but wasn't wowed by my appearance. She didn't even fall for my intellectual deflection. She asked me about what was happening. I tried to bedazzle her with some sub atomic particle analysis that there are so many things that are happening that we cannot see. She smiled and told me she wasn't going to take the bait and debate the reality of unseen radio waves that exist but we cannot see.

Karen paused then asked "Why are you here?"

Tears. My mom. My dad. Alcoholics. No matter what I did, I couldn't get them to stop. The ward, neighbors and their successful company in a highly competitive industry would destroy my parent if their secret came out. I couldn't protect them anymore and I couldn't get them to stop. I was sure they'd die. Then, when I learned that children of alcoholics marry alcoholics I unraveled. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Ah, now we are getting somewhere. That's real."

During the next seven years and thousands of therapy sessions, I learned how my co-dependence prominently camouflaged the trauma of my childhood and stunned my growth as a person. Layer after layer, question after question, we unfurled the trauma and my pain. We dismantled my fake props.

For me, understanding was easier than the rebuilding. My intellect seems to a few steps ahead of my feelings.

I don't know if I could have done it without her. Her patient and guiding questions lead me to merge my knowledge with my feelings. In short, her guidance, by her questions, helped me rebuild my life. Heal the parts of my development that were stunted by the trauma.

Karen never shamed me.² She explained that all I had done, was because she believed that everyone wanted to be "okay."

Those words planted the seeds for a core belief that I now share with others:

We all want to be okay.

Karen is the one who encouraged me to write the book. She said that my writings, my journals, my lyrics and poetry showed the healing process from beginning to end. She said she'd need to write segments or segues, so the reader could understand what was happening with me.

She said that there wasn't another work like it. She said that victims and survivors of sexual abuse needed this guide. This example and voice of hope.

It took awhile to combine all my writings into some cohesive semblance. We met and she laid the bomb on me that she couldn't do her part. She had cancer.

I looked at the papers I'd brought, and said, "Now would be a good time to burn them. Release them!"

Karen said, "Not so fast."

Professionally, Karen knew of my friends's mother, Carol Scott. Carol was a renowned therapist and had done a tremendous amount of work to help abused children. Karen Fisher asked me to approach Carol, and ask her if she'd write the therapeutic portion.³

During her grueling cancer treatments, Karen still stayed involved with the manuscripts development, its publication, fielded calls from the Press, and was involved with my continued therapy.

Karen knew she was going to die. She orchestrated the transition for to begin seeing another therapist. This new therapist was amazing. I tried, but in my heart, she just didn't match up to 7 years of intimate, intense, therapy with Karen Fisher.

When Paperdolls came out, it hit a nerve in the intermountain west. Karen was the one that the press and naysayers called to attack me. She was the one who had the notes and transcripts from my family meetings that documented everything. She was the key. Or so I thought.

Shortly after Mother's Day in 1993, my new therapist called me to tell me that Karen had died.

I took Gramps with me to Karen's viewing. I learned things about Karen I'd never known. Here she knew every minute detail of my life and I didn't even know how many kids she had. That's the nature of the therapeutic process, it's all about the client/patient. The therapist is the inquisitor. Asking probing questions to help the client/patient to uncover the answers, rebuild and heal themselves.

A few months after Karen's death, I'd felt like I'd lost almost everything. My family thought that with her death, their confessions died with her. My professional life was in tatters. And, I was exhausted.

I knew that I was "April Daniels." I had received hundreds of letters from other survivors. Some viewed me as a hero. I knew I wasn't, but I didn't want to let them down. I decided if I was driving my car, with the top down and no seat belt, I could "accidentally" drive off a canyon road. I was sure I'd die, and it would be ruled an accident. Other survivors could still heal and live fulfilling authentic lives.

My new therapist took away my car.

With the strong support of my new therapist, Carol's efforts, Gramps, Laurel and her family all kept me on this planet. Even the amazing people I worked with at the national bank in Oregon, gave me time to grieve and heal.

For the second time in my life, therapy saved me.

When Betsy Kanarowski of Saprea and Leon Macfayden tell me that it's not imperative for survivors of sexual assault to have evidence based, professional therapy, I want to believe them. I believe that others have done it. I think of everyone since Alice James⁴ and others like Maya Angelo have struggled. Many have healed from the ravaging damages of incest, childhood sexual abuse and sexual assault. I believe people have healed. I just don't know any who have done it without the support of a psychotherapist.

I have often used an analogy of dentistry to evidence based psychotherapy. I've joked, "Sometimes you just have to open your mouth and let a professional look inside."

As Chaucer, famously said, "many a truth is spoken in jest." Our societal advancements, civilization, medical treatments, even life expectancy follow a similar trajectory to the advancements in dentistry and psychotherapy.

And, on a rudimentary level, they both involve the client/patient opening their mouth and letting someone question and look inside.

I haven't personally known anyone who has healed or removed an infected tooth on their own. And, I haven't known anyone who has healed from the toxic residual of sexual assault by themselves, but I believe Leon and Betsy. It can be done.

But, I'm telling you: it's a painful process. I know there are many idiotic and stupid dentists out there. I also know there are many hideous therapists. But, overall, the majority are compassionate, caring, qualified people who can help you. They can help you get that root canal and help you heal from the toxic waste you unknowingly hold from the trauma you suffered--especially those who suffered childhood sexual abuse.

I strongly encourage you to see help. Be picky. Find a good therapist. It's worth it. And, even if your therapist dies, you'll have finally have yourself and all the wondrous, authentic, complex attributes of yourself for yourself.

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1. "A rainmaker is any person who brings clients, money, business, or even intangible prestige to an organization based solely on his or her associations and contacts. The rainmaker is usually regarded highly within the company by other employees and is a key figure like a principal, partner, or executive.”

2. She never labeled me or gave me a "diagnosis." After I'd received a notice from an insurance claim, I noticed that she was treating me for something with the initials with PTSD. During a follow up session, I asked her what that meant. I was very concerned that the label of sexual abuse would be on my medical records--forever. She said, "Absolutely not. PTSD is a very benign term used to treat all sorts of trauma humans suffer but aren't able to deal with immediately after it happens. She said it was common with war veterans."

3. That is how Carol Scott became my co-author. This story is detailed much better in Paperdolls & Cowboy Boots.

4. The original "#metoo" was Alice James. Alice James was William and Henry James's sister. Alice was institutionalized when she alleged that her father sexually abuse her. She tried to kill him. William James is known as one of hte founders of psychology and Henry became a well establish writer and coined the phrase "Card board grasshoppers" which I referenced when I thought of one dimensional Paper Dolls and the title of the book (I intentionally misspelled Paperdolls, because I believe we are all connected)