Secrets Unraveled: Overcoming Munchausen Syndrome

Introduction

The choices I made with Andrea were not typical of my work as a psychologist. My practice has been similar to that of many of my colleagues. I meet with patients once a week or less, usually with little or no contact in between sessions. I offer kindness, validation, and the version of wisdom that comes from studying psychology and working as a therapist for twenty-five years. They tell their stories; I listen. I try not to hold too many notions of actually “curing” people, nor do I always feel the need to send them quickly on their way when their initial presenting problems subside.

Living and practicing in a small but lively college town, I feel privileged to work with a wide range of different kinds of people. It has been an eye-opening and sobering experience to bear witness to the painful life circumstances of some of my patients. This feeling was never more powerful than it was with Andrea. The unfathomable abuse she experienced in childhood and her uncommon determination to work through the aftermath of her trauma drew me into unfamiliar territory. I saw that her healing depended more on our relationship itself than any insight I offered, and I felt compelled to expand my role beyond the bounds of conventional therapy. This choice stretched me as a psychologist and a person, pushing me well outside of my emotional comfort zone. In the end, it proved instrumental to Andrea’s recovery.

The early chapters of our book are upsetting and can be shocking to read. They bring to life disturbing aspects of childhood trauma. The descriptions of events may seem endless and even merciless at times, just as the abuse was for Andrea. However, from the start, there are glimpses of her resilience and perseverance, qualities that foretell her inspiring transformation. Her story is one of emotional damage that originates within the confines of a pathological family and emotional healing that takes place in the cocoon of a new, “corrective relationship.” 

By sharing our journey, Andrea and I are both coming out of the closet, her about the childhood horrors she endured and the rare mental illness she concealed, and me around my unusual therapeutic choices. It is my hope that the success of her therapy will inspire therapists and patients to consider fashioning their own unique working relationships, when conventional approaches prove ineffective. We both hope to reduce the stigma that boxes people into certain psychiatric diagnoses and the sense of bleakness associated with severe and pervasive psychiatric conditions. Our effort is to put forth the idea that one can not only recover from mental illness, but also overcome the shame often attached to childhood abuse. 

I was originally drawn to this work because I find nothing more meaningful than the bond that connects human beings and the communication that creates that bond. It is something that cannot be predicted or charted, but rather unfolds spontaneously, like all things that are special in life. Andrea’s therapy unfolded in ways I could never have imagined and ultimately reinforced the power of “the relationship.”

Chapter 1                      My Secret place

During my childhood, keeping quiet about our home life was an expectation strictly enforced by my father and obediently maintained by us, his family. It wasn’t that we wanted to protect him. It was actually the opposite. We despised him and behind his back wished him gone, if not dead. However, he ruled. There was no one who offered us any freedom from his brutality, and since we all merely wanted to remain alive, we were hostages to his power and control. 

When I was five years old, my father began to abuse me sexually. In response, I withdrew and detached myself from my family. In my frightening life, I was forced to focus on survival, so I hid. There was a huge walk-in closet in my bedroom, cluttered with large plastic bags filled with clothes. I spent hours at a time, day after day, hiding in that closet with the bags on top of me. I assured myself that if an intruder opened the door and peeked in, he would see only bags, shoes, and clothes. I would be invisible. My closet soon became my refuge. I spent my days in darkness and silence, clutching my doll close to my body, fantasizing about being loved. 

The closet floor was cold, and as time passed, my legs would cramp. Afraid to move, breathe or utter a sound, I stayed still and tolerated the discomfort. I was always terrified of being heard and, of course, being found. It was difficult for my tiny body to remain in the same position for so many hours, yet no matter how uncomfortable I was, I could not leave my secret place.  

In my closet, there was no screaming. There were no knives, guns or tears. Little girls were not being raped and Mommies were not being stabbed. Even though I persuaded myself I was safe in my closet, I knew I wasn’t. I remember a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling of “wanting to go home” – yet I was home. 

That feeling of infinite emptiness never left me. As an adult, that scared little girl remained a vivid, haunting image, leading me into therapy several times. I never stayed long enough with previous therapists to work through my childhood trauma. It was too difficult to relive painful events and they seemed too entrenched to ever resolve. Eventually, I buried the upsetting recollections of my youth, and became a busy wife and mother, devoted to raising my three children. I discovered it was safer to focus on the challenges of motherhood than to grapple with my own leftover internal chaos. I worked full-time as a nurse and my life was filled with adult obligations and responsibilities. There was no room for “crazy,” no room for eating disorders, drug addictions, or memories of childhood abuse. I learned how to leave my past behind me and pretend to be normal. 

I thought I was impervious to any more trauma. I was wrong. My oldest child, Eric, was diagnosed with brain cancer at age two, necessitating numerous surgeries, radiation treatment, and two years of chemotherapy. Although he went into remission after his treatment, he still required a lot of my time and energy due to his unique medical and educational needs. Then eight years later, the unimaginable happened. His cancer returned. We soon learned that there was no viable treatment or cure and, after seven short months, he passed away at age thirteen. 

My two girls, Brielle and Justine, were nine and six at the time of his death. When I buried Eric, I lost my desire to function. My focus had been on him and his battle with cancer for so many years, I thought my identity depended on his existence. While I loved my girls, I believed that I no longer mattered, and allowed the darkness that had once controlled my life to return. As the familiar hopelessness from childhood re-emerged, I convinced myself that my daughters didn’t need me in the ways that he had. Now that Eric was gone, I decided that death was my only option. 

I attempted suicide, landing myself in the local psychiatric unit for a brief stay. The psychiatrist decided that he didn’t want to “turn grieving into a mental illness” and I was released after three days. What he didn’t know was that I was not a typical grief-stricken mother, but, in fact, someone with a history of trauma. That was not my first time on a psychiatric unit. 

After my suicide attempt, I found myself returning to a life of misery, unable to handle the grief. I felt hopeless and chose death once again, although this time it was an emotional death. I simply checked out and removed myself from the world, a world that had betrayed me as a child and had now stolen my boy. I went back to my days of hiding in the closet. 

A year and half later we relocated to New York State due to my husband, Marc’s, work. Moving was hard enough, but it also meant leaving Eric buried in the ground, along with all of the memories of his life, and his death. Consumed by my anguish, it became increasingly difficult to manage my life. I was depressed and alone with plenty of time for “crazy” – even for total “insanity.” I had lost trust in others and faith in myself, and it wasn’t long before it was obvious to everyone I needed professional help. 

Having been in therapy before, I was not about to start this process again with just anyone. It had to be the right therapist and the right connection. After a few disappointing first appointments, I was feeling more and more desperate to find the person who could save me from my own demise. I called a well-known local mental health agency and asked the receptionist as audaciously as I could, “If you needed a therapist who would you go to?” Without hesitation, she gave me Tom’s name and number. She spoke highly of him and reassured me he would be the one. When I met him, his demeanor was gentle and kind, and his words comforting. There was something different this time around. After a few sessions, as scared as I was, I felt heard. Tom seemed to understand my sense of urgency and want to be there for me. I began to feel less alone.