seat, the aura of threat that surrounded him before is gone. With his shaved head, spare frame, and black clothing, he looks almost like a choreographer from a Broadway show. But that’s an illusion, I remind myself. This man has killed people in combat, if not in the city outside this office.
“Do you believe that traumatic memories can be lost, Catherine?”
In my mind I see the flashing blue lights on the night my father died, and feel the terrible blankness of the hours before that. “I don’t reject the idea out of hand. I suppose I’m a little suspicious of it.”
“Most people are. The word
“Refresh my memory.”
“Daydreaming is a common example of dissociation. You’re sitting in a classroom, but your mind is a thousand miles away. Your body’s in one place, your mind in another. When the professor calls your name, you might as well have been asleep. We’ve all experienced that.”
“Sure.”
“How about driving your car while totally focused on something inside it? The CD player. A child. Programming your cell phone. Your body and brain are performing the task of driving, of keeping the car on the road, while your conscious mind is entirely occupied elsewhere. I’ve actually driven quite a distance without consciously looking at the road.”
“So have I. But I don’t have amnesia for whatever I was doing at the time.”
“You weren’t in a traumatic situation.” Malik gives me a paternal smile. “When used as a coping mechanism against trauma, dissociation has far more profound effects. When human beings are placed under such severe stress that fight or flight are the only sane responses, they must do one or the other. If they’re in a position where neither response is possible, the brain-the mind, rather-will attempt to flee on its own. The body endures the trauma, but the mind, in effect, is not present. It may well watch the trauma occur, but it will not process it. Not conventionally, anyway.” Malik has not moved a muscle apart from those that control his mouth and jaw. “Do you find this concept difficult to accept?”
“It makes sense. In theory.”
“Then let’s get down to cases. Imagine a three-year-old girl suffering repeated rape. Several nights a week- she never knows which-a man ten times her weight and strength slips into her room and does things to her body. Initially she may be flattered. She feels pleasure and participates. But eventually the secret nature of the activity comes home to her. She begs him to stop. He doesn’t. Threats are made. Threats of violence, abandonment, murder. A tremendous amount of negative anticipation is set up inside her mind. She endures unimaginable levels of fear. Which night will he come? Does going to sleep make him come? But no matter what she does to prevent it, he still comes. This huge and terrifying man-usually a man who is supposed to love and protect her-climbs on top of her and begins to hurt her. Maybe she’s four or five now, but she can’t fight or run from him. So, what happens? Just as in combat situations, the brain attempts to cope with the unbearable as best it can. Massive defense mechanisms are set in motion. And dissociation is the most powerful of those mechanisms. The girl’s mind simply vacates the premises, and only her body suffers the rape. In the most extreme cases, these kids develop DID.”
“DID?”
“Dissociative identity disorder. What we used to call multiple personalty disorder. The mind becomes so adept at splitting off from reality that separate psyches come into being. Prolonged sexual abuse is the only known cause of multiple personality disorder.”
“These traumatic memories,” I say, trying to find my way back to the main thread of the conversation. “They remain intact? Even though the person isn’t conscious of them? Intact and accessible at a later date? Years later?”
Malik nods. “The degree of recall varies, of course, but not the veracity. The actual memory is indelible. It’s simply located in another part of the brain. This idea, of course, is at the root of the repressed memory debate.”
“Well, how do you help patients access these lost memories?”
“In some ways, they’re not really lost. If an adult woman finds herself in a situation similar to that in which the abuse took place-say normal sex with her husband, and he tries something new, like oral or rear-entry sex-she may suddenly experience panic, pain, heart palpitations, anything. A smell can trigger the same responses. A hair cream the abuser wore, say. Bathrooms can do it. This phenomenon is called body memory. The sensory part of the brain recalls the trauma, but the conscious mind does not.”
“But how do you bring these memories to the conscious level? Talk therapy? Hypnosis? What?”
“Hypnosis has been largely discredited as a tool of memory recovery. Inexperienced clinicians have implanted too many false memories with it. Which is a pity. Throwing the baby out with the bathwater, I think.”
“Do you use drugs?”
Malik looks impatient. “I use whatever approach I think best for a particular patient. Drugs, talk therapy, EMDR, hypnosis-I could run clinical jargon past you for hours, precise but pointless. I find it useful to use symbolism when discussing my work. Mythology, most of all. The Greeks knew a thing or two about psychology. Incest, especially.”
Malik’s gaze wanders to my legs again. I pull my skirt down over my knees. “I’m all ears.”
“Are you familiar with the concept of the underworld? The River Styx? Charon, the ferryman? Cerberus, the three-headed dog?”
“I know the basics.”
“If you want to understand my work, think of it this way. Victims of chronic sexual abuse aren’t merely the walking wounded. They’re the walking dead. The repeated trauma and dissociation I described to you has effectively killed their spirits. ‘Soul murder’ is how some clinicians describe this pathology. I see these patients’ souls as trapped in the underworld. Call it the subconscious, whatever you will. The children that they once were are cut off from the world of light, wandering in eternal shadow. But though their souls have crossed the river to the land of the dead, their bodies remain behind. With us.”
I remember the jacket of Malik’s book, the old man in the boat waiting for the young woman to board. “What river do they cross? The Styx? Your book had
Malik smiles in surprise. “Five rivers bordered the underworld. Styx was merely the river the gods swore oaths by. My patients have crossed Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. And my job is to do what the living are not meant to do: journey to the land of the dead and bring back the souls of those poor children.”
“Is that how you see yourself? A classic hero reversing the whims of fate?”
“No. But it’s certainly a heroic undertaking. In myth, only Orpheus came close to accomplishing the task, and even he failed in the end. I actually see myself as Charon, the ferryman. I know the underworld the way most people know this one, and I guide travelers back and forth between the two.”
I think about the metaphor for a while. “It’s interesting that you identify with Charon. The main thing I remember about him is that he had to be paid to ferry the dead across the river.”
“Your turn for insults?” Malik smiles in appreciation. “Yes, Charon had to be paid. With a coin in the mouth. But you misunderstand the metaphor. My fees don’t pay the price of the patient’s journey to the underworld. The patients have usually paid that price long before they see me.”
“To whom?”
“To the darkness. The price is paid in tears and pain.”
To avoid Malik’s challenging gaze, I look over at the Buddha. “Repressed-memory work is pretty controversial. Aren’t you afraid of lawsuits?”
“Lawyers are parasites, Catherine. I have no fear of them. I deal in truth. I journey to the land of the dead and come back with memories that terrify the most powerful of men. They haven’t got the balls to sue me. They know that if they do, they’ll be destroyed. Destroyed by eyewitnesses to their own depravity.”
“What about your patients?”
“I’ve never been sued by a patient.”
“Haven’t you ever made a mistake? I mean, even if delayed-memory recall is a real phenomenon, there are many documented cases of such memories being proven false. Recantations by patients. Right?”
