The Only Girl in the World

by Maude Julien

  Until I finally met a warm-hearted female psychiatrist with whom I established a relationship of trust. It was again in books that I found my first real ‘tools for life’. I read about the Palo Alto Mental Research Institute, where a movement of researchers revolutionized psychology and psychiatry by opening them up to other fields such as anthropology and sociology, and I started to find my way. My reading was its own form of therapy: it gave me the courage to reopen wounds I’d carefully concealed, to examine them calmly without picturing myself as a patient in the Bailleul mental asylum. Those researchers became my new companions, the way the heroes of novels had been in the past.

  The birth of my second daughter was a great turning point in my life. I decided to start studying to become a therapist, so that I could help others find paths to freedom. Albeit by a convoluted route, I was pursuing the dream I’d cherished as a child, to be a ‘surgeon of the head’. I threw myself passionately into psychopathology, the cognitive sciences and the study of hypnosis, studying in American, Canadian, then French universities, and training in a wide range of therapeutic approaches. My father wouldn’t have been too happy: my methods were a perfect example of ‘bad roots’, refusing to bore down in one spot, instead jumping around from place to place.

  As my studies progressed, I learned to control my panic attacks, anxieties and phobias. And yet my father’s house still managed to sneak its way into my dreams every night: in a dream, out of nowhere, I’d cross the billiard room, or knock on my mother’s bedroom door, or head to the bar. To stop these intrusions, I tried to ‘build’ my own castle, a place where, instead of being the prisoner, I would be the chatelaine. I created rooms to meet different needs or to resolve different mental blocks. That way I could allocate to each problem the most suitable tool, allowing it to work like a medicine implanted at the heart of the problem. Separate rooms also allowed me to isolate the different problems, as if behind fire doors, and stop them from contaminating each other.

  This therapeutic technique, which I called the ‘Castle Chronicles’, was very useful later when I began helping others who, like me, had escaped someone else’s psychological and emotional control. In this sort of controlling relationships, there is first a predator, an ogre who only cares about his own mental world, needs and urges. Other people are merely instruments or obstacles. The trap is set when a predator finds a victim. The ogre then gradually takes possession of the victim, all the while making the victim believe that this is love with a capital ‘L’, but also treating him or her as a contemptible wretch, whose sole value derives from the predator. The trap closes when the victim starts to identify with this debased image of him or herself.

  The perfect example of a relationship of psychological and emotional control is the cult. But it would be wrong to think that all such relationships follow the mould of the guru with a horde of disciples. There are ‘two-person cults’, couples in which one consumes the other, or ‘family cults’ where the ogre is the mother or father, grandfather, grandmother; workplace hierarchies, distorted by a predator. Even some psychiatrists and personal-development coaches are ogres, and all the more destructive because they can abuse powerful therapeutic tools—such as hypnosis, which my father also used abusively—to enslave their patients and clients.

  In my practice, I often gather the shipwrecked victims of these enslaving relationships. They are sent to me by concerned loved ones or doctors. Some are considered hopeless cases, but I know deep down that there is always a way out. I often tell my patients that freedom can flow through anything. Anywhere: seemingly menial acts, insignificant encounters, silly thoughts, minute gestures of resistance, tiny doses of progress. Anything and everything can be of help to fight controlling relationships.

  The ‘three-person family cult’ of my childhood displayed virtually all the characteristics of a religious cult. My father, who warned me against gurus in the big wide world, was himself a guru incarnate. His encounter with the occult and his belief in ‘spiritual powers’ gave him a taste for domination, convinced him that he was a ‘Chosen Spirit’, and made him prepared to break common rules. Disappointed with life, he had turned his back on the ‘fallen’ world in favour of an increasingly delusional utopia. My mother was his first victim. He had made her dependent and incapable of resistance. He did not accord her the same rights as he had; to him she was nothing but a tool to serve his lofty ends: to bring me into the world and raise me. She experienced longings for rebellion, but didn’t dare oppose her ‘protector’. Any possibility of rebellion was nipped in the bud by the relentless and rigid system my father had set up.

  Many decades later, my mother remains my father’s victim. In cults, people side with the guru, even when they hate him. I think that my mother still probably believes in my father’s theories, which makes her a ‘willing follower’. This explains why we were never able to build a relationship. Today we are barely in touch with each other, although I still hope that she will come to terms with the fact that she is a victim. That’s why I have dedicated this book to her.

  And yet I eventually found my way to freedom. I was lucky enough to be given the unconditional love and tenderness of four wonderful animals: a dog, two ponies and a duck. And certain people—my first piano teacher, the frightened hairdresser, the high-school girl who failed her baccalauréat—also showed me friendship. Books and music opened my mind to ideas, feelings, and imaginary worlds that defied my indoctrination. As soon as I found a bit of courage, I constructed my own mental escape path, one stone at a time, using anything I could: inventing imaginary friends, digging a hiding place, writing forbidden stories and deliberately lying to exercise my autonomy. I was ready to grasp my saviour’s hand when fate finally sent him my way: my music teacher, Monsieur Molin. He was a man of infinite goodness, who saw beauty in everything and was dazzled by life. He was the exact opposite of my father, and proof that my father was wrong: human beings are extraordinary.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While writing this book, I returned to my childhood home for the first time in thirty years. I was shaken to discover it had been converted into an education centre for young girls, a sort of prison for delinquent minors. I would rather have seen it become a recreational facility or a vacation home…I was impressed, however, by the teachers’ remarkable work—in both their educational and pastoral roles, by the way they worked alongside and encouraged their young wards. After the book came out, I returned once again to this house that was once my prison to give a talk: ironically the subject was freedom. My sincere thanks go to the teachers who welcomed me in and shared their experiences, especially to Marc and Séverine. And a heartfelt thank you goes to these young girls, for during the time I was able to spend with them I was touched by their beauty, curiosity and ability to appreciate the wonders of the world.

  My profound gratitude to those I’ve met along my journey, some of whom remain unknown, who by a smile or kind look gave me the courage to persevere during difficult times. It’s impossible to overstate how much a simple smile can change a life, and how one word or one aggressive look can darken the world.

  Thank you to the people who have been by my side and continue to stand by me through my healing process. I cannot name them all; I will never forget the ways they showed their support and sympathy.

  To André and Geneviève Molin, who left the gate part open and allowed me to slip out. To Henri Ibar and Sophie Ryckewaert, who gave the completely lost little girl that I was a chance at a professional life, who brought me to my first art exhibits, and invited me to a restaurant, where they showed me how to hold a knife and fork. To the musicians of the Santinas Jazz Band, who welcomed me into the band like one of their own. To Marc Julien, to whom I owe my first comic books, my first trips to the movies, and wonderful years together. To Marie-Jeanne, the first woman to hug me with maternal arms: in one fell swoop you melted the iceberg I thought I was trapped inside. To Jean, whose heart and eyes contain all the goodness of the world.

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nbsp; To the amazing doctors and therapists who provided me attention, commitment and kindness, and who are the reason I’m alive today: Dominique Verhaeghe, for telling me, ‘Run, you have a life to live’; Jacques Pieri, for detecting the real wounds behind my physical suffering. Martine Bouvier, the first psychiatrist who got me to talk and who helped me open the doors to my internal prison; François Thioly, who taught me how to avoid falling into other controlling relationships.

  To the excellent teachers I’ve been lucky enough to have and who had enough faith in me to include me in their working groups: Jeffrey Zeig, for teaching me that hypnosis can be used for the good to set someone free, and that getting better is a minute-by-minute job; Ernest Rossi, for introducing me to psychobiology; Steve de Shazer, who taught me how to connect music, emotions and therapy; Steve Andreas, who showed me the ethical dimension of neurolinguistics; John Gray, for teaching me how to bring a little humour into couple’s therapy. Roger Solomon, my indefatigable teacher, EMDR supervisor and friend.

  To Tony Robbins, who, a little over twenty years ago, was able to find the right words to show me what joy is. I am blown away by his unparalleled energy and the way he uses it to generate motivation and cheer. Like my father, he made me work hard, but, unlike my father, he focused on loosening my mental blocks, teaching me little by little how to free myself from guilt and take pleasure in the good things of life. When we ate together in Phoenix in 2004, I was able to measure the distance I’ve managed to come thanks to his support.

  To Philippe Duverger, who taught me so much about adolescence. Marie-Rose Moro, who has helped me improve in the fields of psychopathology and therapy for fifteen years. Marie-Rose, you have a rare combination of precision, fairness and passion, and, as I keep telling you, you’re a role model for me, both professionally and personally.

  To the teaching teams so dear to my heart: those at the Faculty of Medicine at Paris XIII, at Cochin, at the Maison des Adolescents and La Maison de Solenn; the transcultural psychiatric team at Avicenne hospital, the team at the Milton-Erickson Institute in Phoenix.

  To my study partners, George Kirschner and Marjorie, for encouraging me every time I was tempted to abandon my course in the United States.

  To the people with whom I had so many fascinating conversations: Ron Davis, who, in the days when my speech was very impaired, never let me forget that a handicap can also be a gift; Annie Dumont, as well as being a friend, was a wonderful co-researcher in neuroscience; Trinh Xuan Thuan, who opened up the galaxy to me even if I still don’t understand everything he says! Marilia Baker, for her enthusiasm and the time we spent with Elizabeth Moore Erickson; David Servan-Schreiber, whose friendship and our conversations I miss.

  To my Australian friends, Deborah Rock and Rhys Jones, for introducing me to the struggles of Indigenous Australians; Max Davidson for his battle to stop Indegenous Australians being put into an enclosed space. The Aboriginal communities in Derby, Tichikala, Arnhem Land and Mount Borradaile, including Charlie, my ‘skin brother’, and Alexis Wright, who always says ‘the fight is about believing the unbelievable’, and who also believes that ‘life flows through everything’.

  To my patients, who each day share with me the most precious parts of themselves.

  To you, Ursula Gauthier, my accomplice and fellow investigator in the labyrinth of my memories. You succeeded in opening doors deep inside me that I thought were sealed up forever.

  To all the bookshops that I’ve so eagerly visited since I’ve been ‘out’ and who, with their advice, helped build my freedom. To the Parisian bookstore La Lettre Ouverte, which sadly no longer exists.

  To my daughters, who turned me into a mother and gave me the strength to never give up. The world is more beautiful each day, thanks to you.

  To my husband, my loyal companion who held my hand when my writing stirred fears from the past, and reminded me that I’m a happy woman now.

  A special thank you to the animals in my childhood, who taught me to be a good human being, and to my four-footed friends, Twister and Trésor, who stayed patiently by my side while I wrote this book.

  To dear Susanna Lea, thank you for bringing your light, your heart and your beautiful energy to this book. You truly are a ray of sunshine.

  NOTE TO MY ENGLISH LANGUAGE READERS

  I also owe many thanks to my English editors—Penny Hueston, Jean Garnett and Shadi Doostdar—and to you, my English readers. It is essentially thanks to you that a new chapter about my old struggle against manipulation has been opened, with a completely unexpected emphasis on…the English language. Though my level of English allowed me to take psychology classes at American universities, and even pass my exams, I have long struggled with a strange block preventing me from understanding a novel or film the moment it uses English. Words string together one after the next without making any sense, the plot completely escaping me. I become overwhelmed with panic, certain it’s due to my own thorough stupidity, followed by an immeasurable sadness.

  Through my studies in neuropsychology, I came to another possible explanation. This inability could be attributed to the fact that as a child my ear was not trained to hear multiple voices or intonations. It was as if I suffered from a sort of selective cerebral deafness towards the sounds of language. Though I learned how to play numerous musical instruments, unfortunately that did nothing to improve my speech due to the brain’s auditory zones for music being separate from those for spoken voice.

  Knowing my book was going to be translated into English, I finally decided to confront my ‘problem’ with the English language. To be able to speak effectively about manipulation and control, one must be able to talk fluently with people, to feel what they’ve gone through, to understand intimately the ‘story of their lives’. One cannot help others resist control by reciting theories or giving them a psychological evaluation.

  This plan to improve my English, harmless in principle, ended up putting me through a year of hell such as I had not known in many, many years. Buried monsters stirred again and brought with them my old tendency to have paroxysmal nightmares. The same day I signed up for my first linguistic session in England, I dreamed my father was kicking me in the stomach. I was on the ground, and I could distinctly make out his pointy-toed shoe. The nightmares came back more and more frequently, even daily the week prior to my departure, and starting again once I returned to France. In other dreams, he would suddenly appear before me. In a cold gesture, he would move his hand across his throat as if he were cutting it. I awoke paralyzed and frozen with fear. This gesture, the cut throat, symbolizes the fate reserved for any traitor who revealed Masonic secrets.

  They all came back to the surface, this string of similar memories: the multiple oaths my father made me take throughout the years I lived behind the gate of his house. He would make me swear allegiance to the German language, the only language that maintained its original purity. On the other hand, I had to promise never to speak English, a ‘denatured’ language in its modern form, the usage of which could instil nothing but a ‘leak of energy’. Though there was one exception: if I were to become a prominent figure, such as President of the United States or the director of a powerful organization like the Rockefeller Foundation, using English would be permissible only in so far as it advanced the ultimate goal ‘to impose the use of German’.

  In my head, these commands clashed with my father’s express admiration for Americans, and the requirement he gave me of reading Shakespeare in the original language. But he could see no contradiction. He would tell me that the authentic English language had been ‘lost’ since Shakespeare, existing only in the initiation rites of certain English clubs. Extremely selective clubs—including among their members’ ranks the Queen of England—that are the sole conservers of the ‘pure language’ faithful to its German roots.

  Paradoxically, these nightmares helped me understand the origin of my strange inhibition regarding English. It did not come from ‘thorough stupidity’ or from a lack of
exposure to the infinite diversity of voices. It stemmed directly from the commands my father had given a thousand times and the oaths I had to swear before him when I was just a child, while he made that terrifying gesture of cutting his throat. Only today can I decrypt the meaning of these incessant orders as: ‘You will not speak English, under pain of death.’

  As I struggle to overcome this conditioning, my body works against me. For months I have been suffering from a relentless bacterial infection ravaging my throat, my sinuses and my vocal cords, often resulting in a complete loss of voice. It’s as if my body as an organism is saying psychosomatically, ‘So you insist on speaking English? Ha! Not a single word will come out of your mouth.’

  Recently, my nightmares took a turn for the worse: my father suddenly appeared before me, as if he was there but I hadn’t seen him before. He placed his hand in front of his throat, watching me intensely. I struggled, but I wasn’t strong enough, and my hand rose to my throat, my fingers turned sharp as razor blades, digging into my neck. Blood gushed forth while my hand reached deeper. My father said, ‘You faltered.’ Hopeless, I told myself I had failed, and felt my life slipping away.

  One thing is certain: I was wrong to think the battle was over; I must struggle on. At night, my courage sometimes wavers beneath the weight of these nightmares. But I feel deep down that this is the final battle, and that I can be victorious. I am even more confident thanks to the exceptional people life has put in my path, each of whom has proved to be a valuable ally in this battle. Like Elaine and Patrick Tilley, a couple of professors at Oxford who hosted me for several days of linguistic immersion in their home. I fed off their expertise, their heartfelt kindness, and their home-made meals cooked with love. They have that mysterious ability to understand my story without knowing it, like Monsieur Molin once did. They opened up a new, safe space in their home that allowed me to fight my terrible nightmares and try to free myself from the command not to speak English.