Relief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The History of Christianity II: From the Reformation to the Modern Megachurch (2017)

  275Lecture 28—Vatican II and Global Renewal õFactions formed and clashed right from the beginning. Rifts emerged between some of the more progressive theologians from northern Europe and more conservative bishops from Italy, not to mention the new perspectives and questions that bishops from outside of the West brought to the Council. õAs for women at Vatican II: The Catholic Church only permits men to seek ordination as priests and become bishops. But for a very long time, women have made up the majority of lay Catholic worshippers and the majority of religious orders. Women were finally allowed to attend as auditors in the third session of the council. There were only 15 allowed (seven laywomen and eight nuns. The pope told them they could attend the discussions “of interest to women” but they couldn’t vote or otherwise have a formal say. RELIGIOUS PLURALISM õThree key areas of discussion at Vatican II were religious pluralism, authority in the church, and human sexuality. This lecture will first examine pluralism. The council radically revised the church’s relationship with other faiths. This was an issue close to John XXIII’s heart; when he served as papal nuncio in France at the end of World War II, he made it his mission to help Jewish refugees. õThe council issued statements that absolved Jews of the blame for the death of Jesus. This was a big deal, since blaming the Jewish people for murdering the Messiah had been a major justification for anti- Semitism over the centuries. õThe bishops also transformed Rome’s official position toward Protestants. They declared Protestants “separated brethren” who, while not in communion with the mother Church, were at least no longer heretics going to hell.

• From Quit: The Power of Knowing When to Walk Away (2022)

  Based on what we’ve learned in this book about quitting decisions, we can take some educated guesses. First, the people who lost their jobs at the start of the pandemic were forced to explore other options that might be available to them to earn a living, something that they wouldn’t generally have done under other circumstances. That gave them a better sense of the landscape and allowed them to see opportunities they might have been neglecting. Second, it also allowed them to reexamine their own preferences. In the same way that Maya Shankar figured out that she didn’t like solo work, being forced to quit gets you to ask yourself what the features are that you like and don’t like of the work you have been doing. Do you want to be physically present in a workplace or do you prefer to work remotely? Do you want something with more flexible hours? Do you love your job? Do you find it fulfilling? Is there something else that would make you happier? It might seem that people would ask themselves those questions all the time, but it often takes being forced to walk away for people to take a second look. Third, when you’re currently employed, you have a mental account open. Being forced to quit caused all those people to close those accounts. We know that when you have an account open, it’s difficult to walk away. You feel like a failure, that you fell short, or that you gave up. There are so many cognitive forces working against you. But when there was this mass layoff, those people who were forced to quit got to close those mental accounts, wiping the slate clean. When that happens to you, your katamari goes back to being a small clump. Now you’re more like the ants entering a new territory, exploring the area to see what’s there. Relieved by forced quitting of all that debris, it was easier for those who lost their jobs to ask themselves, “How much do I really like what I’m doing?” It was also easier for them to rationally answer that question, especially because they were essentially forced to explore alternatives. A lot of people found out that they didn’t want to keep doing the thing they were doing, and they wanted to switch to new opportunities. Of course, you can only switch to something new if there are opportunities to switch to, and alongside the Great Resignation was the Great Reopening. When

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  “He didn’t do it,” my mother said. The principal tentatively, even reluctantly, mentioned the testimony of the weed fiends. My mother turned to me and asked if they were telling the truth. “No ma’am.” “He doesn’t lie to me,” my mother said. The principal was fidgeting. He seemed about ready to bolt. “Well,” he said, “there is obviously some kind of confusion here.” My mother waited. He looked from her to me and back to her. “What am I supposed to do? Just let it drop?” When she didn’t answer he said, “All right. What about two weeks?” “Two weeks what?” “Suspension.” “Two weeks suspension?” “One week, then. We’ll split it. Does that seem fair?” She frowned at the desk and said nothing. He looked at her imploringly. “It’s not that long. Just five days.” Then he said, abruptly, “All right then, I’ll let it go this time. That’s fine for you,” he added. “You don’t have to work here.” School was over when we left the principal’s office. We walked through the empty corridors, our footsteps echoing between long lines of lockers. I still had cramps. They got worse as I started moving around again, and on our way out I ducked into the lavatory. The janitor had already been there. He had changed what I’d written to BOCK YOU IT WAS TOO late for my mother to go back to work, so she went home early with me. Marian smelled a story and pressed my mother until she got it. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and as she listened to my mother Marian began looking back and forth between us and giving hard little shakes of her head as if to clear it of water. Then her eyes came to rest on me and did not move. When my mother came to the end, indignant all over again at the way I’d been treated, Marian asked me to leave them alone. I listened from the living room. My mother argued at first but Marian overwhelmed her. This time, by God, she was going to make my mother see the light. Marian didn’t have all the goods on me, but she had enough to keep her going for a while and she put her heart into it, hitting every note she knew in the song of my malfeasance. It went on and on. I retreated upstairs to the bedroom and waited for my mother, rehearsing answers to the charges Marian had made against me. But when my mother came into the room she said nothing. She sat for a while on the edge of her bed, rubbing her eyes; then, moving slowly, she undressed to her slip and went into the bathroom and drew herself a bath, and lay in the water for a long time as she sometimes did when she got chilled coming home at night in a cold rain. I had my answers ready but there were no questions.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  The poet Budbill finds relief from the tyranny of his mind through methodical physical work. Many urban dwellers use jogging to tame their minds. However, such respite is usually temporary and can quickly transition to excess and then become a way of avoiding uncomfortable sensations and feelings. We all ruminate on the undigested cud of unresolved problems, whether or not this helps us to solve them. “Unnecessary suffering,” through repetitive negative thinking, is well known to practitioners of meditation, Buddhism, Taoism and other spiritual traditions. It is also the impetus for cognitive-behavioral therapies. These practices, traditions and therapies point to a common solution: defeating the tyranny of obsessive thinking before it spews its toxic emissions into the body. However, approaches that attempt to tame the restless mind may not be nearly as accessible or effective as those that help us return to our bodies in a sustaining way. The poet Budbill discovered that when he fully engaged his body in purposeful activity, his mind finally rested. The immersion in his body is what allowed him to directly encounter the nitty-gritty, moment-to-moment experience of being alive. Rather than obsessive worry or regret, he opened to the experience of appreciation and gratitude in the “shining moment in the now.” For our distant forbearers, survival was the only game in town. This put them in a perpetually reactive mode—surviving from threat to threat, triggering one protective instinct after another. While we are under the domination of these same instincts, saddled with the reflexive reactions to perceived threat, we possess the opportunity to recognize them, stand back, observe and befriend these powerful sensations and drives, without necessarily acting on them. The conscious containment and reflection upon our wild and primal urges enlivens us and keeps us focused on actively pursuing our needs and desires. It is the basis for reflective self-awareness. Rather than automatically reacting to (or suppressing) our instincts, we can explore them mindfully, through the vehicle of sensate awareness. To be embodied (as I will use the term in referring to our contemporary experience) means that we are guided by our instincts, while simultaneously having the opportunity to be self-aware of that guidance . This self-awareness requires us to recognize and track our sensations and feelings. We unveil our instincts as they live within us, rather than being alienated from them or forcibly driven by them. These facts of life make living in the now , free of ruminative thoughts, a formidable task.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  “That’s OK,” I encourage. “Just try and be with it. Know that if you need to, you can open your eyes. OK if I place my foot next to yours?”† “Yes, I would like that … Yes, that feels better.” The trembling increases in intensity; it settles, increases and settles several times. Miriam takes a deep spontaneous breath and then becomes still. She seems peaceful; the color of her hands and face indicates a significant rise in temperature. Sweat begins to break out on her forehead. “How are you doing now, Miriam?” “I feel really hot … like waves of heat burning me … It’s so intense, like nothing I’ve ever felt before; maybe once when I … was with … oh my god!” “OK,” I offer, “just sit quietly; just let it settle.” Tears start streaming as Miriam begins to cry softly. “It feels so deep. I couldn’t feel this before. It was just too much when he died. It’s different … I can feel the pain in my body and I won’t be destroyed … Actually the pain in my belly is completely gone … and it feels warm there … a soft kind of warm.” This is an example of linking islands of safety (see Step 2 in Chapter 5). The linking of resources starts with the sensations of strength and solidity in Miriam’s arms and legs as she is able to form boundaries. Then experiencing the visceral sensations of warmth and expansion gives her a developing sense of empowerment and of intact goodness. This “chaining” of resources allows her to gradually experience the sensations and feelings of paralysis and helplessness, which form the core of her traumatic experience. As she does this without being overwhelmed, time has in a sense moved ahead from the frozen past of denial into the present. In the following phase of the session, Miriam accesses the “unfinished business” of anger, loss and guilt. In moving from fixity to flow, she awakens her sensual aliveness. At this point, I suggest to Miriam that she just sit quietly with her body, that she sort of meditate and wait for any sensations, feelings, pictures or words. She becomes rather still, but not frozen like she appeared earlier in the session. However, after a while she tightens up again: “I don’t really have a picture … Well, I sort of do, but it’s more like I’m thinking about him, about my first husband. And I feel tense all over.” “Look,” I suggest, “maybe sit with the tension a little longer and see what develops with the feeling that’s in your body.” She seems to drop in again. “My belly feels so tight, it could explode.” “And if it explodes?” I ask. She is quiet; then, a torrent of tears. “I don’t really have a picture of him, but I do have that tightening in my gut again … What should I do?”

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  Lord, he felt sure—promised to never leave him, to come back to him when he needed it. Almost immediately he felt a sense of tremendous relief, the burden of his doubts and anxiety lifted from his shoulders. He could not help but cry. Several nights later, while King was attending an MIA meeting, his house was bombed. By sheer luck, his wife and daughter were unharmed. When informed of what had happened, he remained calm. He felt that nothing could rattle him now. Addressing an angry crowd of black supporters who had congregated outside his home, he said, “We are not advocating violence. We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be good to them. Love them and let them know you love them.” After the bombing, his father pleaded with him to return with his family to Atlanta, but with Coretta’s support, he refused to leave. Over the following months there would be many challenges as he struggled to keep the boycott alive and maintain the pressure on the local government. Finally, toward the end of 1956, the Supreme Court affirmed a lower court decision ending bus segregation in Montgomery. On the morning of December 18, King was the first passenger to board the bus and sit wherever he liked. It was a great victory. Now came national attention and fame, and with it endless new problems and headaches. The death threats continued. The older black leaders in the MIA and the NAACP came to resent the attention he now received. The infighting and the clash of egos became almost intolerable. King decided to start a new organization, to be called the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, its purpose to take the movement beyond Montgomery. For King, however, the infighting and envy only followed him. In 1959 he returned to his hometown to serve as copastor at Ebenezer and to lead various SCLC campaigns from the headquarters in Atlanta. For some in the movement he was too charismatic, too domineering, and his campaigns too ambitious; for others he was too weak, too willing to compromise with white authorities. The criticism from both sides was relentless. But what added most of all to King’s burdens was the slippery and infuriating tactics of the whites in power, who had no intention of accepting any substantial changes in segregation laws or in practices that discouraged blacks from registering to vote. They negotiated with King and agreed to compromises, then as soon as the boycotts and sit-ins stopped, they found all kinds of loopholes in the agreements and backtracked. In one campaign King led in Albany, Georgia, to desegregate the city, the mayor and police chief made a show of exaggerated calmness, making it seem as if King and the SCLC were the unreasonable group, just stirring up trouble from the outside. The campaign in Albany was largely a failure, and it left King depressed and exhausted. It was now the pattern in his life that in

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  At the age of nine, Adam was given to a group of fugitives living in the forest. He “loved being there” because the people liked him and for the first time ever, he felt wanted. “That year was the best of my life,” he told me. Even though he loved and felt protected by his “forest family,” his night fits continued and grew in intensity. His crying and screaming would never subside, despite all attempts to soothe him. Since he could not even be awakened, the noise of his fits put his forest family in grave danger. So tragically, before his tenth birthday, Adam was sent back to the village, where he wandered aimlessly as an orphan. One night, Adam was taken to the police station and interrogated. As he had been instructed, he gave the Nazis his Christian name. The police told him he would be punished if he lied. Next, they forced him to remove his pants in full view of everyone. To hide his shame, nine-year-old Adam stared at the wall, only to see a crucifix. This terrified him, causing him to believe that he would end up on a cross if he were caught lying. He was then taken to a concentration camp. “Being delivered alive to the concentration camp,” he said, “was a relief; at least I was with other Jews.” Upon entering the camp, one of the prisoners from the village asked Adam his name. Now among his own people, Adam gave the name he had grown up with, and the names of those whom he believed to be his parents. The man then exclaimed, “No, no, that’s not your real family name.” And he told him the names of his biological parents and how they had both died. Adam remembered being unspeakably relieved to know that the cruel mother he had experienced was not his real mother. While in the concentration camp, Adam witnessed people being brutally beaten, tortured and shot. Many others succumbed to suicide, often by hanging themselves. During his internment, Adam was without any real comfort or support to help him deal with such terror and horror. For most of us, Adam’s experience is unimaginable. If we were to honestly ponder the effect it would have had on us, we would be deeply disturbed by such terrible knowledge. Yet, to observe Adam in his life, he appeared, at least on the surface, little different from you or me, only more successful by modern-day standards.

• From Quit: The Power of Knowing When to Walk Away (2022)

  out of sight and get to their positions. When he reached Pitch 6, a camera picked him up from a distance, with his headlamp as the only illumination. Hanging off the mountain at Pitch 6, Honnold felt he couldn’t trust his feet. This was a perfect setup for making a bad decision about whether to continue the climb. He had invested months preparing. Money had been spent. Several other climbers had devoted time to helping him prepare, some hanging off the rock to film him. Many of them were his close friends, including Jimmy Chin, who was filming Honnold’s attempt. Chin had a bunch of footage, but putting that together into a documentary without a big summit attempt would be like trying to sell a Rocky movie that ends with the training montage. There was no documentary if all Honnold did was climb 480 feet to Pitch 6 and turn around. Worse, this was the end of the season. “Wait until next year” could mean the same thing as “never” when you’re depending on the behavior of a free solo rock climber still wanting to do this the following year—or even being alive to try. Despite all the forces working against Honnold giving up at that moment, he purposely fouled his attempt by pulling on a nearby protection bolt. From a microphone placed in his chalk bag, he said, “This sucks. I don’t want to be here. I’m over it.” He climbed down. The whole crew climbed down. The group dispersed and Honnold returned to his van (which was also where he had been living) and drove 350 miles home to Las Vegas. Alex Honnold came back the next June, the crew reassembled, and he successfully summited, free solo. The New York Times called it “one of the great athletic feats of any kind, ever.” Jimmy Chin and codirector Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi released the documentary, Free Solo, in 2018. It won the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature. Practically everyone who watches Free Solo is amazed by the

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  In my own practice, I’ve come to view fantasy as a valuable imaginative resource, whether it is cultivated by individuals or jointly by couples. The ability to go anywhere in our imagination is a pure expression of individual freedom. It is a creative force that can help us transcend reality. By giving us an occasional escape from a relationship, it serves as a powerful antidote to loss of libido within the relationship. Simply put, love and tenderness are enriched by the spice of imagination. Fantasies—sexual and other—also have nearly magical powers to heal and renew. They return the breasts confiscated by mastectomy, or let us walk as we did before the crippling accident. They reverse time, making us young again, and briefly allow us to be as we no longer are and maybe never were: flawless, strong, beautiful. They put us in the presence of the beloved who has died, or bring back memories of passionate lovemaking with the partner we now struggle to eroticize. Through fantasy we repair, compensate, and transform. For a few moments, we rise above the reality of life and, subsequently, the reality of death. The more I listen and probe, the more I appreciate the shrewdness of fantasy—its energy, its imaginative efficiency, its healing qualities, and its psychological force. Our fantasies combine the uniqueness of our personal history with the broad sweep of the collective imagination. Each culture uses incentives and prohibitions to convey what is sexy (American Idol! Monica Lewinsky!) and what is forbidden (altar boys! Monica Lewinsky!). Our flights of fancy bridge the gap between the possible and the permissible. Fantasy is the alchemy that turns this jumble of psychic ingredients into the pure gold of erotic arousal. In my work with couples, sexual fantasy also provides a wellspring of information about the individuals’ internal life and the relational dynamics of the couple. Fantasies are an ingenious way our creative mind overcomes all sorts of conflicts around desire and intimacy. The psychoanalyst Michael Bader (whose incisive book Arousal discusses the undercurrents of fantasy) explains that in the sanctuary of the erotic mind, we find a psychological safe space to undo the inhibitions and fears that roil within us. Our fantasies allow us to negate and undo the limits imposed on us by our conscience, by our culture, and by our self-image.

• From Branded: Brainwashed Inside NXIVM (2020)

  Even though I've been your student for years and I get to spend all this time with you, I feel like there's always such a wealth that I can... But when you have the opportunity to put a bright light on me and just question me... -Yeah, exactly, right? -What the hey? [Narrator] But others say the line isn't so clear. You start to become a perpetrator and not a victim when you're capable of understanding right from wrong. And you know what the repercussions are, but you're gonna do it anyway. And when you start to enjoy the amount of pain that you're inflicting on others, then you're no longer a victim. You're a perpetrator. [group humming] ♪ If I ever hurt you, baby ♪ Do, do, do, do, do ♪ Well, you know ♪ I hurt myself as well [Female reporter] Actress Allison Mack leaving court with her head down after being sentenced to three years in prison for her role in NXIVM. [Allison] ♪ Is that any way for a woman to carry on ♪ [Narrator] Then, on May 7, 2019, over two decades after NXIVM first began, the man once known as Vanguard finally stands trial. [Robin] He was indicted on seven counts. There was human trafficking and sex trafficking. The interesting thing is that they did not try to prove it was a cult. That would've been a losing argument from the start. There is no criminal statute that makes a cult a crime. It was about coercion. It was about sex. It was about Keith Raniere's pleasures. It was a business. And...it was a con job. [Narrator] Even Daniela, the Mexican teen Raniere kept sequestered in a windowless bedroom, testifies against the cult leader. For his part, Raniere chooses not to testify in his own defense. Then, on June 19, 2019, after a six-week trial, the jury begins deliberating the alleged cult leader's fate. [music] [Narrator] On June 19, 2019, a jury of his peers lowers the boom on Keith Raniere. [Armando] Keith was convicted on multiple felonies, including trafficking, sex trafficking, trafficking for forced labor, conspiracy. They hit him with a racketeering charge. They really got him for everything. [Tabitha] I was speechless. Not a lot of cult leaders, or coercive control leaders, have actually been convicted for...their crimes. So, it was really landmark in that case. [Dr. Joseph] For his victims, when you see this person in a court of law, he just looks like a mere mortal. And that leads you to realize that you were traumatized, that you were victimized. And so it's powerful to be held accountable because it brings a sense of closure for his victims. [music] [Narrator] At his sentencing hearing on October 27, 2020, Raniere finally speaks about the case. [Keith] It's true, I am not remorseful for the crimes I don't believe I've committed at all. But I am deeply remorseful of this pain. I am truly sorry.

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  If we feel insecure and unattractive, in our fantasies we are irresistible. If we anticipate a withholding woman, in fantasy she’s insatiable. If we fear our own aggression, in our internal reveries we can feel powerful without worrying that we might hurt another. If we don’t dare ask, in our erotic imaginings the other knows our needs even before we do. If we feel we shouldn’t have sex, in our private theater we can surrender to a lustful other without having to bear the responsibility—we did what he wanted, it wasn’t us. Fantasy expresses the problem and provides the solution. It is a fervid space, where our inhibiting fear is transformed into brazenness. What a relief to find that our shame is now curiosity, our timidity is now assertiveness, and our helplessness is now sovereignty. Fantasy does not, however, always take the form of elaborate, scripted scenarios. Many people think that if they don’t fantasize with carefully orchestrated plots and well-drawn characters, then they’re not fantasizing at all. This is particularly true of women, who seem to have a harder time owning their sexual thoughts in general. My patient Claudia once described to me, in great detail, how she would like her husband to approach her. She envisioned a slow, gradually unfolding dance of seduction throughout the day, with tantalizing conversations, light kisses on the nape, gentle touches, warm smiles, and sidelong glances. “I want him to touch my arm without touching my breast. I want him to tease me, to move in a bit sexually and then pull back, to make me want. I want to ask him to touch my breast,” she explains. “And if he did these things?” I ask. “We would have an entirely different sexual relationship,” she answers. Not twenty minutes later, when I ask her about her fantasy life, she assures me, “I don’t fantasize. Jim does, but I don’t. He’s all into threesomes.” I am stunned. I say, “Are you kidding? Your entire description of foreplay and anticipation is fantasy. It’s certainly not reality, is it?” To my thinking, sexual fantasy includes any mental activity that generates desire and intensifies enthusiasm. These thoughts need not be graphic, or even well-defined. They’re often inarticulate, more feelings than images, more sensuous than sexual. Virtually anything can work its way into one’s erotic imagination. Memories, smells, sounds, words, specific times of the day, textures—all can be considered fantasy as long as they set in motion the arc of desire. In her book Men in Love, Nancy Friday writes:

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  “No, it’s not,” the teacher in me confirms. “It may give them temporary relief, but it just keeps them frozen and stuck.” She tells me that she recently took a course in “trauma first-aid” called Critical Incident Debriefing. “They tried it with us at the hospital. We had to talk about how we felt after an accident. But talking made me and the other paramedics feel worse. I couldn’t sleep after we did it—but you weren’t talking about what happened. You were, it seemed to me, just shaking. Is that what brought your heart rate and blood pressure down?” “Yes,” I told her and added that it was also the small protective spontaneous movements my arms were making. “I’ll bet,” she mused, “that if the shaking that often occurs after surgery were allowed rather than suppressed, recovery would be quicker and maybe even postoperative pain would be reduced.” “That’s right,” I say, smiling in agreement. (39. I am relieved at the restoration of my intellectual faculty and my “reserve capacity” when the going got rough.) And I leave you, dear reader, once again with the wise counsel of the ancient Chinese Book of Changes: When a man has learned within his heart what fear and trembling mean, he is safeguarded against any terror produced by outside influences. —I Ching, Hexagram #51 (circa 2000 BC) PART III Instinct in the Age of ReasonOne does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human. —Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey We may be special animals, we may be particular animals with very special characteristics, but we’re animals nonetheless. —Massimo Pigliucci CHAPTER 10 We’re Just a Bunch of AnimalsMy approach to healing trauma rests broadly on the premise that people are primarily instinctual in nature—that we are, at our very core, human animals. It is this relationship to our animal nature that both makes us susceptible to trauma and, at the same time, promotes a robust capacity to rebound in the aftermath of threat, safely returning us to equilibrium. More generally, I believe that to truly understand our body/mind, therapists must first learn about the animal body/mind because of the manner in which our nervous systems have evolved in an ever-changing and challenging environment.

• From Branded: Brainwashed Inside NXIVM (2020)

  I decided to leave because I realized... that I was in a cult. Like, I realized this is for real. I can't justify this anymore, no matter what anyone says, the stories that they're trying to cover up. My sanity was at stake. I don't really have the choice to stay anymore. Like, I can't justify this anymore. And I still had friends that were still members, they were still in, and still are. [Dr. Marie] I was gobsmacked. I thought, whoa, Keith Raniere is really an evil mastermind. When I learned Keith had had sexual experiences with children, that was the final straw. That was it. [Narrator] But that's not the end of the fallout. One month after the story's publication, the Dalai Lama relieves his personal emissary of his duties, due in part for connecting His Holiness with NXIVM. That November, Raniere flees his New York home. Months later, a core group of followers, including Nancy Salzman's daughter, Lauren, and Allison Mack, disappear as well. No one knows where they've gone. He has some of his kind of close circle with him, and they're hiding out in a Mexican villa. And so people recognized him almost immediately. Oh, it's t hat guy from every newspaper and every news story. And so they alert the police. [Narrator] On March 26, 2018, the Mexican National Police storm the luxury beachfront villa Raniere and his most faithful followers are hiding out in. Keith hears the Federales start to storm the compound, and he decides to hide, while Lauren Salzman decides to try to talk to the police. [Paige] Lauren freaks out, obviously, because there's a ton of cops. She tries to kind of calm things down. She tries to say he's not there. [Armando] They say, let us in and we'll show you the warrant. She refuses. So naturally, they break down the door. [Robert] She gets on her knees, and there's machine guns pointed at her head. And she's basically willing to put it on the line for Keith. Keith! And Keith, the exceptional deity leader, is hiding, just curled up in the bottom of a closet, reduced to basically the fetal position. He was handcuffed, and then he went away. Everything is falling apart. And you've got this inner circle of Keith's trying to do damage control now. [Woman] Huh? Lauren's coming. [Woman] [unintelligible] [Woman] Let's go, you guys. [Rick] I was relieved that it ended peacefully. The women were fanatically devoted to him. I think they would have had a gun battle with authorities if he had told them to. Like David Koresh. Like Jim Jones. He was more like Charlie Manson. He didn't do a last stand. [Dr. Marie] When I saw that Keith was arrested, I was just like, hallelujah! Yay, yay, yay! There is some justice. [Narrator] Raniere is brought back to the federal courthouse in Brooklyn to await trial for a litany of federal crimes, including racketeering and sex trafficking.

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  “I submit. I’m passive, I’m without my own will. I do what I’m told, and I like being told what to do. What am I doing there, taking orders from men? I resent taking orders from anybody. I can’t stand authority, but I get off on submitting to a bunch of cowboys? It makes no fucking sense.” “Actually, it makes quite a lot of sense to me,” I tell her. “Well, would you mind enlightening the rest of us, Doctor?” I explain that sexual fantasy doesn’t work like other fantasies. If people tell me they daydream about a vacation in Tahiti, I believe they want a vacation in Tahiti. The connection between what they fantasize about and what they really want is refreshingly uncomplicated. But sexual fantasies don’t reflect reality in the same way. The point about sexual fantasy is that it involves pretending. It’s a simulation, a performance—not the real thing, and not necessarily a desire for the real thing. Like dreams and works of art, fantasies are far more than what they appear to be on the surface. They’re complex psychic creations whose symbolic content mustn’t be translated into literal intent. “Think poetry, not prose,” I tell her. From everything Joni had told me about her relationship with Ray, I didn’t think she needed to worry about being a masochist, or even about being passive. The cowboys may be controlling her, but ultimately she is the one controlling the cowboys. She is the author, the producer, the casting agent, the director, and the star of the show. The whole thing is a production staged by her for the purpose of pleasure, not pain. These are worshippers, not sadists. If she were really being forced, she would not be having such a good time. Even though the means is control, her experience is one of care. The convoluted plots are just a safe pathway to pleasure. When I explain to Joni that her fantasy seems to be more about attention and vulnerability than masochism, her relief is palpable. She is a recovering alcoholic, and so the idea that she has dependency issues comes as no surprise to her. She has been denying her need for support her whole life, even while secretly longing for someone to take care of her. The only thing she’s ever felt safe enough to depend on was alcohol, a consistent and reliable friend. More to the point, alcohol never asked for anything in return.

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  Informed by my own cultural influences, I defer to Doug’s decision to remain silent, and at the same time I encourage him to pursue other ways to reconnect with his wife. His marriage has been on “pause” for a long time; now he needs to push the “play” button. Doug reinvests in his relationship with Zoë. With more time on his hands, and being generally more available, he begins to redirect his abundant resources toward his wife. She feigns surprise at the sudden return of her Odysseus, but beneath her wisecracking “Howdy Stranger” attitude, Doug knows that she is relieved. I encourage him to pump up his involvement with the kids, the house, and the social calendar, hoping that relieving Zoë of some domestic burdens may open her to the erotic. In his attempts to be more forthcoming, Doug even asks Zoë if she ever finds herself attracted to other men. Her answer is elusive, “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. What’s it to you?” This leaves him slightly rattled. “When someone is as wrapped up in secrecy as you’ve been,” I remark, “it’s easy to imagine that you’re the mysterious one, the rebel, and she’s Penelope sitting at her loom, waiting for you to come home. So maybe she has a few secrets of her own, fantasies of men who can give her what you can’t.” Marriage is imperfect. We start with a desire for oneness, and then we discover our differences. Our fears are aroused by the prospect of all the things we’re never going to have. We fight. We withdraw. We blame our partners for failing to make us whole. We look elsewhere. Sadly, too many of us stay stuck in this place until we’re bald or gray. Others mourn the loss of the dream, then come to terms with the choice they made. Love is anchored in acceptance. When Doug comes to know himself, and to recognize Zoë for who she is, he can finally turn their differences into riches. The Shadow of the Third At the boundary of every couple lives the third. He’s the high school sweetheart whose hands you still remember, the pretty cashier, the handsome fourth- grade teacher you flirt with when you pick your son up at school. The smiling stranger on the subway is the third. So, too, are the stripper, the porn star, and the sex worker, whether touched or untouched. He is the one a woman fantasizes about when she makes love to her husband. Increasingly, she can be found on the Internet. Real or imagined, embodied or not, the third is the fulcrum on which a couple balances. The third is the manifestation of our desire for what lies outside the fence. It is the forbidden.

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  They put us in the presence of the beloved who has died, or bring back memories of passionate lovemaking with the partner we now struggle to eroticize. Through fantasy we repair, compensate, and transform. For a few moments, we rise above the reality of life and, subsequently, the reality of death. The more I listen and probe, the more I appreciate the shrewdness of fantasy—its energy, its imaginative efficiency, its healing qualities, and its psychological force. Our fantasies combine the uniqueness of our personal history with the broad sweep of the collective imagination. Each culture uses incentives and prohibitions to convey what is sexy ( American Idol ! Monica Lewinsky!) and what is forbidden (altar boys! Monica Lewinsky!). Our flights of fancy bridge the gap between the possible and the permissible. Fantasy is the alchemy that turns this jumble of psychic ingredients into the pure gold of erotic arousal. In my work with couples, sexual fantasy also provides a wellspring of information about the individuals’ internal life and the relational dynamics of the couple. Fantasies are an ingenious way our creative mind overcomes all sorts of conflicts around desire and intimacy. The psychoanalyst Michael Bader (whose incisive book Arousal discusses the undercurrents of fantasy) explains that in the sanctuary of the erotic mind, we find a psychological safe space to undo the inhibitions and fears that roil within us. Our fantasies allow us to negate and undo the limits imposed on us by our conscience, by our culture, and by our self-image. If we feel insecure and unattractive, in our fantasies we are irresistible. If we anticipate a withholding woman, in fantasy she’s insatiable. If we fear our own aggression, in our internal reveries we can feel powerful without worrying that we might hurt another. If we don’t dare ask, in our erotic imaginings the other knows our needs even before we do. If we feel we shouldn’t have sex, in our private theater we can surrender to a lustful other without having to bear the responsibility—we did what he wanted, it wasn’t us. Fantasy expresses the problem and provides the solution. It is a fervid space, where our inhibiting fear is transformed into brazenness. What a relief to find that our shame is now curiosity, our timidity is now assertiveness, and our helplessness is now sovereignty. Fantasy does not, however, always take the form of elaborate, scripted scenarios. Many people think that if they don’t fantasize with carefully orchestrated plots and well-drawn characters, then they’re not fantasizing at all.

• From On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (2019)

  To be or not to be. That is the question. A question, yes, but not a choice. — “I remember one time, while visiting you all in Hartford—this must be a year or two after you landed from Vietnam—” Paul rests his chin on his palm and stares out the window, where a hummingbird hovers at the plastic feeder. “I walked into the apartment and found you crying under the table. No one was home—or maybe your mom was—but she must have been in the bathroom or something.” He stops, letting the memory fill in. “I bent down and asked you what was wrong, and you know what you said?” He grins. “You said that the other kids lived more than you. What a hoot.” He shakes his head. “What a thing to say! I’ll never forget that.” His gold-capped molar caught the light. “‘They live more, they live more!’ you shouted. Who the hell gave you that idea? You were only five, for Christ sakes.” Outside, the hummingbird’s whirring sounds almost like human breath. Its beak jabs into the pool of sugared water at the feeder’s base. What a terrible life, I think now, to have to move so fast just to stay in one place. After, we go for a walk, Paul’s brown-spotted beagle clinking between us. It’s just after sunset and the air’s thick with sweetgrass and late lilacs frothing white and magenta along the manicured lawns. We veer toward the last bend when a plain-looking lady, middle-aged, hair in a blond ponytail, approaches. She says, looking only at Paul, “I see you finally got a dog boy. Good for you, Paul!” Paul stops, pushes his glasses up his nose only to have them slide back down. She turns to me, articulates, “Welcome. To. The. Neighbor. Hood.” Her head bobs out each syllable. I hold tight the dog’s leash and step back, offering a smile. “No,” Paul says, his hand raised awkwardly, as if waving away cobwebs. “This is my grandson.” He lets the word hover between us all, until it feels solid, an instrument, then repeats it, nodding, to himself or the woman I can’t say. “My grandson.” Without a beat the woman smiles. Too widely. “Please remember that.” She laughs, makes a dismissive gesture before extending her hand to me, my body now legible. I let her shake my hand. “Well, I’m Carol. Welcome to the neighborhood. I mean that.” She walks on. We head home. We don’t speak. Behind the row of white town houses, a column of spruces stands motionless against a reddish sky. The beagle’s paws scrape the concrete, its chain clinking as the animal pulls us home. But all I can hear is Paul’s voice in my head. My grandson. This is my grandson.

• From Branded: Brainwashed Inside NXIVM (2020)

  1506 01:15:23,318 --> 01:15:27,656 in Brooklyn to await trial for a litany of federal crimes, 1507 01:15:27,756 --> 01:15:32,828 including racketeering and sex trafficking. 1508 01:15:32,928 --> 01:15:35,063 After that, everything just started falling apart, 1509 01:15:35,163 --> 01:15:37,633 like a domino effect. 1510 01:15:37,733 --> 01:15:39,101 [Narrator] The FBI raid the home 1511 01:15:39,201 --> 01:15:41,737 of Raniere's cofounder Nancy Salzman 1512 01:15:41,837 --> 01:15:44,439 and arrest her as well. 1513 01:15:44,540 --> 01:15:46,108 [Robert] In Nancy Salzman's basement, 1514 01:15:46,208 --> 01:15:48,844 there is boxes with files of information on 1515 01:15:48,944 --> 01:15:50,546 the enemies of NXIVM. 1516 01:15:50,646 --> 01:15:53,415 That includes six federal judges, 1517 01:15:53,515 --> 01:15:54,950 the editor of the Times Union , 1518 01:15:55,050 --> 01:15:56,752 reporters at the Times Union, 1519 01:15:56,852 --> 01:15:58,320 Rick Ross, the cult tracker, 1520 01:15:58,420 --> 01:16:00,422 and Edgar Bronfman. 1521 01:16:00,522 --> 01:16:03,058 [Paige] Some of the inner circle is either arrested 1522 01:16:03,158 --> 01:16:04,359 or about to be. 1523 01:16:04,459 --> 01:16:07,029 People know who they are. 1524 01:16:07,129 --> 01:16:10,299 [Narrator] Including Raniere's most trusted lieutenant, 1525 01:16:10,399 --> 01:16:12,868 Allison Mack. 1526 01:16:12,968 --> 01:16:17,239 Allison Mack was a master to many different slaves 1527 01:16:17,339 --> 01:16:19,741 she tricked into joining DOS 1528 01:16:19,841 --> 01:16:22,477 under the guise of it being a sorority 1529 01:16:22,578 --> 01:16:24,079 that was supposed to help people. 1530 01:16:35,924 --> 01:16:39,728 [Armando] And these slaves, they're just pawns in a game. 1531 01:16:42,130 --> 01:16:45,300 After Keith gets arrested, people leave in droves. 1532 01:16:45,400 --> 01:16:49,004 I mean, no one wants to be connected to NXIVM anymore. 1533 01:16:49,104 --> 01:16:50,606 [Paige] And the only one kind of left in charge 1534 01:16:50,706 --> 01:16:52,874 is Clare Bronfman. 1535 01:16:52,975 --> 01:16:55,444 [Narrator] As Keith Raniere's trial slowly approaches, 1536 01:16:55,544 --> 01:16:59,781 some doubt prosecutors will make a convincing case against him. 1537 01:16:59,881 --> 01:17:04,052 After all, he's skirted justice before. 1538 01:17:04,152 --> 01:17:06,688 Who's victim, who's perpetrator, which is always... 1539 01:17:06,788 --> 01:17:09,825 a difficult question when it comes to cults, 1540 01:17:09,925 --> 01:17:12,194 because technically, 1541 01:17:12,294 --> 01:17:14,429 all of them are victims of Keith, 1542 01:17:14,529 --> 01:17:15,897 to some degree. 1543 01:17:15,998 --> 01:17:18,934 But at what point do you stop being a victim 1544 01:17:19,034 --> 01:17:22,170 and become a perpetrator? 1545 01:17:24,906 --> 01:17:27,175 [Narrator] Not since Charles Manson and his Family 1546 01:17:27,275 --> 01:17:31,179 stood trial in 1971 for their heinous crimes 1547 01:17:31,279 --> 01:17:34,483 has a cult and its leader been held so publicly accountable 1548 01:17:34,583 --> 01:17:36,385 for their actions. 1549 01:17:36,485 --> 01:17:39,321 Will Raniere and his acolytes face the same fate? 1550 01:17:42,791 --> 01:17:44,926 [Narrator] On May 4, 2018, 1551 01:17:45,027 --> 01:17:47,796 Keith Raniere appears in federal court in Brooklyn 1552 01:17:47,896 --> 01:17:52,134 and pleads not guilty to all charges.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  Again, I have that comforting feeling of being held by her presence. Opening my eyes in the ambulance, I feel a heightened alertness, as though I’m supercharged with adrenaline. (29. I am adequately resourced now—enough to close my eyes and stay with the hyperarousal sensations in my body; the lingering scent of the woman’s perfume helps calm my limbic system and body, providing additional support for exploring what’s going inside of me.) Though intense, this feeling does not overwhelm me. Even though my eyes want to dart around, to survey the unfamiliar and foreboding environment, I consciously direct myself to go inward. I begin to take stock of my body sensations. (30. The perception of danger that my life is being threatened is receding, and the ability to access my body is increasing.) This active focusing draws my attention to an intense, and uncomfortable, buzzing throughout my body. Against this unpleasant sensation, I notice a peculiar tension in my left arm. I let this sensation come into the foreground of my consciousness and track the arm’s tension as it builds and builds. Gradually, I recognize that the arm wants to flex and move up. (31. I am now able to track my physical sensations. I am able to distinguish within the “noise” and buzzing of arousal a purposeful tension. This curiosity helps to reestablish present time orientation; trauma and curiosity are reciprocal psychophysiological functions and cannot coexist.) As this inner impulse toward movement develops, the back of my hand also wants to rotate. Ever so slightly, I sense it moving toward the left side of my face—as though to protect it against a blow. (32. This is the reassertion of an involuntary defensive response, a strong and protective response that was either inadequate or incomplete—its execution was interrupted by the clobbering impact of the window and the road.) Suddenly, there passes before my eyes a fleeting image of the window of the beige car, and once again—as in a flashbulb snapshot—vacant eyes stare from behind the spiderweb of the shattered window. (33. This image, associated with the original threat, reappears.) I hear the momentary “chinging” thud of my left shoulder shattering the windshield. (34. The sense impressions or images referred to in the SIBAM model, discussed in Chapter 7 , are now expanding to include the auditory component of the impact, rather than only the visual.) Then, unexpectedly, an enveloping sense of relief floods over me. I feel myself coming back into my body. The electric buzzing has retreated. The image of the blank eyes and shattered windshield recedes and seems to dissolve. In its place, I picture myself leaving my house, feeling the warm sun on my face, and being filled with gladness at the expectation of seeing Butch this evening. My eyes can relax as I focus outwardly. As I look around the ambulance, it somehow seems less alien and foreboding.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  I didn’t want that to happen with R., I struggled against it; he was worth struggling for, I thought, as was the person I found I was with him. Then R. stopped jumping and stood at the foot of the bed, throwing his arms wide, and I stepped toward him for the second half of our ritual of homecoming in these temporary homes; and as I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my face to his chest, I felt a flood of relief, the release of something increasingly tightly wound. We left shortly after, our bags still unpacked, and began to explore the little town. It wasn’t like the other tourist towns in Bulgaria; in the shops there were handmade crafts among the mass-produced souvenirs, and in the old town, its vertiginous streets lined with National Revival houses, at first newly renovated but growing more decrepit as we climbed, there were artisans’ shops in which men and women looked up hopefully from their work, calling zapovyadaite , welcome, come in, to everyone who passed. A year before, the town had been crowded with tourists, their buses nosing through the tiny streets and their bags piled high in lobbies; but now there were few visitors, maybe because it was later in the season and the seaside had drawn them away, and we were often alone as we climbed the steep paths, the cobblestones shifting beneath us. One woman was standing in front of her shop, and beckoned us inside so fervently it would have been difficult to refuse. I glanced at R., who shrugged, and we walked over to her. She spoke to us in English at first, but visibly relaxed when I answered in Bulgarian. My husband speaks perfect English, she said, but he’s gone with my son to Sofia for the day, they’ve left me here alone. The building she welcomed us into was lovely, a two-story house of stone and wood, with cement urns overflowing with flowers at the threshold. The first floor served as a gallery, the walls crowded almost to the ceiling with paintings; others, unhung, leaned in their frames against the walls. I was overwhelmed by the number of them, for a minute I wasn’t sure where to look. Please, the woman said, walk around, there are more in the other rooms, and she gestured toward an open doorway to my right. All of them were done by us, she said, we’re all three painters, and then, at my little murmur of interest, we graduated from the fine arts academy in Plovdiv, my husband and I, and now our son studies in Sofia, at the best school. R. had stepped away as she spoke, turning his attention to the walls. She began to tell us about the paintings, glad to have an audience; she paused between sentences for me to translate, though I couldn’t always follow what she said.