Others' Personal Experiences with Orgone Therapy:

Moderators: Elvis, DrVolin, Jeff

Others' Personal Experiences with Orgone Therapy:

Postby philipacentaur » Fri Jan 19, 2007 12:49 pm

Susanna Steig

Susanna Steig (born 1944) is the niece of William Steig. (William Steig was a prominent follower of Reich, most well-known for his illustrations in Reich's Listen, Little Man!.) Here is Susanna's account:

MY CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCES WITH REICHIAN THERAPY

By Susanna Steig

I was three years old. What I remember: my mother leading me down the long, dark hallway of our New York City apartment. The cold, tiled hallway. A bus. Going up the stairs of a concrete building, cold, huge and scary (a warehouse, I now realize).

She was sitting in a chair. A gypsy-like woman dressed in shiny silks, with her breasts hanging out of her blouse. Her name was Felicia Saxe. I was left alone with her. The sharp pain of her fingers and nails digging into my shoulders. And then, I was caught up in what felt like a screaming, crying machine that would never stop. My screaming and crying was what she wanted.

More memories: my face coming closer and closer to her breasts, being shoved into her breasts — I couldn't breathe! A huge vagina, coming nearer and nearer to my face. And then, as if from afar, her holding me on her lap, her hand under my skirt, masturbating me.

I remember being on a bus with my mother, on the way there. There were newly blooming Spring trees. I said something about what was happening. My mother looked out the window.

When I was an adult my mother told me that she had taken me to this therapy for months and listened to me scream. What was the reason? I was jealous of my younger sister, born when I was two years and two months old, and I was aggressive towards her.

What stopped this was that my father came to pick me up one day, saw what was going on, and decided I was not to go back. He cried and begged my forgiveness. I don't know if my parents noticed that I changed from a happy, boisterous child to a frightened, quiet one.

When I was six, my family moved to rural New Jersey. A year later, my father came to me one day and started telling me everything that was wrong with me. All I remember is that he said I was "too much of a lady", and needed treatment.

My handsome father, my saviour, drove me to Red Bank, New Jersey. It was a long ride. We got out and went into a house. We sat, and I heard blood-curdling screams coming from a neighboring room. I was numb. Then, I was led into that room with a big bed, where Ellsworth Baker asked me to take off all my clothes except for my white cotton underwear. And then the pain began — pressing pain, all over my body. He also asked me to lie on my stomach, and pressed on my back so hard that I couldn't breathe. This, also, went on for months.

No matter what they did to me, I made no noise, and did not react at all. This was my way of protecting myself. Since this therapy was supposed to provoke a dramatic physical and emotional reaction, I don't know what they thought.

After the first time with Dr. Baker, my father took me to visit a friend. She asked me where I had been, and I was too ashamed to tell her. I said, "PT", meaning physical therapy. I was very ashamed, and ate some marshmallows to make me feel better.

That same year, Reich did some experiments at his lab in Rangeley, Maine that apparently turned out to be toxic. I was sent to Maine to keep Peter Reich, Reich's son, company for a week, since we were both seven. We stayed at the home of Myron Sharaf (who later wrote Fury on Earth) and his wife Greta. She was pregnant. She later had a son named Peter, who killed himself when he was a teenager, rumored to be because of Greta's affair with Reich.

I loved Peter Reich. He was my friend. We were put to bed together on that first night I was there. Myron and Greta stood over us and said, "Why don't you make love?" Peter and I hugged and kissed. A few minutes later, Myron and Greta came into the room naked. She put in her diaphragm in front of us and said they were going off to make love, also.

One night, Greta showed me some live lobsters in a pot that were to be boiled for our dinner. By the end of the week, I had decided to stop talking.

(Peter Reich later wrote a wonderful book called A Book of Dreams about his childhood. He was not a true believer. He was shunned by the Reichian community.)

The treatments with Baker continued when I returned home. He gripped my leg one day and said, "Is this where you feel it when you think of Peter?" I realized that he knew what had happened in Maine and that I was part of an experiment.

Other stories I have heard:

Felicia Saxe was discredited by Reich at some point, after which time a relative of mine, as a child, was sent into treatment with her for years. Despite this, and my father's opinion of her, not one adult in my family lifted a finger to try to save my relative.

Some of the boys who were in treatment with Felicia Saxe, at an older age than I was, were masturbated by her as part of the therapy. Felicia Saxe also ran a summer camp for children, where many horrible experiences happened to relatives of mine. I hope these former children of Reichians tell their stories.

When I was in my fifties, I was visiting my mother, and an old friend of hers was there. I found out for the first time that the friend had sent her younger daughter to therapy with a Reichian who raped her repeatedly for months. The younger daughter was eleven years old at the time. I don't know the name of the therapist, but he was later put into a mental institution.

I wrote to the younger daughter. Her older sister had been my friend when we were children. My friend had been sent to this same therapist when she was five. When she was twenty, she broke with her family and joined a born-again Christian cult. Their mother was distraught because her younger daughter still blamed her for what had happened and insisted that she had known what was going on.

As I said, I hope that all these children of Reichians write their stories. I believe this should be made part of history.

How do I feel now about all this, now that I approach my sixtieth birthday? I have spent a lifetime dealing with the aftermath of my traumatic childhood, full of abuse and betrayal. I am now estranged from most of my family. I am tired of secrets, of people not wanting to know, of a story so outlandish and horrible that I do not really want to inflict it on people unless they really want to know.

I think the Reichians were meglomaniacs, true believers, and elitists. Not one of them had a bit of empathy or sympathy for children. Many of them were sadists. I really hope the truth of what happened to us becomes well known.

This is a cautionary tale about true believers and the evil that they do.


http://pw1.netcom.com/~rogermw/Reich/others.html
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby philipacentaur » Fri Jan 19, 2007 1:46 pm

My Personal Experiences with Orgone Therapy
By Roger M. Wilcox

Last modified 21-March-2006

How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?

Only one, but the light bulb really has to want to change.

In 1974, as a young boy of 8, I was a light bulb who didn't want to change. To be sure, my young life wasn't a bed of roses. The local kids tended to pick on me a lot, even to the point of beating me up, and I took some of it out on my slightly-younger brother. I was becoming less sociable out of fear of my peers, and I was gaining weight. I had a vivid fantasy that I was a magical genie who had lost his powers at birth, and I would regain these powers if only I could enter "cartoonland" through an imaginary billboard in Minnesota. But I didn't perceive any of these things to be caused by some "internal" conflict or personal problem. That was when my parents told me they were going to take me and my slightly-younger brother to a "feelings doctor."

His name was Dr. Albert I. Duvall, M.D., a colleague of Wilhelm Reich when Reich was still alive. He was one of the more respected names within Dr. Elsworth F. Baker's American College of Orgonomy. And he was also a dried up, bitter old sadist.

I was always apprehensive about going to "doctors" as a kid. Often, this meant painful hypodermic needles getting stuck into my flesh. Duvall asked — no, told — me to get completely undressed and lie on a bed which he called a "couch" for some reason. He smoked quite a lot and had a hacking cough because of it. I was relieved — at first — when all this doctor did on my first visit was to briefly dig his thumbs into me or poke me in various places and ask if it hurt. Of course it hurt, and I told him so; it seemed obvious that it was supposed to hurt; but at least he didn't give me a shot.

On subsequent visits, though, he proved that shots weren't the only thing that a "doctor" could do to you that were painful. The little, probing jabs he'd given me in the first visit blossomed into excruciating thumb and finger pressure, applied to all the points on my body where it would hurt the most. I remembered how deeply he dug his thumb into the muscles right below my chin, rocking it back-and-forth the way one might twist the knife inside a wounded enemy, and I lamented that the human body was not equipped with a bone plate right below the chin to protect it from such abuse. I remember one session, in which I'd perhaps not been as compliant as Duvall would have liked me to be, where he told me, "Turn on your belly," and as I turned over he continued, "You're stubborn, aren't'cha? You're stubborn all the way to here!," whereupon he jabbed his thumbs or knuckles hard into the muscles in the small of my back and kept right on pressing as I screamed with pain. From that session onward, I fearfully yelped "Why?!" every time he told me to turn on my belly, because I knew what would come next.

Not every session involved pain. Sometimes there was just talk, and sticking out my tonuge or rolling my eyes and hitting and kicking, and breathing. Lots of breathing. Duvall gave me explicit instructions as to how I ought to breathe: exhale noisily, as though sighing, and don't "hold" my chest. I was afraid that if I breathed "wrong," Dr. Duvall would use that as an excuse to start poking me again, as he sometimes did. Each session became a nerve-wracking challenge for me to keep from getting hurt. Nothing else mattered. Do or have me do anything you want, Dr. Duvall, just don't hurt me!

My brother and I begged and pleaded with our parents not to make us go, but they were convinced it was for our own good. I suspect that if they knew the precise nature of everything Duvall did to my brother and I, they would have questioned the wisdom of their decision. It certainly wouldn't have passed the muster of Child Protective Services, whom I would have called if I'd known that option was available to me.

One time, when Duvall had been poking me in the belly and encouraging me to hit and kick the couch (He said, "What do you want to do?," which I'd discovered was Dr. Duvall-speak for "You'd better want to hit and kick right now or I'll hurt you some more"), I engaged his implied wishes with gusto, thrusting my legs upward toward the ceiling so that I could get a really good first-strike against the couch when I kicked downward. Unfortunately, in so doing, my foot accidentally struck Dr. Duvall in the face, knocking his glasses off. He was shocked and outraged, and I was shocked and terrified. I had not meant to do that. I told him it was an accident, but he didn't believe it. He slapped me across my own face (an action which, though it might sound reprehensible, was actually far less painful than the usual pokings and proddings he subjected me to), then told me to put my clothes on and never darken his doorway again. I was a little perturbed by this, but I complied — my parents might get angry with me, but at least I wouldn't have to go back to Dr. Duvall again.

Duvall must have been expecting me to plead with him to take me back. Because when I started putting my clothes back on to leave, he told me, "Oh no you don't! You're coming back, all right. Every week! Get your clothes back off and get back on that couch!" And when I complied with that order, he subjected me to the harshest, most exaggerated form of "therapy" I'd ever experienced. His usual sadistic pressure with his thumb and fingers became, I don't know, fifty times as intense and vigorous, fuelled by his vengeful rage, jumping from one vulnerable area of my body to another in a nightmarish mockery that even Reich would have been aghast to see. I pleaded with him that my kicking him in the face had been an accident, over and over, but it was no use. Finally, when I managed to gather my wits about me to think of a way out of this predicament, it occurred to me that I hadn't said I was sorry and that he might be waiting for me to say it. I hadn't thought of saying the words "I'm sorry" earlier, not because I didn't want to apologize — I would have done that and far more if I had known it would've quelled the Wrath of Duvall — but simply because I wasn't in the habit of using that phrase or being in situations where it was warranted. I'd always said "I didn't mean to" or "It was an accident" instead, and I'd thought those carried the weight of an apology in and of themselves. Dr. Duvall had obviously been raised to think differently, because when I finally thought to say, "Sorry about that," he backed off and said, "Yeah, it sure took you a long time to say you're sorry!"

Dr. Duvall was in the habit of unbuckling his belt every time he came in and sat down. This was supposed to reduce the constriction around his waist and thus allow the "feelings" to "flow" more freely. My dad liked that idea, and made my brother and I wear boxer shorts instead of briefs so that we wouldn't be wearing any constricting elastic bands. This strategy might have made sense, had boxers with snaps down the front been available. Unfortunately, snap-front boxers are very rare — most boxer shorts have elastic bands around the top just like briefs do. So, my brother and I got the worst of two worlds: we had to wear boxers, which in that decade were an embarrassment in the locker room, and we got our waistlines constricted anyway. (Worse, we weren't exactly in the habit of buying new clothes on a regular basis. The boxers my dad bought for my brother soon became too small as he grew, thus doubly defeating their original purpose of not constricting.) To this day I don't know of any evidence for short- or long-term ill effects being caused by wearing slightly constricting clothing, such as underpants with elastic bands, around the waist or hip regions.

Three other suggestions of Dr. Duvall's became household rules enforced by my parents:

1. We were to hit and kick on our own beds when we got angry,
2. we were to gag twice a day, and
3. I was to be put on a strict weight-loss diet of 1500 calories per day.

Rule number 1, hitting and kicking when angry, was merely an extension of what Duvall had us do in his office (without Duvall's Hands of Pain getting involved).

Rule number 2, regular gagging, brought me into conflict with my peers when I gagged in public, because my dad had told me that Dr. Duvall's recommendations were "good for me" and so I thought I was merely following a doctor's prescription, not doing something as socially unpopular as gagging actually was. I'm now also a bit worried that chronic gagging might be bad for me. I have not found any published evidence that regular gagging without vomiting is injurious to the digestive tract, the way regular gagging with vomiting is harmful to bulimics, but I have discovered that bulimics can get tears in the lining of their esophagus from the physical stress of vomiting alone. The fact that the muscular contractions of the gag reflex are part-and-parcel of the vomiting process may mean that gagging by itself might be physically stressful enough to cause esopahgeal tears too.

Rule number 3 resulted in a diet I did not want to be on, for reasons I did not care about, and thus I inevitably quit said diet as soon as an opportunity availed itself, afterwhich my belly grew quite fat out-of-proportion to the rest of my body, perhaps as an example of the old addage that "dieting makes you fat."

In a later session, Dr. Duvall brought in a medical DOR buster. It had eight slender hollow metal pipes sticking out of a small wooden box (6 to 12 inches on a side) that had been painted blue. Some of the paint had peeled or worn off, meaning that either the DOR buster itself or the box it was built out of was kind of old. A handle was attached to one side of the box, allowing Duvall to hold it with one hand, and a hose ran out of the back side of the box underneath the "couch." My parents later told me that the other end of the hose was submerged in a tank of water. Duvall told me, "You're going to feel a light breeze," and then proceeded to wave the hollow pipes over various parts of my body. I did, indeed feel a light, cool breeze coming from the pipes. My parents told me this wasn't a breeze flowing out from the pipes, it was a breeze flowing into the pipes, and was due to the pipes "sucking" out the bad feelings from my muscles. (A more likely explanation was that Duvall was "fanning" the pipes back and forth, possibly coupled with convection currents between the cold air inside the pipes and the warm air next to my skin.)

At the time, I was delighted he'd used this device on me. It meant he didn't have an opportunity to hurt me that week.

Unfortunately, the DOR buster did not come to my rescue for long. Dr. Duvall got headaches that week, and blamed them on the DOR collected by the DOR buster. (In retrospect, this seems rather odd; Duvall's office was lit by fluorescent lights, which orgonomists traditionally claim create oodles of DOR, yet Duvall never claimed that the fluorescent lights gave him headaches.) It was back to the old grind — and I do mean grind — of trying to fathom how I was supposed to be a "good" enough boy that he wouldn't hurt me. I can't help thinking that by the time I was 10 years old, some of this had begun to influence my behavior at school. I became the "perfect angel" of a student in 5th grade, doing everything our rather overbearing teacher wanted. I cried my eyes out the two times that year I had to take a bad note home to my parents. (My parents didn't punish me for these two minor transgressions, but that didn't matter. I was grieving these falls from grace.) I also wasn't terribly social, preferring to play-act my fantasy adventures alone rather than play with the other kids. With hindsight, I can see the analog in my behavior: "Anything, just don't hurt me."

Once in a while, Dr. Duvall had an apprentice named "Elizabeth" in the office with him, who would watch his technique or try her hand at pressing on me with her own fingers. I never did find out her last name. My only feeling about her was that she wasn't as threatening a presence as Duvall was.

Dr. Duvall occasionally used tools, presumably in an attempt to provoke a fear reaction. He had a pair of surgical scissors which had some ratchets on them, similar to the ones on surgical clamps which hold them in place so that they don't fall open. I don't know how common these are in the medical community or what normal usage they are put to, but I presume they are fairly common. He opened and closed these scissors in what I'm guessing he thought was a menacing manner, opening them and ratcheting them closed over and over. Finally, he bent over and attacked my pubic muscles with one hand, while holding the scissors very close to my penis with his other hand and saying either "Tear it off!" or "Cut it off!" I recoiled and screamed, of course — not from the threat of getting my penis cut off (I knew he had no intention of doing so), but because of the usual, excruciating pain of his fingers digging into me.

I recall another singular session — one in which I think I remember Elizabeth being present — in which Dr. Duvall had a syringe with a hypodermic needle. You may recall that, as many youngsters are, I was terrified of needles. He was toying with it, and I immediately got worried. "What are you gonna do?" I half-asked, half-pleaded, hoping he didn't intend to use it on me. "I'm just going to give you a simple injection," he replied. "Oh no!" I panicked. I watched him intently. The end of the needle looked like a hollow circle, as though it was more of a sharpened hollow shaft than a pointed rod. He was dipping this bizarre-looking needle tip in lotion that came out of a white plastic bottle marked Keri®. "Where do you want it?" he asked. Terrified, but resigned to my fate, I said, "In . . . in the arm," figuring that this would be far less painful than getting a needle stuck in one of my butt cheeks. "Would you rather I not give it to you?" he asked. "Yes!" I replied. "Okay, then," he answered, and put the needle in one of those needle disposal boxes that snips off the tip. "The law requires that I destroy them," he told me.

In retrospect, I now realize that the needle looked like a hollow circle because it had already been snipped off. I also now know that Keri® is a brand of moisturizing hand lotion. Dr. Duvall had no intention of sticking that "needle" into me. He was just trying to get my reaction to the threat of being stuck with a needle. Evidently, it worked. (Lorna Luft, one of Judy Garland's daughters, recently published an autobiography titled Me and My Shadows in which she describes having to go to a "Dr. Duvall" who threatened to stick her with a needle on practically every visit. Apparently, I wasn't the only one Duvall used this tactic on.)

On one occasion, I decided, before going into Dr. Duvall's office for my parentally-required weekly session, that I would try to stand up for myself. When the session started, I mustered what little gumption I had, and said, in a shaky voice, "If . . . if you try and hurt me again . . . I'll . . ." — my eyes filled with tears of fear — "I'll leave." I braced for his response, not daring to look Duvall in the face. After a couple seconds, he snapped back with words to the effect of, "Roger, your threats won't work!", and the session went on as usual. I never did work up the courage to actually leave. I sometimes wonder how different my life and my attitude would be now, if I had left. There were many times as an adult when I've been faced with abusive people, and in each of those cases, if I had even the slightest doubt as to whether I had a right to stand up for myself in those particular circumstances, I would back down — and then later, I would always seethe with frustration as to what I should have done or said, but hadn't given myself the chance to do or say. How much of this is simply due to a fear of getting hurt even more if I raise the hackles of my adversary? How many personal setbacks have I accepted as a given, simply because of this "appeasement policy"? But I have to remember, when dealing with the hienously complicated morass of events that shape any personality through childhood, that I was already afraid of getting hurt, and already had a rather low opinion of my ability to deal with others, over a year before I started going to Dr. Duvall. Duvall may simply have exacerbated something in me that was already there.

In Dr. Duvall's defense, I will say that when he painfully attacked my muscles, he would often say, "Let 'em go soft," and when I did in fact succeed in relaxing the muscle group under attack, his prodding no longer hurt. I'm sure that loose muscles don't hurt as much when poked as tight muscles do, but that may not have been the whole picture as to why the pain went away. He may have been pressing on my muscles less heavily when he discovered that they were no longer rigid. Plus, the endorphins may have kicked in by that point. I also feel that he might have been more easily able to get them to relax — if that was his real aim — by pressing on them gently and then slowly increasing the pressure, like one does in a deep-tissue massage. I suspect his desire to see my strong emotions outweighed any pretense he might have had about being gentle.

Eventually, Dr. Duvall had to go away for a few months to have open-heart surgery. I thoroughly enjoyed this vacation away from his iron grip, and even began to branch out socially and play with the other 6th graders. Whether this was due to the lack of Dr. Duvall or simply the approach of puberty, I don't know. When he came back, I had to put up with him again in a new office for another year or so, afterwhich he took ill again. This vacation lasted even longer than the first. The next news I received about Dr. Duvall was a note from the American College of Orgonomy which my dad showed me, saying when and where funeral services for Albert I. Duvall were to be held. I was 11 or 12 years old at the time. My brother was overjoyed. I'm sure he would've danced a jig on Dr. Duvall's grave, and I'm sure I would have joined him. But I regarded the news as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, we would never have to go to Dr. Duvall again. On the other hand, now that my dad knew that he didn't have to wait around for Dr. Duvall's recovery any more, I figured he would now start looking for a new therapist to send us to.

Soon enough, my dad had scheduled a one-time appointment for me and my brother to see Dr. Elsworth F. Baker, founder of the American College of Orgonomy, in New York City. I was apprehensive about being in the same room with another therapist, for obvious reasons, but at the same time I was excited to fly on an airliner and see this "New York" place I'd heard so many things about. In Dr. Baker's office, I was surprised that he let me keep my underwear on. (Dr. Duvall had insisted that I be totally naked for every session.) He did some of Duvall's muscular armor attacks with his fingers, but without that sneering sense of contempt I often picked up when Duvall was doing it. He had me "scream," but at the time I thought a "scream" was a very high-pitched yell, like when the heroine screams in a Sci-Fi or Horror B movie, so I screamed at just about the highest pitch I could reach. (My brother later needled me for screaming like a girl.) I'm not sure to this day why it was that Dr. Baker felt it necessary for us to fly all the way out to New York City to have him examine us, since he intended to "assign" us to an American College of Orgonomy trained therapist in the Los Angeles area where we lived. Perhaps my dad sought out the opinion of "the best." Oh — and since we didn't stay in New York very long, the things I remember most about New York City were the steam coming out of the manhole covers in the cold morning air (Los Angeles does not have a subterranean steam system), and the fact that the walk/don't walk signals on the traffic lights were lit with red and green light bulbs behind the plastic, instead of neon.

Soon afterward, the American College of Orgonomy hooked my dad up with Dr. Carol Selma Stoll, and once again, my brother and I were back in regular therapy. Dr. Stoll was younger than Dr. Duvall, and as I thankfully discovered, less inclined to "attack the muscular armor" by poking and prodding. (She still did this, but with neither the frequency nor — mercifully — the duration that Dr. Duvall did.) However, she had been trained as a Doctor of Osteopathy and not as a conventional M.D., and this training apparently made her more susceptible to pseudoscience.

Dr. Stoll stated every theory she believed in with absolute certainty as to its correctness — almost as though it were an obvious fact. If I questioned the validity or evidence for her information, she would often turn it into an issue with my personality. For instance, once, our conversation drifted into a discussion of firearms. My dad had once told me that a "magnum" cartridge, such as a .357 magnum or a .44 magnum, was essentially the same as a regular cartridge of the same caliber with more gunpowder added to it. So, I said to Dr. Stoll that a .44 magnum was "just" a .44 with more powder. She assured me that no, it was entirely different. When I replied that, no, they were both the same bullet with a different amount of powder propelling them, she said, "Why do you feel this need to insist on things you're wrong about?" (I have since learned more about firearms, and have discovered that both of us were wrong. Had this altercation taken place nowadays, I probably would have looked for wepbages on firearms history and come back the next week armed with printouts. I would have admitted my mistakes, but I also would have vehemently pointed out those facts that I'd happened to get right. But I digress.)

Dr. Stoll also read a great deal into rather trivial preferences. I was a music composition major at UCLA from 1984-1988, so naturally, music came up as a topic sometimes when I was on the therapeutic couch. When I described a passage in a piece of music I was working on as building to a climax, and sang a little bit of the melody with great verve, she was gladdened that the piece didn't end with the musical climax but with a short "denoument" afterward. Not merely because she personally didn't like music that ended right at the climax point, but because she considered the progress of my music to its climax, and the denoument after the climax, to be an expression of my personal sexuality. A slow but inexorable build to a climax (orgasm) during sex, followed by a denoument afterward, was the "healthy" or at least non-dysfunctional way to have sex, and thus gave a good prognosis for the possibility of reaching orgastic potency (although she did not use this terminology at the time). Had my music not followed this healthy-sex model, and lacked a denoument after the climax, this would have indicated a sexual dysfunction. Or so Dr. Stoll's probable line of reasoning went. She also condemned Igor Stravinsky in his later life for "embracing atonality," not just because atonal music sounds awful, but because atonal music does not mimic the sexual model of building to a climax and then resolving in a denoument. Everything from my taste in music to, for all I know, my preference for pepperoni on my pizza, held deep psychological significance for Dr. Stoll — a significance that she could, and did, immediately jump to conclusions about with her usual unshakable confidence.

I suppose a therapist has to show confidence in order to get the patient to follow the therapist's lead. Confidence is one of the qualities that makes a good leader; your followers won't follow, and might desert you, if you seem unsure of yourself. And as history has proven time and again, even a bad decision is almost always better than no decision. I found Dr. Stoll's confidence reassuring. And so, to remain reassured, I came to believe many of her convictions about life, the universe, and everything, with the same absolute sureness with which she held them.

And one of the convictions she held was that orgone energy was very, very real.

But I should back up for a moment. I'd always been somewhat gullible to the claims of pseudoscience. With the exception of astrology, I must have "wanted to believe" in every pseudoscience under the sun at one time or another, from bigfoot to UFOs to life-after-death to psychic powers. Psychic powers particularly interested me, because if they existed it meant that I was harboring latent superpowers, and that I could unleash these powers onto the world if only I could tap into them. I even bought a book titled David St. Clair's Lessons in Instant ESP. I desperately wanted to have the power of telekinesis, with which I might wow the crowds and win the affections of beautiful women.

Then, in the summer of 1980, I went to Idyllwild music camp for 2 weeks. It was then and there than I kissed a girl for the very first time. But more importantly, I met a guy named Jim whose influence on my life, for better or for worse, I still feel to this day. Over the course of the next year, Jim revealed to me that he'd discovered a new state of mind which he called "Chronosynclastic Parapinibula" (a mis-remembered rendering of the term "Chronosynclastic Infundibula," which he'd read in Kurt Vonnegut's The Sirens of Titan). When one was "In Chrono," so Jim claimed, one's powers of creativity and analysis were so dramatically heightened that one could easily deduce all the fundamental secrets of the universe, and almost as an afterthought, someone In Chrono also gained access to vast mental powers to bend the universe to ones will. He described how he'd stared at a fly on the wall for 15 minutes, resulting in the fly dying right before his eyes, how by staring at a suspended potted plant for some minutes he'd made it swing back and forth, and even how he'd wanted the top of a tall pine tree to bend and, the next day, it had become bent. Very few people in the world had what it took to enter Chrono, but, Jim assured me, I was one of those very few. Over a few days of listening to Jean-Michel Jarre's Oxygene and discussing what he called "hypertheoretical astrophysics" (i.e. astrophysical theories about black holes and cosmology that were beyond theoretical in that there was no known way to verify them), I had supposedly gained access to this wonderful state of mind called Chrono and could eventually enter it in a heartbeat whenever I wished.

Needless to say, I never "mastered Chrono" to the point where I could move objects with my mind, despite my fervent desire to do so. But Jim kept my interest up by touting the potentially unlimited power of this superanalytical state of mind. I felt inferior to my peers in nearly all non-intellectual ways, and powerless in my own life, so I lapped up his sales pitches like manna from heaven.

Jim did have one crucial personality trait in common with me: he felt like he didn't really "belong," like he was out of place among the mere mortals who walked the Earth. I remember him telling me how he'd looked up at the moon and felt tears well up in his eyes, because "the moon is doing exactly what it's supposed to be doing," and he wasn't. He, like myself and most other people on the planet, had "fallen from grace," and not even his vaunted power of Chrono had (yet) allowed him to reclaim what he'd lost. He didn't put it into those words, of course; the garden-of-eden-like state that everybody is born with but that most of us eventually lose, he called a "straight line." The idea was that if you graphed all of a person's abilities — intellectual creativity, intellectual analysis, emotions, strength, stamina, etc. — on a horizontal graph, all of these abilities would be at exactly the same level with each other in a person who still retained the nature he was born with. They would form a straight horizontal line. At some point in most people's childhoods, however, something wrecks this natural order causing some abilities to become enhanced at the expense of others, and from then on the person can never again achieve true happiness. Their line is no longer straight. Jim thought he'd encountered someone who still retained this "straight line" through his late teens, by the name of Nick. He described Nick as childlike and simple and utterly confident, and of course the favorite with the ladies. He played the Nat King Cole song "Nature Boy" for me, and said that it was a perfect description of Nick, except for the part where Cole sang that he was "very wise"; Jim claimed that Cole didn't have the insight that we few Chrono-endowed people did to grasp what this wisdom really was. Jim even described how Nick seemed to be literally glowing in one high school yearbook picture (which was probably an accident of the photographic background, but that didn't deter Jim). I suspect that what Jim was seeing in Nick may have been the kind of confidence and charisma that people like Steve Jobs exude. Jim talked about the possibility of using Chrono to copy — or take — Nick's straight line for oneself.

So it was at this point, when I was a True Believer in Chrono, that Dr. Stoll first told me about orgone energy.

— Remainder of article yet to be written. —
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Dark side

Postby professorpan » Fri Jan 19, 2007 2:23 pm

Thanks for finding and posting this, Mr. Centaur. It's a good antidote to the wild-eyed orgone warrior thread.
User avatar
professorpan
 
Posts: 3592
Joined: Wed Apr 27, 2005 12:17 pm
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby philipacentaur » Fri Jan 19, 2007 3:02 pm

You're welcome. Either nobody has bothered to read it, aside from you, or they don't have anything to say.
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Nothing to say?

Postby TooStoned » Fri Jan 19, 2007 3:39 pm

Well, I've probably been over using my allotment of bandwidth mushing up the Cloudbuster thread and butting heads with Telexx so I am training to be more circumspect (really, I mean it, starting with my last post...)

So if you're looking for input, even if it is content and link free, here it is:

THANK YOU for posting this stuff, do you have anymore because besides Jeff's new story up today this is by far the best info/posting I've read here today... :D
"Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, no one but ourselves can free our minds" - RNM
"I'm not Coyote.You're Coyote. I'm Another One." - Wile E. Coyote (AKA Sin'klipt)
TooStoned
 
Posts: 260
Joined: Thu Jan 11, 2007 5:19 pm
Location: twixt now and zen
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby erosoplier » Fri Jan 19, 2007 5:23 pm

Yeah, thanks for posting this. I've read Reich and Reichians describing/alluding to what they do in therapy, but hearing it from the people it gets done to is an eye opener. There has to be some advantages to growing up in a family that can't afford therapist bills, doesn't there?! My aunt had a stretch of Reichian therapy - all she said to me when she found out I was interested in Reich was, in a low matter-of-fact voice "Oh, you wouldn't believe what they did to me..."
User avatar
erosoplier
 
Posts: 1247
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 3:38 am
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby philipacentaur » Fri Jan 19, 2007 5:24 pm

I'm always looking for input, links, opinions, quotes -- anything that's at least legible enough to make sense of. Last year, I was toying with the idea of writing an article about what happened to the people involved with the original Reichian movement, but it's been a long time since I've been around a copy of Myron Sharaf's "Fury on Earth" or Peter Reich's "A Book of Dreams" (which is out of print), and both of those books are pretty important to have a handle on if you're going to attempt to write anything about the subject. I still have to check the library for the Peter Reich book, since I refuse to pay over five bucks for a paperback.
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby Joe Hillshoist » Fri Jan 19, 2007 8:39 pm

I think the Reichians were meglomaniacs, true believers, and elitists. Not one of them had a bit of empathy or sympathy for children. Many of them were sadists. I really hope the truth of what happened to us becomes well known.


Well thats spot on.

This is an appalling couple of stories.

Especially that first one.

It reminds me of being at uni and experimenting on rats and bunnies, and of coaching footy.

Also got me wondering about any RA aspect of this whole process.



If there is any validity in "emotional armouring" and there seems to be, then that first prick:

In Dr. Duvall's defense, I will say that when he painfully attacked my muscles, he would often say, "Let 'em go soft," and when I did in fact succeed in relaxing the muscle group under attack, his prodding no longer hurt. I'm sure that loose muscles don't hurt as much when poked as tight muscles do, but that may not have been the whole picture as to why the pain went away. He may have been pressing on my muscles less heavily when he discovered that they were no longer rigid. Plus, the endorphins may have kicked in by that point. I also feel that he might have been more easily able to get them to relax — if that was his real aim — by pressing on them gently and then slowly increasing the pressure, like one does in a deep-tissue massage. I suspect his desire to see my strong emotions outweighed any pretense he might have had about being gentle.


Was just reinforcing it IMO.

I dunno if the "the rapist" in this case was really an arsehole or just unable to cope with being gentle around children.

You often find that when adults are involved with children, in a field the adults are right into, the think they are dealing with a little version of themselves. They have no empathy for what the kids want. Ugly parents involved in junior sport are a classic example.

Reichian therapy for kids ... what a great idea. Up there with feeding babies to a schedule and making children work in mines.


There were many times as an adult when I've been faced with abusive people, and in each of those cases, if I had even the slightest doubt as to whether I had a right to stand up for myself in those particular circumstances, I would back down — and then later, I would always seethe with frustration as to what I should have done or said, but hadn't given myself the chance to do or say. How much of this is simply due to a fear of getting hurt even more if I raise the hackles of my adversary?


Isn't this the complete opposite of what the outcome should have been?

To be honest I dunno what your point is with these articles.

That all reichian related stuff is automatically no good?

Or that morons will damage the world with anything they have access to.
Joe Hillshoist
 
Posts: 9570
Joined: Mon Jun 12, 2006 10:45 pm
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby philipacentaur » Sat Jan 20, 2007 2:14 am

Isn't this the complete opposite of what the outcome should have been?


If you mean "should have been" in the ethical sense, then yes. Given his experiences, that response makes perfect sense.

To be honest I dunno what your point is with these articles.


To bring information to light that might otherwise be stuck in obscurity until it disappears. To increase wisdom.

That all reichian related stuff is automatically no good?

Or that morons will damage the world with anything they have access to.


I can't seriously answer given options like that. My answer is "maybe".
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Orgone

Postby Username » Sat Jan 20, 2007 8:23 am

As disturbing as these stories are, you can't blame Reich for all that goes on in his name, can you? You'd have to be a real sicko to take your children in to be tortured on a regular basis. (I don't care how smart it makes them.)

I'd been interested in finding out more about Reich's technique. I'm sure it would not, could not have resembled the examples cited above. He seemed very compassionate, in what I've read, about the plight of the children born into our sick 'emotionally plagued' society.

He's a hard guy to defend though, he went a bit crazy at the end. But, even then you could read the genius in his words. There's another thread on the board about 'Reich and spaceships' that doesn't sound at all like something he wrote. The genius part must have gotton lost in the translation somehow, idk.

Terry
Username
 
Posts: 794
Joined: Tue Nov 07, 2006 5:27 am
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby blanc » Sat Jan 20, 2007 3:59 pm

jo mentioned ra aspect
similarites would be - person who profits from causing pain to child, whilst telling him/her , or implying, its for his own good and molester professing to have a belief which justifies this
key difference - not secret, which means limited in terms of harm that can be done, and puts govt agencies with resposibility for monitoring treatment of children in a questionable position
awful stories
blanc
 
Posts: 1946
Joined: Sun Feb 05, 2006 4:00 pm
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby Joe Hillshoist » Sat Jan 20, 2007 7:29 pm

Blanc, the thing about that story that really got me was the underlying mentality of the first "the rapist".

person who profits from causing pain to child, whilst telling him/her , or implying, its for his own good and molester professing to have a belief which justifies this


I felt the main issue here was the therapist being a control mad psycho, with maintaining control as his most important goal.

The underlying dynamic of the process seems v similar IMO.

I dunno if the therapist is deliberately exerting his power or if its an unconscious thing, a role that he flows into. If the first thing there is no difference, but if its the second, I am wondering about the whole structure of some therapy, and of how adults relate to kids...

Username, I have heard that by the end of his life Reich was convinced that aliens or UFOs travelled to earth to steal healthy orgone and replace it with DOR. I dunno how true this is, but it was an idea I had come across long before the orgonite movement popped into existence.


Phil:

It strikes me that removing emotional armouring (I am presuming that was the goal of the therapy that Duvall practised), should not leave people in a position where the emotional armouring becomes dominant. Specically in the future conflict situations. If the therapy was a success the individual should not have had the emotional armouring or chi blockages (as I see it) that prevent them from expressing themselves in the situations they described...

There were many times as an adult when I've been faced with abusive people, and in each of those cases, if I had even the slightest doubt as to whether I had a right to stand up for myself in those particular circumstances, I would back down — and then later, I would always seethe with frustration as to what I should have done or said, but hadn't given myself the chance to do or say.


I guess if the treatment was to have any validity then the above should not have been the result, the victim should have been more than capable of dealing with the situation in a way that didn't involve repression and frustration.

Keep putting the articles up tho, they are fascinating and very informative.

Quote:
That all reichian related stuff is automatically no good?

Or that morons will damage the world with anything they have access to.


I can't seriously answer given options like that. My answer is "maybe".


:) Fair enough.

I guess I was leading toward the second answer there, as I feel this story is a classic example of the sort of stupidity I see alot.

Where the outcome is the exact opposite of the intended outcome, usually cos the ego of the person driving the situation is somehow focussed on themselves instead of some result...

Maybe is usually an excellant answer.
Joe Hillshoist
 
Posts: 9570
Joined: Mon Jun 12, 2006 10:45 pm
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby blanc » Sun Jan 21, 2007 1:13 pm

"how adults relate to kids"
most adults, not at all like this
got the impression that the parents were vulnerable to manipulation, as is not infrequently the case. their anxieties for their child, and their lack of trust in their own competence as parents got exploited royally
the writer came across as a person of inner strength and humour though
blanc
 
Posts: 1946
Joined: Sun Feb 05, 2006 4:00 pm
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby anonymoose » Wed Jan 24, 2007 1:32 am

"My screaming and crying was what she wanted."

This brings to mind a number of things regarding the curious attraction of the energy of suffering.
anonymoose
 
Posts: 77
Joined: Thu Jul 28, 2005 4:26 am
Blog: View Blog (0)

Postby philipacentaur » Thu Jan 25, 2007 6:39 am

Why was this moved here? I don't see anything but healthy discussion here.

Seriously -- this is about Reichian therapy and people's experiences with it. The first quoted story is from a woman intimately involved with people who were directly involved with Wilhelm Reich, his son, his biographer, etc.

If you think this was started as some sort of troll, you're wrong. I do not conflate what the "Orgonite" proponents do with the work of Reich -- in fact, the confusion that the term causes is one of my problems with it.

This doesn't belong in this section, and if you really want to move it somewhere, please put it in the "Data Dump" or whatever.



Mod edit: Returned to the General Discussion area.

Arcadia
philipacentaur
 
Posts: 1234
Joined: Wed Jan 10, 2007 6:45 pm
Location: Gone to Maser
Blog: View Blog (0)

Next

Return to General Discussion

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: Google [Bot] and 17 guests