Bessel van der Kolk sat cross—legged on an oversize pillow in the center of a smallish room overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur. He wore khaki pants, a blue fleece zip-up and square wire-rimmed glasses. His feet were bare. It was the third day of his workshop, "Trauma Memory and Recovery of the Self," and 30 or so workshop participants — all of them trauma victims or trauma therapists — lined the room's perimeter. They, too, sat barefoot on cushy pillows, eyeing van der Kolk, notebooks in hand. For two days, they had listened to his lectures on the social history, neurobiology and clinical realities of post-traumatic stress disorder and its lesser-known sibling, complex trauma. Now, finally, he was about to demonstrate an actual therapeutic technique, and his gaze was fixed on the subject of his experiment: a 36-year-old Iraq war veteran named Eugene, who sat directly across from van der Kolk, looking mournful and expectant.
從不大的房間望出去,大瑟爾地區(qū)太平洋的風(fēng)光盡收眼底。貝塞爾·范德科爾克(Bessel van der Kolk)盤腿坐在房間中央的超大號靠枕上。他戴著方形金絲眼鏡,身穿藍色拉鏈?zhǔn)浇q頭織物衫和卡其布褲子,赤著腳。這天是他主辦的“創(chuàng)傷記憶與自我恢復(fù)”(Trauma Memory and Recovery of the Self)研討會的第三天,約30名研討會參與者(均為創(chuàng)傷受害者或創(chuàng)傷治療師)沿著房間的四壁圍成一圈。他們也都赤腳坐在舒適的靠枕上,手里拿著筆記本,眼睛盯著范德科爾克。兩天來,他們聆聽他講解了創(chuàng)傷后應(yīng)激障礙(post-traumatic stress disorder, PTSD)及其鮮為人知的同類——復(fù)雜創(chuàng)傷(complex trauma)的社會歷史、神經(jīng)生物學(xué)和臨床現(xiàn)狀?,F(xiàn)在,他終于將向他們演示實際的治療技術(shù)。范德科爾克將目光落在自己的實驗對象尤金(Eugene)的身上。這是一名36歲的伊拉克戰(zhàn)爭退伍軍人,此刻他正坐在范德科爾克的對面,面帶悲傷,又充滿期待。
Van der Kolk began as he often does, with a personal anecdote. "My mother was very unnurturing and unloving," he said. "But I have a full memory and a complete sense of what it is like to be loved and nurtured by her." That's because, he explained, he had done the very exercise that we were about to try on Eugene. Here's how it would work: Eugene would recreate the trauma that haunted him most by calling on people in the room to play certain roles. He would confront those people — with his anger, sorrow, remorse and confusion — and they would respond in character, apologizing, forgiving or validating his feelings as needed. By projecting his "inner world" into three-dimensional space, Eugene would be able to rewrite his troubled history more thoroughly than other forms of role-play therapy might allow. If the experiment succeeded, the bad memories would be supplemented with an alternative narrative — one that provided feelings of acceptance or forgiveness or love.
The exercise, which van der Kolk calls a "structure" but which is also known as psychomotor therapy, was developed by Albert Pesso, a dancer who studied with Martha Graham. He taught it to van der Kolk about two decades ago. Though it has never been tested in a controlled study, van der Kolk says he has had some success with it in workshops like this one. He likes to try it whenever he has a small group and a willing volunteer.
With some gentle prodding from van der Kolk, Eugene told us how he came to be a specialist in the United States Army, how he spent a full year stationed in Mosul, the largest city in northern Iraq, and how his job involved disposing of exploded bombs. It was a year of dead bodies, he said. He saw, touched, smelled and stepped in more bodies than he could possibly count. Some of them were children. He was only 26.
People turn to grease when they explode, he told us, because their fat cells burst open. He witnessed multiple suicide bombings. Once, he accidentally stepped in an exploded corpse; only the legs were still recognizable as human. Another time, he saw a kitchen full of women sliced to bits. They'd been making couscous when a bomb went off and the windows shattered. He was shot in the back of the head once. He was also injured by an improvised explosive device.
But none of those experiences haunted him quite as much as this one: Several months into his tour, while on a security detail, Eugene killed an innocent man and then watched as the man's mother discovered the body a short while later.
"Tell us more about that," van der Kolk said. "What happened?" Eugene's fragile composure broke at the question. He closed his eyes, covered his face and sobbed.
"The witness can see how distressed you are and how badly you feel," van der Kolk said. Acknowledging and reflecting the protagonist's emotions like this — what van der Kolk calls "witnessing" them — is a central part of the exercise, meant to instill a sense of validation and security in the patient.
Eugene had already called on some group members to play certain roles in his story. Kresta, a yoga instructor based in San Francisco, was serving as his "contact person," a guide who helps the protagonist bear the pain the trauma evokes, usually by sitting nearby and offering a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on. Dave, a child-abuse survivor and small-business owner in Southern California, was playing Eugene's "ideal father," a character whose role is to say all the things that Eugene wished his real father had said but never did. They sat on either side of Eugene, touching his shoulders. Next, van der Kolk asked who should play the man he killed. Eugene picked Sagar, a stand-up comedian and part-time financial consultant from Brooklyn. Finally, van der Kolk asked, Who should play the man's mother?
I swore myself in as the others had, by saying, "I enroll as the mother of the man you killed." Then I moved my pillow to the center of the room, across from Eugene, next to van der Kolk.
"O.K.," van der Kolk said. "Tell us more about that day. Tell us what happened."
“好了,”范德科爾克說?!罢埜嬖V我們更多關(guān)于那一天的事吧,都發(fā)生了些什么?”
Psychomotor therapy is neither widely practiced nor supported by clinical studies. In fact, most licensed psychiatrists probably wouldn't give it a second glance. It's hokey-sounding. It was developed by a dancer. But van der Kolk believes strongly that dancers — and musicians and actors — may have something to teach psychiatrists about healing from trauma and that even the hokey-sounding is worthy of our attention. He has spent four decades studying and trying to treat the effects of the worst atrocities we inflict on one another: war, rape, incest, torture and physical and mental abuse. He has written more than 100 peer-reviewed papers on psychological trauma. Trained as a psychiatrist, he treats more than a dozen patients a week in private practice — some have been going to him for many years now — and he oversees a nonprofit clinic in Boston, the Trauma Center, that treats hundreds more. If there's one thing he's certain about, it's that standard treatments are not working. Patients are still suffering, and so are their families. We need to do better.
Van der Kolk takes particular issue with two of the most widely employed techniques in treating trauma: cognitive behavioral therapy and exposure therapy. Exposure therapy involves confronting patients over and over with what most haunts them, until they become desensitized to it. Van der Kolk places the technique "among the worst possible treatments" for trauma. It works less than half the time, he says, and even then does not provide true relief; desensitization is not the same as healing. He holds a similar view of cognitive behavioral therapy, or C.B.T., which seeks to alter behavior through a kind of Socratic dialogue that helps patients recognize the maladaptive connections between their thoughts and their emotions. "Trauma has nothing whatsoever to do with cognition," he says. "It has to do with your body being reset to interpret the world as a dangerous place." That reset begins in the deep recesses of the brain with its most primitive structures, regions that, he says, no cognitive therapy canaccess. "It's not something you can talk yourself out of." That view places him on the fringes of the psychiatric mainstream.
It's not the first time van der Kolk has been there. In the early 1990s, he was a lead defender of repressed-memory therapy, which the Harvard psychologist Richard McNally later called "the worst catastrophe to befall the mental-health field since the lobotomy era." Van der Kolk served as an expert witness in a string of high-profile sexual-abuse cases that centered on the recovery of repressed memories, testifying that it was possible — common, even — for victims of extreme or repeated sexual trauma to suppress all memory of that trauma and then recall it years later in therapy. He'd seen plenty of such examples in his own patients, he said, and could cite additional cases from the medical literature going back at least 100 years.
In the 1980s and ‘90s, people from all over the country filed scores of legal cases accusing parents, priests and day care workers of horrific sex crimes, which they claimed to have only just remembered with the help of a therapist. For a time, judges and juries were persuaded by the testimony of van der Kolk and others. It made intuitive sense to them that the mind would find a way to shield itself from such deeply traumatic experiences. But as the claims grew more outlandish — alien abductions and secret satanic cults — support for the concept waned. Most research psychologists argued that it was much more likely for so-called repressed memories to have been implanted by suggestive questioning from overzealous doctors and therapists than to have been spontaneously recalled. In time, it became clear that innocent people had been wrongfully persecuted. Families, careers and, in some cases, entire lives were destroyed.
After the dust settled in what was dubbed "the memory wars," van der Kolk found himself among the casualties. By the end of the decade, his lab at Massachusetts General Hospital was shuttered, and he lost his affiliation with Harvard Medical School. The official reason was a lack of funding, but van der Kolk and his allies believed that the true motives were political.
待這場日后被稱為“記憶之戰(zhàn)”的爭論塵埃落定之后,范德科爾克自己也付出了代價。90年代末,他在馬薩諸塞州總醫(yī)院(Massachusetts General Hospital)的實驗室被關(guān)停,還失去了在哈佛醫(yī)學(xué)院(Harvard Medical School)的職位。官方給出的理由是資金不足,但范德科爾克及其支持者認為,真正的動機是政治因素。
Van der Kolk folded his clinic into a larger nonprofit organization. He began soliciting philanthropic donations and honed his views on traumatic memory and trauma therapy. He still believed that repressed memories were a common feature of traumatic stress. Traumatic experiences were not being processed into memories, he reasoned, but were somehow getting "stuck in the machine" and then expressed through the body. Many of his colleagues in the psychiatric mainstream spurned these ideas, but he found another, more receptive audience: body-oriented therapists who not only embraced his message but also introduced him to an array of alternative practices. He began using some of those practices with his own patients and then testing them in small-scale studies. Before long, he had built a new network of like-minded researchers, body therapists and loyal friends from his Harvard days.
The group converged around an idea that was powerful in its simplicity. The way to treat psychological trauma was not through the mind but through the body. In so many cases, it was patients' bodies that had been grossly violated, and it was their bodies that had failed them — legs had not run quickly enough, arms had not pushed powerfully enough, voices had not screamed loudly enough to evade disaster. And it was their bodies that now crumpled under the slightest of stresses — that dove for cover with every car alarm or saw every stranger as an assailant in waiting. How could their minds possibly be healed if they found the bodies that encased those minds so intolerable? "The single most important issue for traumatized people is to find a sense of safety in their own bodies," van der Kolk says. "Unfortunately, most psychiatrists pay no attention whatsoever to sensate experiences. They simply do not agree that it matters."
That van der Kolk does think it matters has won him an impressive and diverse fan base. "He's really a hero," says Stephen Porges, a professor of psychiatry at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. "He's been extraordinarily courageous in confronting his own profession and in insisting that we not discount the bodily symptoms of traumatized people as something that's ‘just in their heads.' "
范德科爾克對身體感受的重視為他贏得了背景各異的眾多粉絲?!八且粋€真正的英雄,”北卡羅來納大學(xué)教堂山分校(University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill)的精神病學(xué)教授史蒂芬·波格斯(Stephen Porges)表示?!八恢北憩F(xiàn)出大無畏的態(tài)度,挑戰(zhàn)自己的學(xué)術(shù)圈子,并始終堅持不應(yīng)簡單地認定創(chuàng)傷受害者存在身體癥狀‘僅僅是腦筋出了問題'?!?/div>
These days, van der Kolk's calendar is filled with speaking engagements, from Boston to Amsterdam to Abu Dhabi. This spring, I trailed him down the East Coast and across the country. At each stop, his audience comprised the full spectrum of the therapeutic community: psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers, art therapists, yoga therapists, even life coaches. They formed long lines up to the podium to introduce themselves during coffee breaks and hovered around his table at lunchtime, hoping to speak with him. Some pulled out their cellphones and asked to take selfies with him. Most expressed similar sentiments:
Van der Kolk's entire life has been a study in human trauma. He was born in The Hague in the summer of 1943, three years into the German occupation of the Netherlands and one year before the great Dutch famine, when a military blockade cut off food and fuel shipments to the country's western provinces and more than 20,000 people starved to death. His father was imprisoned in a Nazi work camp. According to van der Kolk family lore, his mother had to ride her bike to the hospital when she went into labor with him, and his first birthday cake was made of tulip bulbs because there was hardly any flour.
He was a weak and scrawny boy, but daring nonetheless. Ask him about his childhood, and he will tell you about playing amid the bombed-out ruins of his native city. Nearly everyone around him was deeply traumatized. His neighbors on either side were Holocaust survivors. His mother did not enjoy motherhood; she was pulled out of school at 14 to care for her father and then pulled away from a satisfying career to assume her wifely duties. By the time Bessel, her middle child, was old enough to know her, she had grown bitter and cold. His father was an executive at Royal Dutch Shell, and despite being a devout Protestant and dedicated pacifist, he suffered violent rages and inflicted them on his children. In his new book, "The Body Keeps the Score," which comes out this fall, van der Kolk mentions being locked in the basement as a little boy for what he describes as "normal 3-year-old offenses" and hating himself for being too puny to fight back.
范德科爾克是一個骨瘦如柴的孱弱男孩,但這絲毫沒有減損他的勇敢。如果問起他的童年往事,他會告訴你在故鄉(xiāng)城市遭受轟炸后的廢墟上玩耍的故事。他周圍幾乎每個人都遭受了深深的創(chuàng)傷。左右的鄰居都是猶太人大屠殺的幸存者。他的母親一點也不樂意當(dāng)媽媽;14歲的時候她就輟學(xué)照顧自己的父親,之后又被迫離開了自己喜愛的職業(yè)以承擔(dān)身為人妻的責(zé)任。在家里的第二個孩子貝塞爾懂事之前,她的性格已經(jīng)變得刻薄而冷漠。范德科爾克的父親是荷蘭皇家殼牌集團(Royal Dutch Shell)的高管。盡管他是一名虔誠的新教徒,也是忠實的和平主義者,但盛怒之下他也會在孩子們身上泄憤。在秋天將要面世的新書《身體記得》(The Body Keeps the Score)中,范德科爾克提到,當(dāng)他還是個小男孩時,曾經(jīng)因為“正常的3歲孩子都會惹的禍”而被關(guān)在地下室里,只能怨恨自己太弱小,無力反抗。
As a teenager, he began traveling on his own. He liked to hitchhike into France. On one such trip, as he passed a monastery, he heard the chanting of monks and was so taken with the sound that he asked the driver to let him off there. He spent the rest of that summer, and the following Easter break, and the summer after that, at the monastery contemplating monkhood. The abbot took a liking to him and promised that if he joined the order, they would send him to Geneva for medical school. "I seriously considered it," he told me. But in the end, a youthful thirst for adventure beat out any yearning he might have felt for quiet meditation, and he chose the University of Hawaii instead. "I still have some spiritual feelings," he says. "I believe that all things are connected. But organized religion gives me the creeps."
十幾歲的時候,他開始獨自旅行。他喜歡搭便車到法國去。在一次這樣的旅行中,他在途經(jīng)一所修道院時聽到修道士們誦經(jīng)的聲音,并為之深深打動,于是請求司機讓他在那里下車。他在那所修道院度過了當(dāng)年夏天剩下的所有時間,然后是次年的復(fù)活節(jié)假期,以及之后的又一個夏天,甚至考慮要不要成為一名修道士。修道院院長對他很有好感,并承諾如果他加入修會,他們就送他到日內(nèi)瓦讀醫(yī)學(xué)院。“我認真考慮過這個提議,”他告訴我。但最終,年輕的心對冒險的渴望戰(zhàn)勝了他對安靜冥想的向往,于是他選擇了夏威夷大學(xué)(University of Hawaii)?!拔胰匀挥幸恍┚窀袘?yīng),”他說?!拔蚁嘈湃f事萬物都彼此關(guān)聯(lián)。但組織有序的宗教讓我渾身發(fā)毛?!?/div>
And so in 1962, he came to the United States and made his way from the University of Hawaii to the University of Chicago to Harvard Medical School, where he posed to science and medicine all of his many questions about the horrors of human nature and the miracles of human resilience. "The human species is messed up," he says. "We make the same mistakes over and over, and I'm deeply curious about why that is. Why do we keep doing things that we know are horrible and will have terrible consequences?"
就這樣,1962年,范德科爾克來到了美國,并先后就讀于夏威夷大學(xué)、芝加哥大學(xué)(University of Chicago)和哈佛醫(yī)學(xué)院。在這里,他將自己關(guān)于人性中恐怖的一面,以及人類神奇的適應(yīng)和恢復(fù)能力的許多問題,擺在了科學(xué)和醫(yī)學(xué)面前?!叭祟愡@個物種可真是一團糟,”他說?!拔覀兛偸且槐橛忠槐榈胤竿瑯拥腻e誤。我真好奇這究竟是為什么。為什么我們明知道會釀成大禍,惹來不可收拾的后果,卻還是會一意孤行?”
One of van der Kolk's first jobs out of school was as a staff psychiatrist at the Veterans Affairs clinic in Boston; he arrived there in 1978, in time for the influx of Vietnam veterans. "The waiting list to see a doctor was a mile long," he says. "And the clinic's walls were pocked full of fist imprints."
The first thing van der Kolk noticed about his new patients was how utterly stuck in the past they were. Even the older veterans from World War II seemed to vacillate between one of two states: immersion in their wartime experiences or lifeless disengagement. In Rorschach tests, every inkblot was a dead baby, a fallen comrade or nothing at all. It was as if war had broken the projector of their imaginations, he says, and their only options were to play one reel over and over or turn the machine off altogether.
The second thing that struck van der Kolk was how the men managed their own conditions. Almost all of them claimed that highly risky behaviors were capable of yanking them into the present in a way that no form of therapy could (one patient, for example, rode his Harley at breakneck speeds whenever he felt himself swirling into a rage or disconnecting from his surroundings). Van der Kolk's treatment — the only thing he had been taught in medical school — involved getting the men to talk. In both group and one-on-one sessions, he would ask them about their horrible memories, nightmares and troubles at home. But talking didn't seem to help; in some cases, he thought, it made things worse.
Van der Kolk scoured the clinic's medical library for books on shell shock and combat fatigue — anything that might help him better understand what he was seeing or give him some clue about how to treat it. Post-traumatic stress disorder was not yet a recognized condition. Then he came across a book at Harvard's Francis A. Countway medical library, "The Traumatic Neurosis of War." It was published in 1941, just before shellshocked American veterans would return from World War II. In its pages, van der Kolk found the first seeds of an idea that would ultimately shape his career: The nucleus of neurosis is physioneurosis. In other words, he thought, the root of what would eventually be called PTSD lay in our bodies.
范德科爾克翻遍了診所的醫(yī)學(xué)圖書館中關(guān)于炮彈休克癥(shell shock)和戰(zhàn)斗疲勞癥(combat fatigue)的書籍,尋找可能幫助他更好地了解患者癥狀的任何信息,或者有助于他進行治療的任何提示。在那個時代,創(chuàng)傷后應(yīng)激障礙還未被公認為一種疾病。后來,他在哈佛的弗朗西斯·A·康特韋醫(yī)學(xué)圖書館(Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine)里發(fā)現(xiàn)了一本書:《戰(zhàn)爭的創(chuàng)傷性神經(jīng)官能癥》(The Traumatic Neurosis of War)。該書出版于1941年,正好是在飽受炮彈休克癥困擾的美國老兵從第二次世界大戰(zhàn)中歸來之前。在這本書中,范德科爾克找到了一些最初的靈感。這些靈感最終指明了他職業(yè)生涯的方向:神經(jīng)官能癥的核心在于軀體性神經(jīng)官能癥。換句話說,他認為,日后所稱的PTSD的根源深埋在人類的身體之中。
This meshed perfectly with what van der Kolk was seeing in his patients. In addition to their nightmares and hallucinations, many of them had a host of physical ailments, including headaches, fatigue, digestive troubles and insomnia. When he tried accessing their traumas in therapy, they often became jittery, broke into cold sweats or shut down. The book, van der Kolk said, did not offer any suggestions for treatment, but it did give him a starting point. In the two decades that followed, he made a careful study of all his patients' physiological symptoms. And in 1994, not long before his Harvard lab was shuttered, he wrote a paper in The Harvard Review of Psychiatry summarizing all he had learned. Traumatic stress, it seemed, triggered a cascade of physiological catastrophes that affected almost every major system in the body.
這與范德科爾克在患者身上的所見所聞完全吻合。除了噩夢和幻覺,許多患者還遭受著眾多生理癥狀的折磨,包括頭痛、疲勞、消化系統(tǒng)疾患和失眠等。當(dāng)他在治療中試圖觸及他們的創(chuàng)傷時,他們往往一下子就變得如同驚弓之鳥一般,渾身冷汗涔涔或者將自己完全封閉起來。范德科爾克表示,雖然這本書并沒有提供任何治療建議,但給了他一個起點。在接下來的20年里,他仔細研究了他所有患者的生理癥狀。1994年,就在他在哈佛的實驗室被關(guān)閉前不久,他撰寫了一篇論文總結(jié)了自己的所有發(fā)現(xiàn),并發(fā)表在《哈佛精神病學(xué)評論》(The Harvard Review of Psychiatry)上。創(chuàng)傷應(yīng)激似乎可以觸發(fā)一連串的生理性災(zāi)難,幾乎影響到身體的所有主要系統(tǒng)。
Eugene was on military leave in San Francisco, about halfway through his tour of duty, when he first realized something was wrong. The bay was cool and breezy; people were walking around in parkas and hoodies. But he was sweating profusely. He thought his months in the desert had maybe activated some weird sweat gene that needed time to turn itself off. He figured it would pass eventually. It didn't. By the time he came home for good, sweat was the least of his problems. He was seeing dead bodies on the side of the road. And he could not stop going to the bathroom. At his first post-military job in the corporate offices of a large bank, he went to the bathroom so often that he was sure his co-workers wondered what was wrong with him.