Sex, Spirit and the Soul of Therapy

Sex, Spirit, and the Soul of Therapy

By Therese Yacoub with Dr. Christian de Quincey

Published by Raider Publishing International at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Therese Yacoub and Dr. Christian de Quincey

Smashwords Edition

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To Muma and Baba . . . for life and love.

Some of the characters names have been changed to protect their privacy.

Foreword

Preface

The Voice That Has No Sound

Going Home

Better Days to Come

Lucky Me

Welcome to the World

A Divine Blessing

Listening for God

Careful What You Wish For

Pigeon Pair

Heal Thyself

Getting Itchy

An Interlude with Daniel

Fairy Tales Do Come True

The World of the Wondrous

Growing Pains

Lady Liberty

In Love

Finding Meaning

Promethian

The Red Sage

Third Time Lucky

Postscript

Acknowledgement

About the Authors

Foreword

A Gift From the Universe

"Through I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and thing that went before,

I know I’ll often stop and think about them,

In my life, I’ll love you more."

—Lennon and McCartney

I could not believe my luck. Not only is she beautiful, inside and out, Therese Yacoub is also intelligent and possibly the most powerfully independent and positive person I have ever met. Whatever she wants, whatever she intends, manifests for her. She is both my mirror and my polar opposite.

Within moments of our first meeting, I was whisked away into the paradise of romance, and in her presence I began to feel and believe that I, too, could do anything I chose, have anything I desired.

That first night, we talked into the early hours about our life’s journeys, our passions, about her philosophy and metaphysics, and compared it to mine. Therese is deeply attuned to new thought and is a living, breathing, walking example of the power of intention.

I wanted to learn her secrets, and I discovered it is all about being clear on what you really want in life, setting an intention, or expressing a wish, then letting go and trusting in divine providence that it is already a done deal. Faith and trust, a deep embodied knowing, are key ingredients.

I had heard this before, of course. But now something was different. With Therese, it is not theoretical or just words . . . she actually lives every moment committed to that state of consciousness.

Then, as weeks turned into months, something happened. Something I didn’t count on.

Love opens us up to being vulnerable. I was deeply in love and equally scared of losing what I had found. I learned a valuable lesson: We always have a choice—stay attached to fear or trust and let go. Only then, can we truly love.

From experience, I know that being authentic means being willing to be vulnerable—to show up with all our fears, anxiety, shame, and guilt . . . as well as with all our magnificence, joy, power, and love.

And that is what Therese does here. She shows us what it means to be human, to accept all of who we are—our inner zombies and angels—our shadow and our light.

It takes real courage to choose to be vulnerable, to open up to our darkest demons. But when we do, we are surprised by a wonderful reward: The more vulnerable we allow ourselves to be, the more our core strength shines through. When we dance with our inner zombies, our inner angels fly free, as Therese so beautifully demonstrates in this book.

Being authentic is the greatest gift we can give ourselves (and others). It’s the freedom to be exactly who we are at every moment. No need to hide or pretend. Just simply be. When you allow yourself to be still, and listen to the ever-present silence, it illuminates your shadow. Embrace it, and you release your own magnificent light.

A Woman of Strength and Soul

I met Therese at a Science and Consciousness conference in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I was a presenter (she tells the story of our meeting later on). I have described her to friends as a dream come true. I don’t recall ever feeling so head-over-heels in love—at least, not since I was a teenager. Therese is 21 years younger, physically beautiful, and has a heart and soul to match. The miracle is that she is as deeply in love with me as I am with her.

She is one of the strongest, most confident, and determined women I have ever known—very clear on who she is and what she wants in life. She is a believer in the power of prioritizing one’s values, setting goals and intentions, taking action, and trusting in the Divine to respond to our intentions (perhaps not always as we might wish). She chooses to focus only on what she wants to create, and is an inspirational example of the power of choice to direct our lives.

Ghosts of Loves Past

In Sex, Spirit and the Soul of Therapy, Therese Yacoub tells her own story, revealing the many turning points in her life that made her who she is today—a woman equally sensual, soulful, and spiritual. It has been my privilege to share this journey with her as her partner and editor.

This book started out as an idea for a project we would work on together as co-authors—blending my knowledge and experience as a professor of consciousness studies with her life experience in psychoanalysis and practice as a personal development coach. Our motto is Let it flow, and very soon we realized that the book that wanted to be written was the story of Therese’s search for meaning in her own life—particularly the often painful and valuable lessons she learned as she moved through a series of relationships.

As I read through her drafts, chapter by chapter, I was struck by two things: First, her selfless authenticity and willingness to be honest about exposing her own dark moments—all adding to the powerful inspirational quality of her transformation. I have little doubt that readers, especially other women, will find themselves reflected in these pages. Of course, the details of each person’s life are unique, but the process of overcoming painful challenges that involve death—both actual and psychological—is something every one of us experiences in our own way.

Second, I came face to face with my own vulnerabilities as I read about her passionate relationships with the other men in her life. At times, it was difficult for me to hear her speak so openly about the depth of love she had experienced with them. I worked through these pages not just as an editor but also as her partner and lover, dealing with my own insecurities. Writing this book has been a challenging exploration and therapeutic process for both of us.

In the end, though, I was grateful for the opportunity to learn so much about the formative events that have shaped her life and that have created the woman I love.

When we fall in love we come trailing clouds of glory—bringing with us our entire past. Every relationship echoes with ghosts. And, I have learned, rather than trying to exorcise them we do much better if we embrace them as part of the one we now love and who loves us.

The Beatles said it so well: Though I know I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before . . . In my life, I’ll love you more.

— Christian de Quincey

California, March, 2011

Preface

I Had A Dream

I dreamed about a woman who would stand strong and tall, and independent—free to do whatever she wanted, who would manifest all that she desired, and one day would be a great power in the world.

As a young girl, I dreamed that she would not be defined by her circumstances, that she would create her own. She would not wilt when called sambo, nigger, or fatso.

I dreamed that she would not succumb to her teachers berating her for being a right-brained kinesthetic child, or to parents whose domestic abuse tormented her mind night after night during the most influential developmental stages of childhood.

Later on, I dreamed that she would not buy into cultural constraints and societal influences of what beauty should be. And that religion would not control her or force her to believe in a vengeful, spiteful, hateful God, out of fear.

I had a dream that this woman would not define herself in relation to some other.

That she would not succumb to disease or ever be silenced for speaking her truth.

I dreamed that she would not strain or strive with effort; rather that passion would work through her, and that she would align herself with her higher purpose.

This is my story.

Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it—unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.

—Buddha

1

The Voice That Has No Sound

"Nothing splendid has ever been achieved except by those who dared believe that something inside them was superior to circumstance."

—Bruce Barton

Silence saved my life.

I hear it just before I open my eyes to salute a new day. It guides me. It honors me. It allows me to honor myself. The sound of silence. Yes, it’s a contradiction, but it’s still my favorite sound. It has whispered to me all my life, as I stumbled through the terrors of childhood and into relationships that tore me apart. Wise and ever-present, it gave me the courage, the vision, and the dream to discover who I am.

On my way to work one morning, I noticed a haggard man about to cross the street. I thought: How did he get here, to this point in time and space, intersecting with mine? What really interested me, though, was the question: How did he come to be the way he is?

How did I get to be who I am?

This mystery has pursued me, lying in wait, for almost forty years. And, although I do not have a definitive answer, I know I am loving the journey.

My name is Marie Therese Yacoub (Bolden was my married name). I was born in Cairo, Egypt, a twin to my brother George, on August 24, 1970. My family decided they wanted a better life and moved us to Melbourne, Australia, in 1972. Raised between an extreme pessimist father and an ever-hopeful mother, my journey through life was bound to be interesting, as they say.

My father, haunted by an emotional void, spent his life pursuing love, vainly trying to find the connection he longed for from his own mother. His marriage to my mother further damaged this already broken man because he could never live up to her ideal of what a man should be. He believed himself to be a failure. Yes, they fell in love in the beginning, but because of fundamental differences and lack of self-awareness they could not relate to each other, except in ways that undermined each other’s sense of integrity.

Given such an upbringing, I should have been a huge failure. At least that’s what the experts and their statistics would say—I was destined to be a product of my environment. But I saw it differently.

Witnessing the tragedy of two people who loved each other, and yet who continued to wound each other deeper, made me determined not to sell out on myself. Instead, their relationship simply fueled my own ambition and desire for autonomy and authenticity.

The first man I fell in love with was my father. Nothing unusual there, just a typical Oedipal complex. At an early age, I noticed how delighted he would be whenever mother dressed me up. Only then, did I get the attention I so desperately craved. Even as a child, I learned how to objectify myself and how to manipulate men. From childhood into my teens and twenties, I excelled at being a flirt.  It felt good, at least initially.

But deep down, I knew I was more than a pretty object for men to delight in. Gradually, as I moved through a series of shallow relationships, I realized I wanted to be appreciated and loved for who I really was.

I was not an object!

There was also the issue of religion. During those turbulent years, I would have been quite content as an atheist. But religion, specifically Coptic Orthodox Christianity, was shoveled down my throat in huge doses. I had to attend Saturday school and learn all about the saints. I had to be Christian, God-fearing, and pious, and never question anything written in the scriptures. None of it made any sense to me. I often asked my father: If Jesus was King of the Jews, and we love and believe in Jesus, why aren’t we Jewish?

No answer, of course. I wondered why a God that loves all would create one religion superior to another. I was also reminded over and over again that I was female and, as such, inferior to men. Of course, I never bought into that. Also, at Saturday school I had to endure frequent belittling for not paying attention (in fact, I hardly ever did). Whenever the priest noticed I wasn’t paying any attention to the scripture, even if only slightly distracted, he pulled my ears in front of everybody, and complained to my parents. To this day, I wonder if my low-hanging earlobes were caused by that. I also choose to believe, as the Chinese do, that long lobes indicate a life of prosperity and wealth.

So much of my religious indoctrination made no sense to me—in fact, it demeaned me. For example, I was supposed to accept that, as a female, I belonged to the inferior sex. In church, the women and men were segregated, and women were never allowed to be close to or touch the altar. Under no circumstances, were women to take communion, the bread or blood of Christ, when menstruating. When a woman gave birth to a son, she was to stay away from church for forty days. However, if she had a daughter she would have to stay away for eighty days. On many occasions I heard family friends complain about the burden of having a female child (a challenge for many Egyptian families transplanted to a Western democratic culture like Australia). Within Egyptian culture, freedom for women was tantamount to anarchy.

However, I did like men, so I used all the skills and wiles I’d acquired to manipulate them and get their attention. If religion couldn’t propel me out of bed on a Saturday morning, a school crush would.

My childhood was a time of almost constant emotional conflict and existential uncertainty. But something held me together. I had a strong core, a sense that I could, and would, create my own path through life. I just didn’t know what it was. We lived in a neighborhood where almost all our friends were white. George and I were the only people of color. They would not let us forget that. Often, they called us niggers or sambos, and the neighborhood boys would chant the song "Oh, Black Betty, bam bam, balam …" referring to me. Of course this only happened when they were with their buddies. On their own, they pursued me with romantic intent.

I have often wondered, Who would I be right now if I had been raised in Egypt? My home environment was very sheltered, and the main message I received growing up was, Dreams don't come true. In particular, anything to do with my sexuality was suppressed. I was conditioned to be suspicious of men and their intentions, and yet not to cultivate my own ambitions. Just always do your best, was my mother’s way of saying, Wish for the best, but prepare for the worst. That’s exactly what I did, until a major event rocked my world when I was nineteen. I made goals, had dreams, but they were always short-lived, short-circuited by the pain and distraction that played over in my head. I was, as I would say, doing my own head in.

Yet something inside kept propelling me forward—that ever-present sound of silence. I didn’t always pay attention to it, and when I did, I struggled to know exactly what this voice that has no sound wanted me to do.

I had been controlled, contained and constrained for so long. My own voice was shut down. Self-expression was orchestrated by my mother. Her anxiety and compulsion to overprotect me had deep emotional roots. My mother was so protective she wouldn’t even let us attend the funerals of friends. My older sister, and my mother’s first child, Jehan (Jiji for short), had died when only six months old. The loss of her first-born devastated my mother, and she was determined not to lose another child.

Although highly intelligent she also retained many superstitions from the old country. For example, she believed in the myth of the evil eye. If someone envied her beautiful child, she was afraid that the attention and focused energy could be so strong that it would take the child’s life. To avoid this possibility, my mother dressed up my twin brother George as a girl for more than a year, and never told anyone we were twins. She warned us to tell people that George was two years older. Having pigeon pair twins (one boy, one girl) was considered such a rare achievement it could easily be a cause for envy, and therefore risk exposure to the evil eye. She was not going to let that happen.

George and I often witnessed my mother being physically abused. Night after night, my father’s rage would erupt, and we never knew how long it would last. He would pace the floor shouting tirades of abuse at Mum, and she would plead with him to be quiet and not to wake us. That just made him worse. Then Mum would scream back at him for disturbing the children. He would be consumed with rage, and I saw him pound into my mother’s face mercilessly. Then he would drag her about the room by her hair releasing his grip only when she apologized or when a fistful of hair broke loose. He would scream: I am the man of the house and you will do as I say! During these tirades, George and I would huddle together, trembling with fear.

The outbursts went on for years. My father had so much rage inside him, bursting to compensate for his lack of maternal love. This was compounded by the fact that my mother would often chastise him, saying, You are not a man (referring to his sexual prowess)—her response to what she had to endure. I recall at least three occasions where I knew that Mum was pregnant (she confided this to me when I was older), and that it was her job to terminate this unwanted pregnancy. She would go off to hospital for a supposed infection, and return days later broken and deflated. My father didn’t want more children, and it mattered little what my mother wanted. Like most abused woman, she held a code of silence. Even when the physical evidence was clear, she would lie to protect him. I never doubted that she loved my father or that he was in love with her. But he was wracked with internal turmoil. And so was she.

On no account was I ever to mention anything about the horrible dysfunction at home between my parents. It was an impossible bind. Nor was I permitted to question anything about what it meant to be a young woman. My mother considered any such talk inappropriate. She always dressed us meticulously, and would pull my hair so tight I felt I might have a brain aneurism. It was a perfect metaphor for the tight rein she held on her family.

Whenever we visited a friend’s home, George and I were given strict instructions to sit next to my mother and say nothing.

You are not to ask for anything. Don’t talk or say a word. And when you are offered food or drink, accept it only when I give you an ‘okay’ look. If Mother ever embellished or exaggerated a story, I was absolutely never to show her up in front of anyone—ever. I was to be seen and not heard when we were out. It was an impossible situation. On the one hand, she would encourage me to have confidence and be my own person; on the other hand, she was forever telling me not to speak up.

Being suppressed just fed my desire to overcompensate, and, once outside the home, I became hyper assertive and controlling, especially at school. I often acted out angrily. I was seven or eight years old, and back then in the seventies few teachers or parents knew how to cope with struggling, angry kids. They just didn’t understand or know what was going on because they weren’t paying attention.

Even though George was my twin (older by about five minutes), I was the one who took care of him. George was introverted and tended to retreat into himself to avoid all the turmoil occurring at home. While I became assertive and angry, George was the passive quiet child, often picked on by other kids at school. Mum had given me strict instructions to always protect him. And I did. He stayed close to me. If anyone dared threaten or hurt him, I exploded into a monster.

Besides taking care of George, I found myself in the middle of a stressful family triangle. Psychologically, my father was a pursuer, always wanting to move closer to my mother; but she was an avoider, wanting to keep her distance. He wanted to merge with her, and she did all she could to protect her own individuality. At the center of this tug-of-war was me. Mum turned to me to rescue her from her overbearing husband. Again, I did my best to oblige. It didn’t help that I went to private Catholic schools, which just added to the sense of constraint. I relished the times when I was left alone—free to fantasize, and to explore worlds of my own creation (a common syndrome for children who experience trauma).

I later realized in my own psychological training, during a group therapy session, that my assertiveness and aggression grew out of a desperate need to be heard and understood. My voice had been silenced for too long.

Once, when visiting a family friend, my parents sent me off to play with their little boy, Michael. As often happens with young children, we decided to play nurses and doctors, and to explore each other’s private parts: You show me yours first . . . I did, and he went running to his mother when it came to his turn. She immediately complained to my mother, who slapped me repeatedly on the face in front of everyone. I was only seven, and deeply shamed. The take-away message was clear: You are a disgusting little girl, and you must never explore your own body or anyone else’s for that matter. Michael was also clearly a disturbed child. On other occasions, I was a horrified to witness his brutality to animals . . . stuffing kittens in the toilet and flushing them away. Cruelty to animals has been associated with childhood sexual abuse.

During these turbulent years, Dad had taught George and me to swim, and we took to the water with great ease. I quickly became a competent swimmer. In the long, hot Australian summers, during those glorious vacations from school, George and I spent most of our time at St. Alban’s pool. Often, we would compete to see who could make the best dive off the ten-foot diving board. I was quite proud with how well I dived. Those summer months also gave birth to an almost religious love for the sun. I would stretch out for hours at a time and soak up the warmth and light as it poured over my skin. I also let my imagination wander, mulling over my life and what it was all about—life and death, space and time, God and the sky. I vividly recall these moments as the first stirrings of philosophical curiosity. How did I come to be? Where was I going? Why was I me? What did it all mean? I loved tangling myself up in my own mind as I tried to catch my thoughts thinking about myself thinking. The thrill of exploring my own imagination spun me into wild reveries. Like most Christians, I was raised to believe that God was external to me—out there in heaven beyond the sun and the sky, beyond the stars at night. I wondered what it would be like to travel into space and reach the sky. Would I find God there? And if so, what then? Was there anything beyond God? Would I ever find an end to infinity?

When I wasn’t mulling over the mysteries of my own existence, I used my nine-year-old hyperactive imagination to spin out other fantasies—particularly about the cute, strong lifeguard at the pool. I thought about faking a drowning episode so that the gorgeous hunk with green eyes would rush over and give me the kiss of life. Problem was, of course, everyone knew I was a good a swimmer. He wouldn’t have fallen for the theatrics. Even at that tender age, I was sowing the seeds of romantic fantasies that would bear bitter fruit later on in my life.

Many times, I remember when walking home from the pool, I could smell Mum’s cooking from down the block, enticing me. Like most Egyptian mothers, she spent her days preparing meals for the family, starting in the morning and continuing all day into the evening. Sometimes, after an argument with my father, she would not cook dinner because she didn’t want to put toxic energy into the food. Instead, she’d invite us to sit out on the back porch with her, eating watermelon and Bulgarian feta cheese. In these quiet, intimate moments, she would confide to me how desperate she felt about her marriage. The only way out, she said, would be for God to take her.

Around this time, I first became aware that my father was an incorrigible philanderer. Ironically, he was accusing my mother of being unfaithful. He would often throw lavish parties and get into an argument with Mum. She would refuse to participate, and go to bed, leaving him the host and center of attention. Alcohol flowed, and the women flocked around this charming man. I often walked in on him openly flirting with a woman. As soon as he saw I was in the room he would pull himself up, take me into his arms, and introduce me as his beautiful little girl. I adored him.

My father was an intelligent, but a very restless, man. He struggled to hold a job, though he often got hired into positions with great prospects. Probably because his own income was so sporadic and unpredictable, he insisted that Mum should take a job and give him all the proceeds of her hard work. He even insisted that she include the pay slip. When she resisted, he would lash out with vengeance and abuse as George and I screamed in terror, and dived into a cupboard or under a bed to find refuge.

Mum she refused to give in, and continued to put aside savings for our future. Mum’s life was always about us. She would rather be beaten than give him all her money. Dad was terrible at managing finances, and she knew it. All she really ever wanted to do was to be home to take care of us. From the time we arrived in Australia, she went out to work, dropping George and me off at day care. Every morning, as she left us, George would grip her thigh and scream in protest. My job was to take care of him in Mum’s absence.

During this period, until I was about nine, we moved homes a lot. In fact, it seemed as if we were always on the move. I learned to become a little social butterfly, flitting from one group of new friends to the next. I adapted quite well to these changes. Perhaps that’s why I welcome, even revel in, change. But George did not find it so easy. Again, it was my responsibility to make sure his transitions between homes and schools went smoothly. I did what I could to ease the stress for him. I actually liked the responsibility, and was proud to be taking care of him.

My father was a promiser. He made extravagant promises but seldom followed them through; not because he didn’t want to, but because he was distracted with his own pain. On many occasions he promised us a better life—a bigger home, travel to exotic places, and, for most of our childhood, a piano/organ. (He wanted me to learn a musical instrument because his friends’ children were all very musical and so he thought his children should be, too.)

One Sunday morning, we all went to Victoria Produce Market, one of the biggest in Australia. They also sold a great variety of toys. I went with Dad and we were to meet Mum and George at the local Lebanese bakery. On the way, I noticed a shop with a captivating display of Spanish flamingo dolls. I rushed in and picked up the most beautiful doll I had ever seen, dressed in a flaming red costume, with a face that would turn a thousand heads. I wanted her so