My Book’s Table of Contents

C O N T E N T S
Part I – MEN WHO COMMIT INCEST
Chapter 1 – Who Am I?
Chapter 2 – Why Did I Do It?
Chapter 3 – How Could I Do It?
Chapter 4 – Treatment
Chapter 5 – Hurdles in Treatment
Chapter 6 – Modus Operandi
Chapter 7 – Will I Do It Again?
Chapter 8. A Metaphor
Part II – BONDS THAT BIND
Chapter 9. The Trauma Bond
Chapter 10 My Trauma Bond
Chapter 11 The Sexual Bond
Part III – COMMUNITY AND FAMILY
Chapter 12 After Release, Then What?
Chapter 13 Protecting
Part IV – THE SURVIVORS
Chapter 14 The Fallout
Chapter 15 Powerlessness
Chapter 16 Damaged Goods
Chapter 17 Betrayal
Chapter 18 Traumagenic Sex
Chapter 19 The Monkey Wrench Effect
Part V – SHAME
Chapter 20 Freeing Shame
Part VI – THE MOTHERS
Chapter 21 Role of the Mother
Part VII – RECOVERY
Chapter 22 Getting to Okay
Chapter 23 Survival Manual
Part VIII – PROFESSIONAL REMARKS
Chapter 24 Survivor as Therapist
Part IX – FURTHER STEPS TOWARDS CLOSURE
Chapter 25 Letters
Chapter 26 Gestalt Goodbye to My Father and Epilogue
References
THE AUTHOR’S DREAM JOURNAL AND DIARY
Illustrations
Fanged Woman
Me and Mom
ISH
Depressed
6 Weeks Old Today
Sexualized
Shame
Cartoon
Mandala
Bombs
Drowning
Negative Specialness
Ambivalence
Peg Leg
Untitled
Monkey Woman
Winged Animal
Hiding
Fanged Mouth
Kneeling Fanged Male Angel
Scared
Engulfing
Dinosaur Woman
Six-armed Woman
Crested Bird Man
Developmental Delay
Shame
Swiss Cheese
(less)

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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