summarize: HAVING COME TO TERMS with the traumatic past, the survivor faces the task of
creating a future. She has mourned the old self that the trauma destroyed; now she must
develop a new self. Her relationships have been tested and forever changed by the
trauma; now she must develop new relationships. The old beliefs that gave meaning to
her life have been challenged; now she must find anew a sustaining faith. These are the
tasks of the third stage of recovery. In accomplishing this work, the survivor reclaims her
world. Survivors whose personality has been shaped in the traumatic environment often
feel at this stage of recovery as though they are refugees entering a new country. For
political exiles, this may be literally true; but for many others, such as battered women or
survivors of childhood abuse, the psychological experience can only be compared to
immigration. They must build a new life within a radically different culture from the one
they have left behind. Emerging from an environment of total control, they feel
simultaneously the wonder and uncertainty of freedom. They speak of losing and
regaining the world. The psychiatrist Michael Stone, drawing on his work with incest
survivors, describes the immensity of this adaptive task: “All victims of incest have, by
definition, been taught that the strong can do as they please, without regard for convention. . . . Re-education is often indicated, pertaining to what is typical, average,
wholesome, and ‘normal’ in the intimate life of ordinary people. Victims of incest tend to
be woefully ignorant of these matters, owing to their skewed and secretive early
environments. Although victims in their original homes, they are like strangers in. a
foreign country, once ‘safely’ outside.”
 The issues of the first stage of recovery are often revisited during the third. Once
again the survivor devotes energy to the care of her body, her immediate environment,
her material needs, and her relationships with others. But while in the first stage the goal
was simply to secure a defensive position of basic safety, by the third stage the survivor
is ready to engage more actively in the world. From her newly created safe base she can
now venture forth. She can establish an agenda. She can recover some of her
aspirations from the time before the trauma, or perhaps for the first time she can
discover her own ambitions.
 Helplessness and isolation are the core experiences of psychological trauma.
Empowerment and reconnection are the core experiences of recovery. In the third stage
of recovery, the traumatized person recognizes that she has been a victim and
understands the effects of her victimization. Now she is ready to incorporate the lessons
of her traumatic experience into her life. She is ready to take concrete steps to increase
her sense of power and control, to protect herself against future danger, and to deepen
her alliances with those whom she has learned to trust. A survivor of childhood sexual
abuse describes her arrival at this stage: “I decided, ‘Okay, I’ve had enough of walking
around like I’d like to brutalize everyone who looks at me wrong. I don’t have to feel like
that any more.’ Then I thought, ‘How would I like to feel?’ I wanted to feel safe in the
world. I wanted to feel powerful. And so I focused on what was working in my life, in the
ways I was taking power in real-life situations.”
LEARNING TO FIGHT
 Taking power in real-life situations often involves a conscious choice to face
danger. By this stage of recovery, survivors understand that their post-traumatic
symptoms represent a pathological exaggeration of the normal responses to danger.
They are often keenly aware of their continued vulnerability to threats and reminders of
the trauma. Rather than passively accepting these reliving experiences, survivors may
choose actively to engage their fears. On one level, the choice to expose oneself to
danger can be understood as yet another reenactment of trauma. Like reenactment, this
choice is an attempt to master the traumatic experience; unlike reenactment, however, it
is undertaken consciously, in a planned and methodical manner, and is therefore far
more likely to succeed.
 For those who have never learned the basics of physical self-defense, this
instruction can become a method of both psychological mastery and physiological
reconditioning. For women, it is also a repudiation of the social demand for the
submissive, placating stance of traditional femininity. Melissa Soalt, a therapist and
instructor in self-defense for women, describes how her training program reconditions
the response to threat through a graded series of exercises, in which instructors simulate
increasingly aggressive attacks that the students learn to repel:
 Our goal is to have them taste fear but know that they can fight back anyway. By
the end of the first class, the sense of power starts to outweigh the fear—or at least runs
neck and neck. They’re beginning to develop a sensation tolerance for the adrenaline.
They get used to the feeling of their hearts pounding. We teach them how to breathe,
how to settle under pressure. . . .
 The fourth class is often the most intense. . . . It includes a really long fight,
where the model muggers keep going and keep going and keep going. People get to a
point where they feel like they can’t go on, but they have to. And so people discover that
they have a reservoir deeper than they thought, even when they some out of that fight
exhausted or crying and shaking like a leaf. That’s a very important breakthrough.
 By choosing to “taste fear” in these self-defense exercises, survivors put
themselves in a position to reconstruct the normal physiological responses to danger, to
rebuild the “action system” that was shattered and fragmented by the trauma. As a
result, they face their world more confidently: “Their heads are up, they’re breathing
easier, their eye contact is better, they’re more grounded. . . . People will say when
they’re walking down the street, they’re seeing people in the streets more, as opposed to
looking down and cowering.”
 Other forms of disciplined, controlled challenges to fear may be equally important
for survivors at this stage of recovery. For example, some treatment programs or selfhelp organizations offer wilderness trips as a carefully planned encounter with danger.
These chosen experiences offer an opportunity to restructure the survivor’s maladaptive
social responses as well as her physiological and psychological responses to fear. In the
words of Jean Goodwin, who has participated as a therapist in wilderness trips with
survivors of childhood abuse:
 “Magical or neurotic means of ensuring safety do not work in this setting. Being
‘sweet,’ not making demands, ‘disappearing,’ making excessive and narcissistic demands, waiting for a rescuer: none of these maneuvers puts breakfast on the table. On
the other hand, victims are surprised and delighted at the effectiveness of their realistic
coping. In reality, they are able to learn to rappel down a cliff; their adult skills . . .
outweigh the fears and low estimation of themselves that initially made them judge this
impossible.”
 In the wilderness situation, as in the self-defense training, the survivor places
herself in a position to experience the “fight or flight” response to danger, knowing that
she will elect to fight. In so doing, she establishes a degree of control over her own
bodily and emotional responses that reaffirms a sense of power. Not all danger is
overwhelming; not all fear is terror. By voluntary, direct exposure, the survivor relearns
the gradations of fear. The goal is not to obliterate fear but to learn how to live with it,
and even how to use it as a source of energy and enlightenment.
 Beyond the confrontation with physical danger, survivors at this point often
reevaluate their characteristic ways of coping with social situations that may not be
overtly threatening but are nonetheless hostile or.subtly coercive. They may begin to
question previous assumptions that permitted them to acquiesce in socially condoned
violence or exploitation. Women question their traditional acceptance of a subordinate
role. Men question their traditional complicity in a hierarchy of dominance. Often these
assumptions and behaviors have been so ingrained that they have operated outside of
awareness. Mardi Horowitz, describing the third stage of psychotherapy with a rape
survivor, shows how the patient came to realize that her stereotypically feminine
attitudes and behavior put her at risk: “One unconscious attitude present before the
stress event was that an erotic approach was the only way to get attention because she
herself was so undeserving. . . . In work on the meaning of the rape, she became aware
of this defective self-concept and related rescue fantasies. She was able to revise her
attitudes, including her automatic and unrealistic expectations that dominant others
would feel guilty about exploiting her and then be motivated by guilt to be concerned and
tender.”
 It bears repeating that the survivor is free to examine aspects of her own
personality or behavior that rendered her vulnerable to exploitation only after it has been
clearly established that the perpetrator alone is responsible for the crime. A frank
exploration of the traumatized person’s weaknesses and mistakes can be undertaken
only in an environment that protects against shaming and harsh judgment. Otherwise, it
becomes simply another exercise in blaming the victim. Robert J. Lifton, in his work with
Vietnam veterans, makes a clear distinction between the destructive quality of the men’s
initial self-blame and the constructive, affirming self-examination that subsequently
evolved in their “rap group”:
 I was struck by the emphasis the men . . . placed upon responsibility and volition.
While freely critical of military and political leaders, and of institutions promoting
militarism and war, they invariably came back to the self-judgment that they had,
themselves, entered willingly. . . . They stressed that they had done so . . . for the most
foolish of reasons. But their implication was that they had chosen the military and the
war, rather than the military and the war choosing them. Nor was that self-judgment
totally attributable to residual guilt; rather, it was part of a struggle to deepen and stretch
the reach of the self toward the far limits of autonomy.
 As survivors recognize their own socialized assumptions that rendered them
vulnerable to exploitation in the past, they may also identify sources of continued social
pressure that keep them confined in a victim role in the present. Just as they must
overcome their own fears and inner conflicts, they must also overcome these external
social pressures; otherwise, they will be continually subjected to symbolic repetitions of
the trauma in everyday life. Whereas in the first stage of recovery survivors deal with
social adversity mainly by retreating to a protected environment, in the third stage
survivors may wish to take the initiative in confronting others. It is at this point that
survivors are ready to reveal their secrets, to challenge the indifference or censure of
bystanders, and to accuse those who have abused them.
 Survivors who grew up in abusive families have often cooperated for years with a
family rule of silence. In preserving the family secret, they carry the weight of a burden
that does not belong to them. At this point in their recovery, survivors may choose to
declare to their families that the rule of silence has been irrevocably broken. In so doing,
they renounce the burden of shame, guilt, and responsibility, and place this burden on
the perpetrator, where it properly belongs.
 Family confrontations or disclosures can be highly empowering when they are
properly timed and well planned. They should not be undertaken until the survivor feels
ready to speak the truth as she knows it, without need for confirmation and without fear
of consequences. The power of the disclosure rests in the act of telling the truth; how the
family responds is immaterial. While validation from the family can be gratifying when it
occurs, a disclosure session may be successful even if the family responds with
unyielding denial or fury. In this circumstance the survivor has the opportunity to observe
the family’s behavior and to enlarge her understanding of the pressures she faced as a
child.
 In practice, family disclosures or confrontations require careful preparation and
attention to detail. Because so many family interactions are habitual and taken for
granted, the dynamics of dominance and submission are frequently relived even in
apparently trivial encounters. The survivor should be encouraged to take charge of the
planning of the session and to establish explicit ground rules. For some survivors, it is a
completely novel experience to be the maker of rules rather than the one who
automatically obeys them.
 The survivor should also be clear about her strategy for disclosure, planning in
advance what information she wishes to reveal and to whom she wishes to reveal it.
While some survivors wish to confront their perpetrators, many more wish to disclose the
secret to nonoffending family members. The survivor should be encouraged to consider
first approaching those family members who might be sympathetic, before proceeding to
confront those who might be implacably hostile. Just like self-defense training, direct
involvement in family conflicts often requires a series of graded exercises, in which the
survivor masters one level of fear before choosing to proceed to higher levels of
exposure.
 Finally, the survivor should anticipate and plan for the various possible outcomes
of her disclosure. While she may be clear about the desired outcome, she must be
prepared to accept whatever the outcome may be. A successful disclosure is almost
always followed by both exhilaration and disappointment. On the one hand, the survivor
feels surprised at her own courage and daring. She no longer feels intimidated by her
family or compelled to participate in destructive family relationships. She is no longer
confined by secrecy; she has nothing more to hide. On the other hand, she gains a
clearer sense of her family’s limitations. An incest survivor describes her feelings after
disclosing the secret to her family:
 Initially I felt a sense of success, completion, incredible relief! Then, I began to
feel very sad, deep grief. It was extremely painful and I had no words for what I was
feeling. I found myself crying and crying and not knowing exactly why. This hardly ever
happens to me. I am usually able to have some kind of verbal description to explain my
feelings. This was just raw feeling. Loss, grief, mourning, as if they had died. I felt no
hope, no expectations from them . . . I knew there was nothing unspoken on my part. I
didn’t feel “Oh, if only I had said this or that.” I had said everything I wanted to say in the
way I wanted to say it. I felt very complete about it and was very grateful for the lengthy
planning, rehearsals, strategizing, etc. . . .
 Since then I have felt free. . . . I feel HOPE! I feel like I have a future! I feel
grounded, not like I’m manicky or high. When I’m sad, I’m sad; when I’m angry, I’m
angry. I feel realistic about the bad times and the difficulties I will face, but I know I have
myself. It’s very different. And it’s nothing I ever could imagine, not at all. I always
wanted this freedom and was always fighting to get it. Now it’s no longer a battle—
there’s no one to fight—it’s simply mine.
RECONCILING WITH ONESELF
 This simple statement “I know I have myself” could stand as the emblem of the
third and final stage of recovery. The survivor no longer feels possessed by her traumatic
past; she is in possession of herself. She has some understanding of the person she
used to be and of the damage done to that person by the traumatic event. Her task now
is to become the person she wants to be. In the process she draws upon those aspects
of herself that she most values from the time before the trauma, from the experience of
the trauma itself, and from the period of recovery. Integrating all of these elements, she
creates a new self, both ideally and in actuality.
 The re-creation of an ideal self involves the active exercise of imagination and
fantasy, capacities that have now been liberated. In earlier stages, the survivor’s fantasy
life was dominated by repetitions of the trauma, and her imagination was limited by a
sense of helplessness and futility. Now she has the capacity to revisit old hopes and
dreams. The survivor may initially resist doing so, fearing the pain of disappointment. It
takes courage to move out of the constricted stance of the victim. But just as the survivor
must dare to confront her fears, she must also dare to define her wishes. A guidebook
for formerly battered women who face the task of rebuilding their lives explains how to
recover lost aspirations:
 Now is the time to rise above the sameness of your days and explore the risk of
testing your abilities, the expansive feeling that comes from . . . growth. Perhaps you’ve
been taught that while everyone of course wants all that, it’s just adolescent nonsense to
expect it. Maybe you believe mature people settle down to a dull life and make do with
what they have. It may, indeed, be impractical to recapture and act upon your girlhood
dreams. This may not be the time to go (with or without the children) off to Hollywood to
become a star. But don’t count it, or anything, out until you’ve come up with some good
reasons. . . . If you really “always wanted to act,” don’t go to your grave saying that
regretfully. Get out and join a little theater group.
 The work of therapy often focuses at this point on the development of desire and
initiative. The therapeutic environment allows a protected space in which fantasy can be
given free rein. It is also a testing ground for the translation of fantasy into concrete
action. The self-discipline learned in the early stages of recovery can now be joined to
the survivor’s capacities for imagination and play. This is a period of trial and error, of
learning to tolerate mistakes and to savor unexpected success.
 Gaining possession of oneself often requires repudiating those aspects of the self
that were imposed by the trauma. As the survivor sheds her victim identity, she may also
choose to renounce parts of herself that have felt almost intrinsic to her being. Once
again, this process challenges the survivor’s capacities for both fantasy and discipline.
An incest survivor describes how she embarked on a conscious program to change her
ingrained sexual responses to scenarios of sadomasochism: “I came to the point where I
really understood that they weren’t my fantasies. They’d been imposed on me through
the abuse. And gradually, I began to be able to have orgasms without thinking about the
SM, without picturing my father doing something to me. Once I separated the fantasy
from the feeling, I’d consciously impose other powerful images on that feeling—like
seeing a waterfall. If they can put SM on you, you can put waterfalls there instead. I
reprogrammed myself.”
 While the survivor becomes more adventurous in the world during this period, her
life at the same time becomes more ordinary. As she reconnects with herself, she feels
calmer and better able to face her life with equanimity. At times, this peaceable day-today existence may feel strange, especially to survivors who have been raised in a
traumatic environment and are experiencing normality for the first time. Whereas in the
past survivors often imagined that ordinary life would be boring, now they are bored with
the life of a victim and ready to find ordinary life interesting. A survivor of childhood
sexual abuse testifies to this change: “I’m an intensity junkie. I feel a letdown whenever I
come to the end of a particular cycle of intensity. What am I going to cry and throw
scenes about now? . . . I see it as almost a chemical addiction. I became addicted to my
own sense of drama and adrenaline. Letting go of the need for intensity has been a
process of slowly weaning myself. I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve actually experienced
bits of plain contentment.”
 As survivors recognize and “let go” of those aspects of themselves that were
formed by the traumatic environment, they also become more forgiving of themselves.
They are more willing to acknowledge the damage done to their character when they no
longer feel that such damage must be permanent. The more actively survivors are able
to engage in rebuilding their lives, the more generous and accepting they can be toward
the memory of the traumatized self. Linda Lovelace reflects on the ordeal of being
coerced into her career as a pornographic movie star: “I’m not so hard on myself these
days. Maybe it’s because I’m so busy taking care of a three-year-old son, a husband, a
house, and two cats. I look back at Linda Lovelace and I understand her; I know why she
did what she did. It was because she felt it was better to live than to die.”
 At this point also the survivor can sometimes identify positive aspects of the self
that were forged in the traumatic experience, even while recognizing that any gain was
achieved at far too great a price. From a position of increased power in her present life,
the survivor comes to a deeper recognition of her powerlessness in the traumatic
situation and thus to a greater appreciation of her own adaptive resources. For example,
a survivor who used dissociation to cope with terror and helplessness may begin to
marvel at this extraordinary capacity of the mind. Though she developed this capacity as
a prisoner and may have become imprisoned by it as well, once she is free, she may
even learn to use her trance capability to enrich her present life rather than to escape
from it.
 Compassion and respect for the traumatized, victim self join with a celebration of
the survivor self. As this stage of recovery is achieved, the survivor often feels a sense of
renewed pride. This healthy admiration of the self differs from the grandiose feeling of
specialness sometimes found in victimized people. The victim’s specialness
compensates for self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness. Always brittle, it admits of
no imperfection. Moreover, the victim’s specialness carries with it a feeling of difference
and isolation from others. By contrast, the survivor remains fully aware of her
ordinariness, her weaknesses, and her limitations, as well as her connection and
indebtedness to others. This awareness provides a balance, even as she rejoices in her
strengths. A woman who survived both childhood abuse and battering in adulthood
expresses her appreciation to the staff at a women’s shelter: “Now I can thank myself too
because you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make her drink. I was mighty damn
thirsty and you showed me the way to the water . . . the wellspring of living water within
as well as without . . . a resource I can draw on any time. And sisters, I drank and drank
and I’m not through drinking yet. I feel so lucky. I’ve been given so much love and
healing and I’m learning how to pass it on. . . . Hey take a look at me now. Ain’t I
something!”
RECONNECTING WITH OTHERS
 By the third stage of recovery, the survivor has regained some capacity for
appropriate trust. She can once again feel trust in others when that trust is warranted,
she can withhold her trust when it is not warranted, and she knows how to distinguish
between the two situations. She has also regained the ability to feel autonomous while
remaining connected to others; she can maintain her own point of view and her own
boundaries while respecting those of others. She has begun to take more initiative in her
life and is in the process of creating a new identity. With others, she is now ready to risk
deepening her relationships. With peers, she can now seek mutual friendships that are
not based on performance, image, or maintenance of a false self. With lovers and family,
she is now ready for greater intimacy.
 The deepening of connection is also apparent within the therapeutic relationship.
The therapeutic alliance now feels less intense, but more relaxed and secure. There is
room for more spontaneity and humor. Crises and disruptions are infrequent, with more
continuity between sessions. The patient has a greater capacity for self-observation and
a greater tolerance for inner conflict. With this changed appreciation of herself comes a
changed appreciation of the therapist. The patient may idealize the therapist less but like
her more; she is more forgiving of the therapist’s limitations as well as her own. The work
comes to feel more like ordinary psychotherapy.
 Because the survivor is focusing on issues of identity and intimacy, she often
feels at this stage as though she is in a second adolescence. The survivor who has
grown up in an abusive environment has in fact been denied a first adolescence and
often lacks the social skills that normally develop during this stage of life. The
awkwardness and self-consciousness that make normal adolescence tumultuous and
painful are often magnified in adult survivors, who may be exquisitely ashamed of their
“backwardness” in skills that other adults take for granted. Adolescent styles of coping
may also be prominent at this time. Just as adolescents giggle in order to ward off their
embarrassment, adult survivors may find in laughter an antidote to their shame. Just as
adolescents band together in tight friendships in order to risk exploring a wider world,
survivors may find themselves developing intense new loyalties as they rebuild their
lives. A mother of two children created such a bond in the renewal of an old friendship
after she had escaped from her battering husband: “My girlfriend from Utah moved here.
Hot mama one and two! . . . We’re like teenagers sometimes. Somebody said we’re like
primates picking out fleas, and we are. We give each other that kind of attention. She’s
the only one I’d do without for.”
 As the trauma recedes into the past, it no longer represents a barrier to intimacy.
At this point, the survivor may be ready to devote her energy more fully to a relationship
with a partner. If she has not been involved in an intimate relationship, she may begin to
consider the possibility without feeling either dread or desperate need. If she has been
involved with a partner during the recovery process, she often becomes much more
aware of the ways in which her partner suffered from her preoccupation with the trauma.
At this point she can express her gratitude more freely and make amends when
necessary.
 Sexual intimacy presents a particular barrier for survivors of sexual trauma. The
physiological processes of arousal and orgasm may be compromised by intrusive
traumatic memories; sexual feelings and fantasies may be similarly invaded by
reminders of the trauma. Reclaiming one’s own capacity for sexual pleasure is a
complicated matter; working it out with a partner is more complicated still. Treatment
techniques for posttraumatic sexual dysfunction are all predicated upon enhancing the
survivor’s control over every aspect of her sexual life. This is most readily accomplished
at first in sexual activities without a partner. Including a partner requires a high degree of
cooperation, commitment, and self-discipline from both parties. A self-help manual for
survivors of childhood sexual abuse suggests “safe-sex guidelines” for exploring sexual
intimacy, instructing partners to define, for themselves and for each other, activities that
predictably trigger traumatic memories and those that do not, and only gradually to
enlarge their exploration to areas that are “possibly safe.”
 Finally, the deepening of intimacy brings the survivor into connection with the
next generation. Concern for the next generation is always linked to the question of
prevention. The survivor’s overriding fear is a repetition of the trauma; her goal is to
prevent a repetition at all costs. “Never again!” is the survivor’s universal cry. In earlier
stages of recovery the survivor often avoids the unbearable thought of repetition by
shunning involvement with children. Or if the survivor is a parent, she may oscillate
between withdrawal and overprotectiveness with her children, just as she oscillates
between extremes in her other relationships.
 In the third stage of recovery, as the survivor comes to terms with the meaning of
the trauma in her own life, she may also become more open to new forms of
engagement with children. If the survivor is a parent, she may come to recognize ways
in which the trauma experience has indirectly affected her children, and she may take
steps to rectify the situation. If she does not have children, she may begin to take a new
and broader interest in young people. She may even wish for the first time to bring
children into the world.
 Also for the first time the survivor may consider how best to share the trauma
story with children, in a manner that is neither secretive nor imposing, and how to draw
lessons from this story that will protect children from future dangers. The trauma story is
part of the survivor’s legacy; only when it is fully integrated can the survivor pass it on, in
confidence that it will prove a source of strength and inspiration rather than a blight on
the next generation. Michael Norman captures the image of survivorship as a legacy in
describing the baptism of his newborn son, with his Vietnam War combat buddy, Craig,
serving as godfather: “Standing in a crowded room watching Craig cradle the baby in his
arms, I suddenly realized that there was more to the moment than even I had intended,
for what was truly taking place . . . went well beyond the offering of a holy sacrament or
the consecration of a private pact. In the middle of the ritual, I was overcome with a
sense . . . of winning! . . . Here, at last, was victory worth having—my son in the arms of
my comrade.”
FINDING A SURVIVOR MISSION
 Most survivors seek the resolution of their traumatic experience within the
confines of their personal lives. But a significant minority, as a result of the trauma, feel
called upon to engage in a wider world. These survivors recognize a political or religious
dimension in their misfortune and discover that they can transform the meaning of their
personal tragedy by making it the basis for social action. While there is no way to
compensate for an atrocity, there is a way to transcend it, by making it a gift to others.
The trauma is redeemed only when it becomes the source of a survivor mission.
 Social action offers the survivor a source of power that draws upon her own
initiative, energy, and resourcefulness but that magnifies these qualities far beyond her
own capacities. It offers her an alliance with others based on cooperation and shared
purpose. Participation in organized, demanding social efforts calls upon the survivor’s
most mature and adaptive coping strategies of patience, anticipation, altruism, and
humor. It brings out the best in her; in return, the survivor gains the sense of connection
with the best in other people. In this sense of reciprocal connection, the survivor can
transcend the boundaries of her particular time and place. At times the survivor may
even attain a feeling of participation in an order of creation that transcends ordinary
reality. Natan Sharansky, a prisoner of conscience, describes this spiritual dimension of
his survivor mission:
 Back in Lefortovo [prison], Socrates and Don Quixote, Ulysses and Gargantua,
Oedipus and Hamlet, had rushed to my aid. I felt a spiritual bond with these figures; their
struggles reverberated with my own, their laughter with mine. They accompanied me
through prisons and camps, through cells and transports. At some point I began to feel a
curious reverse connection: not only was it important to me how these characters
behaved in various circumstances, but it was also important to them, who had been
created many centuries ago, to know how I was acting today. And just as they had
influenced the conduct of individuals in many lands and over many centuries, so I, too,
with my decisions and choices had the power to inspire or disenchant those who had
existed in the past as well as those who would come in the future. This mystical feeling
of the interconnection of human souls was forged in the gloomy prison-camp world when
our zeks’ solidarity was the one weapon we had to oppose the world of evil.
 Social action can take many forms, from concrete engagement with particular
individuals to abstract intellectual pursuits. Survivors may focus their energies on helping
others who have been similarly victimized, on educational, legal, or political efforts to
prevent others from being victimized in the future, or on attempts to bring offenders to
justice. Common to all these efforts is a dedication to raising public awareness.
Survivors understand full well that the natural human response to horrible events is to
put them out of mind. They may have done this themselves in the past. Survivors also
understand that those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. It is for this
reason that public truth-telling is the common denominator of all social action.
 Survivors undertake to speak about the unspeakable in public in the belief that
this will help others. In so doing, they feel connected to a power larger than themselves.
A graduate of an incest survivors’ group describes how she felt after members of her
group presented an educational program on sexual abuse for child protective workers:
“That we could come to this point and do this at all is a miracle of major proportions. The
power we all felt at reaching 40 people at once, each of whom will touch the lives of 40
children, was so exhilarating. It almost overcame the fear.” Sarah Buel, once a battered
woman and now a district attorney in charge of domestic violence prosecutions,
describes the central importance of her own story as a gift to others: “I want women to
have some sense of hope, because I can just remember how terrifying it was not to have
any hope—the days I felt there was no way out. I feel very much like that’s part of my
mission, part of why God didn’t allow me to die in that marriage, so that I could talk
openly and publicly—and it’s taken me so many years to be able to do it—about having
been battered.”
 Although giving to others is the essence of the survivor mission, those who
practice it recognize that they do so for their own healing. In taking care of others,
survivors feel recognized, loved, and cared for themselves. Ken Smith, a Vietnam
veteran who is now the director of a model shelter and rehabilitation program for
homeless veterans, describes the sense of “interconnection of human souls” that
sustains and inspires his work:
 There are times when I am completely at odds with what I do here, because I am
not by any shake of a stick any kind of a leader. Whenever the responsibility becomes
heavy, I appeal to my brothers, and whatever the big heavy issue is at the moment,
miraculously some form of solution is developed—most times not by me. If you follow it
back, it’s someone who has been touched by Vietnam. I pretty much count on it now.
That is the commonality of the experience, that thousands, hundreds of thousands, even
millions of people were touched by this. Whether you’re a Vietnam vet or an antiwar
protester, it doesn’t matter. This is about being an American, this is about what you learn
in a fourth-grade civics class, this is about taking care of our own, this is about my
brother. This feels very personal to me. That feeling of isolation, it’s gone. I’m so
connected into it, it’s therapeutic to me.”
 The survivor mission may also take the form of pursuing justice. In the third stage
of recovery, the survivor comes to understand the issues of principle that transcend her
personal grievance against the perpetrator. She recognizes that the trauma cannot be
undone and that her wishes for compensation or revenge can never be truly fulfilled. She
also recognizes, however, that holding the perpetrator accountable for his crimes is important not only for her personal well-being but also for the health of the larger society.
She rediscovers an abstract principle of social justice that connects the fate of others to
her own. When a crime has been committed, in the words of Hannah Arendt, “The
wrongdoer is brought to justice because his act has disturbed and gravely endangered
the community as a whole. . . . It is the body politic itself that stands in need of being
repaired, and it is the general public order that has been thrown out of gear and must be
restored. . . . It is, in other words, the law, not the plaintiff, that must prevail.”
 Recognizing the impersonality of law, the survivor is to some degree relieved of
the personal burden of battle. It is the law, not she, that must prevail. By making a public
complaint or accusation, the survivor defies the perpetrator’s attempt to silence and
isolate her, and she opens the possibility of finding new allies. When others bear witness
to the testimony of a crime, others share the responsibility for restoring justice.
Furthermore, the survivor may come to understand her own legal battle as a contribution
to a larger struggle, in which her actions may benefit others as well as herself. Sharon
Simone, who with her three sisters filed suit for damages against her father for the crime
of incest, describes the sense of connection with another child victim that spurred her to
take action:
 I read about a case in the newspaper. A man had admitted he raped a little girl
twice. The child was brought to the sentencing hearing because the therapist thought it
would be good for her to see the man led away; she would see that crimes do get
punished. Instead, the judge allowed a parade of character witnesses. He said there
really are two victims in this courtroom. I thought I was going to go berserk with the
injustice. . . . That was such a turning point. The rage and the sense of holding someone
accountable. I saw that it was a necessary thing. It wasn’t that I needed a confession. I
needed to do the action of holding someone accountable. I wanted to break the denial
and the pretense. So I said, I will join that lawsuit. I’ll do it for that little girl. I’ll do it for my
brothers and sisters. And I think a little voice said, “You should also do it for you.”
 The sense of participation in meaningful social action enables the survivor to
engage in legal battle with the perpetrator from a position of strength. As in the case of
private, family confrontations, the survivor draws power from her ability to stand up in
public and speak the truth without fear of the consequences. She knows that truth is
what the perpetrator most fears. The survivor also gains satisfaction from the public
exercise of power in the service of herself and others. Buel describes her feeling of
triumph in advocating for battered women: “I love court. There’s some adrenaline rush
about court. It feels so wonderful to have learned enough about the law and to care
enough about this woman so I know the facts cold. It feels wonderful to walk into court
and the judge has to listen to me. That’s exactly what I’ve wanted to do for fourteen
years: to force the system to treat women respectfully. To make this system that
victimized . . . so many women work for us, not being mean or corrupt about it, but
playing by their rules and making it work: there’s a sense of power.”
 The survivor who undertakes public action also needs to come to terms with the
fact that not every battle will be won. Her particular battle becomes part of a larger,
ongoing struggle to impose the rule of law on the arbitrary tyranny of the strong. This
sense of participation is sometimes all that she has to sustain her. The sense of alliance
with others who support her and believe in her cause can console her even in defeat. A
rape survivor reports on the benefit of standing up in court: “I was raped by a neighbor,
who got into my house on the pretext of helping me out. I went to the police and pressed
charges, and I went to court twice. I had a rape crisis counselor, and the district
attorneys were really nice and helpful, and they all believed me. The first time there was
a hung jury, and the second time he was acquitted. I was disappointed in the verdict, but
I can’t control that. It didn’t ruin my life. Going through the court was a kind of catharsis. I
did everything I could to protect myself and stand up for myself, so it didn’t fester.”
 The survivor who elects to engage in public battle cannot afford to delude herself
about the inevitability of victory. She must be secure in the knowledge that simply in her
willingness to confront the perpetrator she has overcome one of the most terrible
consequences of the trauma. She has let him know he cannot rule her by fear, and she
has exposed his crime to others. Her recovery is based not on the illusion that evil has
been overcome, but rather on the knowledge that it has not entirely prevailed and on the
hope that restorative love may still be found in the world.
RESOLVING THE TRAUMA
 Resolution of the trauma is never final; recovery is never complete. The impact of
a traumatic event continues to reverberate throughout the survivor’s lifecycle. Issues that
were sufficiently resolved at one stage of recovery may be reawakened as the survivor
reaches new milestones in her development. Marriage or divorce, a birth or death in the
family, illness or retirement, are frequent occasions for a resurgence of traumatic
memories. For example, as the fighters and refugees of the Second World War
encounter the losses of old age, they experience a revival of post-traumatic symptoms. A
survivor of childhood abuse who has resolved her trauma sufficiently to work and love
may suffer a return of symptoms when she marries, or when she has her first child, or
when her child reaches the same age that she was when the abuse began. A survivor of
severe childhood abuse, who returned to treatment several years after completing a
successful course of psychotherapy, describes how her symptoms came back when her
toddler son began to defy her, “Everything was going so well until the baby reached the
‘terrible twos.’ He had been such an easy baby; now all of a sudden he was giving me a
hard time. I couldn’t cope with his tantrums. I felt like beating him until he shut up. I had
a vivid image of smothering him with a pillow till he stopped moving. I know now what my
mother did to me. And I know what I could have done to my child if I hadn’t gotten help.”
 This patient was humiliated by her need to return to psychotherapy. She feared
that the return of symptoms meant her earlier therapy had been a failure and proved she
was “incurable.” To avert such needless disappointment and humiliation, patients should
be advised as they complete a course of treatment that post-traumatic symptoms are
likely to recur under stress. As therapy nears its end, it is useful for patient and therapist
together to review the basic principles of empowerment and affiliation that fostered
recovery. These same principles can be applied to preventing relapses or to coping with
whatever relapses may occur. The patient should not be led to expect that any treatment
is absolute or final. When a course of treatment comes to its natural conclusion, the door
should be left open for the possibility of a return at some point in the future.
Though resolution is never complete, it is often sufficient for the survivor to turn her
attention from the tasks of recovery to the tasks of ordinary life. The best indices of
resolution are the survivor’s restored capacity to take pleasure in her life and to engage
fully in relationships with others. She has become more interested in the present and the
future than in the past, more apt to approach the world with praise and awe than with
fear. Richard Rhodes, a survivor of severe childhood abuse, describes the feeling of
resolution achieved after many decades: “It was time at last to write this book—to tell my
orphan’s story, as all orphans do; to introduce you to my child. There was a child went
forth. He’d hidden in the basement all those years. The war’s over and my child has
come up from the basement to blink in the sunlight. To play. I’m amazed and grateful that
he never forgot how to play.”
 The psychologist Mary Harvey defines seven criteria for the resolution of trauma.
First, the physiological symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder have been brought
within manageable limits. Second, the person is able to bear the feelings associated with
traumatic memories. Third, the person has authority over her memories: she can elect
both to remember the trauma and to put memory aside. Fourth, the memory of the traumatic event is a coherent narrative, linked with feeling. Fifth, the person’s damaged selfesteem has been restored. Sixth, the person’s important relationships have been
reestablished. Seventh and finally, the person has reconstructed a coherent system of
meaning and belief that encompasses the story of the trauma. In practice, all of these
issues are interconnected, and all are addressed at every stage of recovery. The course
of recovery does not follow a simple progression but often detours and doubles back,
reviewing issues that have already been addressed many times in order to deepen and
expand the survivor’s integration of the meaning of her experience.
 The survivor who has accomplished her recovery faces life with few illusions but
often with gratitude. Her view of life may be tragic, but for that very reason she has
learned to cherish laughter. She has a clear sense of what is important and what is not.
Having encountered evil, she knows how to cling to what is good. Having encountered
the fear of death, she knows how to celebrate life. Sylvia Fraser, after many years spent
unearthing childhood memories of incest, reflects on her recovery:
 In retrospect, I feel about my life the way some people feel about war. If you
survive, then it becomes a good war. Danger makes you active, it makes you alert, it
forces you to experience and thus to learn. I know now the cost of my life, the real price
that has been paid. Contact with inner pain has immunized me against most petty hurts.
Hopes I still have in abundance, but very few needs. My pride of intellect has been
shattered. If I didn’t know about half my own life, what other knowledge can I trust? Yet
even here I see a gift, for in place of my narrow, pragmatic world of cause and effect. . ..
I have burst into an infinite world full of wonder.”