nccotus

on my years leave of absence back at my parents’ home in New Hersey, I tried to express shame over my experience as president of the Advocate. My mother’s reaction to this was to call me arrogant. This response set me at odds with myself in a way I didn’t know how to help.

I got a similar reaction from the PhD. Psychologist I was seeing in town. She didn’t have a clue about Harvard and deemed me a spoiled brat for my issues there. Obviously not saying so. She said “Talk to me about your mother.” She called her “loopy.” Obviously I caught hell for that. Yes, I told her.

I finally realized about a week ago that I was not meant to control and enjoy that time off from college. I left voluntarily but then received a letter stating that the leave was required. There was a lot that was mixed up and I never got my head around it at the time. The main thing was that this psychologist set me on a course of self -psychoanalysis through living out a fantasy based on the book, “August,” which was popular at that time. Somehow this was right for me and my takeaway from that crazy year: then, I ended up in the care of an ace, real psychoanalyst in Harvard Square when I returned to Cambridge, Mass., not knowing what else to do. So, my life comes down as precisely 41 years of psychoanalysis winding up as we speak. In the meantime I was also living it—my life.

this satisfies my battle with Sally. That bitch used her clout as a dean’s daughter to trounce me out of care at the undergraduate MH services when I needed the help just as much as she did. I had already met with a kind, older gentleman psychiatrist there who deemed me “needy” and recommended psychoanalysis. Before the Senior Tutor marched me over there on the suspicion that I was suicidal—which I was not.

So I went home to New Jersey and got care there that was supposed to provide an answer to the Advocate but drove me to manic psychosis instead. I am not a manic depressive but I have had attacks of manic-like anxiety a few times in my life when under extreme duress. I did wind up becoming suicidal and lived out the rest of my life that way until recent years, although I pushed it to the back burner in order to become a mother.

(at this time, with all the ill-administered drugs and the PTSD of 41 years, I have sheer hysteria cleared only by Clozaril). It is a sad, sad situation. If I stop the Clozaril, I move quickly into “death work” and presume that I am dying,)

so I don’t know whether to share all this but “the truth is always better than a lie.” (That’s me quoting me.)

Somewhere inside all of this it’s all about the Advocate; but inside that it’s all about Ian—my son, of course. All of it was about my mother blocking me from my real abilities and emotions and lack thereof where that was the case, I was a special needs daughter myself who never got the time of day in that regard. She used this to gain control of Ian and ride ripshod on us down all these years.

Johns Hopkins University Hospital psych ward cut her carte blanche to do this way back in 1994 just after he was born. It was dangerous and devastating and there was no way back from what they did to our small family. Leaning on the Advocate over the years was one of the things I did to cope.