that was the real me back in late high school when–after the incident with my father which i tevealrd in my last post–i started interacting with young men my own age.
That was the silver lining to that cloud.
urageme t
Only, that didnt get settled that way as it should have.e rhstus issusees. And i was getting a lot if enco
in other words it wasnt that serious at all, it was if f-ing up at a little bit of a shock to my sustem. I mean, he didnt rad a writing carepwas having trouble with e me or anything; and I was almost an adult. Harvard
the real trouble there was my mother. My fathere therapist told her, snd she flipped. She literally made a psychofherapeutical mess out of an emotional molehill, which was malpractice. And i’ve been chasing after it ever since. Through my motherteered. For FORTY ysYEARS.
What my mother and Dr, SHRENSEL PhD and the women and men so satisfied with this spoiled brat didnt know was that i was in deep trouble with a class of people that they didnt even know of and that I NEEFED HELP.
I always try to make the analogy of the broken leg. I had been told I needed psychoanalysis and i probably did. And the therapist was trying to provide that in some ridiculous ways. But i also had serious and critical situational issues of f’ing up as a supposed student leader at Harvard which was bullshit and i didnt want to be because i couldnt. I was not able. I was trying to be a writer and was having trouble wirh it. That was my stated intent before matriculating– to pursue an interest in writing. And this had been destroyed. By people who i was being forc we’d d to help by filling a pisirion they needed filled and there was noway out for me.
it all gets crazy after that. I never recovered. I lost my writing. I even lost my math. I couldnt write a check. I couldnt do simple arithmetic. ET CET ERA
Un.Bon.Mot 