The wise screenwriter compared my Mother’s Day 2021 experience to Carl Jung’s The Red Book.
“Did The Red Book taint,” he said, “the reputation of Carl Jung?”
“No,” I said, having just gotten out of the hospital.
“No,” he said without emotion.
“It didn’t. Did you have to put yourself through that? No, but you were repressed for a long time…”
At least, I had him, because he was right. He knew that. He came from a prominent psychology family, and he had the most intimate view of my internal world as I began writing about my life in March 2020 and made a lot of discoveries. He had to tell me the topic sentence of my life because it had not landed. “The topic sentence is…my mother gave me away to a total stranger when I was four…” to begin.
It was a rough day when it did; I saw columns falling.
Mother’s Day 2021 was the last leg of a psychological process and I would continue to process that. I didn’t have someone else to call except the wise screenwriter and his brother “the genius hypnotherapist.” Together, they were the wise men. I would struggle through some terms: neglect, for one. I didn’t know that it was a form of abuse, and I also didn’t know what to do with the fact that I didn’t know that, because I probably would have told someone else the same thing. The wise men both told me that it was a serious form of abuse. Yes, very serious. Even my Neapolitans cousins, though, some of them, would not know what to do with that term. I read later that it was one of the most common forms of abuse.
I spent four years in another house on Miracle Mile. My father didn’t pick me up for four years, more or less, playing into some reality about him being a child molester that he didn’t know was happening. I was instructed to play falsely, even if I had a little friend, and put on a show for my father who could not cross the threshold. My mother never came over practically, she didn’t ask to speak to me on the phone. She came over a couple times, drunk and drugged, and put on an aria of ignoring me. You can’t really rationalize insanity, except I had started putting things together in a new way, and it terrified me just considering the accusations brought against my father and the wild, unhinged person that my mother was. I was four when I left home. Coming out of these four years, my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s…and did not tell anybody. Ten years later, I would find out about that, but it was Alzheimer’s now. I had three surrogate families that were in my life. Each blew up and broke apart for different reasons, though my current mother and sister remained intact.
Leading up to Mother’s Day, I had gotten a couple of weird messages. On Instagram, it sounded like my mother, in disguise, or that’s where I went to first, but in my mind’s eye, I saw someone else. I figured that I was associating. Then, I got a couple of Facebook messages from her cousins because I was on the cover of a magazine. I never talked to them before, so I just started blocking these. It was the first time I even thought of it. I never heard from my mother practically in my life, and now, I was hearing from her indirectly over a magazine cover? But I had already gone on quite a journey to reopen my childhood and heal on a fundamental level in March 2020.
A year later, architecturally, I received a final blow. By architecturally, I’m talking in terms of psychology. I received a message through my website at five AM, which kicked it off. It was in all CAPS that my actual bank was going to be shut down. I received this message physically in my gut and I felt a block of stone move and hit another…it was shocking, just the physical nature of it. It was like a direct hit. I had been exchanging about a return of investment the night before. You could call it perfect timing because I had never received a message, practically ever, through my website, and I never did again. I would get one more once I published a story, but that’s it. At the time, I was getting up at four AM, every night, for a while, because I was up a lot at that hour at four years old, and it was an hour that had reopened at a certain point as a lot was resurfacing.
Plus, I was living in the most expensive place I had ever lived in, so it put a lot of pressure on me. I was going through a total shift in perspective. I will call the two people I briefly exchanged with “the money men.” Two symbols. When it comes to hallucinations, it’s not literal, I understand that. What’s the most important are the feeling-states that they contain, and they are not inutile. And these would be the most painful and unbelievable surrounding eating (and was I properly fed at four) and the accusations that were brought against my father. The two money men—yes, sex got involved, you see, and I could never figure out why that situation had hit me as deeply as it did. The two months leading up to my day in the hospital was the strangest and most painful time in my life…but then, I was repressed for a long time. I had initiated a therapeutic event through that, because I had to direct it. When I started communicating, the health care professionals did not inquire into how the stories I was telling related to my actual story. “Are you saying that you might have experienced abuse?” It’s what my stories implied, so I was even more confused. There wasn’t any talk about what was going on in my body. I was in hell, that’s where I was. All I did was miss a phone appointment the Monday after Mother’s Day, but if someone is saying that maybe they were abused by both their parents, you could start with “I believe you.” The health care professionals came over with the police…I didn’t know that I could say no.
It was the day after Mother’s Day.
I was in Bellevue mental ward for one day, two nights, but I got there in the afternoon…it took them time to decide what to do with me. I didn’t know I was 93 pounds. Anyway, they had to test me for COVID, so I had to go into the emergency unit because no one was there, basically. It was already close to dark by the time I took the very very very last room at the end of the hall…took a shower and did a little yoga—stretching. I did it right in front of their cameras. I mean, I was going through a lot, and I was here. Coming from the home that I did, I was also in the system I questioned the most, but I was also learning since I had never been in a mental ward before. I asked for books because I was curious as to what they would have. I exited and apologized to the staff for being maybe a little upset, or something, I wasn’t sure, or not cordial, but I didn’t really understand why I was there. I introduced myself. I would be at the end of the hall. They wanted me to go into the big room, no no no. Due to my past, my sensitivities, all that, no. No one was here. If they need the room, I will be more than happy to leave it….and I left with a pep in my step…
It was Jurassic Park and The Egoist. It’s all I needed to remember.
It was a multi-dimensional event. I was going through a large hallucinatory experience, but it’s a terrain that I’m particularly adept at navigating through, because I could also recognize a path out. To give you an overall sense of the scope. My whole family structure, which was somewhat large. There were characters that were born from the real people who helped me—transformation—through. Transformation is an important point. There were guide characters. One was “Presence.” That would be later. There were also fictions being born, as I am a writer, where I could put these feelings into. Because this event could have gone a few different ways, was I also seeing potential outcomes? It helped me to steer. There were different spaces. My parents were a bit of their own particular thing. I didn’t know what the truth was at that point. The 5 AM message, the people around that had scared me further. It’s not to say I myself responded well. It’s just that no one asked me why I was so scared. I had such a physical experience of it, and what it brought to the surface was terrifying, and I couldn’t even admit any of it because it was irrational that “the money men” would send me a stupid message. It was more the symbols—two—and the feeling-states they contained. I was going through sensations. My hypnotherapist friend said that I was finding form for my feelings. I was also thinking about healing on a larger scale, too.
I had taken Hades with me. It’s a good idea, because I was going through hell, and it’s not necessarily what Hades is, but call it an area, a terrain, and a real experience. I was there. I didn’t want to deal with any of it…in the two months leading up to this. I was trying to write my way through it, and I decided to “go into the underworld” since I was writing about Naples, and “the entrance to the underworld” is just over there. And a Native American, one of my main guides, had told me that storytelling was a form of medicine. I reached for my mythology, which is a guide. I was confronting my parents in The Aeneid sense. In thinking about Jung, too, since he went into the collective, at least, Hades, that concept, would fit in my mind too. So I was anchoring myself in thousands of years. I had to find Hades…just trying to write my way through this. He appeared…I didn’t exactly plan it…I was thinking…for a trip such as this…Hades would be necessary, no, to lead me out. As a story, it inspired me too. I thought I was at the end of my story, just to say, at my mother’s office above a luxury car dealership in Beverly Hills. I went to confront her at the end of my twenties with my ex-brother who, unfortunately, exhibited similar behavior as she did. It was the end of our relationship but he stood up for me…to her escort…the man who came out of nowhere at the end of these four years I spent in another house…and saved her because she was a genius. A fight was tittering, a little, between my ex-brother and the escort. We got in the elevator, and Hades appeared in his place. I was going through such panic…and it was my lucky day, according to him. And yes, we were above a luxury car dealership. I was getting out, and no, I wasn’t there yet. He was a statesman. I realized as we made a right in a sportscar that I was a straight shot from my house—twenty minutes. Was I fed? Properly? And yeah, I experienced an ego death, or something like this, and I would go through some realizations just not knowing what to do with what I had gone through over the past couple of months. I came from a web of lies, too. My mother was a pathological liar. My father was sick. There was the story of him being a child molester, and my mother was sexually quite loose and unhinged, even. It’s just to say. In my body, I had felt so many much I had just no idea what to do with. I had hung onto the lie that he was very tightly, and I could have called someone to say, I just don’t know anymore…but that was not what I did. Too many people, too many families.
We went through “the exit” through the ego death, if you’d like to call it that, that was happening…the way out…and we would run this exit again and again especially when the sensations got extremely hard. “I have seen Gods die to become ordinary men and I have seen ordinary men die to become extraordinary men.” A four-year-old child, innocence, that would also be Hades’ domain, I think. We’re talking the underworld—a vast place. Hades, he could make me laugh, and it helped. Just looking at the construction. This place, a mental ward. Reform was definitely on his mind. And sure, a mental hospital…just seeing Hades standing there helped. A clown…Hades got the picture…and this symbol kept me on a line. I had lost all trust, but I was also coming alive—as I would be going through realizations in there. I was not breaking down in a sense, though yes, it was a whole way of life, of course it was. I was emerging.
I had never had a history of issues such as these…I never have been on any prescription medication. And they didn’t give me anything, and they didn’t try.
The Oracle of Cuma was also there, a dual image, man and woman. She had said that I was going to have to walk the line between all these realities. That was the mythological thread. At that point, Hades was the focus along with another. It relieved the sensations I was going through. Everybody else was unclear. He was immovable, he did not turn against me, if you would. A God, in my mind, wouldn’t. I get the stories, you know, the drama of nature and Man. All the same, Hades was leading me out. That was his function. He believed in me.
Hades could not help that the metaphor was real…about my early childhood. I came from a crazy house. I had to admit to myself right away, because the sooner I did, the sooner I would be out. It was my deepest-seed expectation. I wouldn’t be here. I did it. So, okay, I didn’t really have parents, in my case. In my grippy socks, I just admitted it to myself with Hades.
When I got transferred, I didn’t need the chair, but anything I said could be taken as—I was being uncooperative—hey, no problem. So, I was learning also about their experience. How they were talking to me without any clue. I had Jurassic Park and The Egoist. At least, I got some basic tests. All good. And here we go—this is it. My mind was blown, for sure, but I was there. I knew where I was. Never been there—but I was meant to maybe go through on some level. And yes, lessons, too. Hades would say it was part of the course.
I got weighed. I would come to understand how thin I was. She would pass a comment about eating a cookie, and I felt that, so I visibly showed her that her comment hurt me. She had projected onto me. Not the worst one. I had pinned up my “crazy curly hair” first thing. Not in this place. So I was slicked back. I said that a cookie is not nutrition. Which it is. I might have apologized. Do you have anything else? I understand you’re just doing your job. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Yes, I’ll take it. It wasn’t totally easy to eat. You might want to call someone who does soup or something like this. I don’t know for anyone else, but my experience was rather physical. Eating was a whole ordeal, it turned out. Again, there were many characters, I had nothing but help.
I’ll begin with the escort because he ended up being a solid character that emerged. It’s not a man with a black-and-white approach, so regardless, he could stand in it. Even as "a secret spy,” he was not threatened by me. It was the story that was told to me by my mother, and I had no clue what she did, and he said that he used to work for the government and he didn’t want to discuss it. That’s all. He came from a country that had gone through quite a lot. He was more present before I got here. I think, had he known of the stories told about my father, he would have responded differently. But it was too nuts, at that point. I’m speaking about these weird four years that I was living in this other house. Who knows what my mother said to him, but this other mother decided that he wasn’t a child molester…as far as I know…and the escort would be someone I could say that to plainly. And this other mother was trying to get her money. Not leading with….this child….um, it’s what she told me. All the same, my mother had disappeared. She was a total wreck. He knows, probably, of the types of stories she might have told. I just don’t know what to say beyond that. My mother alone needed help. It was not easy. Even her drugs. Which he knows. I didn’t. The alcohol yes, and what can I say? He didn’t sit me down and question all of this. He didn’t assess it with professionals. I have no clue where he came from. It was just over. Plugged the effing plug. It’s just that her sense of boundaries was a problem. Right…but I don’t “fear” him, though I did fear “the stories” about his secret spy….narrative.
Someone I know is writing about “the spy narrative” in a fictional conceit that was semi-inspired by this event. The escort is actually much more interesting. Even if he was…one of these types of characters…and how do I know? I mean, sure, but in this context, he wouldn’t have to do anything. He’s not wasting his time and resources chasing after some girl with a book. It would be a personal call. And I am not stupid, which he also knows. Negotiating with him was at least, you know, something that I could do. He’s not against me. He would just settle it.
I know, right?
I was blamed, if you would, and? Do you need to know everything? Interesting. I would handle things—appropriately.
I know. It’s so final. He ended up being an ally in a sense regardless of the role he might play in a story. I would have to write it. It’s about my parents, my family structure, and the choices I made, and that would not be his problem. I know. You cannot necessarily trust my mother. (Forget Alzheimer’s yet). But this theme, the sexual abuse, was still a theme…And the way it can totally be a blind spot. But then, it seemed like he did believe her. That’s sort of what I mean about characters being born, right? No matter what, they were on my side. In the architecture of a fictional conceit in which “Maria” is trying to protect her book to not expose the spies—over. Please. And what a friend…even that, no? It’s okay, she’s a screenwriter. She did it for him. It’s not that I don’t support her, obviously, it’s just thinking about my real story, from that side of things—the escort doesn’t even need to play chess. My other friend would say “write the movie” about all this, wouldn’t he? Except he had no idea what he was talking about. Yeah, that type of chap. A field of illusions…in the Joker conceit, it would be a role. And you’ll see, right, because the Joker line would end up being a light in the dark, right, because villains, well, they can do a lot of good, in a sense….There were many worlds, all sorts of realities that one could create, in my position? And there were many, depending on the sensations and feelings I was going through. Even the questions that people might ask me…sure, I went there myself, which was funny, seeing all sorts of scenarios…but the thing you cannot expose….that’s a good idea. Anyway, personal call. He might even clear the way a bit. He might point and suggest that someone ask me a question. And he’s the type of person, you see, that no one questions…he’s just the one in charge. I’m kinda of developing it now. It would be someone who would end the story, just coming in…out of nowhere. Which is what he was. And he would all papers necessary. If he’s a secret spy? Paying his “daughter” a visit over “a book?”
With my parents, it was sort of the same thing, but I had reached for my acting training more to try and understand them. Plenty of character ideas…but the sheer fear…which would be the next night…of her name, and the sensations would be quite intense. When you work in a place like that, do you not expect people to be coming in with all sorts of stories?
Remember, Hades was there. I’m totally calm now.
It was amazing that I was in there for such a short time, but it had been two months, and I would cycle out. It was more the anxiety also of no one really inquiring about that. If my friend was saying what I was…I might ask, do you think….but that’s more a professional question, isn’t it? Night one. I had a roommate.