I went through a large awakening last year which culminated on Mother’s Day 2021. I have never been better—it’s a whole new world. A shaman called it “an ego death,” and my writing mentor called it The Red Book, which is—funny, yes—and also accurate. I look forward to speaking about what this experience was and how it could be useful in understanding that a human being is more than any definition of what psychology is. From a Jungian perspective, how would one’s trauma affect the visual component?
My first mother’s name is Dr. J—I have great plans for her. It’s called Gotham City the Trilogy: The People Rise this Time. I used storytelling as a form of medicine; a Native American told me that it is. It was a moment in my awakening experience where I felt I had a decision to make. I was at the part in the movie where I would “tip into the dark side,” whatever this means.
I realized that I hadn’t said my mother’s real name—the full name—for a long, long time having called her “Dr. Joy” too afraid to use her real name, though it was close. I refused to call my mother a villain my whole life, which I still wouldn’t do outside a literary context, but there was a lot of good that a villain could do.
Yes, a female Joker—this was the plan.
I have to get there. Maybe “The Joker’s Daughter.”
The story was: I was given away to a total stranger when I was four. I’m being upfront. It took me thirty-five years to go back to my home before four years old, as it was clearly a progression in the story. No one grasped it, or communicated it to me, because I couldn’t. My story was too confusing. And my mother would yap in ballgowns about—wild tales, her rapes to the priest, her terminal illnesses she didn’t have to pretty much anybody. Were these true on some level?
The “story” was that my father was a child molester…after my mother started paying this woman to take care of me 24/7. It was a terribly confusing experience. But yes, I did. I heard “remember me” in my head at four years old before I left.
I was testing a man’s reflexes in church at four years old, studying him, because I got a feeling that was similar to Dr. J. Huh. I had mysterious experiences; I was always spiritually inclined. Why was I perceiving “time” even differently, these are questions that I ask myself now, just glimmers. The family across the way from church, they felt familiar, and then, they became my adopted family some time later. Really.
On the subject of “you know who,” the story with Dr. J was that she was a prodigy. Now, she was a unique—a dead word brought back to life—person. Her malady, her condition, was worthy of investigation. It fascinated me even as a baby. I didn’t cuddle with this woman. I saw enough.
According to my Brazilian caretaker, I started living with her just like that. I was forbidden to go near my father—and where was he?—because he was a kidnapping child molester. She decided—you see, it took me time for me to understand—that it wasn’t true. Not that it wasn’t true, if you can see what I mean. He didn’t know about these lies, because we were pretending to “like him.” When he would call, as if trying to speak with a cousin, he asked me if I wanted to go on vacation with him, she acted nice; a blade.
If he came over to visit, and remember my parents were never together when this happened, he wasn’t allowed in the house. He stood at the threshold…as I was instructed along with her daughter to play “louder, harder, happier.” I came to on the steps, at one point, what am I doing?
He came home and found his house redecorated and me living in another house. Four years later? Now, something was off, regardless. A normal man would have been like—bitch, what did you do to my house? Where’s my baby? Living in a different family…what was this? Where is she? Time to drive over and pick up the baby—excuse me, knock knock, I’m walking straight in…maybe with the cops, actually, to pick up my baby. (This could be a conceit in itself). “He’s child molester!” What would she have said?
“Excuse me?”
Meanwhile, I’m traumatized, living in someone’s house already? How long was this man gone? It couldn’t have been more than 5-7 weeks, because that’s what I remember in terms of his “world traveling affairs.” What happened? You see? He saw, or felt, that there was “hatred?” He said that I hated him and he didn’t know why…okay, well, I guess I’m going to just be a “broken man at the door?” watching my daughter be happy? Meanwhile, I was being broken down in this house. I was a wild creature; I mean, now I know it was understandable, but wow, the degree to which this situation haunted me…plagued me, “who I was.” Not my parents.
I was too young, the idea that I could have blocked it out didn’t occur to me. No, he never would, but then, I slept in the same bed as this man up until my departure. What am I supposed to do with that all these years later? It’s just the weirdness of all these facts together, well, I didn’t want to even go there. I had demanded by the time I was four for my own bed, I didn’t want to sleep with these people! Get me a sleeping bag. I slept on the floor between the foot of my bed and the dresser—it didn’t work. I was picking up this woman at the police station “night after night” in my father’s words in his divorce file: "for drinking, driving, and looking for sex downtown.”
With two tiny hands on his and her seat, I hoisted myself, ditching the Mickey Mouse sleeping bag, to see this scene: I wanted to. A rush of cop had just arrived at the police station, it seemed, a bust? I saw the doctor looking glamorous in a white mink fur coat, sparkling. Why was no one stopping her? She was in a red Mercedes convertible with a license plate that read IRSHELP. That is, until she got herself a limo. Her money, by the way, not my fathers. She was a successful, whatever that means, businesswoman.
Four years later, my mother was bankrupt and nowhere to be found…having come over maybe two times to visit me to ignore me by fawning all over this woman’s daughter, really. Me? I would have flown over that couch and taken this bitch down—fast. Oh, for sure. My mother was drunk. I didn’t really know a time when she wasn’t. It was just so shocking. But, she didn’t want to send me to foster care. She said that when I asked her why she didn’t call the cops, at eight years old. Magically, out of nowhere, a mysterious man came into the play…and saved her from this fiasco…because she was a genius.
“We can still be a family,” my father wrote her a note after all this, I promise you, “for Maria.”
He was on a looney planet. I had to rehearse the script for the lawyers—okay? For this “divorce” that my mother was going to file…once she garnered up the courage to leave her abusive husband. Call me a lawyer. I wish I did with my itty-bitty fingers—hello?
Listen to me, Courtney Hoffman is writing a TV show currently. I inspired one of the characters named Maria. I am, in fictional form, dealing with the chance that I am a spy, that my mother is a spy. Because she told me—the last time I saw her—at the Continental Hotel in Paris, France that her escort, business partner, was a secret spy. To begin. What did I yell at my Neapolitan relatives—I am not Jason Bourne! And here I am, in fictional form, now dealing with this possibility of this.
I was released back into my father’s custody—he brought me home to a house exploding…I couldn’t even process what the sound was…he sat down like he couldn’t stand or what I was about to see or what? On the living floor, I had no recollection—yet—of having had come home a couple times during this period. So, she thought he was a child molester, but she sent me on “outings” with these people? I didn’t have a room in this house until I was eight—when I returned—though I might have been closer to nine, finally.
And then, I found out when I was twenty years old that my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s though it was Parkinson’s first when I was ten years old. It took this Mother’s Day 2021 experience for the realization to land, truly land. It all took a lot of time, I was repressed for a long time. Our relationship tipped over to physical violence, which I stopped at twelve by doing a break state though I didn’t have that language. I had felt “time bend” the year he was diagnosed, around this time. I had a couple of mysterious experiences around time perception. There was already a reality in which I was out of this—to keep it brief.
As I was writing my story in the summer of 2020, my feelings were obviously being unearthed. I went through large awakenings of experiences in my body. I called the wise screenwriter at the end of my first draft—starting to feel a fear I never knew I had. “Well,” he said, “don’t you think you would have been scared…suddenly ending up at someone else’s house…” It never occurred to me. “You were four,” he had to tell me several times. “A four year old is a baby.” It is? How did I not know these things?
In September of 2020, I was on the cover of Vogue Italia. Cool, the wise screenwriter didn’t know why, neither did I. These were effects, he said, because I was writing my story and spinning the reality up. I thought about Dr. J—a passing thought—because she was obsessed with these things. I started getting little signs from her but couldn’t voice that. Also, why was I seeing someone else especially around one message in particular? I figured I was associating, and I was bringing up my feelings in general.
I started saying no. She never tried to “contact” me, though indirectly. I started blocking these attempts. I had no interest, excuse me.
The final blow—March 2021 culminated on Mother’s Day 2021; it just so happened. I didn’t even know that it was this date. I was getting an investment back, the next morning, at 5 AM—I was up working—I got a message through my website, which had never happened before, about my actual bank being shut down. I received this physically in my gut—which had never happened before—a block of stone that hit another.
Was it them, her, a fluke? All ways—still Dr. J. Was it true, not true, real, or real? This was Dr. J. I didn’t want to accuse anyone of this—now, if you think about this metaphorically, obviously it could be interpreted in a few, real ways. The feelings were so intense, especially around food, hunger, that I, at times, thought I would not be able to withstand it. Neglect would be the first big word. Whenever I would eat, it was harrowing. Now, I have feelings of fear. I don’t know why. A cat just came onto the property, the door started barking. Am I sensing on that sensitive of a level? Truly.
P.S. I love you and I have zero history of having had any problem. All the same, I was coming to realize many things, standing up for myself for the first time, doing rather well. The whole thing was confusing, weird, and I shouldn’t feel in danger for speaking and writing about these experiences. So fine, after all this, Instagram suggested I block all my mothers account; two, one of which I was blocked from. I did. I blocked her, finally, off all social channels, though I am not sure anymore as I exited the virtual territory to return. I was fine to resign to the idea that I had gone through a large healing experience, which I did. I look forward to talking about it.
You have to understand—the wise screenwriter reminded me that Jung said he didn’t go through a psychosis. It’s not what it felt like to me. My understanding of my story, my psychology all the same was held up by it, thus as this began to fall…coming to realize my feelings, well, yes. I didn’t have words, I was very young, but I got through it—I’ve never been better though it has taken me some time to settle with the freedom I felt from so many things I didn’t understand. I can say that lies have a real effect, too. But, “people” have said, oh I was lucky that I didn’t go into foster care, and that’s also true. All the same, I wish that a proper investigation had been carried out.
I faced my greatest fear. In any case. And I would like to be past this.
What was strange was that I kept getting little weird knocks on my door, if you would. Even the idea that Dr. J was stalking me…maybe because I was on the cover of a stupid magazine, no offense, and I mean that. I am very sensitive; maybe I felt that. Maybe there was agenda around me. It took me this experience to realize that all my belongings were in other peoples’ houses. Finally, I just looked at the pictures. I didn’t care—burn my baby pictures. The only article I had left—the clothes, and I looked at my pretty, pretty closet.
Eliminate.
I had to anyway because I had no funds left. I learned a lot last year, yes I did. And I have never been better, so that’s good. It took time though to heal from that, but wouldn’t that make sense?
Knock knock—I published a first story of Medium to a few mean messages over a story: My Mother Gave Me Away to a Total Stranger When I was Four. Trollers, sure, one who also went out their way to send me a message through my website: Brandi Private. It reminded me of my mother, what can I tell you? Then, my instagram account got shut down. And then, on Mother’s Day this year, just follow me because it’s odd and sort of fascinating, I logged onto IMDB. I had to cancel a membership, but I am never on this site, why would I be? I was charged on Mother’s Day, which was also funny.
I saw that a credit had been added to my IMDB without a character name in a Neapolitan movie called The Vice of Hope. It is about a girl named Maria who trafficks surrogate mothers…as my hypnotherapist said, “there’s no one with as many surrogate mothers as you have.” Courtney Hoffman said: it’s your mother, for sure. Thank God for her parents; a lawyer, this was my man. He believed my most outrageous story. I needed that, for a moment. My story already was. My hypnotherapist friend said: these were your guides. Courtney did not respond. I took it, because it was positive. So, was it her, one of them, or just a fluke? Was it purposeful or not?
I’ve let this go, but I’ll get strange feeling signals. For example, I posted a little something on Barbara Harris, as I am beginning to post some work that I’ve done. Like, Instagram sent me messages like six months later about songs that I had not used which resulted in the take down of posts which I didn’t happen at the time? You see? I had strange dreams–and I have different kinds of dreams, so I am adept in this space. They don’t have the same “quality,” necessarily.
Who would be “scared” or “troubled” by me being a success, talking about this, since I wake up with feelings that I obviously have to deal with, which is why I am writing this. I’ve never had these kinds of dreams, and they are not frequent, but I want them to stop. I am a sensitive person. I have been through enough. And I am fine, it’s just annoying at this point. Having to go, wow, maybe I was…when you process on this level, some “freaky” dreams—I mean, sure.
This “lie” haunted me; I promise you. For example, which also speaks to my sensitivity. I perceived energy in my room as a child. I finally went into my father’s room—there’s something in my room. No, no, there isn’t. I persisted because, well, fine. Did something happen in my room?Well, he said casually, “the housekeeper of the former owner was raped in your room…” What? I looked at him. He even showed me how the assailant entered through the master bedroom. He lived at the last townhouse in the row, by the way. It was locked, this condominium. Just to start.
So, I don’t know—but if it is Dr. J, which who knows, she could be in my space…you are banishèd. If you’re not, you, too, are banishèd unless you want nothing but the best for me. At least, in Gotham City The Trilogy, I can conceive of a grand showdown—Dr. J. What did a body worker say, you see, about Dr. J? Stealth. This pain; the message in my gut. It didn’t go away. I tried to say it was “all in my mind,” but finally, when I admitted to myself that I felt it was really intended for me, it helped. I did some “work” around this area, and it was wild that I could “speak from this place.”
I have no issues showing up to her office, I promise you, and getting a little nuts—why? Double Jeopardy, sort of, okay? I did it already. So, now, with lawyers, my grand prayer to the Gods…send me the lawyers! I prayed to the God of these. This was what I needed—not some Brazilian woman (though thank you to the Brazilian culture and Jewish religion— thank you, more than once).
The idea that I cannot thrive, be a success, or be “awesome” which is what the wise screenwriter said. “be awesome if you choose to be.” I took his suggestion, not the easiest thing to believe, I didn’t know that I had real blocks in this regard. At least, I feel better processing these feelings in this way. And I’ll continue to, because I want no more weird and possibly psychic occurrences. It’s probably x, y, z, but remember me, it’s all connected. I do not want to feel “odd” sensations because I am doing really well, that I am writing about really remarkable people and stories that have happened in my life.
I started telling Courtney when these things pop up, just in case. “But is Dr. J a spy?” Just ridiculous. She’s been so kind to me in terms of just holding space for even my slight triggers, paranoias, that I never had, or knew. I just “didn’t deal” with my parents, or any of them. I lived in a tremendous amount of guilt—and if you think about foster care, really.
I will leave you with this, just on the Joker point. Me? The week before clown school, I was in a a frozen conflict zone with a conflict resolution Master’s student; these are my authorities. You would have thought I was writing her thesis with her, because i read all her books with her, more or less, and I even accompanied her to a NATO conference. The wise screenwriter said that I did “clown acts,” which was true, and he knew. The second one I did, not knowing I was doing it, it was the first week of clown school, though it really wasn’t, back in Paris, France. I was not there. We were at the border, a blue trailer on the side of a mountain.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a group of men crossed the road. Maybe ten, or a couple more. The conflict resolution Master’s student began to whirlpool into an anxiety spiral; it was very powerful, very attractive. I was not “in this story” whatever it was. I was looking at them, her, not understanding what was going on, because I do not “assume.” I wasn’t getting any danger signals from them. It was her despair, her fear, that I was more alarmed by or it was the signal to take action. No, no, whatever was happening, the tension was reaching breaking point, I couldn’t handle it. I had clown school to attend to and if there was one thing Dr. J taught me, it didn’t have to be true, you see.
I was getting out of here—we.
Out of soft focus, in a baggy khaki ensemble and 1940s Italian brown leather soccer shoes, I walked straight in between her and them. I put out a strong hand like “look at this.”
And with my hand, their heads flew.
“So long farewell…”
My song and dance was generous and sincere. In grand gestures, I bowed to them—thanking them, thanking them, because I had no idea what it meant to be from a war zone…as they made their way down the mountain, all the way. I rejoiced with them. Yes, thank you. I meant it, I had no idea what it was, but it was time to break the logic, regardless. Our driver, a solider, came back—and I kept him close: time to work on my Armenian conjugations. “I want,” let us begin. We were out.
I had to laugh a little, because these dreams can be a little spooky. Very real. I never had that kind of sensation…but I’m sure I’ll come to continue to process what happened in my very early years. Maybe I really was in a, well, it was twisted, whatever it was. Now I feel like I have the chance to live my own life, make choices where I didn’t even think I had one, present myself in a different way, and continue to still be a person who valued integrity, honesty, and treating people with respect. Last year was just horrible, and no one asked me; well, Maria, do you think that some of these stories were true?
At the same time, I figured that actors and artists would be able to relate in that, I didn’t have a context for a lot of my feelings…so, I don’t know what to say, but I’ll obviously, as I always did, talk to psychologists about the sensations and experiences I had. I am also psychic, and I had to really deal with that, though I don’t like using that word due to how people respond to it. I can’t help that literal perception of time is not linear. I will post my meeting with. the Ukrainian refugee soon, because I was asked by the Russians to speak with him, for real.