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| Blogs > lonelynights63 > Your traces on me |
Freud and me...
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Freud and me... The incident with my school teacher that I wrote about in my last post somehow had a subsequence...Nothing really that important and if I decided to write about it too today is for one and only reason. Because maybe...just maybe it could be of some use to those that are parents. At least a friend of mine that I happened to tell him this story a few years ago told me after some time that it helped him to understand his a little more and made his relationship with them a bit better...I don’t know if he was right or not but I surely know that these days in my country you can’t but think of the . And of course not because it’s only a few days before Christmas...So I’m just writing about it today. And anybody who hasn’t or ‒ even more I’d say ‒ isn’t interested and doesn’t care about is free to not waste his time reading it...if not better advised to not do that. The very next day after that thing with the possessive pronouns happened my teacher asked me to tell my parents that she wanted to talk to them, both of them. «Shit, here comes trouble» I thought but obviously I couldn’t but tell them. So the next day, after the end of the lesson, my father and my mother came to the school, went into the teachers’ office and talked with the teacher for about half an hour. At least that was how much I figured it out to be waiting for them to get back home...Neither of them told me anything that day. That was not a good sign of course...Just like it wasn’t too the way my father was looking at me. I guess that here I have to say some things about my father...Well my father wasn’t...isn’t - though through age some things tend to calm down a little ‒ a bad person but on the other hand I don’t think that many people ever considered him a very easy to be around person. Due to the occupation of Greece by the Germans during the war he only had the elementary education...And if that wasn’t enough he was not exactly macho but very much the really traditional male, a true «man’s man». Fortunately he never had any bad habits that usually go with such kinds of behaviour, not at all drinking, gambling or anything like that...But he had a slight tendency to be a little violent sometimes...part of his idea about how you raise a in the right way I guess. He kept it under control though...but not always. And of course, just because I don’t have any sisters or ‒ even more...- brothers, all of his attention was always on me...in the good and the bad sense. That just means that he tried to make me from a very early age a «real man» like him...actually rather a replica of his. First mistake: He never realized that I understood perfectly and from the very first moment what he was trying to do. There was no way he would ever succeed in that of course but by persisting he just made me to react even more to what he was trying to force on me...Second mistake: He never realized too exactly how much I was reacting to his intentions. Instead he got more and more pushy and it was then that he lost the game...forever. Anyway the day after they went to the school my mother told me that one of the next days we were going to visit «a very good gentleman». In fact that gentleman wanted to meet me but of course her and my father would come along...I didn’t like that, there was something strange, even a little upsetting about that mysterious gentleman who wanted to meet me out of the blue. But I couldn’t do anything about it...So a few days later all three of us arrived at a building of offices downtown. I already had suspected something of course but at this point I got to be sure about it although very sneakily they didn’t let me see any sign on the door or anything...And until this very day really I never told them that I knew even before we went in there that the man was just a 's psychologist. But a very good one, I have to say! I sensed that from the moment I walked in through the door, my parents of course waited outside...He was in his early forties, very friendly and also a very interesting person and so it was very easy to like him...He treated me to some candy, he was supporting the same football team as I did back then ‒ I was still interested in that...- so we hit it off immediately and before long we had got to be almost buddies. But he didn’t forget about his work too of course...He asked me to do some things that on the surface seemed strange...for some of them like the Rorschach one (that with the inkblot) I knew about, for others not but I understood very well that all of them were evaluating tests. But obviously I had no other option than sitting there without complaining and go through them «like a good »... All fine and I guess that we were a little before the end of the thing when suddenly the psychologist asked me something. It seemed that he was just making conversation...but there was something in his question and even more in the tone of his voice that I didn’t like, I didn’t like it at all. I answered though...Instantly there was another question, on the same issue as the one before. I didn’t like it even more...but I answered again. Third question, again on the same issue and that one almost made me angry. I couldn’t take that anymore! It was my turn to ask him something... -Listen...You want to know about my Oedipus complex, right? Why you don’t go ahead and just ask me straight? -Your...what? How did you get to know about that thing? -Is this the matter or that you want to know how I am regarding to that? (At this point a very slight smile went just for a second on the psychologist’s face). -Maybe...But just out of curiosity...what is that Oedipus...thing you said? -Do you ask me about that? -You mentioned it...So? -You know, that thing that Freud found out... (The smile came back to his face. But that time stayed there...) -Freud, right? Another name…And who that...Freud was, if I may ask? -Come on! You are joking, right? You can’t want me to tell you about what you are doing... (The smile got broader). -And what is that...thing that I’m doing? That time I didn’t say anything. I just smiled back at him...I couldn’t but give the game back. And I could see that he was on the verge of starting to laugh... -OK...So who was that Freud? -Why you don’t look it up there since you are so much interested in him? As I was saying that I was pointing at some spot on the wall behind him that was entirely covered with books. At the place that I was pointing it was very easily to see a series of heavy volumes, all of them in black leather covers and all with the same title on the back: «Freud’s Collected Works». He didn’t even turn around to look at what I was pointing to...He just started laughing. -Alright...And if, if I’m saying...if I ask about your Oedipus complex? -I’ll tell you that as far as I’m concerned I’m one of the very few that haven’t even experienced it. But even if I had without realizing it...I was through with it even before I went to nursery school. And that was more then five years ago... -Anything else about it? -What else? Except maybe...Just between you and me, you know...my mother’s body type is not at all the kind I like. Give me anyway that of...(I mentioned the name of a popular Greek singer of the time, she should be about twenty then). Before I had finished my words the man burst into laughing...Really laughing, with all his heart and very loudly. It took him more than three minutes before he was able to restrain himself and somewhat more seriously to tell me «that’s about it...I will not be needing you any more. Please go and tell to your parents that I want to talk to them...And boy...I was really glad about meeting you. I mean it...». «Me too...» I said and walked out thinking «pity, only Freud? No Jung at all? We missed the really interesting stuff...». While waiting outside for my parents I continued thinking about that and some other things that the psychologist didn’t know and he hadn’t bothered to ask me about them...And somehow I started worrying that he might had thought that some things about me were really weird. That is that I might had given him the wrong impression that really something wrong was going on with me...He didn’t know for instance that when I was about three an uncle of mine just to kill some time one day started teaching me the letters of the alphabet. To his surprise when he visited us again he found out that I remembered the first ones...and not only that but it was me that went to him and asked him to teach me the rest of them. He did that...and after a couple of visits he was shocked to hear me saying «and how do we make words with those?». He showed me...and in less than a year I knew how to write and even more how to read. In nursery school I was bored to death...I had to listen to a, b, c again just because all the other didn’t know about that. But by this point I was reading comics...really reading them while the other were looking at the pictures and waiting for their mothers to read to them the texts. About twenty months later, when we were in the first year of the junior school, they managed to do it by themselves...but I had already moved on to other stuff. Magazines, newspapers, subtitles at the movies or on TV...I was literally absorbing anything that could be read, anything with words that I could get my hands on really. And after that of course it was books, ’ books...but a whole year before the others. For them it was in the second year of junior school...for me then it was to be appointed (by the same good lady that was our teacher) the one that was responsible for the class’ library. Thirty four books, still remember the number...I hadn’t read about twenty five of them. It took me about three months, I had and homework to do too. Until the end of the school term, three, three other out of thirty five asked for a book. The two of them brought them back without having finished them...I couldn’t understand how the fuck they could be so damn slow...how it was possible to not want to get over with one book just for being able to move on to the next one. But I couldn’t wait for them of course... So in the middle of the second grade I was done with the class’ library and the one we had at home, that of my parents, was even smaller...Not to mention that some of their books were ‒ even then ‒ way too corny for me. I was insatiable, I needed more reading matter and I hadn’t...Until one day I heard something on TV about JFK. «Who was he?» I asked. «A president of USA who was assassinated» was my father’s bored answer. «And that is all about it? When he was presiding? Why he was assassinated? Who killed him?» I thought. I had to know...So I just walked to the bookshelf, the one that had the encyclopaedia. In a couple of hours I knew what I wanted to know...Not only about JFK but also Lyndon Johnson and the Vietnam war (it was too early for Nixon and Watergate, those weren’t in the encyclopaedia yet!) going from one reference to another. And that was the way since then and for some years, until I was able to start really buying the books I wanted...But it was during the summer after the second grade that I heard somebody mentioning Freud. Obviously I had to find out more...and that thing called psychology seemed incredibly exciting! But it was rather deep for an eight years old one way or another and sometimes needed some repeating...So it took me about two months (with all the necessary too playing with the other in between) of using both encyclopaedias that we had in the house but after that I had a pretty good knowledge of the basic principles of psychology and psychoanalysis, specifically of the very first period of it. By the time they took me to the psychologist I was done with Freud and had moved on to Jung...But the psychologist wasn’t aware of all those. At that point though a noise made me stop thinking...The door that was leading from the anteroom to the man’s office had been left very slightly open. I could hear the voices of the three people that were in there but I wasn’t able to tell what they were saying...But that moment I could feel the aggravation in my father’s voice which was a bit louder than before. Just like it was that of the psychologist who spoke after so then I could catch some words: «Very high IQ...a personality with its main traits already well developed and almost absolutely organized...mature probably ten years beyond his age...incredibly goal orientated...unlimited fantasy…fiercely independent…one of the most intensely analytical minds I have ever encountered...I can’t predict of course but I can definitely see him doing something creative...probably with some talent that he will find within him in the years to come...». My father spoke again, louder than before but again lower than the psychologist...On the contrary the latter answered to him even louder...and maybe a little nervous too, almost upset. And that time I heard everything of what he said: «Sir...Have you ever considered that maybe you are a little too much envy of the fact that your at his age is more clever, more bright if you like, than...no offence but that’s the way things are, than you have any hope to be until the end of your life? Have you ever thought that this envy has got to be a really big problem to you? To the point that maybe you should ask for some help with it?». It was my father’s turn to speak louder...and almost angrily. So much that for the first time I heard and some of his words: «Something has to be done...». But even that was a lot less to what happened with the voice of the psychologist. Because when he spoke again he was actually shouting and you could say that he was almost mad: «NO! And you are not going to tell me how to do my job...Not me and not any of my colleagues need to see this ...EVER AGAIN! Can you understand that?». There was a moment or two of dead silence...And then the door opened and first my father and then my mother walked out of it. It was the first...OK and last most probably time that my father looked at me in a way that was too close to...hate. My mother looked at me with some kind of pride...I gave her a look that it was the same to almost all the others that I have given to her ever since...just full of understanding for what she had to go through. But it was and is her choice and I can only have respect for anybody’s free will...I didn’t look my father at all. Instead, just before I got up from my seat, I looked at the opposite wall...It was the very first time that I realized that the first sure sign to tell a stupid person is the fact that he/she can’t even imagine that there is a chance that what he/she believes, thinks, does and says is maybe not even wrong, just not the one and only way...and that somebody else might be right. Not to mention more right than him/her...For such people there is only the «my way or the highway» kind of thing...and not on the one occasion or the other but through their entire life. And it was at this moment, as I was getting up from the chair, that without any further thought I broke off any relation I might have with both machismo and even the «traditional» male behaviour but also with my father...forever in both cases. I only wish that I’d had seen at least once again the good psychologist...I’m sure that he’d be glad too and one of the reasons would be that he’d be able to see that was pretty much right in what he said about me. And one of the first proofs came a few years after those events...When I was in the fifth year of junior school I had a little something with a girl that was in my class. Not even a love, not even a fling, you know...nothing that went further than holding hands and lasted a few days anyway. And maybe it was even briefer than usual because I noticed easily something strange in her behaviour regarding a certain issue. So one day I asked her «do you know anything about the Electra complex?». She didn’t so I had to tell her...And of course she went more than mad at me, started screaming, called me «a pervert», threw a school book or two at me and declared that she wouldn’t talk to me again ever again. And that’s what she did...The next year her family moved at some other part of the city, she went to another school and I almost forgot about her. Until about two years later, when we were in the second year of high school...One day a came to school really upset. Apparently his father had read something in the paper, the family name reminded him of something and he gave the piece to his to read it too. It was about a really nasty story that even had the police involved...It was called by a mother who had to denounce her own husband as the last means of stopping him from their ...serially and for almost two years. That girl was...you guessed it, the one that a few years ago had called me a pervert. Unfortunately for her she was about to see what a real pervert and in every sense is...The word got through the class and very soon almost every was outraged, some of the girls that knew her better and used to hang around with her even started crying. And I felt sorry for her of course, even somehow sad because she was a good person...but for some reason I wasn’t surprised at all. Because it was like I somehow expected that thing to happen although I couldn’t do anything about it... Anything but to realize once again how right was the practical rule that unfortunately I’d have to confirm again so many more times in my life: The first thing that makes you to tell a stupid person is that he/she accepts only his/her way and view on things and none other. Maybe it is just a line of defence after all...When you have absolutely no idea, no clue really who you are, where you are going and what you want to do in your life (and with it too) you don’t have any other way for surviving than to hold whatever you believe as God-given wisdom. But any wisdom I may have was acquired through putting too much effort and time in a process that hasn’t ever really stopped and never will, every single day and almost every waking moment of it...and not given to me by anybody. And that’s why I can’t stand in the slightest the lazy bastards and bitches that we call fools...to the point that when they get to be really stupid I just can’t have not even a hint of mercy for them... [P. S. This post couldn’t but be dedicated to the that yesterday pinned the two banners on the Acropolis hill, those that you see in the photo. That is to the future...Because the future doesn’t only belong...it actually is the . And together with them anybody that, even after growing up, keeps feeling like a until his/her last day on this planet...]  Just me but with all the ego left at the door... |
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12/18/2008 1:42 pm |
Well buddy after this story i found out a main difference between us.....my father was exact the opposite...as for the essence of your post.....really no need for any comment....you know my point of view.... clown in the shadows
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-And what is that...thing that I’m doing? This is one heck of a question you have written here... and somewhere else... Saludos.
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12/18/2008 8:35 pm |
Well buddy maybe i am old, too in love...but i got my memory....we mostly have talked about mine, yours was just a phrase or two in the best.....so this detail were surelly enlightening.... clown in the shadows
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I hope you wouldn't mind if I use it for writing purposes of course. Simply how it is written provides a good exercise, I like the way it is phrased. Please let me know... if it is ok with you. Thanks.
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