Cycle of Abuse: Extreme Psychosis

In the early, raw days of March, I had been conceived…within a stone soaked, with no remorse, tunnel.  Both parents were state hospital patients.  My father on the criminally insane ward.  My mother…severely depressed in the Brown building.

Deep within the bowels of the catacombs Janice and Harold sucombed to passion in a girth under the earth, idyllically termed, Lover’s Lane.

Had this been this first and only deceit handed down to me?  Had this been the only piece of fiction…I discovered via my own research?  If push came to shove…as it always did during my childhood; Could or would I have forgiven the shame?

I would like to believe I was stable enough in my mid forties, to allot for the transgression.brown building 3

But divides and lies run far and wide.  From the moment I descended to the earth in my belligerent glory, nothing would be normal.

My brother and sister, had had their own demons to share.  A demon and horned devil that came in the shape of my mother’s first husband.

Where had the New Hampshire State Hospital staff been?  Why wasn’t my father, a criminal and murderer, been more closely monitored?

I can say that is typical of state run facilities.  As is the truth about warehousing those with severe mental illness, things get out of hand.  And, people with minimum wage incomes…just don’t care.

On January 4th, 1963, this court being of the opinion that it will be dangerous that the said, Harold Bowley, should go at large.  Ordered that he be committed to the New Hampshire Hospital and there he shall remain until he is discharged by due course of law.

Due course of law?…

On October, 25th, 1965, the said Acting Superintendent requests the court’s permission for the said, Harold Bowley, make off ground visits to include one overnight visit on weekends.

From there on out, after two short years, my father was allowed to stay, overnight, in the house of his psychologist; Mr. John Hawkins.

How did a man, who continues to this day to be a threat to himself and others, get away with murder?  Court evidence revealed a man that observation and study suggests…

‘suffering from a psychotic depression and a danger to the population.  A disease so profound it affects his mind and judgment…’

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HE fuckin’ stabbed his wife 35 times!

Indeed he had conned his way into the psychologist’s home life.  It was in Warner, New Hampshire, where my father would spend his weekends before his release in late 1967.

Mr. Hawkins not only allowed my father into his home.  He led him by the hand.  Introducing him to his wife…and, eventually, his two children, Naomi and Channing.  This is in my educated opinion the utmost defining characteristic of a narcissist.

Psychologist Stephen Johnson writes that the narcissist is someone who has “buried his true self-expression in response to early injuries and replaced it with a highly developed, compensatory false self.

And, my mother, who held very little esteem.  Held no opinion of self, other than relation to abusive men…My mother fell into the callous and killing hands of my father.  This all took place under the not watchful eye of case workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, district attorneys, judges, etc., etc.

I personally hold Mr. Hawkins, responsible..  And, currently, forty plus years later, refuse to call him a doctor.

Not only did my father enjoy the pleasant views, farm life, non restrictions of living in the wild of Warner…He introduced his whole family to Mr. Hawkins.

I had been taken back.  When first reading Mr. Hawkins name in the court papers.  How he spoke with high recommendation on my father’s behalf.  The name seemed familiar.  How had I known it?

Then a connection…Our families were joined.  Joined at the psychotic hip.

As a child, I could not quite connect, why my parents had been befriended by the Hawkins.  Who were they?  Where did they come from?

The Hawkins family appeared to me, earthy, educated, not mean or aggressive.  Quite different than relatives and others, my family had known.

For that matter, the Hawkin’s and Bowley’s spent many holidays together.  We spent weekends working in John’s small family farm.  Learning of nature.  Speaking on things of importance, politics, religion, life, deep stuff.

Again, I still ask, how does this shit happen?

Mr. Hawkins was later needed to assist my sister, Sybil, in her own ‘breakdown.’

Breech of contract!  Conflict of interest!

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I have long since stopped crying, shaking my head, beating myself up…Over the injustice served to my siblings and I, via the New Hampshire State Hospital.

Course, none of the above could be considered a ‘lie’ per-say.  For in my mother’s chaotic, catholic and dim eyes…Avoiding the truth is not the same as…lying.

Where had my grandparents been?  Wasn’t it strange my mother…was released from the hospital…pregnant?

And, of course, years later, when I asked Janice, my mother, about Harold’s murderous rage…

‘I knew he had killed her.  I didn’t ask him questions.  He seemed upset every time I brought it up…’

 

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Cajoling Innocence

I maintain that there is a desperate social need for the creative behavior of creative individuals…

In a time when knowledge, constructive and destructive, is advancing by the most incredible leaps and bounds into a fantastic atomic age, genuinely creative adaptation seems to represent the only possibility that we can keep abreast of the kaleidoscopic change in this world….

Unless we can make new and original adaptations to our environment as rapidly as our science can change the environment, our culture will perish…

Not only the individual and group tensions but international annihilation will be the price we pay for lack of creativity.

Carl Rogers, Humanist, 1973

Cajoling Ignorance

The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. The age of perpetual need lay at our feet.  The good earth, in retreat.

My looks have hardened over time.  But not so much that I still cannot see we are killing the forests…for a tree.

As snow melts away toward another day.

It is hard cajoling…ignorance out of the way.

So much more than, poetry that litters the land.

Repercussions that will out live ‘what we have come to understand.’

An elder once disposed upon me.  An ominous premonition:

“I will not live long enough to witness climatic chaos.  And, I am very thankful for that.”

Reflecting back to that cynical conceit.  From a man…with affect so flat.

Just one thought…

‘It is often bumbling errors that turn into trashy fact.’

 

to Write Desperately

 

 

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The epitome of writer’s block: I have so much I want to tell you.  And, nowhere to begin.          Salinger

When I write.  I do not write for too many reasons.  There are pretty, and basic.  They are ugly, and unmentionable.

I struggle with life.  I maneuver around love as though, I know nothing at all of the poetry found in someone’s heart.

Did I have mentors?  Had I been asked twenty some odd years ago, I would have egotistically said,

‘Fuck no!’

My grammar has no design.  My sentencing filled with errors.  As if, I had no formal education.

In hindsight, my heroes and/or heroines, were/are, coarse in the middle like a pricker bush on the way to the beach.  They are unsung.  They are aloof.  They are similar to myself in that…

I write.  They write.  I create.  They create.  For no one…but myself.

In a nutty-shell, my major had been psychology and minor had been, business management.  However, I had been an English tutor.   Hence, the ‘random’ in the randomwordbyRuth.

Whilst drinking, and drugging thru the halls of an all women’s college.  Three people stand out…As they have for the last 25 years of my life.

Professor Buiso?  An English professor who never tenured due to his drinking and his womanizing.  I would have called it, teen girl-izing.  For the grungy failed short story writer (turned teacher) liked to educate behind the walls of his corner office…with the doors shut.

What I remember most about the good, non-doctored, Mr. Buiso?  His nails stained yellow from smoking too many cigarettes.  His cheap taste in cheap scotch.  His ability to turn disheveled and make it sexy and readable.

The heroine of my writing history?  Tracy Chapman!  Quiet, meaningful and characteristically unaware of her artistic beauty.

I spent countless weekends.  Hitching down to Cambridge Square.  Sitting with a James Dean edge at the water fountain right outside…Cambridge Station.

In solace and on acid.  Three years were spent awaiting Tracy to arrive.  As she had been rumored to do.  Three years spent heading home…empty handed.

Lastly, Cornish, New Hampshire.  J.D. Salinger!  A recluse.  An author.  A writer with beauty in word and disgust for humankind, in heart.jd-2

My childhood sucked.  My young adult life?  Not any better.  With little fanfare, I can say,  I ran through the trauma and the drama, via the written word.

It is important to have heroes!  It is of utmost importance, to find your art.

Sometimes the most important person to impress with your self expression…is yourself!

Cornish, New Hampshire…circa: 1960 or so.

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Salinger shifted the entire focus of his life to the cabin in the woods, staying there for up to two weeks at a time, burning wood in his stove to heat up the cans of food or meals brought to him by Claire or their children.

One remark he made at this time to his ten-year-old daughter expresses much of his attitude to women. After a quarrel he told her: ‘We’d better find a way to make up because when I’m through with a person  –  I’m through with them’.

…a silence he explained himself with words that could be his epitaph: ‘I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.’

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1246881/Why-did-J-D-Salinger-spend-60-years-hiding-shed-writing-love-notes-teenage-girls.html#ixzz4VxiIh0w6
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Jail or Yale or Peace

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How disperportionate, addicts and earth-lings are.  It is similar to chaos verses contentment.

I am no a big promoter of films.  Though, I love a good documentary.  Good documentaries, to me, are a vessel in which to change.  Change what we see as, wrong, in the world.  Wrong in ourselves.

Peace is always just out of reach…for those who deny that it can ever be fully embodied.

 

To me it is a strange and dismal thing that in a world of such need, such opportunity, and such variety as ours, the search for an illusory peace of mind should be zealously pursued and defended, while truth goes languishing…A querulous search for a premature, permanent ‘peace’ seems to me a thinly disguised wish to die.

-Dr. Karl Menninger

Note to Self

Note to Self-

Notes to self...use caution
Notes to self…use caution

We cannot be up to speed, you and I…

It is always a deadly game of do or die.

We come here face to face…

I laugh…

You smirk…

and act oddly out of place.

Since our time began

I have held too firmly to your hand.

Birth between the catacombs and resolution behind the vault

Her, Him

are they at fault?

Decades filled with racial slurs

History pages of commitments not deferred

Judge ye not

Judge ye not

Asylums, institutions weighed

Pink pills, razor blades

Iodine bars and nurse maids.

I’ve been told of your lot

A sad mixture of…

crazed delusions

and mother’s shavings

laid out at the 24 pass parking lot.

Him guided by watered down psych pathology

Her with bottled up religious radiology.

The catacombs? Well, I read, on that day, a happenstance, a doctor’s note held up to the courts to display. Note to self…now you etch, hiding behind a killing dialect. So, please, please me…I ask you now. Just how was it…

You came about?

j

Note self- Never following directions with fool-proof reading
Note to self-
Never following directions without your lips moving!