Writer's Corner

                                                                The Little Red Wagon
                                                                                                              By EmpressOF Cheese

        As you might guess,, a very evocative event informed a metaphor early in my childhood. We were living in Florida, and we had returned from Vienna, where my father had completed his post-doctorate at the Technische Hochschule. I had gone to school with the Austrian children, with my sister in tow, for a year.We returned in all glory, my father blushed with his success, to the University of Florida, where his colleagues welcomed him.I had saved my money from birthdays. It totaled about $8.55. Aleta, my sister, had saved about half of that. The savings resided, as you might imagine, in our piggy banks; at least mine did. I was very proud of my savings. We had no allowance, so the money was a bit hard-won, and never spent on frivolous items such as candy or bracelets or animal crackers in the box.The Sears catalog arrived. We pored over it, as we were to do nearly every time it arrived in the mail box for the rest of our childhood.. My sister intensively set her heart on a beautiful baby doll, which actually looked like her, with dark hair and dark eyes which opened and closed. She nearly had the money to purchase it, but not quite. Her heart was set upon having this doll. Nothing would take her mind from it, nor dissuade her. Like many small children, and I think she was about 5 at this time, she was a bit obsessed. She begged my mother, and then my father, to help her buy this doll. With her money, and perhaps two dollars from them, she desperately requested that the doll be ordered from the Sears catalog. Now, mind you, she had nearly all the money required to buy the doll she so had set her heart upon. And the answer from my parents was “No”. She cried, she begged, she pleaded. Can you imagine this situation, with a five year old little girl?My parents debated. Apparently the situation was serious. Could Aleta be allowed to spend her birthday and Christmas money, so assiduously saved, on a doll from the Sears Catalog? Perhaps not.Ah. But my father saw an opportunity. Why, his other daughter, he knew, had money in her piggy bank, money which was not yet allotted to some purchase, and there was no desire for a doll or any such item, it was simply money a seven year old girl had saved over several years of her admittedly short life. Well, this possibility could not go unexplored.My father approached me. Your sister wants this doll, you know, he said. I knew that, and acknowledged it. So, he said, in order for her to get this doll, you will have to get something with your money. Something I want, he said (not something you want). You will have to use your money to buy a Little Red Wagon, with four wheels, that I can use in the yard to haul fertilizer and such. It will be very useful, he said. If you don’t buy this wagon, he said, your sister does not get to buy her doll.I thought about it. It didn’t seem right. I had nothing to do with the doll. I didn’t want to spend my money. Aleta had been advised of this transaction and approached me. She wept, she begged and she pleaded. Please, please get the wagon that Dad wants, and I can have my doll. She prostrated herself on the floor in front of me, red-faced and weeping.Reluctantly, I agreed. Thinking, admittedly, that I would gain some credit for my generosity, some acknowledgment across time. From my father, or sister, or both. How could it not be so?The order from Sears was made and with much anticipation we awaited the arrival of the two items; Aleta, her doll , and I , the Little Red Wagon. The boxes arrived. We opened them and Aleta opened the box, tore off the cellophane, took her doll and ran off to cuddle with it, much pleased. My father put together the Little Red Wagon. He now had what he wanted, a small cart in which to pull lawn and yard supplies. Which he didn't have to pay for.Unfortunately, much worse was to come, which I could not have possibly predicted. Now that I was tied by ownership and expenditure of my savings to the Little Red Wagon, I was the one required to pull it around our new acreage, with fertilizer or other essential items, as a load, behind my father, on his many chores around the yard. Aleta did not pull it once. I was now inextricably tied to my father and his whims and manipulations. My sister got off scot-free. And of course there was no improvement in my relationships with my sister, or my father.I have no idea what happened to the doll. I did not accrue any further good will from my sister as a result of my sacrifice. Her initial prostration to me was apparently sufficient payment.Well, this story gets a little worse, as sometimes happens. It was too painful to write about earlier, but I believe I can finish it now. So the Little Red Wagon was placed into use in some sort of indentured servitude. As was I. And around and around the three acres we went, in sort of a bastardization of Christopher Robin’s Hundred Acre Wood. And the wagon was, for the most part, taken care of. I was taught to turn it upside down, in case of rain, so that it would not rust. So many times I would look out upon the yard, where it was raining, and feel that the Wagon was as it should be, upside down, and resisting annihilation from the elements.As it turned out, a day came whereupon the Little Red Wagon was not turned upside down, and it was left in the rain for many a moon, and it, indeed, not only began to rust, but became rusted until it was rusted through. When I determined this had happened, I threw myself upon the stairs in our house and cried and sobbed until there were no more tears. I had told my mother what had happened, and I was of course told it was my fault the Wagon was ruined because I was somehow responsible for the fact that it had been left out in the rain.To this day, I do not know how it got left out in the rain, wrong side up, and it very well may have been my doing. I am well aware that at the age of nine, I was somehow responsible for the Death of the Wagon. Not once did it occur to me that I was now free from the indentured servitude of hauling fertilizer around the yard after my father. What I knew was the little money I had was spent on something that I did not want and was also tied to it in a mean way. Still, the Wagon had been mine. I knew also that no-one else in my family cared about this sacrifice or about my ownership. My parents could not have been bothered to go out and turn that Wagon upside down to preserve it. In my tears, what I was aware of was that no-one cared about my concerns, and that I was completely alone in the world. What happened to me was my Little Red Wagon only, and I was the only one responsible. I cried my eyes out on those stairs.My mother, although she was in the house, did nothing to comfort me. She turned her back on me, indicating, I suppose, that I was throwing a tantrum and that she had every right to ignore my desperation. I remember this very well. I was bereft, and I was alone with my grief and the injustice of the world. This lesson was firmly implanted by my parents through their neglect and malignant narcissism.

                                                        TV and Video and Horses, Oh My!
                                                                     By EmpressOF Cheese
    
       Shortly after I left home for dormitory living, my parents decided to make some acquisitions. I came to visit to find they had installed not only a television, but added a VCR, which were fairly new at the time. I found this very confusing, because as mentioned before, television had been strictly prohibited while I was growing up. Even my little brother would go over to the neighbors to watch Sesame Street, which he loved. Still, all the family was very pleased with the new electronics, and even started renting videos. Of course, having moved into my college digs, I had no TV. As if this wasn't enough, my parents decided to purchase horses, not just one but two! One was an adorable Shetland pony, tan with a white mane and tail and perfect, much beloved by and intended for my brother and youngest sister. The other horse was a well-built Tennessee Walker, intended for my other sister. These purchases were meant to serve a couple of purposes. The first one was to punish and hurt me, as my parents' tribute to me for daring to move out. The second purpose was to send a strong message to my three siblings that if they stuck around, and remained loyal to the family, they would be rewarded and well-treated. It was a neat one-two punch. Further, it sent a subtle, partially unconscious message to my siblings that I was a bad person, and did not deserve nice things, and that they were good, and did. On top of that, they received the message that they were better than I was.. That attitude persists to this day.As a teenager, and as is common to many teenage girls, I had fallen in love with horses. I deeply wanted one, but was told by my parents they were too expensive and required too much room and they simply couldn't keep a horse.I asked so much that my mother's reluctant compromise was that I could take horseback riding lessons, which were held about a mile from our house. Lessons happened at a large stable down the road, and I suppose these lessons went on for about two years. But they weren't really lessons. Instead, they were simply hour long trail rides, at the pace of a walk, with a group of other children. So I didn't really learn much about how to ride a horse but didn't really know any better. My mother's condition (and with her, she always extracted one) was that I had to practice piano and viola for half an hour each per day. I was, however, riding a horse, and was thrilled enough with that.Then, inexplicably, they waited for me to leave home, and bought two horses, intended for my other siblings, who had never cared to have a horse to the degree that I did. Suddenly, there was enough money to pay for, not one, but two horses, and plenty of land to keep them on. Even a new fence was erected. Oh! Did I mention that the exact horse I would have chosen was a Tennessee Walker?Frankly, I was so glad to be out of the house and removed from the daily abuse, that I was somewhat able to shrug off this horrendous behavior on the part of my parents, even though it stung. Their efforts did serve to somehow, sadly, more strongly bond my sisters and brother to my parents, where they have remained ever since, unable to escape the family, for all intents and purposes. For example, as adults they all chose to live in the same city as my parents, while I live two thousand miles away. For good reason.More About CarsAfter I had actually purchased and paid for my car, gotten my license by myself, and paid for insurance so that I could get a job and eat, with help from my college boyfriend, my parents upped their game. They appeared to be interested in keeping the other three children in their bailiwick.My sister Aleta rode a bicycle for her transportation, throughout high school and into college. She was fond of purchasing $600 Peugeot bicycles, very high end, and riding to her high school classes. I still don't understand why my father didn't drive her to school, as her high school was a teaching school on the university campus. I asked her once about why my father didn't drive her, and she didn't have an answer, although she complained bitterly about being forced to ride her bicycle to campus. Most of these issues were hidden from me and kept secret. And I didn't know enough to figure it out. I have no idea how she paid that much money for a bicycle. To make matters worse, her prized bicycle was stolen at least three times on the university campus, and then replaced. And she would somehow manage to buy another one. She didn't have a job, so I now suspect my parents would pay for the bicycle. In fact, she never had to get a job while attending the university. I never got clear about how this lack of a job was managed, although I suspect my parents were funding her fully while they refused to do the same with me. Where did that money come from?Later, Aleta obtained a Master's degree in Materials Engineering and planned to move to Pennsylvania to work on her Ph.D. At Alfred University. My parents gave her the 1964 190D Mercedes to make the trip and to have some transportation. After a while, she failed to maintain the old vehicle, and parked it , where later it was hauled away as junk.At about this same time, my mother decided she was tired of ferrying my younger brother and sister around. They were still in high school. My parents bought them a used car, which they shared throughout high school. I doubt they were threatened with the idea that they would total the car, like I was, and I am quite certain that not only the car, but the gas and insurance were paid for. By my parents. Neither child had a job while in high school.

                                                                    There Will Be Blood
                                                                 By EmpressOF Cheese

      At some point in my adult life, while still living in Texas, I went to visit my parents. By now, I knew enough about my sister, Aleta, to know that she was erratic and dangerous. I may have been in my mid-thirties, let's say. When I went to visit, I sat down with both my parents to have a conversation. I told them that Aleta had frequently exhibited bizarre behavior, amounting to tantrums and other strange events.I had experienced her behavior before, as an adult. My mother said “I don't know what you are talking about.”. That was a telling statement. My mother was in complete denial.My mother dismissed my concerns as if I had made them up, although Aleta had manifested these actions with other family members and myself right in front of everyone. Even my sister in law had told me of a time when she had been verbally harassed in my parents' home by Aleta.. My father merely nodded after this conversation. I told them that I was aware I was a guest in their home and respected that position. I said that I didn't want to create any problems, but that I was not going to tolerate Aleta's behavior if she attacked me. I further said that if anything occurred between my sister and myself, I would take matters into my own hands, if they did not intervene,I was extremely clear about this problem, because I was not willing to be accosted again, verbally or otherwise.Aleta showed up. She always did, because she couldn't be left out of anything. We sat across the large oval oak kitchen table from each other, chatting, drinking coffee. . Somehow the topic of Rush Limbaugh came up, which she introduced. I mildly said “Rush Limbaugh is not always right, you know”. I could give examples of how he wasn't always right. And I had them. I started in, not to argue but to make a point.She came unglued. She nearly came across the table at me. She got up out of her seat and leaned across the table at me. She unbelievably frothed at the mouth. She screamed and let loose.I looked around for my father, because I had warned him in advance of this very type of event. He came up and said “Aleta, Rush is not always correct.” She settled down a bit. But not much. But I had told them. This could happen. Deal with it. Or I will, and it won't be pretty. And I was right. She was completely out of her mind. This was the child my parents had created, now become an adult.Unfortunately, the difficulty with Aleta was compounded by the fact that she had earned a Ph.D. in materials engineering and therefore appeared beyond reproach. Of course. this was exactly what my father had done. Therefore, if you have a Ph.D. In something, particularly engineering, your thinking could not be contested. That is an incorrect assumption. I have my family to prove my point. That being said, you cannot hide your mental illness behind a Ph.D. It is, no doubt, an adroit move, but not a failsafe. At least for me.

                                                                                Cancer
                                                               By EmpressOF Cheese

      In October of 2015, I went to Paris. On my own. I often and usually went to Europe on my own, and was very comfortable doing so. A lovely apartment was rented, right next to a subway stop, the St. Paul, Ligne Une (Line One) . I could not have been more fortunate in my location. Grocery stores were right outside the apartment entrance. In the apartment was a grand piano, and a two story high ceiling with gorgeous stone walls. The space was restful and well-kept. I was only asked to water the plants. There was a tiny kitchen, and next to it a bathroom. Above was a loft, with a bed and a short set of stairs to access it. I was in heaven.Also right outside the apartment doors on the main wayfare was a children's carousel. I could walk out to a location that could not have been more lovely or more central. The St. Paul subway stop took me right down to the Louvre, with no changes. I walked so much that I started to hurt my feet, even tho I had wonderful shoes to wear on the cobblestones. Primarily, I was slightly twisting my ankles enough so that the ligaments became stretched and created some soreness.I went into a nearby Pharmacie and walked up to one of the clerks in the back. “Ma pieds sont pauvre” I said, “Ma pieds sont tres mal” meaning, my poor feet hurt. The clerks laughed a little at my poor French, and I was kindly and immediately taken by the clerk to a shelf, where was located a box full of epsom salts, saturated with eucalyptus and calendula oils. It was exactly what I was looking for, as I love herbal remedies. I purchased this box and took it back to the apartment, where I made a soothing hot footbath to soak in which helped my sore ankles tremendously. I performed this ministration nightly and was able to address the issue and walk around Paris to my heart's content..My trip to Paris otherwise went without a hitch, and I visited all of my favorite places, including the Place Des Vosges, Place de la Madeleine, Fauchon, and the Louvre, amongst others. I believe I visited the Opera and the Jardin De Luxembourg as well.When I got home to the U.S., I realized I was running out of my prescription for Levothyroxine. I had a low thyroid, which had been discovered a few years prior. I called my doctor's office, annoyed.I didn't think I had time to go in and see a doctor. Sometimes I am not a good patient. Nevertheless, they did instruct me that I had to come in and get bloodwork to measure my thyroid levels and get a yearly checkup. Reluctantly, I went in to see my nurse practitioner.While I was there, my nurse practitioner asked me how long it had been since I had a Pap Smear. Well, since forever. As long as I was there, I said “Let's go ahead and get it over with.” Which she did.Three days later Pamela, my nurse practitioner, called me. She said “Well, the good news is that your thyroid is regular and I can renew your prescription.” Then she said,”The bad news is that cancerous cells were found in your Pap Smear. We don't know what it is,” she said. What this meant is that cancerous cells were being shed through my uterus, and being ejected through my cervix.Completely freaked out, and scared, I started doing some research. Possibly, it was cervical cancer. That was what I thought. I mean, this was a Pap Smear, which is meant to diagnose cervical cancer. But there was no diagnosis at that time. So I would have to go to a gynecologist. Which I did. This medical effort went on throughout November. I had no symptoms. I did have a very busy private practice, and I resented the incursion on my time and routine with my clients.There was one thing, though, about the symptoms. For about six months, I had been feeling mildly ill, having to do with my stomach, after I ate lunch at a restaurant. I would go back to work and see a client, and feel like I was coming down with a stomach flu.I proceeded to assess this discomfort as a possible allergy to MSG. It didn't happen at home, just after restaurant lunches. That assessment was all I could figure out. Never did it flare into actual stomach flu. And the discomfort would pass in a few hours. But it certainly felt like I was getting sick. I didn't throw up or have to leave work and go home. The feeling of being ill was quite uncomfortable, however. It made me have difficulty with focusing on my clients and their concerns.I made an appointment with a well-known local gynecologist. He proceeded to examine me, reviewed my lab work and said he would get back with me in a few days. It was now around the Thanksgiving weekend.Suddenly, I received a phone call from a gynecological oncologist's office in Spokane WA, which was five hours away, one way, by car. I was told by the poor receptionist that I was to be scheduled for an evaluation. She wasn't able to tell me why, but said that I had been referred by the gynecologist in my hometown.I was furious. I had heard nothing from my gynecologist, and you had better be sure I was on the phone to his office, demanding to know why I hadn't been contacted prior to a referral. And at least had the unknown diagnosis discussed. There were no gynecological oncologists in my small rural town.Finally, I got ahold of my gynecologist on the phone. He apologized for making the referral without talking to me, and made several excuses. I knew enough about best practices in medicine to know this failure of contact was far outside the correct protocol. I was beside myself. “Well” he said, “You probably need to schedule a colonoscopy, as well as a Dilletation and Curettage (known as a D & C). Right away”, he said. No help was made available through his office, either. So I was going to have to case manage this on my own. Fortunately, I had the background and knowledge to do this. I was going to have to advocate for myself. And I was on my own. I summarily fired the gynecologist, and made an appointment to get a second opinion with another one. I also scheduled and completed the colonoscopy. It was a busy time.I also thought about the D and C and decided to refuse it. It didn't make any sense to me. As it turns out, I was right to do so. It would have been an unnecessary procedure, and a waste of my money and my time, and not helpful to any diagnosis.Without a diagnosis, I was racing the clock. I went to consult another well-regarded gynecologist, who referred me to a local cancer surgeon. Still no diagnosis. The second gynecologist suggested that a hysterectomy might need to be performed by the cancer surgeon, and said that he would be happy to be in attendance, which I found a bit odd. I also had to request the second gynecologist obtain bloodwork on me, to test for (CVA). If I had not requested it, the test would not have been performed. Besides getting scared, I was incensed that I had to do the thinking for doctors I was consulting, instead of being properly assessed and cared for.The test came back at 40, somewhat over the normal levels, but not extreme. A score of 7 to 35 was within normal limits. I was able to take this test result to the oncological surgeon. At the same time, I scheduled an abdominal scan, commonly known as a CAT Scan. Once the scan and the other tests were completed, I went in to see the surgeon. He had reviewed my tests, and drew me a picture of a uterus on his whiteboard, which I did not need. A couple of small growths had been found on my ovaries by the scan, but it was impossible to make a diagnosis on the basis of the test results. The growths could be benign, perhaps polycystic fibrosis. The surgeon said it was up to me to decide how to get to the bottom of this, but that a full diagnosis could not happen without surgery. He said it easily could be benign, but that was not clear.He suggested, fairly, that I would need to undergo surgery, most likely a full hysterectomy, to remove the growths and have them evaluated for cancer by a laboratory while I was still on the table. I mentioned to him that my second gynecologist was interested in attending any surgery. He very calmly and diplomatically indicated to me that, not only did he not need any assistance, but that I was not a test case to teach another doctor what this surgery would look like. I liked him immediately. And I chose surgery. I was going to get this problem figured out.That man saved my life.Frantically, I tried to get my surgery scheduled, still without a diagnosis. At this time , it was about mid-December. I was not able to get my surgery scheduled , no matter how much I called, until January 26, 2015. Holidays got in the way, I think. It was not apparently critical, because, I suppose, there wasn't a diagnosis.I went in for surgery and woke up a day later, my insides having been cleaned out. In a hospital bed, I became surrounded by doctors, including my surgeon. He briefly said “You have ovarian cancer, stage 2c. The tumors we removed were assessed. You will be offered chemotherapy. We removed 52 lymph nodes from your abdomen. None of them were found to be cancerous.” The fact that the lymph nodes were not cancerous was good news, meaning the cancer hadn't gotten very far. Later, the actual diagnosis became fallopian tube cancer, to be specific, which is a relatively new diagnosis. Typically it has been known as ovarian cancer.That was the end of that. After four days in the hospital, I went home. And laid on the couch for two weeks, while I thought about the next steps. But at least I had a diagnosis.Closing My PracticeI called all the clients I had scheduled, and put off seeing them for a couple of weeks. All my clients were completely considerate and I simply told them I had a medical problem and needed to reschedule. They did not press me for details. I laid on the couch, and took care of my pets as best I could. I wasn't able to move much. I had been cut stem to stern, and was on painkillers and antibiotics.I thought about what was happening deeply. I was going to have to go through chemotherapy. I visited an oncologist locally, and she didn't really seem to have a treatment plan for me. No oncological gynecologist was available in my small rural town. I was told that I would have chemo every three weeks or so. For some reason, I didn't trust the nice oncologist. It was a gut feeling. After my guts had been ripped out.I came home and cried and cried. I really didn't put facts together. I just knew I had cancer, and that it was a bitch fight for me to get decent care. I hadn't talked with anyone in my family for at least four years.I broke down. And I called my sister. Sobbing.I had to leave my town to get proper care. There were no specialists here. I had no place to stay in any other place. I was beside myself.I told my sister Aleta what I had been through. I had in fact gotten as far as I could on my own. I had to reach out and didn't feel I had a choice, except to go to my already known and admittedly disturbed family. I had not talked to them throughout this entire ordeal.She said, brightly, being very helpful “Well, we know a VERY GOOD gynecological oncologist!”My brain fired, but I didn't pay attention. More about that later. If there was an expert, I certainly needed that at this moment. So I was glad to hear this. Why she would know about an expert gynecological oncologist, a specialist that didn't exist in my rural area, I didn't question at the time.
My sister gave me over the next few days, all of his contact information and I got on the phone and the internet. I arranged very quickly to have my surgery and other records to be transferred to his office, to determine if I could be accepted as his patient, in Austin.I was accepted. I could arrange to go to Austin and become his patient. I could live at my parents' house. I double-checked my insurance coverage, and determined my treatment would be paid for. I hastily closed up my house and my practice , and my mother decided to come up for three days and fly back with me to Austin. Everything happened very quickly. I left many things undone. But I was able to take my two dogs with me on the plane, my two little pomeranians, my mother carrying one and I the other, in little traveling bags to be stowed under the airplane seat. They were fed peanuts and ice chips on the plane. I was about a month out of my surgery.

                                                                         Favorite Memory
                                                                   By EmpressOF Cheese  
                                     
       While we were living in Kansas, my mother frequently failed to pay attention to her children. Her special time of the day was nap time, when no demanding children were awake and she could do what she felt like doing, which was probably more house cleaning. I was put down in my crib for a nap, probably in this case at the age of three. She hoped I would sleep for hours.I had figured out how to get out of my crib by this time, but I had to be very cautious in order to not get caught by my mother. I was dressed in underwear and a pajama top. I very quietly let myself out of the crib like a little monkey, and walked out the front door. It was Autumn, and a delicious pile of maple autumn leaves lay raked up on the lawn in the front yard. I plunged into the leaf pile and buried myself up to my waist. I wriggled deliciously, put my elbows on top of the leaves, rested my chin in my hands, and looked up at the trees and the blue sky, and listened to the birds chirping, and felt very happy. All was right with the world. I stayed there for a while, outside, warm and content. My mother did not discover my escape.After a while, I got out of my lovely pile of leaves, barefoot, and proceeded to cross the street in the little residential neighborhood. Across the street lived a very nice woman. I went up her porch steps and rang the bell.She came to the door and let me in and was very sweet to me. In fact, she fed me candy! Candy! We never had that at home. I was in bliss. This was a very good day indeed. We had a nice chat.Finally, somehow, my mother came over to the neighbor lady's house and took me home. She probably had gotten a phone call. I was told very strictly to never EVER go over to the neighbor lady's house ever, ever again. I had no real idea what I had done wrong. I mean, she fed me candy! And she liked me! And she talked to me! Unlike my mother. I was downcast. I was losing a friend.Looking back now as an adult, I am certain my mother was completely embarrassed. As she should have been. I will tell you this was not the only visit to the nice neighbor lady's house. By this time I had made several treks across a trafficked street. Also, both of these adults knew very well I had to cross the road by myself to get to the neighbor lady with the wonderful magic candy bowl. Someone was not minding the store.And my mother was caught out, and knew it, which she hated. On that note, she could have easily locked the front door at the very least, or paid more attention. But she didn't. She lived for those nap times, which she considered released her of all childcare responsibility. The fact that a three year old had gotten her found out did not sit well with her.

                                                                           Leaving Home
                                                                 By EmpressOF Cheese

        I had to work hard to make sense of the difficulty that was, and is yet today, my family. I have always done this work of making sense, ever since I left home, or was thrown out, depending on whose version you believe. It was rather similar to a “You can’t fire me, I quit!!” scenario, and I left the month after I turned 18, because my father had told me I couldn’t leave before then. His statement had a threatening “or else” quality to it, as did most of his statements. I moved out to the college dorms. My mother drove me with my few belongings in her 1964 Mercedes. She basically dumped me off in front of the dormitory I had secured for myself without her help, and left me, standing on the curb, surrounded by boxes.I had already been going to college since I graduated high school. I didn't even take a summer off, because that was not allowed. So I began college the June of my high school graduation. Since I didn't have even a driver's license, much less a car, I was dependent on my father to drive me to the university during those two first quarters of my college life.By the end of summer, I told my parents I was moving out to the college dorms. “Over my dead body” my father yelled. This conversation was had at the dinner table. “I will be 18 in December” I reminded him. “You can't move out before then and you will have to figure it out for yourself !” he screamed, in full view of everyone.I proceeded. I was able, on campus, to obtain an application to stay in the dorms. I completed it. In fact I got assigned to the exact dorm housing I had asked for!! These were fairly marvelous dorm layouts, each room actually consisting of two rooms, and the two people staying in them could divide up the rooms as they desired. One room at the back had a sink and two closets, and the front room had no amenities but was a similar size. We could move the beds and desks around as we desired. There were four of these “room sets” on each floor, with a shared shower/toilet, and one floor below me one “room set “ had been reserved as a kitchen with a stove and refrigerator. There was no airconditioning. I stole a set of twin sheets, and a towel and a blanket, I think, from the house I grew up in. I felt quite furtive in taking these things, worried what would happen if my family found out. I didn’t think I deserved anything, that had been made clear. The blanket was old, a thin rose colored wool blanket. Oh, and also I must have taken a bed pillow. And my clothes and a few books. I was poor as a pauper, but I was free at last. My family gave me nothing to take with me. And I knew better than to ask.At a small store nearby, I purchased two white china dinner plates and a set of four Libbey glasses decorated with yellow wheat stalks, two sets of some cheap silverware, and two small cheap pans to cook in as well., a little frying pan and a saucepan. I had barely any money and no car. In fact, I had no driver’s license. I rented a small dorm sized refrigerator, and lived on cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk, with occasional spaghetti or macaroni and cheese thrown in. My parents would never have dreamed of paying for a meal ticket at the nearby student cafeteria. I would never have dreamed of being the recipient of such largesse.I didn’t talk with them for six weeks after I moved in. Nor did they try to contact me, although there was an in-wall phone in the dorm room. There were no phone calls from them, no expressions of concern. It was as if I did not, and had never, existed.You see, I wasn’t supposed to leave home. It just wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t part of the grand plan that my parents kept a secret from me, that they didn’t know about consciously anyway, that I only learned about when I stumbled against some boundary and violated their conception of control. I wasn’t supposed to think for myself. I was, instead, supposed to remain at home and continue to suffer the brunt of whatever secret emotional storm the family was experiencing.On a couple of occasions, when I was in my middle teens, my father would talk loftily about “building a guesthouse”, or of “converting the utility room and adding a bathroom”. I considered these rather odd ideas. The utility room was where he kept his tools and lawnmower and small tractor. “Well, yes”, he would go on to explain, “you and your sister can live in there while you go to college, you will have a little privacy, and then when you are done, we will have a guest house for people to stay in when they come to visit”. Of course, his idea made some sense at the time, only because I was still inside the family, but it bothered me. I by that time had no intention of sticking around for one minute longer than I had to. I was planning my escape, and had been for many years.As it happened, my father never did make the conversion of the utility room or break ground to build “a little guesthouse”. So when it came time for me to attend college, I was simply expected to stay in the room I had while in high school. Nothing was discussed. And life would continue much as it had, was apparently the general idea. College was simply a slightly higher echelon of high school, with no attendant increase in privileges or freedom.Leaving home is a process I call “breaking trail”, when you are the eldest child. Leaving home hasn’t been done before, and the family doesn’t have any experience about how it is supposed to happen. No clearly defined path is emblazoned in the snow and between the evergreens, with branches bent low from the weight of the last fall. No historical account exists, you see. No protocol prepares us for the rending and shifting of the family stasis.For most parents, who often don’t plan, it creeps up on them unawares, and they take it as personal rejection. More pushing away, perhaps the ultimate pushing away, the process began when the child was a toddler. “I don’t want to be in your lap”, says the child. “I don’t want to cuddle”, “I don’t want to lay here and look in your eyes forever in blissful bonding!” No. No-no-no. Little fists pummel and push, right into the parent’s midsection or on their chest, saying “I want to be free to explore the world, I want to learn, I want to test my muscles and refine my coordination and grasp and touch and hold more than you. There is more world than you. I am not here to meet your needs. I am here to break free under your watchful eye and under your protective auspices. You are here to keep me safe while I do this important work, while I grow, and become and flourish. Let GO of me!!!”. Such is the extreme power of the developmental effort.Fortunately for me, nothing my parents did to me was able to stop the strength of my upward developmental thrust. My progress forward was instinctive, irrevocable and undeniable. I foraged forward, blindly, but moving. There was no guidance. The deep knowing was that you keep going in the face of insurmountable odds. I am reminded of the documentaries about climbing Everest that I occasionally find myself watching, to the point that I know the location of every camp, every rest spot and every struggling effort to move from one foot to the other, crampons bound tightly. The genre of survival stories holds an odd and compelling attraction for me. Further BetrayalAs I was preparing to move out of the family house and into college dorms, at the instant I turned 18, my parents informed me suddenly they weren't paying for all of my college. They had concocted a punishment. What they would pay for, they informed me, was college tuition and the dorm rental.. Everything else was up to me to cover. That meant clothing, food, and any sundries like deodorant or shampoo. Or anything else I might need. I had raised their expenses by not living at home and so I had to pay for that, although this issue had never been negotiated or discussed.My parents knew very well that I had $500.00 in savings, that I wanted to use to purchase a car. It was unfortunate that I had been so proud of my savings that I had revealed this position to them. I still didn't realize who I was dealing with. I had thought they would be pleased for me, as well as pleased about the fact they didn't have to pay for a vehicle. Instead, they pounced. With alacrity.I had no car or any other transportation. I also had no food. Obviously, they didn't care if I starved. What they said was, you will have to get a job and help put yourself through college.How was I going to get to a job? And even if I did, how was I going to get there and then back to my dorm room?I couldn't figure it out at first. So the first quarter in the dorms, I spent $200 on food that I cooked myself, and other small things I needed. Then I figured things out. But I only had $300.00 left of my precious savings, which would not buy a used vehicle in the mid-seventies.A college boyfriend now came to my aid. I HAD to get a driver's license. This effort was going on during my efforts to attend very difficult classes.My boyfriend lent me his huge 1969 Pontiac Bonneville. It was a white boat. He took me to the Driver's License Bureau, where, without my maniacal father stomping around outside, I was easily able to pass the written test.Next came the driving test, which I hoped I was prepared for. The gentleman observing my test and giving directions was seated next to me in the passenger seat. The Pontiac Bonneville was massive. I was able to guide the vehicle around the pitons and maneuver well with the stops and starts and left/right signals. Then came the parallel parking test. I did my best, but absolutely failed. I think I got within three feet of the curb, which was laughable.I looked at the poor man in the seat next to me. “I guess this means I failed the test, right?” I said, plaintively. I didn't beg, but I was fully prepared to be denied the driver's license. “No” he said. “I am going to give you a Pass!” He took pity on me. I couldn't believe it. It was a wonderful day in my life. I thanked the man profusely and almost cried. It was the beginning of my freedom from my family.

                                                                                       Jailbait
                                                                      By EmpressOF Cheese

      Then there was the time my parents called me, as a young teenager, into the living room for another one of their long lectures. This time, the essential message was “If you don't learn how to behave, you are going to wind up in jail”. I was a mostly straight A student and I didn't act out for fear of physical abuse. So I KNEW I was a good kid. I thought “How in the world am I going to wind up in jail?” But they pressed the point over and over. “You are going to go to jail. Just wait and see.”Internally, I thought “WHAT? Go to jail for what?”. My parents refused to elaborate. It was simply where I was headed. That was my future. They were certain of it. There they both sat, faces serious, with mournful looks, while I stood in front of them. Giving me the bad news about my future. I was beyond words.At a fundamental level, I knew they were wrong. And I knew they were (somehow I knew they were) crazy, although I didn't have real words for that at the time. Nothing they said made sense or fit with reality.But here I was, called into the formal living room (where children weren't allowed ever unless called in for an audience) with its flocked gold wallpaper and Bosendorfer Concert Grand Piano in its Rosewood case, and elegant furnishings, and my mother's portrait done in oils wherein she placidly stared down from above, hands crossed neatly on her lap, in a sleeveless maroon shift. I was being called on the carpet, so to speak. Over nothing. These lectures weren't related to any transgressions I had committed. They were purely random acts of abuse and control. Which my parents undoubtedly enjoyed.Once, much later, I asked my mother (you would think I would have known better) why she and my father gave me the message that I would wind up in jail. I suppose I was still trying to hold her to account, which never worked anyway.She simply said brightly “Oh, I think that is maybe what we were told when we were children.”Notably, the other three children were not threatened with jail.And that was the end of that.Except it wasn't.The truth is, I DID wind up in jail. I wound up in jail a LOT. And here is how it happened.The fact of the matter is, that at about the age of 28, I wound up with a wonderful job as the Program Director of a Residential Treatment Center for Alcohol and Drug Treatment. It was a long term treatment center, which meant that the full program would take people about six months to complete.This job involved having me conduct a clinical assessment, or interview, with inmates who were incarcerated in county jails in Dallas. The job also involved me fishing prospective clients out of the same jails and bringing them to my program. I was in charge of qualifications for admission to a long-term addiction treatment program, for which I was the program director. I was in charge of everything. Accept or reject, it was purely up to me. So I had to go to all the Dallas County jails and interview the prisoners. I had a Sheriff's letter granting me walk-in status to all the Dallas County jails, of which at that time there were four. So no questions asked, I waltzed in and waltzed out.So yes. I was in and out of jail many many times. In order to test their mettle, I, to some degree, harassed the prisoners. I had a community of forty people to run, and I was particular. Every one had to get along and not pose a danger to anyone else. The cops and guards NEVER messed with me nor did most of the prisoners. They knew. I had full authority as to whether they would get out or not. My boss, the executive director, fully trusted my judgment, as did all of the Dallas Probation Department. There were zero arguments as to my discretion. And I was good with that responsibility. I had a recovery community to protect.Dallas Probation paid for the services through our contract. It was very inexpensive. We were a non profit.$900 a month. This was the early 90s. It was incredibly cost-effective and could still be done today for not a lot more. We took in many other people too, homeless and self-pay on a sliding scale. It all worked out. We also had grant funds from the state. I ran a good program, and I am still very proud of that accomplishment. We had 40 inpatients, and an additional outpatient program which I did not run. Residential was a six month stay. It ran like a top. In Dallas, not far east of downtown, it was located just south of I-30, and had space for 11 women and 29 men. The program included a tiny apartment for a live-in staff person so the rest of us could go home overnight.My rule was unless there is a gun or a fire, don't call me. I never got a call at home. To stay safe, the admissions rule was no one admitted could have a felony. I broke that rule ONE TIME and paid for it. My Executive Director had allowed this, so I could learn my lesson. Then she quite rightly said “I told you so”.Going back to my parents' lecture, on which they both agreed, let me explain a bit more what was going on. The message they were giving me is known in the psychological literature as a “parental injunction”. You give a message like “You are going to jail” to a child, and they will for various reasons, seek to incorporate that message as part of their life mission, or of their life identity. What that means is, they will fulfill it. In other words, the injunction is a direction to act. And it is a message about how the child is viewed in the world. Conscious, or unconscious, the effort of the child, psychologically, is to fulfill the injunction. The message my parents gave me was very dangerous. It was also unconscionable. Who would wish on their child that they would wind up in jail? But that was precisely the intimation of their message. I was worthless, a bad child, and I would “wind up in jail”. I find it hard to describe how despicable this type of message is, given to a young teenager.Clearly, they wanted me to act out badly, breaking the law and committing crimes. And I would get caught and be handcuffed and taken to juvenile detention. Most likely, that would have given them an entity (me) to project all their horrible feelings about themselves upon. It is excruciatingly difficult for a teenager or any age child to resist this kind of projection and not act upon it. Especially if the desire is to please the parents, which most children have.

                                                                                    Goats
                                                                By EmpressOF Cheese

        My mother decided she wanted goats. She had read enough Adelle Davis that she determined that cow's milk was evil because it produced mucous and goat's milk did not. Supposedly.So my mother bought a goat. Fencing was placed up and a shed was allotted to the goat, somehow built by my father (although I suspect he hired it out but took credit for it anyway). The goat, herself, was a very sweet animal, and she smelled wonderful. Occasionally, she would escape her fencing. My father had planted well spaced fruit trees around the yard. The goat, once out of her arena, would simply walk over the fruit trees, which were small saplings, lay them down to the ground, and eat all their leaves. The fruit trees, of course, died, to my father's disgust and dismay. I will remind you that both my parents had grown up on farms. They appeared to know nothing about animal husbandry for some reason.The goat needed to be contained. So my father decided to put up an electric fence, with three levels of wiring. The fence was to surround about an acre. He pounded in short rebar on which to attach the wiring. I was of course called into service, to trundle the wiring around after him while he attached it. No other children were called into service. Finally, the fence was completed so that the goats would not escape and eat precious fruit trees to the ground.Meanwhile, my mother, who wanted milk from the sweet mother goat, had to get the goat bred. She took the back seat out of the 1964 navy blue Mercedes 190D, put the seat on the carport, and placed the goat in the back. Her solution was also how she transported the goat to the veterinarian. I suspect strongly that she caused near-accidents to other unsuspecting drivers on the road, who might look across to her vehicle and see a goat staring back at them from the back seat.The goat was mated, and eventually had three baby goats, near Christmas. An exciting time was had by all. The baby goats were fed from wine bottles, with nipples, into which was poured some kind of watered down alternate powdered milk. Further, it met my mother's desire to have goat's milk. Every morning, my mother would go to the goat shed and milk the goat and bring the milk back to the refrigerator. I am sorry to report that it tasted horrible. Goat's milk has much to do with what the goat is fed. The milk had a disgusting aftertaste and was nothing like cow's milk that I was used to drinking.Nonetheless, my mother happily stopped buying cow's milk. All that we had for dairy products was the goat milk, which I eventually refused to drink. It reminds me that when I was a pre-schooler, my mother became horrified at the cost of milk that she needed to feed her two young children. Her answer at that time was to mix powdered milk, half and half with regular milk. This milk also tasted dreadful.Then my mother had one of her brilliant ideas!!! Why we had goat's milk, so it was summertime, and we should make Goat's Milk Ice Cream!!! The ice cream maker, a hand-cranked, salt and ice affair was duly produced. Everyone should be happy that we would have Ice Cream!! Of Course!. We made the ice cream. If possible it tasted even more rancid than the goat's milk. My mother was very pleased with herself. She could not seem to understand why anyone would not care for the ice cream. An nobody did!! But she had done her best!!Meanwhile, the baby goats and their mother adroitly managed to easily jump over the electric fencing , at will. All that work! The electric fence was no deterrent to the goats, as of course it only rose to a maximum of two feet. Goats jump. It appears no-one, least of all my father, had considered this matter. I fail to comprehend the level of stupidity to this day. As mentioned before, my parents had both grown up on farms.My mother, despite her interest in goat's milk, never did anything else with the milk production other than the ice cream. She could have busied herself with a variety of dairy products which might have been palatable such as sour cream, buttermilk, butter, and cheeses. None of these items were of interest to her, although they are not difficult to make.

                                                                    My Mother Escapes
                                                                 By EmpressOF Cheese

        While we were living in England, and despite frequent travels all over Europe, my mother became bored. Three of her children were in school, and she only had my youngest sister, three years old, to care for, and who may well have been placed in a nursery during daytime hours.I came home from school on a couple of occasions to find my mother having completed her endless house-keeping, and reading a book on the sofa. Finding her quiet and reading was highly unusual. She rarely slowed down for any reason. The book was “Silent Spring” by Rachel Carson. The year was 1971. She didn't share with me what the book was about, although I questioned her. She simply said it was an important work.My mother subsequently determined that she had time on her hands, and rather than relax, she wished to find some way to occupy herself. Navigating her way around our tiny village of West Kirby, she located a “Help Wanted” sign at a little store. She applied for the position. It was a health food store, and she would be a cashier and perhaps help instruct customers and stock the shelves. The job became hers, and the schedule seemed to work around the children's school schedule as well. She seemed well-pleased.My mother had worked in Atlanta, while my father was completing his Ph.D. at Georgia Tech. She was a first grade teacher for about three years. My sister and I were ferried to an after-school nursery. Her position was allowed, and agreed to, by my father, primarily to earn money to support my father and the family through his graduate school work. Her position ended in 1964, when my father completed his degree and we moved to Vienna for a year for his post-doctoral work. After that, I suppose my mother's role was to stay home and take care of the family, as my father was now able to make a living for us on his own.Because my mother was out working, even part-time, my father became infuriated. Her part-time job led to many bitter and noisy arguments between her and my father. She was not supposed to leave the home, especially to work. God forbid she become in any way independent. I wasn't really privy to most of the arguments, which took place after the children were in bed, but I know he pitched a fit. Over and over. I could hear them downstairs. They often spent the privacy of their evening screaming at each other.She refused to leave the job, and in fact, was able to quite adequately maintain the household in the interim, which required laundry and cleaning and shopping and meals and navigating the finances. It did not include attention to the children's emotional needs, never that. But the chores were done. She had violated the marital contract, however, at least from my father's point of view. He wanted none of it.Abusers, of which my father clearly was one, dread the idea of their wife's independence. It might mean their wife could leave them. I mean, if you are being abusive, hurting someone else, and the other person can leave because of their independence, who wouldn't?. It doesn't quite work that way, but this was a large part of the problem. So outside work is frequently, as one example, not allowed. If you abuse someone, they could leave and then where would you be? That is why abusers take stringent steps to reduce and diminish their partner's freedoms.While at this little store, my mother fell in love with the idea of all things health food, which led to some other changes on the family horizon. She was in charge of the food after all, wasn't she? Now she had complete justification to avoid and argue against all things enjoyable, which would include sugar, candy, desserts, and delectable meals. Those items were evil, and could, obviously, make us unhealthy. Which might lead to doctor's bills, to be avoided at all costs. Everything she served could now taste unpalatable. But her method was good for all of us, of course! So how could we argue with her? This dynamic fit her classic passive-aggressiveness. The deprivation, always her modus operandi, got worse.All my father could hope for was that her position at the health food store would end when his one-year sabbatical at the Liverpool Polytechnic ended. And it did. But my mother had her first taste of freedom. Which led to other events.

                                                                           Food As A Weapon
                                                                       By EmpressOF Cheese

      Flush from her experiences at the little health food store in England, my mother returned to Florida with her family in tow. She began purchasing and devouring Adelle Davis books on nutrition. Now, I need to add that my parents presented themselves as very straight-laced at this time in the early 1970s. In no way were they interested in the hippie movement They were far above that in their social aspirations.Nurturing her children in any way was not an interest of my mother's. She was interested in deprivation. Therefore, sugar of any kind was not allowed in the house. Soft drinks were an anathema. There was no candy nor cookies nor cake. Occasionally she would make granola. Honey was a preferred sweetener, and not much of that was allowed. She spent inordinate amounts of money, for a woman so pecuniary, at the local health food stores. The breakfast cereal was (oddly named) Uncle Sam's Bran which included flax seeds. She would make soups and occasional stews, mostly with pork or chicken. We might have tunafish sandwiches with carrots and celery as a weekend lunch. There was no pasta, no potatoes, nothing enjoyable or even well-made. Generally a skillet dinner was served, based upon her culinary preferences. And always adhering to Adelle Davis.From time to time, my mother would open an Adelle Davis book, and, lacking any other audience, begin to lecture to me from the writings. She was inspired. And I was an unwilling audience, although I had little choice. My mother had found her metier.The family rebelled, of course. Each child had a food they refused to eat. For me, it was fish. Oh, and my father refused to eat cheese of any kind, apparently due to a childhood trauma that he would not discuss. My sister hated onions. My brother despised mushrooms. My youngest sister would not eat tomatoes. The family options for food dishes was severely constrained. My mother managed to accommodate these restrictions.Meanwhile, my mother's cabinets filled up with odd and expensive foods in little brown bags, like echinacea tea, which I never saw her use. She also had golden seal, which was not a part of any recipe. Dairy products were not a part of any recipe. Snacks were limited to fruit or vegetables. Nothing was to be enjoyed. There were no thoughtful additions such as hummus or a yogurt dip. She was not willing to be creative. She did for a period of time, bake whole wheat bread, which was a horrid, heavy lump, that when sliced up, was virtually unpalatable. But we were all supposed to eat it anyway. And be grateful.My father, as long as cheese was not involved in a recipe, acceded to my mother's whims. The dinner table was a most unpleasant place, with constant abuse being meted out by my father. “Your mother made this for you” he would roar. “And you better finish your plate!!!” There was a bare smirk on my mother's face, since she knew we hated what she cooked. That was exactly what she wanted, and my father fed right into it. Dinnertime was miserable.
And my parents conspired with each other to make it so.On the surface, this dynamic is passive-aggressiveness in the extreme. This dynamic translates into “I am in charge and I will make you pay for the fact that I have to do this work to feed you”. No-one should enjoy themselves. No-one should enjoy food. Further, as we understand this from a psychological point of view, food is nurture. Food is the mother. My mother refused to adhere to this normative idea. No child should be happy because of food. Furthermore, she would make sure that her children were, as mentioned, miserable, when being fed. “You will pay for this, for being alive, and for needing me.” She had it all figured out. And she got her husband on her side, who was only too happy to comply, because he loved being abusive. When he took up for my mother, ordering us to clean our plates, she would smirk. I am certain they bonded over that interaction.If we dig a little deeper, we can examine the psychopathy. It was secretive, it was hidden, and my mother's food machinations were all done in our best interests, now weren't they? She enjoyed herself by promoting deprivation and ensuring that her children had no enjoyment of, even, food..Once in while, her approach backfired. One day she served fish (which she knew I hated). She hadn't cleaned the fillets very well (she had a habit of being careless in this way) and some bones were left in the servings. My younger brother began eating the fish, and started to choke on a fish bone, which became lodged in his throat. He was probably about seven years old. A trip to the Emergency Room ensued. I was left in charge of the other two children.At the same time, she and my father would devise incredibly elegant dinner parties, to which couples from the university faculty were invited, Held in the ostentatious dining room, delicious concoctions would be served, to include amazing and colorful salad trays, a beautifully presented entree, and perhaps zabaglione for dessert, or Betty Crocker's almond roll. The china and silver and crystal glasses would be brought out and I would help set the table for eight or ten adults. While I don't think children should be served on delicate china, it was made clear that my mother knew how to please Other People with food.Sadly these poor faculty members were now a captive audience. After dinner, everyone would retire to the ostentatious living room, and my father would pull out his prized slide projector, with its many cassettes of slide photos, and regale the guests with a verbal and visual history of all of our travels though Europe. His entire presentation was intended to intimidate. I am sure he was successful.

                                                          Another Candy Halloween
                                                              By EmpressOF Cheese

         My mother had a fierce determination to ensure that no-one in her arena enjoyed themselves. This was a paramount edict, although I didn't realize it. In many respects, to this day I don't understand her motivation. It must have brought her some great degree of satisfaction.Halloween showed up as it did yearly, and my sister and I engaged each other in planning out our costumes and excitedly got dressed and even dug and cut out a pumpkin to place a candle in and put on our front porch. We were perhaps nine and ten years old.My parents allowed us to walk through the neighborhood for trick or treat. The houses were fairly far apart, so our showing of loot was small, but nevertheless, we did the best we could and the candy was precious, because, as already related, we had none of that at home. Ever.My mother had concocted another plan to prohibit us from consuming candy. It seems that candy was somehow Evil. We had dumped out our bags on the kitchen table afterwards and were investigating our winnings. Tiny single serving bars of chocolate and bright candy corn and wrapped popcorn balls and pastel Sweet Tarts abounded. My mother watched. We were very happy with what we had accomplished! Here is what my mother said: “If you give me all that candy, I will buy you each a new school outfit.”We pondered. It was very difficult. School clothes were in scant supply anyway, due to my mother's deprivation mentality. I assure you, we had the money for clothes. She simply refused to spend the money.My sister and I had to make a decision. My mother wasn't trying to teach us anything. She purely wanted to remove our enjoyment of candy. We decided. We handed over the candy to my mother, who probably tossed it in the trash immediately, and she bought us each a new school outfit.Which she should have been doing anyway. But it lit a tiny light in her brain, in fact, which allowed her to come up with a plan to not ever have to pay for our clothes again.


                                                     Spectrum Theory of Psychopathy
                                                                By EmpressOF Cheese

        Let's start with the two diagnoses in the DSM V, our current bible of mental health diagnostics, shall we? We have two diagnoses, essentially. I can add a third. The two addressed are Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and Antisocial Personality Disorder. We could add a third, not a Personality Disorder, but more of a thought disorder, which would be Delusional Disorder. Here they are. (and listed below from the DSM V)What I propose is that the first two diagnoses, that of narcissistic and antisocial personality disorder, be reconsidered. Already a great deal of confusion exists in the media and in common knowledge regarding considerations of sociopathy and psychopathy, neither of which terms are addressed specifically in the DSM V. The use of these terms in our media culture thereby can lead to a great deal of confusion. Yet these terms are used constantly, with the idea that everyone knows what they mean. We don't.I further propose that we, the responsible professionals in the field of mental health, move forward to consider a spectrum analysis of these two Cluster B personality disorders, to include under my proposed nomenclature or another nomenclature, four separate diagnoses instead of the two listed below. The four separate diagnoses would include along the spectrum: Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Malignant Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Sociopathic Personality Disorder and finally Psychopathic Personality Disorder.The point of proposing a spectrum involves the idea of a continuum, meaning that no one diagnosis would be singular....instead it would fall somewhere along a continuum of progressive criteria.Indeed this proposal would abolish Antisocial Personality Disorder, whose course I consider to have been well-run, and to be far too general and all-encompassing. We have a great variety of disorders which fall under this purview. Let us strive to become more specific in our analyses, so that we can better serve the needs of our clients, and our culture, and by so doing, develop more effective treatment modalities. The current research on Anti-Social Personality Disorder, and testing thereof, involves populations in the criminal justice system nearly exclusively. I consider this population to be biased in the extreme.I recognize that, in consideration of the DSM V, a revered and deeply respected body of work, I would be challenging long-held and respected beliefs and adherences.Nonetheless. I call upon my history of over 35 years working in the field of mental health, always with a hand in direct contact with criminology, and my observations of these individuals.I do not propose to re-write the DSM V. Better heads than mine may do so. But I do propose to suggest an alternative framework for consideration, in order that we find terminology and criteria to more closely align with our cultural commentary.In the interest of better assessing the concerns and issues our culture deals with having to do with difficulties all of us encounter, here are my propositions.

                                                        Eeyore and the Algebra Test
                                                             By EmpressOF Cheese

          When I was in eighth grade, junior high school, I took Algebra 2, the second year of Algebra. I wasn't very good at Algebra, but I pushed through as best I could. The fact of the matter is that Algebra requires a certain level of formal abstract thinking, which is a hallmark of childhood development. Some children never reach this developmental level. This consideration is well known if you will just check your Piaget. Some children reach it a bit earlier or a bit later than others. Our school systems, however, mercilessly push us and judge us by dictating the age at which these courses should be taken. A struggle is not recognized as a developmental concern, it is recognized as a failure And so it was, as well, in my family.I am happy to report that I at some point pushed through this developmental watershed and became very good indeed at Algebra. As well, I took, much later, graduate courses in statistics and enjoyed the challenge tremendously. However, when I was 12 and 13, Algebra did not come easily.I would go home and try to talk with my father about my homework, looking for some help. The conversation would inevitably end with him thundering at me, calling me stupid and worthless, and concluding that I couldn't do anything right. All I had wanted to know was what a coefficient was. Somehow, the great PhD engineer could not explain this to his young daughter, since he was above having to explain such simple concepts. My algebra book was unclear as to the definition as well. I couldn't wrap my mind around what a coefficient was. These types of episodes would leave me collapsed and in tears. What they did was confirm further that I was on my own. That if I asked for help, it would not be forthcoming, and that in fact, it was a bad idea to ask for help. Ever.I remember distinctly taking a test in Algebra 2. It was a simple test, designed to ask the student to identify the difference between two opposite concepts by giving a series of examples. I can still see the paper, purple from the mimeograph machine, in front of me on the desk. I had studied for the test, and saw the difference between the two concepts. I filled out the test and turned it in.I failed the test, probably the only test I had failed in my life. What had happened was I confused the two concepts and gotten them completely backwards. Every answer was wrong. Because of this test, I received a D in Algebra 2 for that grading period. My parents were horrified. This result required a very serious parent-teacher conference. Obviously something had gone very wrong. I pointed out over and over to the teacher AND my parents, where the error was. The entire test was on two concepts. I had simply confused them. But no quarter was given. Not only that, no-one listened to me or heard me out. I was now because of this one test, a failure. There was undoubtedly something seriously wrong with me.Because of this debacle, my father somehow decided to change his entire parenting approach for some reason. I mean this was very serious, so the shrieking and physical beatings probably wouldn't work, right? Clearly, I was defective. So he went out and purchased a stuffed Eeyore donkey and gave it to me. Eeyore is the sad, depressed donkey featured in the Christopher Robin books by A.A. Milne. My father said:”You see how sad Eeyore is? Eeyore is very disappointed in you! Eeyore is very sad because you failed your Algebra test. And I am just as sad and disappointed in you.” Actually, Eeyore was a nice stuffed grey corduroy donkey. I liked him. At least I wasn't being screamed at and beaten. I ignored my father. His behavior was odd and also despicable. What I learned was that I did not have a voice and that no one would listen to me.Later, in tenth grade, I took Geometry and learned how to construct proofs and all the other things that Geometry entails. I was the best student in the class. My teacher loved me. Everything about Geometry came very easily. I got no credit for that accomplishment from my parents.

                                                                                           A Bloody Nose
                                                           By EmpressOF Cheese

          We were driving in the Mercedes somewhere in Europe. My sister and I mostly spent these many long hours reading, in the backseat. There was little more to do, and many hours to go before evening came. My father would often get irritated that we were reading and demand that we stop reading and look outside the window. There was really nothing to see, but we had to comply. Hours went by looking out the window at nothing. If my parents had perhaps told us where we were going or what we were to be watching, it might have been more interesting. They did not. Instead, I looked at telephone poles passing by.
 Further, we were not allowed to sing, or do any other child-like things while we were in the car, for fear of annoying my father, who was driving. He was easily annoyed. At some point, my father became angry with me.WHACK! His right hand came around his seat and smacked my face. He never took his eyes off the road. I was sitting directly behind him. It was not the first time he had done this. His aim was very accurate. This time he hit my face on the side of my nose, and it started bleeding profusely. No one, including my mother, who was in the front seat, did anything. I apparently was not looking out the window to his liking. I was left to deal with the damage on my own. I would guess I was sobbing, but again my tears somehow bothered no one. Even my younger sister ignored me.. I may not have been looking out the window to his liking, or some such error.

                                                                                            The Umbrella
                                                           By EmpressOF Cheese
                            
           I was forced to care for and tend to my younger sister. My mother desired us to be joined at the hip, for no apparent reason. As mentioned earlier, she was fond of dressing us alike. Even at the age of five, my sister had the kind of temperament that would make her struggle to form an identity and even to make her own friends.I had darling friends in Vienna. We would walk down the street holding hands, and couldn't wait to see each other in class. One of my friends, Carla, would invite me over to her house where we would play dress-up in her spacious living room, sometimes accompanied by our other blonde-haired friend, Brigitte. We were fondly watched over by Carla's parents.Because my younger sister was somehow unable to make her own friends, I was required by my parents to frequently take her along on these play dates. I resented this requirement horribly. These were friends I had made on my own, after all, and the invitation was for me, and I didn't see why I had to include my sister. The excuse I was always given was that it was because I was the oldest child. Apparently, being the oldest child somehow enjoined a great deal of responsibility and zero benefits. So she tagged along. I was given no credit or thanks.My younger sister was a nasty child, and my parents did nothing to curb her tendencies. Again, in Vienna, I had a small birthday party when I turned seven. A couple of neighbors attended, and it was a festive little event which I think the adults enjoyed. Coffee and cake were served. I was given a very lovely present from these neighbors, which was a stunning tiny little pink umbrella, which also had rainbow colors on it. I was thrilled. Obviously the gift was carefully chosen.My sister, again without any social skills, and because of my parents' failure to rein her in, insisted the umbrella was hers. I felt robbed of my birthday. Could I have nothing of my own? My parents had always required of me, that because I was older, I had to give into her.We posed for a picture with the umbrella. My sister, reiterating fiercely that the umbrella was actually hers, grabbed on to the handle with me, firmly, with both hands. She actually tried to take it away from me. And that is how the picture was taken. I was absolutely not allowed by anyone in my family to have a moment of enjoyment. My parents had taught my sister, under the provision that she was the younger daughter, that she got to have her way. Now, these are not necessarily unusual debates among siblings, especially those with difficult temperaments. My parents failed to step in, however. I didn't count.My sister's issues with her temperament, lack of identity and poor social skills continued through adulthood. For now, let's just say that she was unable to make friends for herself, which continues to this day.

                                                                 The Lost Uncle
                                                       By EmpressOF Cheese

          My father was born a fraternal twin in about 1937, most likely at home. Apparently his twin, Delmar, was well-loved and the light of his parents' eyes, which is what my father told me....Delmar was the favorite son and a gentler and sweeter person could not have been found.When Delmar was 13, he was out driving a tractor with his older brother Sylvan. This tractor had a very narrow front two wheels, and was quite unstable. Sadly, the tractor turned over, and pinned Delmar beneath it. He died from the accident. The parents were not there to witness the accident. I have no doubt this incident entirely traumatized the family, and Sylvan was blamed for the death. Sylvan later became an alcoholic and likely schizophrenic.The entire family was required, after Delmar's death, to visit the grave every Sunday and spend the entire day in mourning by the grave. These visits were per my grandmother's directive. I learned about this grave visiting story, through, of all things, my sister in law, who got the story from my mother. I have no reason to doubt the story, although of course it was not shared with me.My father, after his move to Austin, built a massive storage shed on his property, with a concrete floor. He began collecting tractors, mostly John Deeres. They were refurbished tractors, and he collected about seven of them. He ran a vehicle back and forth to Nebraska with a trailer and would purchase a tractor from an auction or other location, haul them up on the trailer and run them back to Austin, often with my highly irritated mother in tow. The time to travel back and forth to Nebraska was about 17 hours one way. The tractors were pristine, freshly painted, not a speck of dirt on them, and he would park them proudly in the massive shed he had built. He never drove these tractors, but they were a perfect collection. There are still about seven of those John Deeres parked in that shed.One fine day, he came home to Austin, not with a John Deere, but with a shabby little red tractor that had no real provenance. It had two very narrow front wheels. This was the tractor that had killed his twin brother.He stopped collecting tractors after that.

                                                                     Suicide By Wasp
                                                              By EmpressOF Cheese


My sister Aleta and her then-husband related the following story to me one day. They came by my parent's house one afternoon, to find my mother languishing on the couch. Apparently she had been working in the yard, gardening, and was stung by a wasp on her forearm. Her entire forearm had swollen up and become red. Sun was pouring in through the windows on a lovely afternoon in Austin. There she was, on the couch, in a fainting pose, her left arm up over her eyes.My sister and her husband, John, insisted on taking her to the hospital for treatment. She refused. After all, she had taken a Benadryl, hadn't she? Nonetheless, she lay there, supine on the couch, in apparent agony. She hadn't called any one either. The visit by my sister was purely random.My sister and John were having none of it. My mother argued with them that she wasn't going to the hospital. Finally, after considerable back and forth debate, they summarily loaded her into their vehicle, and took her to the nearest ER. My mother had to wait at least two hours to be seen, about which she complained bitterly.Finally, she was seen by the ER physician. In order to treat her, he had to cut off her rings on her right hand, that is how swollen her arm and hand was. Cutting off the rings was, no doubt, a loss to her vanity. She wore several ornate silver rings. The ER physician told her, in a strict manner, the following: “If you had been stung in the neck, you would be dead”.When I got wind of this event, I contacted my mother to discuss, since I was still in contact with the family. Clearly if she was stung again, she could go into anaphylactic shock. And could die as a result. I dictated to her: Get three Epi-pens, you can get them through a prescription from your GP. Put one in your purse, one in the main floor bathroom, and one in your vehicle's glove compartment. I explained very specifically how this safety measure could be accomplished, over her protestations that it was too much trouble.She refused to consider this remedy, for reasons I still do not comprehend, although it may have had to do with money. My parents had plenty of money and excellent health insurance. I told her, on the same phone call, I will call you in two weeks and see how you are and if you have gotten the prescription.I called her in two weeks, good to my word. Have you gotten the Epi-pens?, I asked. Nope. She hadn't. And furthermore, she wasn't going to.So much for my expressions of concern. I gave up. If she was in fact suicidal, which I now was convinced she was, and wanted to die from a wasp bite, I decided that was her prerogative. I wasn't impressed. A better martyr I had never met.

                                                               Bachelor's Degree
                                                          By EmpressOF Cheese

          At some point I was sitting on my bed in my dorm room, studying the requirements for graduation. I added everything up, and double-checked. I would have exactly enough quarter credit hours, 186, to graduate in August of 1977. I was amazed. I triple-checked. Why, yes, if I put my courses together correctly, I could apply to graduate. I had met every course requirement. I had a minor in french and a double major in Psychology and interpersonal communication.Because of my parent's sabotage, my GPA had become extremely low. I worked diligently to pull it up to a reasonable level, which I did. Unfortunately, I was not allowed by my parents to pursue a psychology degree, which, with the addition of a Master's degree, would have allowed considerable vocational options.So I was courted by the Communication department, a little known behavioral science, and signed up with them as a major. This major would provide me with an exclusively academic vocation, which, in order to have a job, I would have to obtain not only a Master's degree but also a Ph.D. Then Imight be eligible for a faculty6 position at some college or university. Nonetheless, since it was what was left to me, I was ready to pursue that option. I truly adored behavioral sciences.I applied to graduate and provided my coursework. My application was approved.The day of graduation arrived. I had to rent my cap and gown, and because I had no money, I was forced to wear some rather ugly tan sandals instead of matching black shoes. It was embarrassing. My college boyfriend and my parents attended. My siblings did not attend, and I suspect they were not even informed.Across the stage I walked to receive my diploma. The presenter was the Chemical Engineering Department head, who was also a neighbor on our street. He did the best he could. He leaned in low, and whispered to me: “Your father is very proud of you”. I will never forget that attempt at kindness. It was also an out and out lie.The fellow who presented the commencement address was elderly, and a professor emritus of history at the university. I can still see his face. He hilariously gave a rendition of historical trials and tribulations at the University of Florida, which made us all laugh. His address was written up in the college paper, and I fortunately still have a preserved copy.So eager was I to get away from my parents' clutches that I completed my Bachelor's degree in barely more than two years.I was 19 years old.

                                                                            Auntie Emma
                                                                 By EmpressOF Cheese

          After my father's visiting professorship n Pullman Washington, my family made its way back to Gainesville via a visit to our relatives in Nebraska, which was more or less on the way home. We made the requisite sojourns to each relative's home, and failing that, went to lunch or out to dinner with others. We went to see my Auntie Emma, my Grandmother Rose's sister and my mother's aunt. She had a gorgeous prairie style-house, incredibly comfortable and restful, on farmland out in the middle of nowhere. Large lovely old oaks graced her property, and the inside of the house had beautifully done woodwork as was typical of the style. Her kitchen was the heart of the home, with a monster-sized farm table in the middle of it, where would we eat her lovingly prepared and served meals. She made her own ketchup, which I found amazing, and she served it with wonderful sausages and potato salad. I thought I had never tasted anything so delicious.Two of my favorite places in her house were her Pantry and her Attic. The Pantry had an old-fashioned flour-holder that you could pull out from a cabinet and use to pour out flour to make bread or pie crusts on the conveniently located counter below. This was a REAL farmhouse! She also had a secret and hidden root cellar, located below her basement, where she stored all her canned goods. In the kitchen was a real old-fashioned huge wood stove, which she cooked on her entire adult life. The stove even had the warm water heater and bun warmer up top. My Auntie Emma was a tiny thing, and I am not sure how she was able to reach up over the stove, but she managed, as she always did. Auntie Emma was just as sweet, warm and gracious as was her sister, my Grandmother Rose. She always wore a dress covered with a farmhouse style apron, tied in the back, trimmed with rick-rack and sporting deep front pockets.The Attic was another adventure entirely, located above the second story, and accessed by a rickety set of stairs. The door opened with a little key. But the glories of the Attic!!! Great treasures were hidden here, includng Grandmother Rose's furniture, stored after her death. Rocking horses and bird cages and trunks and boxes filled with unimaginable goodies were scattered across the large Attic. It was a magical place. Every time I went to visit, I would go up there to play and become lost in amazement. Small windows adorned the peaks of the roof at either end of the Attic, letting in shafts of golden sunlight that illuminated the wonders contained therein..When my parents came to visit my Auntie Emma, I was the age of nine, and we as a family all got out of the car after we drove up to Auntie Emma's house. My Auntie came out to greet us, welcoming us happily. The chickens cavorted in the yard, including the banties. I was so happy to see my dear Auntie!That pleasant moment was immediately destroyed by my father, who, as was his wont, had become angry at me for some imagined affront, and right in front of my Auntie Emma, (and as always, the rest of the family) grabbed me roughly by the upper arm, and started shaking me hard and hollering at me harshly. My Auntie didn't miss a trick. “Del” she snapped. “You stop that RIGHT NOW!!!” He dropped my arm and stopped. Saints be praised. That had never happened to me before. And it never happened again. She was all of five foot tall to his six foot five inches. Nothing scared her. She took him on instantly.She was the only adult in my entire life who stopped his abuse and took up for me. And this was the only incident wherein the abuse was stopped. For that act of my Auntie's, I will be forever grateful to her spirit. Although I loved her anyway.Abusers are cowards. He thought he could get away with it, since no one, including my mother, had ever protected me or confronted him. He met his match in my Auntie though. For once.  And it was only once.

                                                                                                       Chi-Town
                                                                 By EmpressOF Cheese

          After our stint in Manhattan, Kansas where I believe my father taught and obtained his Master's degree through Kansas State University, and my mother completed her bachelor's degree in Home Economics, we were to spend the summer in Chicago, before moving to Atlanta.We had lived in Kansas for two years, while I was between the age of two and four. With my sister, we were foisted off onto families providing daycare, since my mother had to get her precious degree.
I am not sure what the rationale for moving to Chicago for the summer was, since, as I have mentioned, there is really no family narrative. It seems, however, to match up to the period of time covered by a semester of academic work for my father. I don't even have any idea at what school he was working or what the project was. A two bedroom apartment in a Chicago high-rise was rented, and my sister and I never really left the apartment during this period of time, to my recollection. Except for once.One day, my sister and I were led by a parent to our bedroom window of the high-rise. It was evening and getting dark. Suddenly, fireworks began to blaze up in the sky! Every description, and every color of lovely bright lights lit up the horizon. Over and over they exploded, every one better and more elaborate than the one before There were also loud cannon booms. I watched, entranced. The fireworks seemed to go on forever. I had never seen anything like it and asked many questions, such as “Do they do this every night in Chicago?” I didn't really understand. I was very excited. As it turns out, it was Chicago's July 4th celebration. And Chicago did a fabulous job.There was one exception to not leaving the apartment. My parents had obtained a fairly large cardboard container, the size of which might have been used to deliver a washing machine or other similar appliance. Enjoyably enough, windows and a door were cut out of the cardboard to make a kind of playhouse for my sister and myself. We adored this very fun toy. Curtains and a door were decoratively drawn on the cardboard with magic markers. It was a great play house for us!! We could both easily fit inside!One day, my sister and I were in our bedroom and the playhouse was on one of our beds. We climbed in the door of the playhouse and started bouncing around, inside the cardboard carton, on the bed. Bouncy -bouncy! What fun we were having! My mother was in another room, satisfied that we were occupied in our playtime, and as usual not paying any attention.Whoops!!! The cardboard playhouse fell over and off the bed while we were both in it. On the way down, my head fell out the playhouse window opening and hit the brick window ledge.That debacle sliced the back of my head open. There was a lot of blood, as could be expected from a head wound. My mother attempted to stem the flow of blood with a child's blanket, but the cut was deep and wouldn't stop bleeding.Somehow, my mother rushed my sister and myself to the street outside the high-rise and got me to an emergency room at the nearest hospital. We were hurried in to see the doctor, who took a good look at me and probably tried to reassure my mother.The doctor then turned to me, all of four years old, and said “We are going to have to shave your head and put some stitches in. I am going to have to sew you up. Do you promise not to cry when I do that?”Of course, being a pliant child and wanting to please, I promised I would not cry, although I am not sure to this day why that would be important to an ER physician. He cleaned and then started in suturing the wound. No anesthetic was used on the cut.It hurt. I cried, of course. I was only four years old, for heaven's sake. After he finished, the doctor turned to me and said, sternly “You promised me you wouldn't cry.” I felt very ashamed. Because I HAD promised. But I couldn't help it. And the oddest thing of all was that I knew he was wrong to admonish me in such a way, which is part of the reason I remember this incident to this day.I was surrounded by assholes. My mother said nothing, and took me home. It was probably my fault I had gotten hurt anyway.

                                                        My Parent's Trip To Russia
                                                            By EmpressOF Cheese

An opportunity of some sort arose for my father to take a trip to Russia for about three weeks. It didn't seem feasible to take the entire family, but he insisted on taking my mother with him. My youngest sister, Allison, was about a year old, so she had to go as well. A passport photo was obtained of the three of them, of which I possess a copy.The three older children had to be farmed out for this epic trip. I am not sure where Aleta stayed. But my father decided to prevail upon one of his graduate students to take care of myself and my brother. The graduate student, Paul, could not exactly refuse. Saying no to my father could have compromised his degree.My father ignored the fact that Paul's wife had just recently had a baby and was really in no position to take on an eleven year old and a three year old child. Arrangements were made and we were deposited in the small home of Paul and his wife.Paul's wife was none too pleased with this arrangement. Most of the work, of course, of taking care of two children, not her own, fell to her, and she had a tiny infant, her first child, a boy named after his father and called Paulie. This situation was completely untenable and ignored her wishes entirely. She seemed to have no choice but to cater to myself and my brother.Paul was kind, and interacted with me most pleasantly. I remember one evening, he was excited that “The Guns of Navarone” would be shown on TV, and so he and I watched it together, while he tried to explain the movie to me. It was in black and white, and I tried to follow his explanations. An enjoyable time was had. I never had this kind of attention or interaction with my father.One day Paul got a bit sunburned on his back, which was not uncommon in Florida. He asked me to put lotion on his back,and I was happy to do so. His wife found me helping Paul out in the kitchen. She was none too pleased. Frankly, I don't blame her.I was an interactive child, and found out that Paul's wife was doing exercises to regain her figure after having had a baby. So, unknowingly, I thought those exercises were a fun thing to do, and I spent time with her during her exercise program, copying exactly what she did. Up and down on our legs we went, and then performed twisting exercises to reduce the stomach. I believed she would enjoy my company, as her husband did. But she didn't.My brother, only three, had wet the bed. He came to me crying desperately and told me what had happened. He was completely beside himself with fear and despair. His underwear was soaked (and probably the bed was as well, although I didn't think of that at the age of eleven). He was very scared. I took his underwear and threw it in the laundry, not really knowing what else to do. It had to be kept a secret, I suppose. Paul's wife would have been furious. I got him clean underwear and thought the incident was over.Some time later, Paul and his wife and I and my brother were eating dinner at their dining room table. Something happened, and Paul's wife let loose on me. “You are nothing but a Little Bitch” she screamed. “How dare you come into my house?” She was beside herself. She went on a rant.I had never been called that bad name before. I was horrified. Probably she had found the urine soaked underwear. But also most likely she was just done with me following her around, and hormonal after her recent birth, and couldn't contain herself. Paul didn't intercede.I felt incredibly hurt. I thought we had been getting along, but apparently that was not the case. Looking back, I cannot really blame her, although the abuse set me back considerably. I blame my parents for imposing on people who were ill-equipped to manage caring for two small children, for even three weeks, on top of a new infant. It should have been a wonderful time for that little family. Instead, it fell apart.Again, my parents, thoughtlessly, placed me in a nightmare situation while their own needs, in this case to travel to Russia, were served. It wasn't about me. But it was taken out on me.

                                            Taking The Graduate Record Exam
                                                         By EmpressOF Cheese


I realized I had to go to graduate school, because my major required essentially an academic position, as a professor, for which I would need to obtain a Ph.D. There were no other jobs. I would become a researcher and get a position at some university, teaching college students, most likely.In order to be accepted into graduate school, I had to take a test called the Graduate Record Exam, known as the GRE. The score on the GRE was matched with the GPA, and the totals were analyzed to determine if a person could be accepted as a graduate student in any given program.The GRE was separated in to a verbal score and a mathematics score, essentially. I knew all of this. As mentioned, I was very good at test taking. So I wasn't very worried. It was just one more hoop to jump through.Irresponsibly, I was arrogant and didn't think much of having to take the test. I was nineteen years old. So I signed up to take the test, day and date and time being proscribed, along with an auditorium location on campus.I may have been distracted, but mostly I remember just being arrogant. I woke up late, and got to the auditorium late. The test was proctored, of course. Having learned to be somewhat manipulative, I begged to be allowed in to the test, although it was entirely my fault I was late, although only by about ten minutes. The poor proctors let me in.I sat down to take the four hour test in the huge auditorium. I had prepared for this test not at all, due to my aforementioned arrogance. I had woken up late, even, not having set an alarm, and forced my way into the space. I mean, I had tested out of my freshman year of college, hadn't I? I was in the 99th percentile on the Florida equivalent of the SAT's, wasn't I? This test was nothing to me.Many many students study for months for the GRE. I had pooh-poohed it and done zero preparation. I wound up, even with this lack of preparation and no coffee, with a score of 1100. It really wasn't a good score, although anything over a 900 was considered acceptable. Even with my poor GPA, however, it was enough to get me accepted into graduate school in September, for my Master's degree in Interpersonal Communication.

THE LINK TO THE
WRITERS OTHER CORNER

the link to
Kates corner

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