It began with one name: Freud. A name loaded with academic tones, not of authority but of scholarship. The text On Dreams was incomprehensible, and yet thrilling; names of theories demanded repetition, and sounded so intellectual. Instead of giggling at the words: “penis envy,” science and scholarly background were implied by talking about things well beyond understanding. He looked like the quintessential professor, all white hair and glasses, the ironic and foreboding glint as he stared from postcards and dust jackets.
It was about people, how they behaved, how they thought; why do we do the things we do? Could anything have been more basic? How could I not ask these questions of myself, of my peers and of this bizarre creation of humanity?
Psychology was helping people understand themselves. It was a way to understand myself. A way to explain why there was suicide in the family, why there was unprovoked crying, anger and fear. Why medicine was a solution, but not an answer.
Why did the things that made me crazy, the things that disrupted my life have no impact on the lives of those around me? If we are all the same, why are our experiences so unique?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment