Today I learned a lot from Lauren. She is my therapist:
I had stayed too long in a social situation and on the way home I became suicidal along with the uncomfortable robot feeling. She said I’m not used to having feelings and somehow there is guilt attached to missed nurturing. Somehow I feel it was my fault that I was abused and neglected. She also said I have a lot of courage. The opposite of what I thought about myself.
I think my Mother taught me that mourning was a waste of time. Just like she put me down for meditating. “Keep busy,” she said.
Among other things, I get these manic constructs. They are so inspiring. When I try to write them down I never succeed. Indeed, I can’t even remember them. Maybe Abilify is the culprit. I had one right after (during?) a dream. The contents of the dream really didn’t exist. I had to tell myself that. Post Graduate Center for Mental Health rescued me. She called the psychologist at St. Lukes and demanded that they release my record.
In the distant past the same place let me down terribly, or lets say one of their psychiatrists did. I was distraught about an abortion I had. Why didn’t Dimitri understand that. Instead, he treated me as though I was a Narcissist and encouraged me to have two more abortions, saying, “now you would have had six children.” Horrible, and then he admitted that he misunderstood me. Just a typical example of professionals pushing abortions, especially on marginal women. My main problem was that I trusted everybody, thinking they had my best interests at heart.

I know I’ve been forgiven for the abortions, but it doesn’t take away the sadness. All but one were necessary for some reason, but that doesn’t take away the pain. In fact it increases it because of the bad judgement implied. When I was pregnant, after my ill fated abortion, Joe wrote me a very good letter. He said, “Without consulting me, you went ahead and got an abortion.” He also said I do have a color problem. That decision condemned me to a loveless marriage and a daughter with a serious heart defect. I was never happy again. Instead of being affectionate, I mistreated the children I did have. In spite of it, I loved my children very much and stood by them until they were grown.

I had the perfect chance to see a decent Psychiatrist and I didn’t take it.
Another example of not advocating for myself. So I became psychotic. Maybe it could have been prevented. A psychology professor at City College said I am completely insane.

I suddenly thought of Julia Schneider, my first psychiatrist in New York City and for a moment, I hysterically cried. She steered me all wrong, just when I needed a wise leader. She practically ruined my young life. There were some good ideas, like School of Visual Arts, but I should not have introduced Leon to Andy, who tried repeatedly to hit him with a toy hammer. Julie intimidated me so much. As a good psychiatrist, she should have realized that was precisely my problem. She yelled at me about the man who rescued me at my son’s birth. She said, “You look upon him like a knight in shining armor.” Of course I did. Well anyway, being afraid of marriage, I rejected him. Then I went on to be with an abusive man who made me pregnant and demanded I get an abortion. That set the stage for the other ones.

Leon was my oldest child. he died at age 28. 1964, the year of my son’s birth. I was so happy without my parents. I was doing artwork and I was happy on the birth of my baby, but I was conflicted about whether to  keep him. A black woman saw me at night looking at my baby in the hospital . She came and spoke gently to me. Then my parents and psychiatrist came on the scene and ruined everything.
After talking about Leon’s death, I feel so strange. Like I’m going to have a psychotic episode. I wish I had the words to describe it. I’m not comfortable in my own skin. At least finally I’m not copping out. Now (January 6th), I’m still mourning the death of the sweet, gentle child who Paul and Robin loved so much.
When he was 7 years old I was pregnant from a black man and he was against him just like my family was. I guess I was just as racist as my family at that point. Without consulting the father, I aborted the baby and married a light skinned man whom Leon liked. I was so unhappy because I loved the black man. I did it because I was afraid to lose Leon.

I started going to a clinic called Post Graduate Center for Mental Health because I was distraught about the abortion. I got assigned to Dr Dimitri Spyropoulos who took me into his private practice charging me only $7.00 a visit. It was a bad thing but I didn’t know it yet. He thought I was a Narcissist and felt no compassion for my distress. I even had another abortion I did not want. I was so afraid to displease him. In retrospect, I think he could have taken Leon away from me. Later on Dimitri changed his mind, saying he had misunderstood me and gave me Stelazine meaning I was Schizophrenic which was more in line with the truth.

I always thought my parents had a hand in Leon’s demise. And Jane with her fake sympathy after the funeral assuaging the family’s guilt with her long talk while the family waited in the car. What I mean by Leon’s demise is that my family and especially Jane, was so important to him and then when he started shooting up Heroin they rejected him. It was such a let down to him. Then we put him in a hotel and he was so depressed even though he was in a Day Rehab and had a social worker who visited him and a Psychiatrist who gave him Desipramine. I doubt it helped him. He was speed balling by that time.
Leon was a robust 16 year old when he was ordered to leave me by the ACS worker. (I was suicidal at the time.) He came back to me drinking and smoking pot. Ian, who had called him a gentleman all his childhood, called him a bastard after the visit which lasted a year.
Then he got started with Amphetamines that an older girl gave him so he could party every night. He soon lost his bank job because he was unkempt. He went on to Heroin eventually at which time my family rejected him with Jane dumping him at my doorstep while telling me he was doing the drug. All this must have been a big letdown for him because he really needed them.
When Leon died he was living in a hotel because Paul had said, “get rid of him, he’s conning you.” Both of them were fed up with his drug use. Robin had found his works in my nightgown hanging in the bathroom. I had to put him in a hotel. He became very depressed and he was in a rehab day program but he wouldn’t take the antidepressant the psychiatrist gave him, probably because it would have ruined the rush he got from speed balling. Anyway he didn’t want to quit. His neighbor said he heard him having convulsions. Maybe he got bad drugs that day and decided to end it. However the circumstances were, he did commit suicide by jumping from the window 14 stories down.

Paul is my 39 year old son. The effect of Leon’s death on him was so devastating because he loved Leon very much. He changed all his friends to bad ones and, in a constant rage, he wrecked the house and lambasted me constantly. He still has an anger problem. Why can’t Paul be introspective or at least nice to me when he’s outside the “box”? It’s like the world closes in on him and he can’t cope. I’m not saying he’s helpless, just only focusing on personal gain at the expense of others. I’m sad about it and I think I have given up hope for things to work out between us. Prison seems to be the only place where his anger is contained and he’s not seeing the world tainted with it. I have about 75 letters from him while he was in prison.

The Sullivanians were the group my new psychiatrist belonged to. They lead me so wrong that I ended up insane. I needed medication but there was only Stelazine and Thorazine. I did take Stelazine for a while. It helped some but I was also bipolar. Nothing addressed the racing thoughts and mood swings. Then a fellow at Mount Sinai gave me Navane. I was very happy for a year until he left. My biggest problem was the sibling rivalry of my two children. Terrible fights where Dr Heiligenstein told me to call him when they occur and he would give advice. Thus the advent of the “separate rooms.” Something which my daughter years later complained about to her therapist at Mount Sinai.

Robin is my 41 year old daughter. I think the therapist ended up leading her wrong. She went to live with her father and was very sad but didn’t come back home. Her father saw to it that she got her AAS degree from Parsons School of Design. She went to Americorps in North Dakota with four other girls. She ended up in Sacramento where she still is. History not resolved tends to repeat itself. Both she and my older sister went to California in exasperation and met their husbands. Good husbands except that hers is alcoholic and my daughter has major depression.

As usual, I didn’t stand up for myself. I can think of so many instances where I could have made a change but did nothing. “The courage to change the things I can.” I never followed up. I never explained myself. I never took action when it was required of me. I allowed people to have the wrong idea of me. I didn’t seem to care if I was misunderstood.
Again, I didn’t stand up for myself because, with my family, there was no such thing as standing up for yourself. You had to go along with the program or else. I tried my best but the full weight of their prestige was impressed upon me. All this happened against my better judgement. My sisters revered my mother. She had a lot of power. Ian was thought of as insignificant at the same time that everyone was living off his prestige.

When I was 60 years old I was being exploited by mental health professionals I came down with a manic episode and a psychotic break. The manic episode was fun but the psychotic break was more than challenging. My OCD helped me to be organized enough to survive. As I couldn’t sleep, I watched my face age. Adding to this, my landlord was trying to evict me. He was paying a police detective who recorded my phone calls. He even came to my house after he arrested my son for no reason.
Then there was a different kind of professional abuse. When I was 28 years old I went to a mental health clinic because I was desperately upset about an abortion I had just had. The doctor only supported an abortion for me and did not relate to my grief. I found out he thought I was a narcissist. He later decided he had misunderstood me, but it was too late for me. I had had two more abortions just to “obey” him. I had to keep telling myself I wasn’t upset.

The funniest actor comedians were very depressed. They must have been making up for it by being funny. I know for me the more depressed I got, the funnier I got. Except when I was so bipolar depressed I couldn’t pull myself out of the hole I was in. I say were, because they mostly all committed suicide. Leon might have been one of them. The depression got the best of him. He wouldn’t take the desipramine. At least I don’t think he did in the end.

Only a diamond can cut glass. I became the glass.
I had a boyfriend and I loved him but he beat me. I spoke to a lawyer, and she asked me is he worth it? I said no when I meant yes. I was pregnant and still not married. My other child Leon, was 7 years old and hated Joe. My girl friend who was also black had promised Leon she would get rid of Joe, who had told me she was a racist, that he could tell by her eyes. I took him to a social worker who was at Spence Chapin where I had left Leon as a baby. she consulted both of us separately. She then told me “he’s all yours if you want him, but he wants to live separately.” on the elevator I said to her, “he beats me.” She said, ” that’s a reason for an abortion.” as she got off the elevator. Abortion had just become legal. So without consulting him, I did get an abortion. I was always morally against it. What I did was inexcusable. Instead of telling him I did it because he beat me, I said I wanted to be married first. When I was pregnant after those seven years I was happy. Then when my family found out my happiness was ruined. I should have ignored them. I would have lost Leon, but I should have allowed myself to be happy. I became sunken into a deep hole of depression. They say, schizophrenics do one thing and mean another.

Well, I met another but light skinned man. He was insincere but I didn’t know it, his presence was so dazzling. I persuaded him to get married and I got pregnant. My daughter was born with a heart defect. We moved from the west side to the east side and I started yelling at him, it’s not the first time. I started treating my son badly because he was a racist like my family. Everything was forced from now on. Later on his father said to me “now wasn’t it a mistake?” I said, “yes but what am I gonna do now?”
I considered my life ruined.

It seems that eventually my life was lived as though I was trying to absolve Lumumba’s suffering and death, taking on his martyrdom as though it were mine. It sounds grandiose but I felt the opposite. I couldn’t make excuses for the indifference, even contempt, my stepfather had for him.
I brought this subject up to my Black Social Worker. He said “Lumumba was their shining hope.”
Lumumba had hoped diplomatic pressure would make the Blue Berets take action against the secessionists in Katanga. Ian alone was responsible for this not to be done. He held them completely at bay while he conferred with the puppet Tshombe, who even pointed out to him Lumumba’s pitiful state. He even undermined the Security Council’s resolution to drive the Belgian troops out of Katanga. Lumumba remained idealist to the end.
“Berendsen did not speak to Tshombe until 18 January when, according to a UN report, he met the president “to discuss something else… but took the opportunity to discuss the news, now public, of the transfer of M. Lumumba and his two fellow prisoners to Katanga”. The UN reaction was, therefore, no different from that of Belgian officials in Katanga: they turned a blind eye while Lumumba, Mpolo and Okito were tortured and assassinated.”
“So Berendsen did not demand that Lumumba be handed over to the UN, although maintaining law and order was the specific purpose of the UN presence in the Congo.
Had not Lumumba, as the Congo’s legally elected prime minister with parliamentary immunity, the same right to protection as Minister Bomboko, for instance, who on Hammarskjold’s request was escorted by the Blue Berets to Kasa Vubu’s residence in September 1960? But the New Zealander simply suggested handing Lumumba over to none other than Mobutu’s illegal regime, presumably spare “a lot of trouble”.”
“There was an agreement around January 14, that Lumumba be handed over to Tshombe. Ian actively prevented that even though Tshombe pointed out the extreme mistreatment of Lumumba. Moreover, the assistant Lindgren with the Blue Berets at the airport cautioned Ian about the pitiful state Lumumba was in and that it was an emergency.
On 26 August, Hammarskjold’s assistant, the American Andrew Cordier, left for Leopoldville where he was to replace Bunche as head of the UN in the Congo. Cordier was part of the Congo Club, a group of senior officials intent on making sure that the International Organization safeguarded Western interests in the Congo. Cordier privately confessed that “Nkrumah is the Mussolini of Africa while Lumumba is its little Hitler. Kasa Vubu received protection and the UN closed the radio station and the airports to promote “Law and Order”.
On 6 September, the UN denied Lumumba protection when he was on the run from Mobutu.
On 9 October, Lumumba went out and about for the last time. He held several meetings attended by enthusiastic crowds. The following day, Mobutu ordered his troops to surround Lumumba’s house. He is a virtual prisoner in his house without a phone. They called it protection.
Katanga is where the cobalt, copper, tin, uranium and zinc mines were. The Congo was fourth in the table of of the world’s copper-producing countries. Katanga’s copper wealth was what was at stake in the Congo crisis forming Belgian policy in July 1960. Katanga’s secession was a blessing. 1.25 billion Belgian francs went into Tshombe’s bank account instead of Lumumba’s government.
On 17 October the UN made an agreement with Elizabethville to establish “neutral zones” in north Katanga within which only the Blue Berets would operate. A proposal to this effect was made by Ian, but Tshombe rejected it over questions of sovereignty of Katanga over part of his territory.”
“How can a beret colored blue erase, just like that, the prejudices of conservative officers from Sweden, Canada or Britain? How does a blue armband vaccinate against the racism and paternalism of people whose only vision of Africa is lion hunting, slave markets and colonial conquest; people for whom the history of civilisation is built on the possession of colonies? Naturally they would understand the Belgians. They have the same past, the same history, the same  lust for our wealth.”*

*These quotes are from The Assassination of Lumumba by Ludo De Witte.

September 1960 was when I first started attending college. It was “100 Great Books” at St. Johns. Ian was my only supporter in the family. When he came to give a talk there I did not attend but I was told he was dogmatic. He also spoke to the Dean about my grades and my future there. It was not really good and I soon dropped out.
I had gone to the wrong boarding school. I wanted to go to another. The girls teased me mercilessly. I was so angry at my Mother for not socializing me and not letting me go to the school of my choice, that I made scenes. As usual I did not explain things. she exacted her revenge, banding with the head mistress. She had given me a beautiful borrowed dress that I couldn’t bring myself to wear. Actually it was because I was a budding Lesbian. Well, I sabotaged my graduation by staying out after dark with a boy who was Gay.
I think it was our secret. I wasn’t caught with him though, too smart for that. I didn’t know that summer my Mother had arranged for me was maybe the biggest mental torture. My life was soon ruined and I eventually became ill. I am Bipolar and Schizophrenic like my Grandmother. I only had two friends. The ceramics teacher and the Math teacher. They loved me so much. They were to form the rest of my life. Of course they were too sensitive and unassuming.
In 1961 at the age of 19, I was in the long term facility, I wanted to kill myself, but I didn’t let on. I was jealous of this other patient, who almost succeeded. I thought she was courageous. As soon as she got her liberty, she bought sleeping pills, took the whole bottle and dropped to the carpet on the living room floor. She had scars on her neck and wrists. I was in awe.

Nobody knew the truth about the UN’s role in Lumumba’s death.
Ian alone could have changed the course of events. He chose not to interfere. Not saving Lumumba was an imperialist act. He was true to his imperialist roots which was his legacy, the League of Nations. I dare say that behind the scenes, he formed the UN’s policy until he retired at the age of 55. He was editor in chief and head of the credit union. He undermined resolution 143 which was to withdraw all Belgian troops and place the UN troops on behalf of Lumumba. That never happened because of him. Lumumba was killed on January 17th, 1961. Dag Hammarsķjold was killed also in 1961. U Thant became secretary general after that lasting until 1971, about when Ian retired. In 1962 Kofi Annan came to work for the UN in various capacities. Too late for Lumumba. He would be secretary general from 1997 to 2006. He said “The UN should stand for what unites us rather than what divides us.”