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<blockquote data-quote="Copabanana" data-source="post: 718779" data-attributes="member: 18958"><p>I think we live in very tough times. 125 years ago sons left home to be cowboys. They went to saloons. OK. I will not romanticize it. Except they did sleep under the stars. There was not global warming.</p><p></p><p>Now. Drugs get stronger and stronger everyday. Predators are high-tech. There is so little room for quirkiness. For the odd man out. To be lost. And then found.</p><p></p><p>There used to be a term called creative illness. Or soul sickness.</p><p></p><p>I wonder if mothers in 1850 or1900 posted as do we. Did Lord Byron's mother post to Elizabeth Woolf's? We're they even contemporaneous? Did these mothers of old yore stuff their grief? Did they feel or think they had a role or responsibility to intervene in grown children's fates?</p><p></p><p>Are we all cultural products of our epoch? Has our society loaded us with this activism that I play out with respect to my son. OK. I am like that a lot in other things.</p><p></p><p>There was a term in psychiatry maybe 55 years ago. Schizophrenogenic mothers. Psychiatry believed behavior by mothers could trigger the disease. The word they used often was double bind. The mothers were perceived as putting their kids in double blinds and causing it.</p><p></p><p>Oh. April fool's. Research called into question. False alarm.</p><p></p><p>You see. I feel in a double bind. When I can articulate I will share. I feel like I need a diagnosis as an ill mother. My victim is me. I am playing various parts. Because I leap in and out of the treatment team. oh I am the treatment team and the patient too. does anybody else feel they've lost their bearings? Maybe a never before seen version of what's it called?</p><p></p><p>Munchausen syndrome.</p><p></p><p>Today I went in an ambulance. I thought I broke a rib. A contusion. Hurts.</p><p></p><p>I think I am heartbroken. I think I am losing hope. I think I am a fool. How did I not accept this outcome? Why was I do deluded to have hope? Was I wrong to adopt him? If i could go back 26 years I would have loved him the same. But I get mad<span style="font-size: 16px"> at myself to not have seen this happen in a coherent way.. And by my not anticipating it he was not ready either. Oh he had tons of treatment. but behind that I believed he would be OK. Because we loved each so much They call this river de Nile.or just overwhelming paralyzing pain and fear. Heartsick. </span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Copabanana, post: 718779, member: 18958"] I think we live in very tough times. 125 years ago sons left home to be cowboys. They went to saloons. OK. I will not romanticize it. Except they did sleep under the stars. There was not global warming. Now. Drugs get stronger and stronger everyday. Predators are high-tech. There is so little room for quirkiness. For the odd man out. To be lost. And then found. There used to be a term called creative illness. Or soul sickness. I wonder if mothers in 1850 or1900 posted as do we. Did Lord Byron's mother post to Elizabeth Woolf's? We're they even contemporaneous? Did these mothers of old yore stuff their grief? Did they feel or think they had a role or responsibility to intervene in grown children's fates? Are we all cultural products of our epoch? Has our society loaded us with this activism that I play out with respect to my son. OK. I am like that a lot in other things. There was a term in psychiatry maybe 55 years ago. Schizophrenogenic mothers. Psychiatry believed behavior by mothers could trigger the disease. The word they used often was double bind. The mothers were perceived as putting their kids in double blinds and causing it. Oh. April fool's. Research called into question. False alarm. You see. I feel in a double bind. When I can articulate I will share. I feel like I need a diagnosis as an ill mother. My victim is me. I am playing various parts. Because I leap in and out of the treatment team. oh I am the treatment team and the patient too. does anybody else feel they've lost their bearings? Maybe a never before seen version of what's it called? Munchausen syndrome. Today I went in an ambulance. I thought I broke a rib. A contusion. Hurts. I think I am heartbroken. I think I am losing hope. I think I am a fool. How did I not accept this outcome? Why was I do deluded to have hope? Was I wrong to adopt him? If i could go back 26 years I would have loved him the same. But I get mad[SIZE=16px] at myself to not have seen this happen in a coherent way.. And by my not anticipating it he was not ready either. Oh he had tons of treatment. but behind that I believed he would be OK. Because we loved each so much They call this river de Nile.or just overwhelming paralyzing pain and fear. Heartsick. [/SIZE] [/QUOTE]
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