we are sick kids (DID YOU KNOW??)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 30, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 30, 2017



After you swallow the marijuana oil/capsules, you are seduced by some of the most tantalizing chimeras imaginable. You fear you might’ve been Hitler in a past life. You wonder if you have more than one person trapped inside your unfathomable psyche… All of these potential delusions and illuminations collide in the empty sterile vacuum of your cranium.

You are an idiot. Why should the reader make a concerted effort to comprehend the convoluted psychology of your disturbed mind? All WE can say with absolute certainty is that you will never be free from US . . .



You’re a small helpless child; you have no father. You’re overwhelmed by the alarming sensation of feet walking towards you. They are your mother’s . . .

Your memory or OUR puerile fear stubbornly refuses you entrance to a vast desert, perhaps even an oasis, of memories beyond this point.



I am your therapist. I am the only one you trust to guide you safely through the perilous avenues of your benighted childhood memories: a murky landscape concealing paralyzing Furies and Medusas lurking beneath the pale grey smog.

You feel like you failed the test of life because you can’t—or won’t—continue making progress in therapy. You agonize over failures in interpersonal relationships and magnify them to grotesque sideshow proportions. As your therapist, I've been able to experience—albeit vicariously—the masochistic excitement of your troubled and tortured existence. I am fascinated by your courage: although you're crippled by social anxiety, you've somehow managed to assume the role of lead singer in some punk rock band. I think you told me that the band is called Romanian Blood.

You invited me to one of your live shows, and to be honest, I didn’t know what to think. Your voice, fragile and emotional, delivered a seemingly earnest tirade inveighing against American and Russian cultural and political dominance:

“Is vodka toilet water or is toilet water vodka? / Russian Standard, American Standard / Russian standards, American standards / Russian rules, American rules / Russian victories, American victories / Russian imperialism, American imperialism / Russian militarism, American militarism / We’re all losers and nobodies in their eyes / Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born with a Russian name / Sometimes I wish I could just say goodbye / Become a new man in a new nation and live my life free from shame . . .”

The music was exhilarating, syncopative, and at times much too dissonant and chaotic for my taste. You blithely announced the one-word song titles before each song: “Russia”, “Cunt”, “Anal”, “Alarm” . . . Did your lyrics reveal your true self, or just your thoughts and feelings at certain moments? In the dark and despairing song “Russia,” you sang, “The worst reputation of any nation / The Nazi Germany of my generation . . .” Did you exhibit your ‘necrophilic narcissism’ in the ithyphallic “Cunt” in which you audaciously intoned, “I want to bury my dick in her grave”? I was surprised to discover that I thought the song entitled “Anal” was the catchiest by far, with lyrics condemning the cultural hegemony of gay male analism: “Anal sex is more patriarchal than your misogynist cokehead pops / Am I the only one who sees how oppressive it is for men to be divided into bottoms and tops? / And some of these men don’t mind acting like ‘demons’ spreading diseases like it’s hot / Gay men – I wish you’d wake up and stop acting like socially and behaviorally programmed robots.” Your band, Romanian Blood, closed the show with the song “Alarm”: “Life's fire alarms are never false: They're trying to wake us up to the inscrutable truths we find so easy to ignore.” I almost left when your band returned to play an encore which included an untitled song brazenly sporting the lyrics, “Romanians and Russians come from the same cunt / Pizda [peezda] . . . We may be separated by language, politics, and sin / Yet we’re really brothers beneath the skin.”


In our first session together, you revealed more to me than most clients would reveal over the course of several sessions, or even a lifetime. I learned that your mother told you the truth about your father when you were seventeen, and that before that she had you believe that she was married to him and that he died in a car accident in Bucharest, Romania. In 2006, you learned that he was still alive, and that your mother had never been married to him; in fact, she had been his mistress. She was one of his many students in medical school, and in a rather inexplicable and irrational fashion, she became infatuated with this man more than thirty years her senior. You were conceived in Timisoara, Romania, where your mother and Lucian (your biological father) were at a medical conference. Separately, they had consumed alcoholic beverages prior to intercourse. Your mother drank white wine; she was in a good mood, and they were both tipsy.

Being the product of an inebriated conception, you can’t help but wonder if you’re doomed to a lifetime of emotional imbalance and addiction. I assure you that together we can change the course of your life. An enlightened witness, like myself, can help give you the courage to free yourself from the vicious cycle of rage, acting out, self-defeat, and despair.

“If I die, they’ll say that I never learned my lesson,” you say.

“Who will say?” I ask.

“I don’t know . . . the powers-that-be, spirit guides . . .” you reply metaphysically. Then suddenly you shift to a different subject: “Behind every monster there’s an abused child crying for help.”

“Are there any conscious memories of abuse you would like to explore? Or any disturbing dreams or thoughts you’d like to discuss?”

“I only have conscious memories of neglect. . . . My last therapist actually told me that I’ve only suffered from childhood neglect because I have no conscious memories of any other kind of abuse. My own mother told me that she punched me on my arms and left bruises.”

“How did that make you feel, when your mother told you that?”

“I don’t know . . . I feel like I can’t remember. Like I can’t access the memory.”

“Could you please try? This could help you make significant progress.”

“It’s like the memory of her telling me is repressed. I’m sorry. What does that mean? . . . And yet I feel that I remember her almost making fun of me for not remembering the times when she hit me in my childhood. I’m not sure if she’s grateful that I don’t remember or if she wishes that I’d remember.”

“It’s obvious to me that your mother has treated you terribly. You are not the one to blame for her actions.”

“I feel guilty and ashamed. I’m a terrible human being. Nobody likes me. Everyone hates me . . . I worry that I might be evil. What if I’m a psychopath or a narcissistic sociopath?”

“Perhaps you have reached a fork in the road. Whether or not you allow the terrible abuse you have experienced and repressed to turn you into a monster is ultimately up to you. You have been given an opportunity to confront the horrendous torture you were subjected to in your childhood; if you squander this opportunity, you do risk a highly uncertain and potentially dismal—and even calamitous—future. Tell me more about your fears, your pain, your thoughts, your feelings . . .”

“I . . .  have Chronic Pelvic Pain Syndrome. . . . I often can’t even enjoy sex or masturbation because of the pain.”

“How long have you suffered from this condition?”

“I’ve had it for about ten years. It’s gotten worse over the years.”

“It sounds very discouraging and demoralizing . . .”

“I worry that it’s never going to get better. My aunt once suggested that it sounds like ‘self-castration.’ I never really thought about it seriously. Could I be punishing myself for something?”

“Perhaps you feel guilty for the abuse you experienced. You blame yourself.”

“I once had a nightmare in which my mother anally raped me with her finger. It was painful . . .  In the dream, I think I punched her in the face . . .”

“Do you think that dream could represent a real trauma you experienced?”

“Maybe . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that my mother could’ve done something like that to me. In the dream, I called her a ‘bitch’, and it seemed like she anally raped me because of that. Sometimes my mother calls me a ‘bitch’; sometimes I call her a ‘bitch’. I’m not sure if she ever called me a ‘bitch’ in my childhood. I actually asked her if she ever anally fingered me in my childhood; I even asked her if she ever pinched my genitals. Who knows?”











© Copyright 2017 Saul Przybyszewski. All rights reserved.