A neurosis is a secret
You don’t know you’re keeping
Kenneth Tynan

In the forties and fifties, neuroses were either accepted or ignored, but rarely treated. Every family had its assortment of oddballs who became the butt of family jokes or topics only whispered about behind closed doors. Our family was no exception My Uncle Hymie had an addictive penchant for such wide variety of women, that today he would have been labeled a sex maniac, but our family only laughed about his peccadilloes and whispered among themselves about how to support their results. My Aunt Tick thought nothing of locking herself in her room for days at a time leaving her family to cook their own dinners, clean the house and fend for themselves. We referred to these episodes as “spells.” My mother would send me over with a covered casserole for Uncle Harry and the children and say, “DON’T’ RING THE DOORBELL, Lynn Ruth. Tap lightly on the window and hand this casserole to Jessie. Aunt Tick isn’t feeling well.”

My mother was afraid to leave the house alone. If her two sisters weren’t available to take her grocery shopping, we went out for dinner that evening. My cousin Lois Ann had definite cannibalistic leanings that became all too obvious as soon as all her teeth were in. She got her kicks from taking sizeable chunks out of her playmates’ arms, her pets’ rumps and the postman’s ankle. “Lois Ann is very feisty,” explained my Aunt Hazel. “I think she’ll out grow it when her stomach settles down.”

“”Her stomach won’t settle down as long as she insists on inhaling cigars and chewing tobacco,” said my mother. “I think you weaned her too soon, Hazel. You should have waited until she was at least two.”

No one thought any of these idiosyncratic behaviors indicated any kind of illness. Indeed, the idea of the mind being capable of sickness was very new to us and people did not seek out the help of psychiatrists unless they were foaming at the mouth, raging naked through the streets or had a lot of money and no family to pay attention to them.

My mother who exhibited undeniable agoraphobic tendencies with overtones of bulimia and paranoia, refused to admit that there was any illness that could not be attributed to indigestion or poor diet. She addressed these problems by administering liberal doses of castor oil, which she thought she concealed in orange juice, enemas she used as a threat for any kind of rebellious behavior and a series of diabolical entrees she insisted would “stimulate the digestion.” These included beef liver, broiled to the consistency of retreads, smothered in onions fried in so much chicken fat they actually cackled when put on a plate, cabbage boiled to a pulp and seasoned with horseradish so hot, your eyes glazed over and your very breath could ignite the Sabbath candles on Friday night.

And then one cataclysmic day in 1947, my mother received a cryptic note from my sister’s first grade teacher. “Marsha Dee does not like birthday parties. She does not participate in the celebration and she refuses to eat the birthday cake. I recommend you have a psychiatrist look at her.”

My mother read these damning words, clutched the piece of tablet paper to her breast closed her eyes to regain her composure and then collapsed in a heap of tears on the kitchen table. My father found her there, still weeping, when he returned at six o’clock for a dinner as yet unprepared. My mother looked up at him barely able to articulate her news. “The teacher says Marsha is insane,” she told my father.

My father who came home with only three activities on his mind: (toilet, newspaper and dinner in that exact order) frowned at this unthinkable disruption of his routine. His anger was visible in his stature and the tone of his voice. “She wouldn’t say that if she met the rest of your family,” he said. “Compared to your sisters and the little fiends they birthed, our daughter is a model of development.”

My mother‘s tears almost flooded the kitchen. She waved the soggy note in front of my father and wailed,” My baby won't eat CAKE.”

Now my father was really angry. “I call that very good news,” he said. “She has tripled in size in the past six months and she is beginning to look like your sister Celia, the one who needs a derrick to get her out of a chair.”

My mother swallowed her sobs and her expression though tragic was unwavering. “Mrs. Steinem says that any child who does not eat cake is sick,” she said. “And she is right. Marsha can’t get enough cake when she eats at home She must have some awful complex that freezes her digestive system when she goes to school. Oh, honey dear! What are we going to DO?”

By this time, my father’s personal needs had become so urgent he needed to end the conversation instantly. “Take her to Harold Hartmann,” he said. “He‘ll fix her up.”

Harold Hartmann was a child psychiatrist who was the father of two sets of female twins, after his wife had blessed him with four aggressive daughters. He liked to visit us to get away from the sound of screaming little girls and he and my father escaped reality by discussing taxes and golf. Whenever I saw him, his hair was standing perpendicular to his scalp and his left eyelid twitched like a window shade determined to block out the light. He often slammed his arm on the table for no apparent reason and when he talked, he lisped. I always thought of him as a direct relative of one of the seven dwarfs and the idea that he dealt with people who were mentally off balance made ultimate sense to me. “If anyone can understand what makes Marsha so nutty, Dr. Hartmann can,” I said. “It takes one to know one.”

“I think that is a very disrespectful remark, Lynn Ruth,” said my mother. “Harold Hartmann has several advanced degrees and his twin girls are the best behaved children in the entire Sunday school. It's only that oldest daughter who is a problem and she was born before Harold graduated.”

“She didn’t start having all those babies until after he set up practice,” I said.

“The first five years of a child’s life are the ones that determine the adult,” said my mother. “Harold was studying the whole time Rachel was a child and Martha had to work at the bank to support them. No wonder she seeks love from anyone she can find..”

“Why does Susan wet her pants every time I see her and Gloria mutilate bugs during recess? They were born after Mrs. Hartmann quit the bank and Doctor Hartmann graduated.”

My mother ignored me. “I’ll call Harold tomorrow,” she said and walked into the kitchen where my sister had just finished a three layer chocolate cake and was starting on the lemon pie my mother was sending over to Aunt Tick because she was going through one of her isolation periods. “Oh Marsha!” exclaimed my mother. “Why don’t you do that at school?”

My sister’s mouth was too full to say anything clearly but we managed to translate the glubs, burps and gurgles to mean:” Because store bought cake stinks.”

“She’s right about that,” said my father and hurried upstairs for the first phase of his homecoming routine.

And so it was that my sister visited Dr. Hartmann three times a week for the next six months. The good doctor charged $25.00 a session which in those days was an immense amount of money to spend on trying to discover why your fat little daughter refuses caloric intake in an academic setting, especially since that seemed her primary activity when she was at home.

At the end of six months my mother went in for her conference. “Your daughter has a problem,” said Dr. Hartmann, leaning back in his swivel chair and pointing his pencil at my mother. “She presses down very hard on her crayons.”

My mother paled. “What does that MEAN?” she asked.

The doctor nodded . “Aggression. ,” he said. “She is angry at someone.”

My mother frowned. “My daughter is one of the happiest children in our family. It’s Lois Ann who is angry….”

“Does she press down hard on her crayons?” asked Dr. Hartmann.

My mother shook her head. “She doesn’t like to draw,” she said. “She bites.”

“Give your sister my card. I can help her. My Gloria does the same thing,” said Dr. Hartmann and the interview was over.

My mother returned home, distraught. She announced the damning diagnosis at our dinner table while my sister was demolishing a casserole of macaroni and cheese. “What are we going to DO, IR? She wailed. “She can’t go through life pressing down on her crayons like that.”

My father was in phase two of his homecoming regime. He peered out from behind the newspaper and smiled at his wife. “Of course she can’t, Ida,” he said. “I suggest you buy her a better quality crayon. She probably can’t get her colors bright enough to suit her. That will solve the problem.”

“But what about her refusal to eat birthday cake?” asked my mother.

“If you bake the cake and send it over that won’t be a problem either,” said my father. “You’ve obviously spoiled her. No one can make a cake that’s as good as yours.”

My mother smiled. “I made banana spice cake for dessert tonight,” she said. “Would you like some?

“Only after the main course,” said my father and disappeared behind his paper.

“I would,” said my sister. “With whipped cream.”

“Do you think she’s cured?” my mother asked me.

“I think she’s as sane as she’ll ever be,” I said.

And I was right.





As an experience…

Madness is terrific.

Virginia Woolf