by A G Mogan
“It’s okay. You can weep freely. You are safe in here.”
“No … it’s not okay. Only wimps and women cry,” I say, and use the sleeve of my coat to blot my tears away. “Well,” I resume, “he would beat her senseless or worse.”
“What do you mean by worse?”
I fidget in the chair again and grip at it until my fingers hurt. “He was … abusing her.”
“You mean he was abusing her sexually? I remember you mentioned this the last time you were here. It’s quite all right to use words that cause you pain, as you might get rid of some of that pain simply by pronouncing them. Can you describe those scenes?”
“I’d rather not. He was abusing her like other people would abuse, I guess.”
“Have you witnessed such scenes only once?”
“No.”
“Do you remember how old you were when you became aware for the first time of what was happening?”
“I was five. In time there were others, and not all were the same.”
“How so?”
“Well … I sometimes felt that … well … that she was enjoying this abuse.” My face flushes bright crimson. This feels painfully uncomfortable.
“When that was happening, was your father hurting her intentionally?”
“I couldn’t say intentionally … but there were obvious signs of violence. But no, I am sure that for my mother it was all a chore.”
“Yet you said you noticed pleasure on her side.”
“Pleasure … I don’t know … a sort of pleasure, perhaps she was faking it … actually … I’m sure she was faking it … ” I mumble. “Enough! I’ve already said too much, and it feels like committing a sacrilege!”
“Very well. What can you tell me about your father?”
“I thought that what I have already said was enough to gauge his character.”
“You spoke about your father in relation to his wife. What was his relationship with his children like?”
“No better. We were not allowed to speak in his presence unless spoken to. But I wanted to talk all the time and that always got me into trouble. How many thrashings I got from him because of that! And I can’t remember him ever calling me by my name! Even when he was inquiring about schoolwork or his damned bees, he would just put two fingers in his mouth and give a short, shrill whistle, then expect me to crawl forward to his feet like a well-trained, obedient dog.”
“And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Obey?”
“Never!”
“And that, of course, would end up badly?”
“Always. Up until his death, I was constantly covered in bruises. My posterior stung relentlessly. And on the score of his despotism, my brother rebelled as well, yet he did it in a different fashion than mine. He ran away from home. It was a brave gesture, and for a while, I thought of doing the same. Yet I wasn’t as lucky … the old man discovered my plan and put an end to it.”
“Also through physical abuse?”
“No. That was the moment he changed his tactic.”
“How so?”
“He gave up the physical abuse and moved on to verbal. And I am not referring solely to curse words, which he plentifully used, but clever words meant to humiliate me and eventually to subjugate my will. And even though he succeeded to humiliate me in the most painful ways…subjugating my will … well, he did not manage to pull that off!”
“That remains to be seen.”
His remark strikes me as strange. I stare at him inquisitively. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, the human psyche is a complex tool and can sometimes create things which its holder is not necessarily aware of.”
“I am afraid I don’t understand.”
“I will explain it all as we go along.”
“You mean that my father somehow actually managed to subjugate my will, but I was not aware of it at that time? I would’ve rather cut off my right arm than bow down to that beast!”
“I know, but that’s not what I meant. Let me explain it to you briefly. At the time, you were physically and intellectually inferior to your father. And because you could not defend yourself against his abuse, you developed a defense mechanism, and this you did unconsciously. The mechanism one creates in response to consistent abuse manifests itself differently in different people.”
“How did it manifest in me?”
“That I do not yet know. It will become clear once I am able to establish your personal temperament and disposition.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, you are born with a certain temperament, whereas your disposition is developed in spite and because of your temperament. It is something you acquire as you grow up and depends on many external factors, such as ─ ”
“If you say so … ” I mumble, interrupting him. I hate it when he gets carried away with scientific details I don’t always understand. “So you did not imply that I submitted to him like my mother did?”
“No, I did not. Yet you ought to know that your current problems are, more than likely, rooted in your childhood. You started your transformation then, and it probably still goes on as we speak.”
“My … problem … has to do with my parents? With my childhood? But it sounds absurd!” I blurt mockingly.
“It might sound so, but have faith. I am better at getting to the bottom of things than any one of my patients. Have faith and be honest, that’s all I am asking in return.”
“Yes, I’ve got that. Please, quit repeating it.”
“Unfortunately, patients often forget, or rather ignore the overwhelming importance of sincerity in therapy, and I need to constantly remind them,” he says, with the same indestructible calm on his face. “Now, tell me a little about yourself as a child. If you were to use only three words to best describe yourself at that time, what would they be?”
I remain quiet and ponder on his question. I must come up with the most sincere answer, he said. “Sensitive, resentful, very imaginative.”
“Good. Can you elaborate a little on each one?”
“Well, I could try. Of all, imagination is the one I remember to have always had. I was born with an artistic … temperament.” I pause a little and we both smile. “All my life, I’ve been attracted to everything related to art. I am a great painter and have been since my early childhood. Architecture fascinates me as well. Using my imagination, I’ve often re-designed entire cities in my mind. I also remember things from a time it wouldn’t even seem possible to remember, such as guessing, or better yet, imagining what some adult would say next. In most cases, my imagination would prove a match for reality.”
“Very nice. And what about the other traits?”
“I haven’t always been sensitive, that is, easily hurt. I remember this sensitivity growing inside of me more and more with each day. Regardless of how hard I was struggling to keep it at bay, it got stronger and stronger.”
“Were you aware of this process at that age?” he asks, slightly surprised.
“Yes.”
“Then, can you remember what was causing it to appear?”
“Absolutely. Without exception, every time I felt it, it was somehow closely connected to my father’s behavior.”
“Never with your mother’s?”
“No. With my mother, I always felt something else altogether. I felt love with my mother. Whenever she showed me affection, it felt like I deserved it, that it was mine by right. I never had to fight for my mother’s affection.”
“How would you describe your sensitivity at that time?”
“Well … my father’s behavior toward us was hurting me very deeply. Initially, this … inner turmoil … was temporary. Yet it never failed to return. And one day it simply became a constant.”
“And after a short while, it turned into resentment,” he says, all the while nodding his head approvingly.
“It’s possible … well yes, I suppose you are right. But, it occur
red later, probably when the pain became unbearable.”
“Your guess is correct, Herr Schicklgruber.”
“I told you I am good at guessing,” I coo jovially.
“That was the moment when your subconcious mind triggered the defense mechanism. Your resentment was born not from hate, but from self-defense. At least, in the beginning.”
“That can be true, but don’t forget that my hate for my father is as certain as the sun’s rise.”
“I see. Okay. I am going to ask you a possibly painful question,” he says, and pauses briefly. “What did you feel when you surprised your parents during sexual intercourse? And please use one single word to describe it.”
“Ah, but that’s very difficult, as there were so many things going through my mind at that moment … ”
“Try at least, please.”
“Well … the stronger feeling was … injustice.”
“In what way?”
“It was unfair that my mother had to endure all that pain, humiliation, and perversity. Unfair that he would be allowed to touch her … unfair that … ”
“Yes?”
“To show him the affection that was rightfully mine was … well, to me it was the greatest injustice!”
“Were you jealous of your father for receiving affection from his wife, affection otherwise normal?”
“Jealous? No, that’s absurd! All I felt for that monster was hate. Pure hate!”
“Interesting choice of words. Did you feel justified in hating your father?”
“And how! Not only justified, but also bound. Bound to end it. Bound to eliminate him one way or another.”
“And, figuratively speaking, that’s exactly what you did. And you did it in the only way you could at that time: by alienating yourself from your true identity. You could not have possibly eliminated your father, of course, so you proceeded to eliminate another thing, yourself, as you were at that time, sensitive and vulnerable. And then, due to the pain and hatred that had become unbearable, your psyche proceeded to rebuild a new self, this time one that could have handled the two overwhelming feelings you had. You thought, unconsciously of course, that if overwhelming pain and hatred would no longer bother you, then your father would lose his power over you. And that was the way in which your eliminated your father.”
“I did no such thing!” I exclaim, and burst into laughter. This whole story begins to sound just like that Jewish, biblical, mind-twisting crap. It amuses me, the conviction with which my doctor speaks, the seriousness of his face when he does so … is just … just hilarious. A good, good comedy. Like that Charlie Chaplin movie I saw before the war … what was it called … well, I forgot the name. But my doctor has the same seriousness that, in the end, becomes downright comical.
“Not consciously, that is. It is a slow process, invisible to the mind. Especially in a child, as most of these transformations begin in childhood. In unhappy childhoods.”
”Yes, mine was an unhappy one. I don’t seem to be able to think back to it without my soul cringing … ”
“Your mother was ultra-protective, your father indifferent, intimidating, domineering. You were not allowed to develop according to your individual needs and possibilities. As a result, you could not develop the most sought for feeling of belonging, but instead, a profound insecurity and anxiety.”
“My sensitivity…”
“Right. You mistook your anxiety for sensitivity. Okay. So, I formed an opinion about the environment in your household. How did you feel outside of it?”
“Roughly the same. I began seeing the world around as hostile. Everything seemed hostile, meant to attack or mock what I was and stood for.”
“And how did you react to that?”
“I am not sure. I think … well, in the beginning, I began to slowly withdraw into myself, emotionally, that is. Only after a while, when I noticed that withdrawing emotionally would not make my father stop his bullying, I became more assertive. I started to rebel against him, then against my teachers, the school, the entire society, for that matter. My father was always speaking against everything, from the government to my teachers to our community, politics, history, the books he read and so on. I might have followed his example, I don’t know.”
“And how did that turn out?”
“Well, for all my rebellion, I achieved nothing but making my life even more unbearable under his roof.”
“Of course. And that was the moment you started, unconsciously or not, to transform your personality. Have you perceived other new feelings developing in yourself at that moment?”
“Yes. Aggressiveness, then indifference, then aggressiveness again.”
“Something else?”
“Well … I guess I became more aware of my body … my defective body … ” I mumble and avert my look.
“Defective in what way?”
“It was not complete. There were parts missing to it, as you acknowledged during my physical examination. I was sensing that I was somehow different from the rest, and perceived it as something inferior.”
“Do you still believe it to be so?”
“No. Now I believe, nay, now I know that I had been marked.”
“Marked by God?”
“Precisely.”
“I see … ” he utters, staring at the pencil he toys with. “Well, I would like to go back and drill a bit more on the process of transformation, as I believe it to be of a crucial importance to the problems you are experiencing today. Is that okay with you?”
“I believe so. Go ahead.”
“Okay. As you started to create the new you, you began placing value on the capacity of strength and the capacity to endure and to fight, for these were the traits you needed to keep the pain at bay. However, the process rendered you confused and self-doubting, as it would do for any other child in your position. You desperately started to look for self-confidence, or at least a substitute. Something that would have given you a sense of individuality. Your unconscious mind got to work and developed a new need, an urgent need to lift yourself above others. This gave you the feeling of power and significance, and a sense of finally being safe. It made you meaningful to yourself.”
“I did all of that?” I ask, partly amused, partly proud.
“Yes. Gradually and unconsciously, you created in your mind an idealized self. And this was possible with the help of your imagination. The more imaginative one is the more alive, colorful and grandiose the idealized image becomes. You endowed yourself with unlimited powers, exulted qualities, and in your imagination you became a hero, a genius, a … god.”
“Excuse me, Doctor, but … being a man marked by God … are you insinuating that’s a product of my imagination? Do you? Because, frankly, it is the biggest nonsense I’ve heard in a long time! You have no idea of how many things happened to me recently that would prove you wrong! No idea! And even if you did know them, you would not be able, with your stupid science, to explain them!”
I leap to my feet and pace his room far and wide now, hitting my palm with my fist to emphasize every word I say.
“My Divinity, My God, saved my life in the trenches, when all my comrades were burst open! My God saved me by telling me to move! And then, there are the prophecies! So many of them! Can you explain those, Doctor ? Can you dissect those with your Jewish babbling? That’s my question to you!” My blood rises to my head and it makes my temples throb. I must get out of here.
“I am certain of what I am telling you. I have my own experience, even if it does not apply to solving supernatural riddles,” I hear his babbling on my way out.
The feeling of being naked returns and I berate myself for exposing much more than I could ever be comfortable with. Yet there is something that continues to pick at my judgment. Could it be possible that the cursed syphilis resides only in my imagination? Could this be yet another miracle sent out to me by my Goddesses?
A bright ray of hope shoots through my blood and setting the uncomfortable fee
ling of nakedness aside, I resolve to begin focusing solely on my true mission. The Motherland needs me, her cry for help is the holy priority. Compared to that, my personal problems are like the tiny drops of a drizzling rain falling into the vastness of the ocean.
I speak for the first time in front of the party members, and do so like a possessed being. As such, it comes as no surprise that the number of new members increases swiftly and steadily. We begin to receive donations, so we can finally buy a rubber stamp and design membership cards. I think of a design for the official stamp myself, scanning through old art magazines for inspiration. Arriving eventually at a decision, I proudly announce the heraldic eagle as our new stamp symbol. For what could be more appropriate than the eagle, with its keen eyes symbolizing courage, strength, and immortality? What could be more representative than this ‘king of the skies’ and messenger of the highest gods? Nothing, indeed.
With the new members coming to us in droves, the donations multiply. We also begin to charge for admission. We are now able to advertise our party’s public meetings in newspapers, most notably Münchener Beobachter, which belongs to the Thule Society. The membership increases and increases so steadily and so rapidly before our eyes that I almost cannot believe it.
My sleep is lost again, yet my happiness is back.
Aside from the driving-points I have already formulated for the Party, I get to work with Drexler on developing a full program for the new movement. It is summed up in twenty-five points that represent the guiding principles of the Party’s purpose.
The Program is greeted with enthusiasm, as well as opposition, by the Party’s committee members. While the more open-minded fellows immediately notice the geniality of my new plan, others hurry to express their hostility toward me, using insulting remarks. One such idiot, Karl Harrer, the co-founder of the Party, goes as far as to call me a ‘megalomaniac’ in front of the other members. Whoever knows me, knows that the one quality, or flaw for that matter, that is and always will be invariable in my character is the inability to either forget or forgive any slight I have been exposed to unfairly. So, I now consider Herr Karl Harrer as my enemy from this moment on.