Having a Psychologist Mother

I'm currently reading Edmund White's "My Lives," a book that chronicles his experiences growing up gay in Middle America. It's a fascinating and extremely well-written book.

Anyway, in the first chapter White details how his mother, a child psychologist, would practice on him with Rorschach Inkblots. Please keep in mind that this child grew up to be an immensely successful author of countless books, some of them modern classics, and is currently a professor at Princeton. I quote from his book, "My mother was nearly gleeful when she told me I was a 'borderline psychotic' with 'strong schizophrenic tendencies.' Apparently the most telling sign of my insanity was my failure to see anything human in the inkblots. All I saw were jewels and headstones."

I don't know what's more disturbing in this passage: the fact that a child under ten was diagnosed as a nutcase for seeing jewels and headstones in black ink spots or the fact that his mother was "gleeful" about it.

All I can say is that I'm personally very glad that my mother is a reading teacher and not a child psychologist. *relieved sigh*