The History And Nature Of My Mental Illness, And Their Associated Symptoms
                                                                      Thu./20July/2023, 2:17PM -e.s.t.-

At Approx. 2y/o, I had the emotional disease of:

Separation Anxiety Disorder.

The onset of symptoms reared it’s ugly head when I would experience being transported away from my Mother. It caused me to begin crying whilst being in the company of others, even other children, later on, at the beginning of my time at pre-K. A further complication of the disease would be that some types of music would trigger me, to cry.

At approx. 4 y/o, I would be in the backseat of the station wagon with the other small children in the morning, on the way to my nursery school which had been in Fresh Meadows, NY. The name of my nursery school at that time–and which that same building is still there, was called:

Linden Day School
Fresh Meadows, NY

Approx. 1/2 mile or more away from my pickup location which had been on 188th Street in Fresh Meadows, NY, I would begin crying, which would either be because I saw a strange shape outside of the windows of the station wagon’s front windows, or that I would feel scared about being away from my natural mother.

I had been a bit of a hyper child, and used to run up to strangers, and hug them. It was done out of a happy spirit though, and then my mother and my Aunt would catch up with me, to then lead me away, back with them.

Beginning in Kindergarten, I began noticing that whenever the teacher began instructing the whole class to follow along with her and turning to a specific page, and tracing the glitter-coated letters of the book to learn the alphabet, that I had barely been able to understand those sike instructions. As far as following instructions with turning the page to a specific part of a book, was nearly impossible for me to figure out on my own, without 1-on-1 help either from another student, or from one of the teachers.

Since the age of approx. 1 or 2 y/o, I developed a nasty unease of travel,which is most commonly referred to, as:

Motion Sickness

A wave of extreme nausea would overtake me, whenever I would be in the backseat of a y car at the distance of approx. 1-3 miles away from where I used to live either Bay Ridge, NY, or when we moved to Fresh Meadows, NY, around the later part of 1975. The waves of nausea were penetrating to the point where I would begin crying, and by the time my family and I would arrive at whatever hotel or other destination we were headed to, I would usually wind up puking.

My 1st grade school was Ps-26 which had been approx. 1/2 a mile or so from where I used to reside, which was at 188th Street, in Fresh Meadows, NY. The school was fairly close by to our apt. there, and was easily within a walkable distance. I always took the school bus to and from the school, and my motion sickness continued to be an issue at times whilst on the school bus. What type of bus was it? For all of you motor heads out there, it was a ‘Superior’ model, which had a slight downward-sloped step on the forward portion of the bus, in the area of the front doors. The rear end of the top of the body of the bus had an unusual-looking rounded ‘roof-cap’, which then tapered off, down the back of the bus. It had been a standard tranny, with the arm-&-elbow articulating parking brake to the left of the tall stick shifter. There had been a translucent plastic bag just ahead of the stick shifter, which housed a blueish fluid. According to one of the bus drivers/bus monitors I had one evening after school in 1977, he told me that it was ‘washer fluid’.

My 1st-grade teacher’s name was ‘Misses Shimmel’. She was a very unpleasant red-haired old woman who lacked patience with everybody–particularly me, on many occasions. Back then, my natural mother had always thought she had been unpleasant, as well. Misses Shimmel had been very easily triggered by any of us whom she would perceive would not follow her instruction(s), which would then cause her to begin screaming like crazy at one of us, and whenever she chimed out at me that way, I began whimpering, to the point that I would begin getting hysterical. I would then begin gagging and trying to throw up, and then somebody would have to take me down to the infirmary, or to the office. This bitch would succumb to getting triggered–and then her temper tantrum would trigger me, and it would scare me, half-to-death. And yes, it caused me trauma, and PTSD, as a result of that–which to this very day, still has never been addressed, or properly remedied, by a psychiatrist.

The Plane Trip, From Hell

A seriously traumatic event occurred none morning, in mid-1977; approx. March/1977, I had been excited about the flight which my mother and I were going to board which was scheduled on National Airlines, from KLGA-KMIA. The morning we had departed from our old address at the location of 188th Street, Fresh Meadows, NY, my parents and I left our bldg. while there had still been snow on the ground which had been shoved into piles, around the parking area. That particular morning, my father used our 74′ Datsun 710 for the drive, to the airport. I remember him working the small white choke near the bottom of the dash board, to assist the engine to turn over, and start. The drive was interesting, and I had a lot of butterflies, as we drove on up through the main artery through Flushing, not too far away from Kew Gardens, where he made a right, onto the expressway which took us past The NY Pavilion, and then another mile or so, to LaGuardia. As we neared the airport, I saw the tail plane of the National Airlines McDonnell Douglas DC-10-10 from the far-end of the first terminal building at that time. I noted the multi-colored, two-tone sun on the big, white tail, just above from where the #2 engine was. It looked really impressive, as tail of the jumbo jet loomed up, over the Terminal Bldg.

My father then pulled in front of the terminal, and my mother and I had waited in the car, as he had arranged for the tickets. Approx. 15 minutes later, on that sunny morning, he edited the National Airlines baggage area of the terminal, and then he drove us up into the old spiral-shaped garage which used to be situated just south of the main terminal bldg. We drove mid-way up in there, and then we had traversed the long ‘moving sidewalk’ as we called it back then, from the giant spiral garage, across the artery which passed in front of the terminal bldg., and into the terminal. As soon as we exited out into the terminal bldg., I noted frosted glass, and had been unable to have seen any of the airplanes which I was clearly able to hear, out on the apron. The pilots of some of the big Jets were making very audible throttle adjustments, and I clearly remember that part of the experience. I clearly recall having kept trying to find a place through the frosted windows to view the airplanes, and eventually found a spot to notice one of the main landing gear wheels rolling backward slowly.

When my father had walked my mother and I to the fwr end of the first terminal bldg. to the NAL departure gate, my mother said to me, as we both peered out of the windows to the right of the boarding jet-way door:

“Look. See the third wheel under the plane?”

I acknowledged what she pointed out, and confirmed in my own mind, that it had been a DC-10 wide-body.
After the announcement came over the loudspeaker, my father knelt down to me, and said:

“Be a good boy, for mother…”

He smiled, walked away, and off I went, running down the net-way, up to the front door of the aircraft. Over halfway down the topsy-turvy net-way, I was then hit with the aroma of the jet aircraft interior smell, but then when I stepped onto the front of the doorway of the big jet, I smelled what comically smelled like spilled Coca-Cola. I then turned right, and headed up to our assigned seats, which were in the center row of the jumbo jet. My mother had gotten settled in first and had been in the middle of the row of one of the 5 seats, and I had been just to the seat, on her left.

After we had been sitting parked at the gate, an announcement came over the intercom, stating that because of the fact that the baggage conveyor belt had broken, they would then have to load our baggage onto the airplane by hand and which it would result in our delayed departure. (I was paraphrasing) Approx. a half an hour later, we finally pushed back from the gate, and taxied out to the runway, in preparation for the so-called ‘Pelham Climb’ which was to take us out over Rikers Island, and then where we would then bank left out over the north Bronx, over KEWR (Newark Int’l Airport), and then on southward, to KMIA. After a few other planes left ahead of us, we had finally lumbered slowly into position, and parked on the active taxiway, next in line, for takeoff. When the large GE engines spooled up, I heard the first-stage fans begin making this beautiful buzz-saw noise, which meant that the first stage compressor blade tips were breaking the sound barrier, within the fan casing of all three engines. We accelerated briskly, and then the big jumbo began tilting back at a rakish angle, and then we left the ground with that final audible ‘thud’. I remember the rumble of the main bogie folding up, into the wheel-well, and then soon we had passed through a thousand feet, around Rikers. It had been at approx. 1,500′, that I noticed the build-up of air pressure in both of my inner ear canals at once. I then began swallowing and then trying to adjust my ear canals with the muscles in there, but it alarmingly had absolutely no effect, whatsoever. There had virtually been no relieving of the pressure from within my inner ear and the pain quickly became unmanageable. As I looked through the passenger windows from the middle of the aircraft while we had still been climbing hard out over NYC and then up out over NJ, I began crying, and then the pain quickly increased to intolerable levels, and I began screaming and it made me hysterical. I had begun holding my ears, and reeling back and forth in the seat, and when I glanced back st my mother with her long black, wavy hair, she had been crying silently, dabbing her tears with a tissue, because she knew there was nothing she had been able to do. The pain had been severe for approx. the first 20 minutes or so of the departure phase, and by that time I had calmed down. I then began smelling the aroma of fresh, buttery scrambled eggs, and then I made an encouraging remark about it. My. Other said something like:

“No, Andy; you were just trying to throw up.”

But then she saw I had stabled out, and when the stewardess brought the breakfast trays around to our row, my mother let me finish it. And yes, it was good. I believe it came with sausage as well, and yes, that was just as good as the buttery scrambled eggs had been.

Shortly after the breakfast service, the stewardesses began the I flight movie, which was that famous old film of the two old men who each had the two long beards, which somebody else cut down the middle, with a pair of scissors.

As we neared the Miami area, we had began our descent. As I had noted by looking out across the width of the giant jumbo net, it was bright and sunny out, and then I had become greatly concerned about a repeat of the misery which I had endured merely a few hours earlier, during our climb out from KLGA. Upon our own and gradual descent, my ears began popping as the air pressure had worked it’s way around my inner ear, and it hurt a bit but not anywhere near to the same degree which I experienced, during the Pelham Climb. With each several tens of feet which we descended, I had been trying to prepare myself, and thankfully, the pain never reached beyond a 6, on the scale of 1-10. As we descended, I recall seeing gigantic, billowing cumulus clouds all over the place, as we dipped lower, and lower. It had been a quiet, very slow and gradual descent, where I had barely noticed the reduction in altitude. The pilot did a very nice job, in that regard. As the bottom of the jet and the large GE engines began to brush the huge, billowing cumulus clouds, there was a night bouncing moment, and then it smoothed out, a bit.

The landing was kool. We bounced twice, and then on the third bump, our mains planted. As we slot lumbered off to the left of runway 9R and then on to our assigned gate, my ears were ringing quite a bit, but the minor damage to my inner ears manifested in an approx. 50% reduction worth of hearing loss, for the following 18 hours, or so. After we parked and my mother and I had deplaned st KMIA, I early remember stepping out onto the jet-way, whilst simultaneously feeling a blast of hot mid-day air, which encompassed my whole head. Then came the odor of the jetway gate, and my mother and I made our way up the gate into the terminal, and then once we had gotten into the terminal bldg., I noticed the front of our DC-10, as it sat parked at the stand. It had the white nose cone, with a black nose tip. My mother was annoyed, because she had been a little confused about where we were supposed to go to catch our connecting Naples Airlines flight on to KNPF (Naples Mun. Airport), where my then-aunt Tracy, grandma and grandpa were to meet us that same night, as we would meet them off the plane in Naples, from KMIA. I recall my mother asking a guy where our Naples Airlines gate was, and he directed us to head down an escalator or a set of stairs in the terminal bldg., and then which would then lead us to the Naples Airlines departure lounge. Before we did that, my mother and I had gone up to a kool little restaurant which at that time had been located on top of the airport terminal, and I think the restaurant had spun around slowly, or perhaps it had been a circular shaped restaurant; I can’t remember that part of it. I think once we got up there though, I had seen our DC-10 still parked there at the gate, and some other NAL jets milling around there, as well. I remember getting cherry jello, before we headed off to our connecting Naples Airlines flight, which had been located at the far east end of the northern part, of the terminal bldg.

Once we had walked downstairs in the terminal and reached our departure area where our large, twin-engine Naples/PBA Martin-404 prop-liner would pick us up at, a very nice gentleman had seen me trying to peer out of the small, square windowwhixh had been situated near the top of the door. He kindly offered to allow me to stand on his brown suitcase, to peer outside of the window out onto the apron, to watch for when our large twin-engine propliner would arrive, to pick us up. At that time, the waiting room which had been offset from the rest of the Naples/PBA departure lounge, had been very small. It had only been a narrow, white room which was approx. 20′ long, by approx. 6′ wide, and where that claustrophobic room, had no windows. The only window had been the small square window which was near the top of the narrow door which opened outward onto the apron, toward the tarmac.

I heard the racket and thunderous noise of a large twin-engine propeller plane pull up to our gate and then saw the top of its huge tail as the plane made a left turn to angle the rear end toward our gate, but it had been another plane which arrived ahead of our plane which had still been inbound, from somewhere else.

When our large propeller plane finally pulled up and turned around with the ass-end parked facing toward our gate, the door was opened for us, and we began walking out onto the night tarmac. We had walked in a straight line right up to the ventral air-stairs which had been lowered so that we were able to then begin stepping upward into the rear cabin, of the huge propeller plane. I recall the blue window curtains which were on both sides of the square-shaped windows of the huge Martin-404 which was dressed up in the sharp livery, painted all in white, with a red stripe which ran down the length of the entire cabin. I clearly remember running forward up toward a window seat, right behind the left wing. I remember the 4 black tufts of nylon which dangled and rooped aftward, behind the wing. They had been arranged in a patter which extended from behind the very tip of the wingtip, lined up all the way down, headed to approx. 1/2-way mid-span of the outboard aileron, on each wing. And what those weird-looking dangling yarn-looking strings do, is they discharge the static which builds up on a aircraft’s structure, during flight. The objects in question, are commonly referred to, as: ‘Static Wicks’, or ‘Static Dischargers’, and on the old propliner, they had always been black. Even on the old Soviet propliners.

Once having settled into my seat behind the left wing, with my mother seated directly to my right, on the aisle seat, I had intently begun staring at the #1 engine, and watching for any unusual movement by any of the access-doors on the engine cowl. I had also been keenly watching for the 3-bladed propellers to begin turning, as well. When the cwpt. started up the engines, the noise was silent at first, but then vibrated the airplane, and began a very loud, and pronounced deep rumble. The noise was very loud, indeed. The rest of the flight progressed well, with no further inner-ear problems, thank God. Because that whole second part of that trip, I was extremely concerned about a possible repeat of that same incident on the DC-10, and I was greatly relieved that it had ceased to worsen. From the time that my mother and I had deplaned in Miami, I had still been grappling with an estimated hearing loss of approx. 50% at that point, but the ringing hadn’t worsened.

That late night at around approx. 10-ish PM, we had landed into KNPF, where my aunt and grandparents had been waiting for us, at the gate. In fact, I clearly recall waving to my Aunt Tracy through the left window, and she actually spotted me, and waved back(!) after the plane parked and the propellers had stopped, we exited through the left main cabin doorway, instead of the ventral air-stairs, in the rear. My mother had begun ‘shfitsing’ as soon as she walked up to my three relatives at the gate area, and told my them all how on National how we departed late due to the luggage belt breaking, and how they had to load the luggage onto the plane by hand… and that she “…asked the stewardess for tea, and she told (her) that they didn’t have any tea bags…” or some line of baloney, which the stewardess told my mother, on the first leg of our trip…(?).

At that point, we headed over to the baggage claim, where my grandfather took our big, green valese, and loaded it up into the open hatch of his light blue Ford Pinto. We the piled into the back seat of that tiny car, and drove off, leaving KNPF behind, into the night, and on into history. The long straight road back from KNPF to their apartment at Vanderbilt Towers at the location of:

1 Bluebill Ave.
Apt. 3(?)

…had been noisy. The road was paved in such a cockamaime way, where there were coarse, sharp stones in the concrete which made for a very noisy ride. The road was barron, and for the most part, there had been no traffic between the airport and their apartment, that whole trip, home. We had passed by all of the fancy apartment buildings along the main artery which paralleled the beach including the LaPlaya Restaurant which had been situated off to our left, and then finally the Ramada Inn which was situated just caddy-corner off to the left of their old building. And that small bi-level motel had been where my mom and I stayed when I was merely 3 years old, when I had still been in my play-penn. Those were the days when my biological mammy had loved and cared for me, and where now she has lost all of her motherly feelings for me, and that really hurts. That fact by itself really traumatizes me, and I am actively seeking therapy, because of it.

The following morning after I woke up, we had gone to the beach, and I got a nasty sunburn. I had fallen asleep on the beach or something without a shirt on, and it royally phuc’d me up. The morning after that, I woke up very ill. I had swollen glands–possibly as a result of sun poisoning, and I had a nasty sore throat. The thing which took that away, was the fact that my mother and my aunt had left that day to head out, and when they returned later that day while I was still sick in bed, they both brought me back a present. When I opened up the box, it had been one of the single nicest red, die cast metal toy car sets I had seen, up to that point. It was a the bomb.

Later on in the week, and long since I recovered from my weird illness down in Naples, my aunt had headed back to her apt. which at that time had been in Astoria, NY. The early evening she was to fly back home back up to LaGuardia, we all piled on into the light blue Ford Pinto, and then my grandpa drove us all up the length of Rte. 41 (The Tamiami Trail) to KFMY (Ft. Myers Page Field Mun. Airport). That is where my aunt was to fly National Airlines, back home. As we proceeded to pass the runway which had been situated right next to Rte. 41, I clearly remember watching a NAL B-727-200 leaving a dark smoke trail in it’s wake as it had just taken off eastward, and had been at an altitude of approx. 500′.

After we all piled into the terminal bldg. at KFMY, I clearly remember watching a Florida Air Douglas DC-3 with the gorgeous red and yellow livery, as it’s two engines bellowed out with glee, with the red light flashing on top of it’s vertical stabilizer flashed. I clearly recall the large prop liner as it crawled forward outside, and rolled away from the gate area. The old propliner’s direction of travel had been westward, toward Rte. 41, in relation to where I had been standing, inside the terminal. That rainy afternoon, my grandmother had kept me close at hand next to her on her left side, as it had been very crowded, in there. In the mean time when my granny was with me, my grandpa had been with my aunt at the NAL ticket counter.

Approx. a week later in the evening, my grandma and grandpa had drove my mammy and I back up to KFMY, where we were to catch a National Airlines jet back to KJFK, where my father would be waiting at the gate area to pick us up, to drive us back, to Fresh Meadows. We were to make a brief stop-over to refuel at KTPA (Tampa Int’l.), and would then continue on, to Kennedy. After having waited approx. an hour or so, we passed through the security gate and out onto the warm, late-evening tarmac, turned to our left, and then walked eastward approx. 150′, to our parked jet. It had been a NAL Boeing 727-200. Since I am afflicted with autism, the noise had been a bit much for me to handle, so I covered my ears. My gestapo mammy didn’t approve my doing that, so she ordered me to remove my hands from my ears. The reason for all of the intense hissing noise, was due to the fact that on the Boeing 727, the APU (Auxiliary Power Unit) was located on the other side of the airplane, and the exhaust vent on top of the trailing edge of the right wing, and the exhaust pipe is situated in the mid-portion of the belly of the aircraft. So, it produces a lot of intense hissing, as the miniature jet engine blasts away to power the aircraft’s electrical systems. So, back in those days, when ya walked up to that model jet and boarded either via the rear ventral air-stairs or through the left, forward front door as is where we boarded via the removable staircase, the noise was loud, hissy, and grossly obnoxious.

The flight progressed well, and we flew in to KTPA without incident approx. 20min. later where we refueled, and then continued on to JFK. We had entered the landing pattern into the ‘Canarsi Approach’, first over-flying Atlantic Beach, before we over-flew Canarsi and then into Kennedy, onto the longest runway. We then exited off to the left side of the active taxiway, and then we had stopped short of making our final left turn into the terminal bldg., because the Capt. wanted us to be towed in to the gate.

The Pediatrician From Hell

I would say around the summer of that year, my mammy had taken me to my usual pediatrician who had been located in Jamaica, NY; his office bldg. having been situated the next town over, from Fresh Meadows. This next traumatic event which had occurred, is remembered, as folllows:

One particular morning, I had woken up, and had some minor difficulty urinating. I told my mammy, and in the near-future after that, she had taken me to this pediatrician who was called:

‘Dr. Morton Jack Geller’.

She had taken me to him since I had been approx. 2 y/o, and I never ever felt comfortable either with him, or the bldg. which he worked out of. His bldg. had been in an old house in the suburbs of Jamaica, and for some strange reason, the bldg. had always been surrounded by a mediocre-green, corrugated fence. It had been more-or-less a set-up which stuck out like a sore thumb, amongst the other houses on that particular block, in that neighborhood. So, since I had been from approx. 2 until approx. 4-or-so; up to that particular morning, as soon as my mother and I began passing his bldg. with his creepy corrugated green fence, I started in crying, and becoming nearly hysterical and nearly paralyzed, with fear. And that is no joke. I was horrifying to me, because something always told me; gave me the feeling, that after my mammy would bring me inside of the bldg. and into his exam room, something unpleasant would happen. On that particular day, we proceeded past the corrugated green fence and then intersecting with the sidewalk, was a long, narrow foot path which extended from the sidewalk, approx. 60′ or so to a set of approx. Three or four steps which then led to an ominous-looking white door, to his basement office. When we entered the office, we were immediately hit with the stench of stale wood paneling which permiated the interior of his waiting room which had usually been crowded with parents with their kids, who were waiting to be seen. The other ominous sensory experience which I dreaded each visit, was the very pronounced ‘slam’ sound which would happen in the waiting room, whenever he would suddenly appear from behind the sliding solid door to his exam room, to call another patient’s last name. After the parent went with the child in through that creepy, beige-colored sliding door, this creepy, unpleasant old doktor would then slam the door shut again. Approx. 2 or three minutes after that, there would be loud screaming which would eminate from behind the sliding door of his office, where I was sure that there would be some intrusive examination, taking place. I always tried my best to not be one of those kids who would begin screaming, but unfortunately, 98% of the visits to this bastard’s office would prove that impossible.

That morning, I had went next, right after the child ahead of me, exited his exam room. My mammy and I entered in through that sliding door, and he slammed it behind us. She had followed him into his office, he went behind his desk, and she sat down infront of it, and he began asking her a series of questions if I had exhibited any type of symptoms… etc. After the questioning ended, they both exited his office, and she sat down directly behind me, as he circled around directly ahead of me, with a large, industrial-sized wooden tongue depressor. I then opened my mouth, and just as this unpleasant, bullish jerk-off used to do to me every visit, he proceeded to shove his gigantic tongue depressor ALL THE WAY back past the back end of my tongue, causing me to gag, cry, and become hysterical, with fear. It was horrifying to me, and it used to really scare the absolute shit, out of me. He would then. He would then begin yelling at me, the words:

“STOOOPPP IIIIT…
…STOOOOPPPP-IT!”

So then he managed to have a look one more time, and then disposed of the tongue depressor. The next phase of his disgusting ‘exam’, was that he would then sit me on top of his exam table, remove my shirt, and I’d lay down. He would then palpate the front of my torso which was still OK. Then he would articulate each leg to test for ease of joint movement, which was OK, by me. But then he would slowly pull down my pants and my underwear, and then he would begin sexually molesting me. And that right there…
…WASN’T OK.
He would play with it; stretch it…
…feel it; I hated that, to no end. Then on this particular visit, this dick-juggling paedopheliac old Jew would then leave my pants off–while my mammy would sit there in the corner and watch him do this to me, and she would do NOTHING, to stop him. Anyway, on this particular visit, he had momentarily walked away from his so-called ‘exam’ table, and returned with this weird, stainless-steel device which had a sharp end, to it. It appeared as some type of a clamp, of sorts. The next thing I knew, this dirty old bastard took the sharp end of this tool and he proceeded to sexually torture me, with it. I was instantly inconsolable, and hysterical, and screamed bloody murder. What did my bitch-ass mammy do after that? The same as she always had done, in his office. NOTHING. In fact, she had remained firmly planted in her chair in the corner of his office, and just watched, from afar. I thought I was going to jump out of my skin, it hurt so bad. As soon as this shithead removed his tool from my urethra, the pain all-but ceased. I then sat up, got dressed, and had been whimpering into a paper towel which my asshole mammy had handed me, the whole way out to where my father had been waiting outside of this asshole paedo’s building, to pick the both of us up in our dark blue Datsun 710. He then he drove us back home to our apt., in Fresh Meadows.

It is due to this last Paedo-pediatrician’s purposeful sexually assault and abuse of me, that I simply don’t trust people–particularly my own mammy. She did a stellar job, of seeing to That.

My mammy had always been a ‘screamer’, and a hitter. Nothing sexual; nothing to that degree; she used to be good at slapping me across my face multiple times weekly, and other times screaming at me–which is really the single worst possible way to mishandle an Auspy (person who has Asbergers Syndrome) case. She was also just as good at constajtly mumbling under her breath to me so that I was always able to hear her say:

‘Pest…’

My mammy had been emotionally brutal, and she had never really handled me as she ways considered me to have been Autistic. She knew I had ways been That and that I had a learning difficulty, but yet she just didn’t care about modifying any of her own Nazi behaviors, to not be an emotional brute, toward me. We’re there plenty of good times with her? Yes. However…
…her continuation of her toxic behavioral set which in reality, had been Narcissistic Abuse, and had gone unchecked for years and years, on end. And the end-result of that unchecked toxic behavioral set caused me a great deal of psychological damage; PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), to be exact.

One of the things which this gestapo-led woman used to do which I ways hated, was that she used to verbally bully me into taking a shower, every single night. If Id say no, she would chimp out like a wild gorilla by launching into one of her bullish temper tantrums, causing me to begin hating her.

The end-result of the constant slaps on my shoulder and across my face by my mammy, including having endured her constant screaming fits at me, caused me the following trauma(s):

• I utterly HATE being touched on top of my shoulder–BOTH of them.
  * I DO NOT like persistent, excessively-loud noises, let’s say at a rock concert, where the noise level is extreme. I just cannot handle it.
  * I UTTERLY HATE when people begin bullying me about what to wear. Because my mother had always done that and I cannot tolerate it, anymore. I wear what I want according to my own specific tastes, and that’s it. Period. Because when somebody keeps trying to force me to wear things which deviates from my style of attire, it makes me feel bullied. And I’m warning EVERYBODY who reads this…
  …in the situation where somebody rides my ass for wearing what they perceive for wearing the wrong types of clothes, it would make me feel panicky, and cornered. That specific reaction is as a direct result of how my mother used to recklessly and aeeogantly bully me. I am Autistic, and I have OFFICIALLY been diagnosed by a physician, as having a Mood–and Personality Disorder, and do not forget that.