The Ultimate "No-No"
MY HUSBAND, who does not have the same kind of warm, familial feelings about Sigmund Freud that I have, is given to remarking when he's heard one too many of my Freudian insights that my psychiatric bills in times gone by could probably have paid the tuition of one entire Johns Hopkins graduating class. That is a bit of an overstatement. Closer to the truth is that my monies did substantially contribute to the summer homes, tennis lessons, alimony payments, Mayan sculpture, island hopping in the Aegean, etc., of the eleven successive psychoanalysts with whom I spent forty-five minutes a day, five days a week, between the ages of nineteen and thirty-one.
It was fortunate for me that I was an advertising copywriter. For in advertising, if you are willing to skip lunches, new clothes, the hairdresser, trips to Paris, and live in a sunny apartment with a great view and no furniture, then your salary ought to be just enough to cover your daily visits to the psychoanalyst. Where, as I recall, I wept a great deal.
And it was the payoff of all those tears through all those years that put me on speaking, if not intimate, terms with incest. Better known to the world as the Oedipus complex. Or, as in my case, the Electra complex, Electra being to girls what Oedipus is to boys.