In part it is a coming of age tale for a young gay man, whose first love is a pedophile in-patient living in the psychiatrist’s garden shed, “ I liked his attention. “This car is taking me to a mental hospital and my mother is treating it like open-mic night at a Greenwich village cafe.” Everything must revolve around her, she ignores the needs of her son. His mother is a wannabe poet, excited to be living in the same neighbourhood as Emily Dickinson once lived. I’m guessing the stories may have been somewhat embellished. The psychiatrist runs a chaotic household of family members and assorted oddball patients and ex-patients, you wonder if it is all true how he hasn’t been barred from the profession. This is the memoir of Augusten Burroughs, whose parents divorce and his mother, who has borderline narcissistic personality disorder, signed him into the care of her psychiatrist. I said, “Even if I did, nobody would believe it.” “You really should write all this stuff.”
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