By Mary K. Armstrong
"Trauma therapist Mary ok. Armstrong embarks on an illuminating trip into her personal mystery prior and emerges with a renewed experience of non-public authenticity and pleasure in assisting others." — SYLVIA FRASER, writer of My Father's condo: A Memoir of Incest and therapeutic "A tremendous, heartbreaking, and encouraging account of a child's tragedy and a woman's power development towards gentle, wisdom, fact, and energy. by no means has the human spirit shone via extra passionately." — JUDY STEED, writer of Our Little mystery: baby Sexual Abuse To her shock, dismay, and finally reduction, Mary Armstrong, a therapist with over thirty years of expertise aiding humans heal from youth trauma, exposed her personal heritage of kid sexual abuse by the hands of her grandfather and father. As she tells her harrowing yet heroic story, she casts gentle as by no means ahead of at the factor of repressed stories and the invisible wounds left via early life trauma.
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Extra info for Confessions of a Trauma Therapist: A Memoir of Healing and Transformation
All of a sudden he started doing this strange-sounding music, almost overnight. " You can hit anything, any kind of chord. Like John Cage playing the shit he's playing, making all them strange sounds and noises. Music is wide open for anything. " Like, he'd be playing "My Funny Valentine" in a major key and it's supposed to be 94 played in D minor. But he would just smile that sweet smile of his and keep doing what he was doing. Mingus was something else, man, a pure genius. I loved him. Anyway, during the summer of 1946-late August I think-Billy Eckstine's band came to Los Angeles.
On the first day of rehearsal, everybody showed up but Bird. We waited around for a couple of hours and I ended up rehearsing the band. Now, opening night, the Three Deuces is packed. We ain't seen Bird in a week, but we'd been rehearsing our asses off. So here this nigger comes in smiling and shit, asking is everybody ready to play, in that fake British accent of his. " I tell him. He nods, counts off the beat and plays every motherfucking tune in the exact key we had 102 rehearsed it in. He played like a motherfucker.
Sonny Criss, an alto player, used to sit in, and Art Farmer, Red Callender, the bassist, and Red's protege, that crazy, beautiful motherfucker, Charlie Mingus. Charlie Mingus loved Rird, man, almost like I have never seen nobody love. Maybe Max Roach loved Bird that much. But Mingus, shit, he used to come to see and hear Bird almost every night. He couldn't get enough of Bird. He also liked me a lot. But Mingus could play the bass and everybody knew when they heard him that he would become as bad as he became.