Not even for a second.
Introverts, he believed, were oddly engrossed in themselves. Belief, as a matter of fact, is something Freud wouldn’t admit to engage in since believing is a type of verb individuals who don’t rationalize their motives too well like to use too often.
Oh well, oh well… Freud would analyze me, puff his cigar away and simply conclude that my lack of excitement in enjoying group activities is nothing but a sheer desire to be dominated by a masculine, superior and rather overwhelming figure that would force me to cultivate my submissive self.
Freud would walk me to the door and tell me to leave. He would then walk back to his study to sit and ponder. Was it doubt that suddenly clouded his senses? No. Was it an honest fear that forced him to wonder whether he had mistaken me for an introvert too hastily? No. Would he ask himself any questions at all related to my prognosis? Probably not. What he would definitely do, however, was to whisper to himself presumptuously that I might have been one of those cuckoos who are much in love with the mysticism Jung attached to psychology…
After all, who in the world would believe that judging value would top rationalizing intentions as the best approach to understanding the psyche? Only one of those filthy bastards is all!
Yes. Freud would have hated me but I would have loved him.
To sit and play with words and roles that would drive him mad. To forcefully be the one female who makes him wonder if he would ever really understand a woman and if so, what kind of woman would this be that all her secrets were to be unveiled by such a filthy old man like himself?…
Not me. ~