“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

I guess I thought that I’d keep up some level of communication if I talked as I am now, and Robbie took the words down. Come to think of it, I did feel fairly hopeful this morning for brief snatches. I was going to record some memories that suddenly came to me yesterday morning. Of the last few months or so I spent at my mother’s house—when she called me time after time during those spring and summer months of 1950: she wanted her pillows turned, she cried out in rage and pain—and here I was some 30 years later, calling out to Rob (voice breaking) to move my pillows or raise my head.

It must have taken something for me, at 21, to leave her that summer. She attempted suicide again, this time by taking an overdose of phenobarbital. Instead of making her sleepy, however, it turned her into someone wild: she yelled and shouted and tried to get out of bed. I was afraid she’d fall on the floor. She was taken directly to the hospital when I called the doctor, and I went back home to that odd, nervous house that felt strangely vacant with her presence gone. I packed my clothes.