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With the publication date of Rosie O'Donnell's memoir Celebrity Detox fast approaching, the Post spins into action, taking their hard-hitting approach to news to its logical extreme. They had a couple of psychiatrists read an advance copy and perform a diagnosis of the former "View" host. What did the good doctors learn? "Rosie O'Donnell is full of rage, has a profound distrust of men, craves public adoration, shows signs of post-traumatic stress disorder and dishes out her anger mostly to women because of deep-seated abandonment issues over her mother's death."

O'Donnell has insight into her neuroses - but is unable to control them, or change her behavior, says Dr. Robert Butterworth - a Los Angeles clinical psychologist who has done extensive work in the area of childhood trauma.

"Freud would have a field day with this book - everybody is somebody else," Butterworth said after reading the 200-page mix of adult musings, random childhood flashbacks and reams of prosy writings from Rosie's blog. "Obviously, she has a whole thing with men. Donald Trump is like a substitute daddy paying for something that happened in her past," he observed.

Nice Freud reference, doc! Sounds authoritative! What else? Apparently Rosie viewed Barbara Walters as a mother figure and then felt betrayed when Walters didn't stick up for her during her public spat with Donald Trump—just like her real mother didn't believe in the mysterious man who repeatedly raped her (or her windowsill; the language isn't quite clear).

She also hints—but never confirms—that she was sexually abused at the hands of a "strange man" who came in her bedroom window at night.

The bizarre revelation, presented as a hazy memory of telling her mom the next morning that "a man came at night and got me," pops up as a flashback juxtaposed against Rosie's teary and rage-filled confrontation with Walters over the Trump flap while they got their hair and makeup done in ABC studios.
O'Donnell explains her off-camera confrontation with Walters by relating a murky recollection from her Long Island youth in 1971—"memories . . . more in feeling than form"—when she told her mother of the frightening intrusion by a mysterious man.

She says she never felt her mom believed her story—or that the man kept returning.

Also, she used to break her fingers with a hammer. Oh, Rosie! Oh, humanity!
IN THE MIND OF ROSIE O'DRAMA [NYP]