Haven't been keeping track of how long I've been on the Cymbalta. Probably for about a year, not continuously. My first dosage was 30 mg, for about a month. Then I was on sixty for a month, only to have my supply interrupted for weeks, during which time I went back to the thirty mg dose. The beginning of August 2007 seems about right.
I started sleeping better around then. It helped that I changed my room to the top floor, here at the Baltic Inn. When I was on the ground floor, I was convinced that my upstairs neighbor was insane, clomping around in his heavy shoes at all hours of the night. That was the most difficult time of all.
The Cymbalta helped a bit, I guess. For sure my dreams became more vivid, more detailed, which I like. Mostly the drug helps me stay balanced if an event becomes emotional. Then I have the time to recover and pull myself together before my brain starts the downward spiral to depression.
By far the best friend to my sleep has been the exercise, which I started about two months ago. I fall asleep when I want to, all the time. I don't get full of sleep and then can't sleep on Thursday nights, like before. I still wake up three or four times during the night, but have no problem returning. I admit to being the type person who needs ten hours a night. If I have a few nights of eight hours, then I start needing a nap. Just how I am. My dad is the same way, so it has never bothered me.
Time for some therapy.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Friday, May 04, 2007
Sleep Eludes
Looks like two hours is all I get tonight. So sleepy during the Simpsons, then tossed awhile, very surprised to turn to the clock, and see it was only ten. Mother fucker. Stared at TV for awhile. I know that sleep will again beckon, but that it will do so inconveniently, when I am supposed to go to work.
I can't take this anymore. I am so numb that I can't even cry. I haven't cried for months. I don't understand the point of weeping, either that, or I don't want to go that low.
Sleep is the only narcotic, other than food, that I have left. Goddam Areta Crowell has been keeping me waiting for five months for services. On Wednesday, I had an appointment to see the doctor, to go on medication. When I show up, I am told that the doctor was unavailable, and that I needed to reschedule. I folded my appointment card into a wad and let it drop onto the receptionst's desk. I wanted to utter a stream of profanities, but didn't.
This whole experience has been so dream-like. I feel like all the light of my soul has drained away, and nobody wants to come near me. This is hell. It's not hard to go and do my job, most days, but today will be rough. I don't want to make eye contact with anyone. Even when I watch the History Channel, and there is a portrait of someone who lived two hundred years ago, I cannot make eye contact with it, like I am being called out.
I guess the thing that hurts most is my pride. I used to have a good job, and prospects. I used to have a family that I called my own. I used to have a place to live that held all my belongings, my plants, my lamps. I used to have a woman, who lived with me. In the space of two weeks, it all went bye-bye.
If God could just cut out my pride, then maybe I wouldn't hurt so much.
I can't take this anymore. I am so numb that I can't even cry. I haven't cried for months. I don't understand the point of weeping, either that, or I don't want to go that low.
Sleep is the only narcotic, other than food, that I have left. Goddam Areta Crowell has been keeping me waiting for five months for services. On Wednesday, I had an appointment to see the doctor, to go on medication. When I show up, I am told that the doctor was unavailable, and that I needed to reschedule. I folded my appointment card into a wad and let it drop onto the receptionst's desk. I wanted to utter a stream of profanities, but didn't.
This whole experience has been so dream-like. I feel like all the light of my soul has drained away, and nobody wants to come near me. This is hell. It's not hard to go and do my job, most days, but today will be rough. I don't want to make eye contact with anyone. Even when I watch the History Channel, and there is a portrait of someone who lived two hundred years ago, I cannot make eye contact with it, like I am being called out.
I guess the thing that hurts most is my pride. I used to have a good job, and prospects. I used to have a family that I called my own. I used to have a place to live that held all my belongings, my plants, my lamps. I used to have a woman, who lived with me. In the space of two weeks, it all went bye-bye.
If God could just cut out my pride, then maybe I wouldn't hurt so much.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Fidgety Rhythms
She posited the diag of ADHD, as in, "are you familiar with ADHD?"
I think that I am angry inside, and somehow, have managed to get this far, by suppressing my emotions. Today, I got frustrated, but only for a few moments. There was no going over to the other side.
That was the deepest emotion I have felt lately. Uncomfortable numbness, mixed with vague resentment. There is no joy, no satisfaction. There is very rare humor. It is difficult to feel any kind of happiness. I feel almost completely unloved, and totally irrelevant.
I don't know why I continue. Seems life is without meaning. I did make a deal with my maker, that I will try to survive as long as I am provided for. But what kind of existence is that? What is the point?
My sister is fifty tomorrow. I am not welcome, apparently. My father is eighty next month. Even less welcome there. When the pain is so great that it is unbearable, there is just denial. Welcome to me.
I think that I am angry inside, and somehow, have managed to get this far, by suppressing my emotions. Today, I got frustrated, but only for a few moments. There was no going over to the other side.
That was the deepest emotion I have felt lately. Uncomfortable numbness, mixed with vague resentment. There is no joy, no satisfaction. There is very rare humor. It is difficult to feel any kind of happiness. I feel almost completely unloved, and totally irrelevant.
I don't know why I continue. Seems life is without meaning. I did make a deal with my maker, that I will try to survive as long as I am provided for. But what kind of existence is that? What is the point?
My sister is fifty tomorrow. I am not welcome, apparently. My father is eighty next month. Even less welcome there. When the pain is so great that it is unbearable, there is just denial. Welcome to me.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Skateaway (Rollergirl)
Music is a universal language. Everyone has their own tastes, but deep down, we all respond to music. Truly it soothes the savage beast.
There are subtle patterns within good music, that help people acheive a desirable emotional state. The state of tranquility is on the table, today.
I have played "Skateaway" time and again, always amazed at how soothing it is. And I'm not alone. When I am at the gym, and "Skateaway" comes on, I can see other fellas mouthing the words.
The song itself is a feast for the imagination. The rollergirl is also listening to music, giving the listener a tantric experience. That is, they are able to step outside themselves for a moment, and view themself from the third person.
"She gets rock n roll, a rock and roll station,
and a rock n roll dream,
She's making movies, on location
She don't know what it means."
I like to close my eyes and imagine a lass on skates, whooshing around crowded streets, leaving a crowd of admiring onlookers in her wake. She has incredible grace, and breathtaking speed, and exists in a world all by herself.
The song makes me forget what it was that frightens me. I play the song repeatedly whilst flying, to smooth out the turbulence. And, when my feet are on terra firma, the tune takes the edge off worldly tribulations.
"No fears alone at night she's sailing through the crowd,
In her ears the phones are tight and the music's playing loud,"
The climax of the song takes me to an absolutely transcendant plane.
"She don't know what it means,
but the music make her wanna be the story,
and the story was whatever was the song what it was,
Rollergirl don't worry
D.J. play the movies all night long."
And with that effort, breathing out in synchronized patterns, fears subside.
There are subtle patterns within good music, that help people acheive a desirable emotional state. The state of tranquility is on the table, today.
I have played "Skateaway" time and again, always amazed at how soothing it is. And I'm not alone. When I am at the gym, and "Skateaway" comes on, I can see other fellas mouthing the words.
The song itself is a feast for the imagination. The rollergirl is also listening to music, giving the listener a tantric experience. That is, they are able to step outside themselves for a moment, and view themself from the third person.
"She gets rock n roll, a rock and roll station,
and a rock n roll dream,
She's making movies, on location
She don't know what it means."
I like to close my eyes and imagine a lass on skates, whooshing around crowded streets, leaving a crowd of admiring onlookers in her wake. She has incredible grace, and breathtaking speed, and exists in a world all by herself.
The song makes me forget what it was that frightens me. I play the song repeatedly whilst flying, to smooth out the turbulence. And, when my feet are on terra firma, the tune takes the edge off worldly tribulations.
"No fears alone at night she's sailing through the crowd,
In her ears the phones are tight and the music's playing loud,"
The climax of the song takes me to an absolutely transcendant plane.
"She don't know what it means,
but the music make her wanna be the story,
and the story was whatever was the song what it was,
Rollergirl don't worry
D.J. play the movies all night long."
And with that effort, breathing out in synchronized patterns, fears subside.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Albanians
When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1989, there was a bit of collateral effect. One tiny nation, Albania, had been run by the dictator Tito. His legacy: more than 3,000,000 dome-shaped concrete bunkers, in case of invasion by the West. Or, approximately one bunker for each man, woman and child of his nation.
I have had the distinct priviledge of knowing many people of Albanian descent. They are a very proud people. Of what, exactly, I have no idea.
Some may remember an incident in the mid 1990's. This impoverished nation was convulsed in a giant Ponzi scheme. Almost the entire population, simple-minded people who had been denied even a subsistence-level standard of living, completely fleeced by a few early entrants.
The lucky ones were already out of the country by then. Unfortunately for peace-loving individuals, everywhere. Albanian people whom I consider 'nice,' are pathological criminals. For example, when Samir emigrated to Holland, he told me how much he liked the people there. "You see, the people are very beautiful, and happy, and they all have nice wristwatches which are very easy to steal."
Intelligence is not a primary trait of these people. I would phrase their level of brightness, something like, 'clever.' That is to say, completely backward. If an Albanian person is found to be a homosexual, well, that person simply disappears. Tribal justice.
When the Albanian people crossed the Atlantic Ocean, they brought their peculiar sense of honor, here. One person marked for death had his sentence carried out by hook and by crook. This person was invited over to their 'friends' house, late at night. He was greeted with a bullet to the head. When the police arrived, they were told a perfectly plausible story.
The deceased had been breaking into the house, via an unlocked back door, the police were told. The homicide was actually an accident, a case of mistaken identity. The tale went something like, "You see, the house was dark, and I didn't know it was my best friend. I bought the gun on the street from a drug dealer, no, I don't know his name. I bought the gun for my personal safety, because sometimes I have to walk home alone after work, late at night." Case dismissed.
My life may very well be marked. One of these sub-humans enjoined my services as counter-person, at the restaurant Florencia's. The first night of work, I was told to go sweep, then sent home for no reason after ten minutes. The next night, I showed up on time, and put in a four-hour shift. I was told to show up the next day, same time.
Next day, when I arrived, my supervisor was not present. He left word that "he will call" when he needs me. In sixteen years of dealings, I am aware of one characteristic of Albanians: Once the mouth starts flapping, the only thing likely to fly out, is a bald-faced lie. I demanded my wages, and threatened to stay on the premises until I was paid.
That got him riled. He told me to come to his house, and he would pay me. Hah! Won't work on me! I told him to come down and pay me, in person, and he said he would, and ended the phone call with a vicious epithet. The one with Oedipal / Freudian implications.
When he arrived, he had a big, disingenuous smile on his face. He could barely contain his hostility, through his clenched teeth. I demanded my money, and an apology for the "m-fer" comment. He denied even making the slur! And then, he put his hand on my elbow, imploring me to join him in a darkened corner, so I could collect my 'pay.' I refused, calling him a liar, repeatedly jamming my index finger into the palm of my left hand. Dislocated the finger.
I phoned 531-2000, and requested a policeman. My personal safety was in grave danger. I ended up walking away with sixty bucks for three nights work (including the two nights I was instructed to show up, only to be subsequently turned away).
Sixty bucks is at least two hundred dollars short of what I was going for. I already put an entire week in, at the North Park store, under his very fair-minded brother. As a consequence, I am seeking redress through channels. Channels like the Labor Relations Board, to collect unpaid wages. I filed a complaint with Cal-OSHA (because there is no posting of minimum wage, or Worker's Comp, or MSDS info). And, I got one more round in the chamber. The Immigration and Naturalization Service. Why? Just sick of the drivers, who are all in this country illegally. They come here on a student visa, and never attend class. Unless their idea of higher education is shredding the waves all reefered up, and practicing their lethal form of martial arts.
I'll probably let that one go. Not a single driver has harmed me in a personal way. On the contrary, they are some of the most beautiful and good-natured people in the world. Nothing personal against any person of their particular origin.
This profile in racial unity and harmony begins and ends with (most) Albanians.
I have had the distinct priviledge of knowing many people of Albanian descent. They are a very proud people. Of what, exactly, I have no idea.
Some may remember an incident in the mid 1990's. This impoverished nation was convulsed in a giant Ponzi scheme. Almost the entire population, simple-minded people who had been denied even a subsistence-level standard of living, completely fleeced by a few early entrants.
The lucky ones were already out of the country by then. Unfortunately for peace-loving individuals, everywhere. Albanian people whom I consider 'nice,' are pathological criminals. For example, when Samir emigrated to Holland, he told me how much he liked the people there. "You see, the people are very beautiful, and happy, and they all have nice wristwatches which are very easy to steal."
Intelligence is not a primary trait of these people. I would phrase their level of brightness, something like, 'clever.' That is to say, completely backward. If an Albanian person is found to be a homosexual, well, that person simply disappears. Tribal justice.
When the Albanian people crossed the Atlantic Ocean, they brought their peculiar sense of honor, here. One person marked for death had his sentence carried out by hook and by crook. This person was invited over to their 'friends' house, late at night. He was greeted with a bullet to the head. When the police arrived, they were told a perfectly plausible story.
The deceased had been breaking into the house, via an unlocked back door, the police were told. The homicide was actually an accident, a case of mistaken identity. The tale went something like, "You see, the house was dark, and I didn't know it was my best friend. I bought the gun on the street from a drug dealer, no, I don't know his name. I bought the gun for my personal safety, because sometimes I have to walk home alone after work, late at night." Case dismissed.
My life may very well be marked. One of these sub-humans enjoined my services as counter-person, at the restaurant Florencia's. The first night of work, I was told to go sweep, then sent home for no reason after ten minutes. The next night, I showed up on time, and put in a four-hour shift. I was told to show up the next day, same time.
Next day, when I arrived, my supervisor was not present. He left word that "he will call" when he needs me. In sixteen years of dealings, I am aware of one characteristic of Albanians: Once the mouth starts flapping, the only thing likely to fly out, is a bald-faced lie. I demanded my wages, and threatened to stay on the premises until I was paid.
That got him riled. He told me to come to his house, and he would pay me. Hah! Won't work on me! I told him to come down and pay me, in person, and he said he would, and ended the phone call with a vicious epithet. The one with Oedipal / Freudian implications.
When he arrived, he had a big, disingenuous smile on his face. He could barely contain his hostility, through his clenched teeth. I demanded my money, and an apology for the "m-fer" comment. He denied even making the slur! And then, he put his hand on my elbow, imploring me to join him in a darkened corner, so I could collect my 'pay.' I refused, calling him a liar, repeatedly jamming my index finger into the palm of my left hand. Dislocated the finger.
I phoned 531-2000, and requested a policeman. My personal safety was in grave danger. I ended up walking away with sixty bucks for three nights work (including the two nights I was instructed to show up, only to be subsequently turned away).
Sixty bucks is at least two hundred dollars short of what I was going for. I already put an entire week in, at the North Park store, under his very fair-minded brother. As a consequence, I am seeking redress through channels. Channels like the Labor Relations Board, to collect unpaid wages. I filed a complaint with Cal-OSHA (because there is no posting of minimum wage, or Worker's Comp, or MSDS info). And, I got one more round in the chamber. The Immigration and Naturalization Service. Why? Just sick of the drivers, who are all in this country illegally. They come here on a student visa, and never attend class. Unless their idea of higher education is shredding the waves all reefered up, and practicing their lethal form of martial arts.
I'll probably let that one go. Not a single driver has harmed me in a personal way. On the contrary, they are some of the most beautiful and good-natured people in the world. Nothing personal against any person of their particular origin.
This profile in racial unity and harmony begins and ends with (most) Albanians.
Monday, September 11, 2006
The Core Belief
Each and every rational human being has both a conscious mind, and a subconscious mind. Our subconscious mind is influenced at an early age, by teachers, peers, and parents.
For example, one supervisor I worked under, once commented, "You are damaged goods." This was a well-meaning and light-hearted statement, in his point of view. I received the words and deeply internalized them. I believed and still do, that light-hearted sarcasm was just his style.
I have always been a tremendously empathic individual. Some people may even consider me a bit too sensitive. I am the type individual always who felt an emotional response to simple, derivative telephone company advertisements.
While being a new-age, sensitive guy may be my personal style, it is very conducive to effecting changes in the core belief. I could hear an off-hand, careless comment, and internalize it, to the point of self-detriment. Why? Because my real self is buried somewhere very deep within my subconscious.
My real self is very closely aligned with my first name. When I was born, my mother told my father, "We finally have our Matthew." My name translates into the phrase, 'gift from God.' When I am at my un-selfconscious best, I truly give unconditionally, and seek to validate the nature and potential of all living things.
I am the first son of an Earth Mother. Born into a family with a powerful father and two generous sisters. For years, no doubt, I ruled the household. Somewhere along the way, my feelings of safety and trust became undermined by challenges to my core belief.
Such challenges to my core belief caused years of conflict within my soul, feeding anger, and fear, and resentment. Every perceived slight was filtered through a prism of self-doubt. Even the driver ahead of me who failed to use their turn signal, was perceived as being personally against me, in some metaphysical way.
I believe that most, if not all, physical disorders, originate with some deep conflict in a person's core belief. I met a wonderful woman, a gifted psychologist, who was generous enough to share her 'core disbelief' with me. I couldn't fathom why a beautiful, ultra-talented female, who turned me on and excited me like no other, would consider herself "not good enough."
Yet there is was, everytime she suffered a minor annoyance. The 'core disbelief' controls all our conscious thoughts, and hence, behaviour. After she shared with me this deep-seated lack of faith in herself, it was a very short path to understanding my own, 'core disbelief.'
I believe that my 'core disbelief' is something like, 'wow, that's disappointing.' I imagined myself as a five-year old boy, whose father decided to leave the household, and tried to understand how that boy felt. Other than confused and betrayed, that is.
As an informal healing process, I seek spiritual re-birth. I practice forgiveness, as a firm principle. I forgive people much more readily, in a very light hearted way. My current style is a quick, sincere apology, as if someone had accidentally broken one of the Absent-Minded Professor's pencils. "No problem, I really didn't notice."
The re-birth and re-creation of a person's spirit is totally dependent on forgiveness, and complete gratitude. I consciously say grace over my food, and drink, and attempt to consecrate every aspect of my life. There is no other way to accomplish spiritual re-foundation.
For example, one supervisor I worked under, once commented, "You are damaged goods." This was a well-meaning and light-hearted statement, in his point of view. I received the words and deeply internalized them. I believed and still do, that light-hearted sarcasm was just his style.
I have always been a tremendously empathic individual. Some people may even consider me a bit too sensitive. I am the type individual always who felt an emotional response to simple, derivative telephone company advertisements.
While being a new-age, sensitive guy may be my personal style, it is very conducive to effecting changes in the core belief. I could hear an off-hand, careless comment, and internalize it, to the point of self-detriment. Why? Because my real self is buried somewhere very deep within my subconscious.
My real self is very closely aligned with my first name. When I was born, my mother told my father, "We finally have our Matthew." My name translates into the phrase, 'gift from God.' When I am at my un-selfconscious best, I truly give unconditionally, and seek to validate the nature and potential of all living things.
I am the first son of an Earth Mother. Born into a family with a powerful father and two generous sisters. For years, no doubt, I ruled the household. Somewhere along the way, my feelings of safety and trust became undermined by challenges to my core belief.
Such challenges to my core belief caused years of conflict within my soul, feeding anger, and fear, and resentment. Every perceived slight was filtered through a prism of self-doubt. Even the driver ahead of me who failed to use their turn signal, was perceived as being personally against me, in some metaphysical way.
I believe that most, if not all, physical disorders, originate with some deep conflict in a person's core belief. I met a wonderful woman, a gifted psychologist, who was generous enough to share her 'core disbelief' with me. I couldn't fathom why a beautiful, ultra-talented female, who turned me on and excited me like no other, would consider herself "not good enough."
Yet there is was, everytime she suffered a minor annoyance. The 'core disbelief' controls all our conscious thoughts, and hence, behaviour. After she shared with me this deep-seated lack of faith in herself, it was a very short path to understanding my own, 'core disbelief.'
I believe that my 'core disbelief' is something like, 'wow, that's disappointing.' I imagined myself as a five-year old boy, whose father decided to leave the household, and tried to understand how that boy felt. Other than confused and betrayed, that is.
As an informal healing process, I seek spiritual re-birth. I practice forgiveness, as a firm principle. I forgive people much more readily, in a very light hearted way. My current style is a quick, sincere apology, as if someone had accidentally broken one of the Absent-Minded Professor's pencils. "No problem, I really didn't notice."
The re-birth and re-creation of a person's spirit is totally dependent on forgiveness, and complete gratitude. I consciously say grace over my food, and drink, and attempt to consecrate every aspect of my life. There is no other way to accomplish spiritual re-foundation.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Victory, Tempered
The lamb lay down on Broadway. Cost me another parking ticket. And, any chance at finding a decent job for ninety days. Having a TRO is as good as having an arrest warrant. Until it goes away, there it is.
Having prayed for sense and reason, the pacific form of a presiding judge. Her honor enjoined the plaintiff's complaint, delivered with the empty bravado of brilliantly acted restrained hysteria.
My mouth gaped open, upon hearing the verdict. Ninety days extension of the restraint. I wasn't going to fight it, no way. I meekly asked if I might object. What I was trying to communicate, probably, was, HmmmMM, now, there's an outcome I wasn't anticipating! Oh well! You got me!
As long as I'm out, enjoying the sunshine, then, I am a free man. Vindication can wait.
Having prayed for sense and reason, the pacific form of a presiding judge. Her honor enjoined the plaintiff's complaint, delivered with the empty bravado of brilliantly acted restrained hysteria.
My mouth gaped open, upon hearing the verdict. Ninety days extension of the restraint. I wasn't going to fight it, no way. I meekly asked if I might object. What I was trying to communicate, probably, was, HmmmMM, now, there's an outcome I wasn't anticipating! Oh well! You got me!
As long as I'm out, enjoying the sunshine, then, I am a free man. Vindication can wait.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Ciento, La Novelita
Para recuerdo, la pipa de hoy.
Un Breakfast Jack, son las ocho. Me servir, el hijo famoso, Dante.
Hace three days, asked him, boyishly, sly; bravo! tu nombre! Have read the inferno, tragedy (fr), Divine Comedy.
He's so cute, like, small, yet with huge charisma. Eyes that twinkle, and that sashay. And, I ain't even gay.
Earnestly, my lemons. Always the vat of iced tea, for me.
Today's order, fell upon an empty tea-pot, and, dream-like, he filled it. I wonder, but not wait.
Un Breakfast Jack, son las ocho. Me servir, el hijo famoso, Dante.
Hace three days, asked him, boyishly, sly; bravo! tu nombre! Have read the inferno, tragedy (fr), Divine Comedy.
He's so cute, like, small, yet with huge charisma. Eyes that twinkle, and that sashay. And, I ain't even gay.
Earnestly, my lemons. Always the vat of iced tea, for me.
Today's order, fell upon an empty tea-pot, and, dream-like, he filled it. I wonder, but not wait.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Sounding Board
A human being is truly a sentient being. All of us are masters of communication. We have internal mechanisms, to detect false notes presented by others.
And, we have our own hard notes, to cast upon others, to detect their true level of synchronization.
I have been moving in a world of pure feel, for the last six weeks. If situations do not feel correct, I correct them, or leave the situation. When I do leave the situation, my current tendency is to inform.
Now, I am so liquid, that there is seldom need to inform. Last night, I cruised a different scene, for a change. I don't drink, so, I never go to clubs.
But sometimes, this cat needs to feel the music, bouncing off the insides of his hollow chest.
I like being able to feel situations. Much easier than thinking them through. Because there may be someone smarter in the room, at any time.
If there is a deeper feeler than I in the room, then, it was probably that party, that drew me in. If there is someone just scratching the surface of their feelings, then, perhaps, I am the individual who drew them near.
I wonder if I can find a lawyer to help me with my condition. What is? Well, I have a hard time typeing in the little word verification everytime. Maybe my eyes are a little glavin in the gefeltefish, or sometin. High time someone invented a name for my grand malady! How about, omneqxn- glavin sydrome (in honor of the next eight letters that I must type).
And, we have our own hard notes, to cast upon others, to detect their true level of synchronization.
I have been moving in a world of pure feel, for the last six weeks. If situations do not feel correct, I correct them, or leave the situation. When I do leave the situation, my current tendency is to inform.
Now, I am so liquid, that there is seldom need to inform. Last night, I cruised a different scene, for a change. I don't drink, so, I never go to clubs.
But sometimes, this cat needs to feel the music, bouncing off the insides of his hollow chest.
I like being able to feel situations. Much easier than thinking them through. Because there may be someone smarter in the room, at any time.
If there is a deeper feeler than I in the room, then, it was probably that party, that drew me in. If there is someone just scratching the surface of their feelings, then, perhaps, I am the individual who drew them near.
I wonder if I can find a lawyer to help me with my condition. What is? Well, I have a hard time typeing in the little word verification everytime. Maybe my eyes are a little glavin in the gefeltefish, or sometin. High time someone invented a name for my grand malady! How about, omneqxn- glavin sydrome (in honor of the next eight letters that I must type).
Hate
A clear turning point in my spiritual progress, was the sudden realization, that there is no such thing as Hate. What I mean, is, there is no such force, with any name, that causes anyone to do anything. I came to this conclusion a few days after deciding that there is no such thing as Love.
It was a bit of a struggle, to reconcile a world without love, but easily explaineable. See, love is a construct of our collective minds. It is something we came up with, to create and enhance familial bonds.
Today, I do not believe in extremes. I approach all unknown situations flat, with a centrist mentality. I know that there are extremes, and I know how to utilize them, to my advantage. I personally exist in a world full of nuance, full of lies. The only lies that I currently accept, are harmless little white lies.
Can't believe I actually said that. I am still struggling with that one. I have always believed that a person is either truthful, or not. I also believed that honesty is the best policy.
Today, I firmly believe that it still is the best policy. I just happen to believe, it's not the only useful policy. Since my approach is distinctly utilitarian, and implementarian, I consider the possibility that a lack of truthfulness, when delivered properly (pre-signaling or something) to be very useful.
Why did I decide that love doesn't exist? Simple. I don't like to acknowledge anyone who says, "I love you." Because what they are almost always saying, in a passive-aggresive way, "I need you." Pride gets in the way, and makes people think they are only acting in an altruistic fashion.
Well, let me be the first to tell you that I love you, while I twist the knife.
Okay, so I won't be the first. Maybe among the first to point out the schism. There are loving actions, but no love. There are hateful actions, behaviors and individuals, but, no hate. They are only acting out of fear.
UPDATE: I am reading this eight years later. It is like looking at my reflection in a shattered mirror. The above was written while I was experiencing a psychic break, a nervous breakdown. Too much pot, too little work, a dissipation of my support structure. I cannot endorse any of the ideas expressed here. MLB 12-09-2014
It was a bit of a struggle, to reconcile a world without love, but easily explaineable. See, love is a construct of our collective minds. It is something we came up with, to create and enhance familial bonds.
Today, I do not believe in extremes. I approach all unknown situations flat, with a centrist mentality. I know that there are extremes, and I know how to utilize them, to my advantage. I personally exist in a world full of nuance, full of lies. The only lies that I currently accept, are harmless little white lies.
Can't believe I actually said that. I am still struggling with that one. I have always believed that a person is either truthful, or not. I also believed that honesty is the best policy.
Today, I firmly believe that it still is the best policy. I just happen to believe, it's not the only useful policy. Since my approach is distinctly utilitarian, and implementarian, I consider the possibility that a lack of truthfulness, when delivered properly (pre-signaling or something) to be very useful.
Why did I decide that love doesn't exist? Simple. I don't like to acknowledge anyone who says, "I love you." Because what they are almost always saying, in a passive-aggresive way, "I need you." Pride gets in the way, and makes people think they are only acting in an altruistic fashion.
Well, let me be the first to tell you that I love you, while I twist the knife.
Okay, so I won't be the first. Maybe among the first to point out the schism. There are loving actions, but no love. There are hateful actions, behaviors and individuals, but, no hate. They are only acting out of fear.
UPDATE: I am reading this eight years later. It is like looking at my reflection in a shattered mirror. The above was written while I was experiencing a psychic break, a nervous breakdown. Too much pot, too little work, a dissipation of my support structure. I cannot endorse any of the ideas expressed here. MLB 12-09-2014
Hell
I always had a rough time, swallowing the concept of hell. There are people who commit foul deeds, to be sure. And, those individuals should be kept separated from the rest of us. I just never reconciled an eternal dungeon of fire and brimstone, with my benevolent creator.
I long posited that a place like Hell, as depicted by world religion, cannot and does not exist. The God that created me, would not have created a lake of fire for my soul, should our higher minds become separated.
Well, I'm here today to tell you, for the record, that 'Hell' DOES exist. It's not the stuffy, maladrous place where bad people go after they die. Hell is a prison that exists in the minds of people.
How do I know? Resonance. Pat Benatar wrote a song about child abuse, and titled it, "Hell is For Children." Know what? She is 100% right. Hell IS for children.
What do I mean. That song resonates, after all these years. That means, to me, that there are deep layers of truth, within the song.
"It's all so confusing, this brutal abusing
They blacken your eyes, and then apologize
Be daddy's good girl , and don't tell mommy a thing
Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy
Tell grandma you fell off the swing"
Children and other victims of abuse (including 'adults' who practice self-abuse) are imprisoned in a world that defies their understanding. It is confusing, as the song says, because, "love and pain become one and the same."
A child is completely dependent on their parent for love and support. A child has absolutely no control over their situation. That is the foundation of this hell; a little soul, tragically imprisoned.
I have been to hell and back. My father has always exerted control over his children by opening and closing his wallet, and his heart. My mother, strained by the demands of raising five children alone, kept all us children in a state of fear. I could never be sure, when I got close to her, whether I was going to get the palm of her hand, or the back of it.
One chilling recollection that keeps coming back, is her telephone voice. She could be a mean, angry witch when she wanted to be, spewing the most hateful words, in the harshest possible tone of voice.
When the telephone rang, and she answered it, I was always amazed at how quickly she could transform her voice into a sound that was smooth and velvety.
I'm no different than most people. My mother, herself, is a co-victim of my father's controlling tendencies. I was well into my thirties before we could discuss that man, without her collapsing into tears of self-recrimination.
As human beings, it is our personal responsibility to recognize the signs of abuse. Each person who is abused, will in turn, become an abuser. I was forced to inhale my mother's second-hand cigarette smoke for my entire life, until I myself, became a cigarette smoker.
This is how each and every person is a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome. We all try to identify with our captors. We have all been imprisoned by the misanthropic will of another. We have all become captors of others.
Liberation is our highest calling. It is our sacred duty to break the cycle, and flush it out of our very DNA.
I long posited that a place like Hell, as depicted by world religion, cannot and does not exist. The God that created me, would not have created a lake of fire for my soul, should our higher minds become separated.
Well, I'm here today to tell you, for the record, that 'Hell' DOES exist. It's not the stuffy, maladrous place where bad people go after they die. Hell is a prison that exists in the minds of people.
How do I know? Resonance. Pat Benatar wrote a song about child abuse, and titled it, "Hell is For Children." Know what? She is 100% right. Hell IS for children.
What do I mean. That song resonates, after all these years. That means, to me, that there are deep layers of truth, within the song.
"It's all so confusing, this brutal abusing
They blacken your eyes, and then apologize
Be daddy's good girl , and don't tell mommy a thing
Be a good little boy, and you'll get a new toy
Tell grandma you fell off the swing"
Children and other victims of abuse (including 'adults' who practice self-abuse) are imprisoned in a world that defies their understanding. It is confusing, as the song says, because, "love and pain become one and the same."
A child is completely dependent on their parent for love and support. A child has absolutely no control over their situation. That is the foundation of this hell; a little soul, tragically imprisoned.
I have been to hell and back. My father has always exerted control over his children by opening and closing his wallet, and his heart. My mother, strained by the demands of raising five children alone, kept all us children in a state of fear. I could never be sure, when I got close to her, whether I was going to get the palm of her hand, or the back of it.
One chilling recollection that keeps coming back, is her telephone voice. She could be a mean, angry witch when she wanted to be, spewing the most hateful words, in the harshest possible tone of voice.
When the telephone rang, and she answered it, I was always amazed at how quickly she could transform her voice into a sound that was smooth and velvety.
I'm no different than most people. My mother, herself, is a co-victim of my father's controlling tendencies. I was well into my thirties before we could discuss that man, without her collapsing into tears of self-recrimination.
As human beings, it is our personal responsibility to recognize the signs of abuse. Each person who is abused, will in turn, become an abuser. I was forced to inhale my mother's second-hand cigarette smoke for my entire life, until I myself, became a cigarette smoker.
This is how each and every person is a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome. We all try to identify with our captors. We have all been imprisoned by the misanthropic will of another. We have all become captors of others.
Liberation is our highest calling. It is our sacred duty to break the cycle, and flush it out of our very DNA.
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