Friday, August 29, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
It really is about what happened to you. Yet you get judged for it as though you brought it on yourself. And everything about our spiritual outlook in this culture enhances that faulty notion.
I had PTSD before I was even two digits in age. I know that now. I know this because of a very recent diagnosis. But I didn’t know it until I was almost 40 years old. Only then did the diagnosis come. Only then did I have a vocabulary for what was going on inside of me that others could understand. When I was a kid I tried telling my mother how I couldn’t help the things I did because I was constantly remembering the fights my sister started, or the things she did, or the other kids at school. Because pretty much everywhere I went, I was bullied. I had no safe places except in the woods, where I spent more time alone than any healthy kid should have to. She didn’t hear me. I never tried telling anyone again.
Yes, those were flashbacks. I had so many truancy incidents because there were so many times I could not bring myself to enter the school. I knew I couldn’t handle people that day. But nobody would listen. My school work suffered. My learning suffered. If anybody had even tried to make me feel safe, I’d have made A’s and become a monster genius. But I couldn’t. And it’s because of what happened to me, not because of me.
So when I was 12, my mother put me into a facility. I hated the place and hated the constant control that was held on me by unfeeling paid workers, many of whom didn’t give a damn about us. But admittedly, I felt safe. For a while. Then the workers made me feel anything but the more they picked on me. Seriously. Paid working adults. At least it wasn’t violent and seriously abusive like everyone on the outside.
But I was given a therapist. I didn’t know how to talk to her or tell her anything. She might’ve figured it all out, but like I said… I had no vocabulary. I was already made to feel words were useless and nothing would help. Through all of my talks with her, the issue she could find was that I wasn’t assertive enough. I’m serious. A PTSD patient abused by nearly everyone in his life, and she just thought I wasn’t assertive enough.
So she brought in my family once for a session. My mother, my sister, and her newborn first baby which she had out of wedlock as a teenager. If I broke a plate it was the most horrendous thing any human being ever did ever, but somehow she could go out and fuck around and get pregnant and never took much of a rebuking at all. Plus there went any of the supposed college money my mom said she was saving for me (although now that I think about that, she was probably bullshitting me about even saving that for me).
So here I am sitting across from my greatest abuser: my sister. And my mother, who was her enabler, allowing her to do what she wanted. The woman who told me several times that she couldn’t wait for me to turn 18 so she could throw me out on my ass and never have to look at me again. My therapist never learned this. I just didn’t bother.
But my sister sat there with this smug look on her face. I’m there in that place, so obviously she wins and everything was my fault and I was the bad kid after all. That’s how she interpreted it. And she made no bones about feeling exactly that. She just kept asking the therapist if we’ll talk about the time I broke her this, or I broke her that, or I did this, or that. My therapist said that I wouldn’t be interrupted. She wouldn’t let me be. But still I sat there saying nothing.
If I had this moment to do over again, I’d have actually spoken, rather than sitting there silently. I’d tell her that I didn’t care about any of those objects. They were nothing compared to what she was always doing to me. They were my pathetic attempts to strike back at her cruelty. I broke a thing. She was breaking a person.
I’d inform her that I wasn’t in a facility of bad kids imprisoned for being horrible human beings. In the same room with me was an obviously gay child, son of the president of Cisco paper products, who was there because of how much his father hated him. And another kid who had been assaulted by his father and had part of his penis cut off by him. There was a girl down the hall who was beaten so badly by her mother when she was 3 years old, who still sucked her thumb from terror and who had been found abandoned in that beaten state in the house her mother fled from.
These are not bad kids. These are kids recovering from what was done to them. And no matter how much you, Holly, might think that’s why I’m here (and I have no doubt our bitch of a mother agrees), I know differently. We’re here because of what’s wrong with me, which you caused. Both of you. And to be honest, I’m not silent because I feel guilty. I’m silent because I feel nothing. No hope that this will make a difference. No emotional attachment to either of you whatsoever. No love, no caring, no emotions at all except for my nephew who you’re only going to try to use abusively against me in the future anyway. (That’s what she did, but he grew up resenting her for it).
It took me years to get the diagnosis. But I never felt, even for a second, that the things I suffered from them were my fault. I guess that’s why I never thought of depression. I saw the other day that when you get to that point, don’t sink into it but get mad. Get angry and even hateful if you have to. That’s what I did. I hated them. I didn’t think of suicide because I knew I didn’t deserve to die. They did. I really felt that. To be honest, I kinda still do.
Rage kept me alive for years. I’ve had many lecture me about it. But I earned it. Trying to take it from me is like trying to take the bandages off the mummy. For a lot of my years, it was all that held me together. Forgive me if I didn’t let you take it away. It would’ve killed me if you did.
My greatest rage now is how much of religion has tried to tell me otherwise. I was supposed to accept that I’ve sinned, and that this sin made Jesus suffer something far worse than I’ve ever suffered. They told me there was no room for “victims” in the “Kingdom of God.” I saw victims everywhere, suffering horrible things. The idea that what they suffered might then make them damaged so badly that they’d fail in life and end up in hell for eternity made me break down so badly that I had to leave the church or I’d have finally killed myself. Finally.
That’s the one time I came close, in fact. They tried to take my rage and my pain from me so that I’d be bare and feel the blame for all I’d suffered. Then one day I took a walk and felt a pain in my side. I thought it was my appendix. I really did. And instead of going to the hospital, I just decided I’d let it kill me. I made that actual decision. Thankfully it was just a testicular issue, or I’d be dead now. I recovered. I left the church. I moved back in with my family and spent a lot of time in the woods with our pack of dogs. I came to peace with myself again. I came to rage with my family again. The two were hand in hand.
But I tried paganism, and there I’ve had many different dogmas tossed at me. Most of them I abandoned easily enough, as paganism teaches you the right to do that. But some try really hard to push theirs anyway. And most annoying of all is this notion that you manifest your world around you. In other words, you are the one who chose to live this life and experience these things. You bring them onto yourself. Some even use quantum physics to justify this outlook (and quantum physicists are sick as shit of idiots doing this). Bullshit. Don’t you fucking dare try to tell me I’m to blame for what I suffered unless you want all that rage on your ass. I will pound it onto you without any guilt or conscience, because you will have deserved it.
I love Whack-a-Mole, and have been asked to leave a couple of arcades because of how loudly and violently I play it. I love those faces popping up and smiling at me maliciously. I love taking my rage out on them. So in life, whenever some face pops up acting like a real asshole, I consider it Whack-an-Asshole, and I’m happy as hell to oblige. That’s why I am the way I am. And it’s healthy. It gives me an outlet on those who deserve it, a satisfaction that finally rage is being directed towards the deserving rather than towards the innocent, and if you try to tell me it makes me just as bad for doing it, I will whack YOU.
These are conscious choices I’ve made. They are the choices I made so that I would never hurt an innocent person, but that so I, an innocent person, wouldn’t have to do any more hurting than I have to any longer. I am proud as fucking hell of who I am and the choices I’ve made. It was a fight the likes of which you probably could not survive. So forgive me if I ever seem harsh, or that I (as many have often said) have to be right about everything. It’s not that. It’s that I rarely see people giving that much intellectual fight and thought to these matters. I’ve earned this place. I know I have to use that place. I was given this mind and I’m going to use it. Simple as that.
It’s not that I’m right. It’s that I’m worthy of defense. I deserve that safety. I deserve that certainty. And I will defend myself against the idea that I am to blame for what I’ve suffered. I won’t even let you reason and bend logic to make it seem so. No. Never. It won’t happen.
We have stigmatized the word victim so badly that we actually take out the world’s rage onto those who truly are. Stop it. Look at the words in the graphic above. Hear what I’m saying to you now. The world is full of victims of a profoundly sick society. They are not your blame. Start taking it out on those who deserve it rather than hating on those who’ve suffered. Stop it now. And don’t let others do it either.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for your classy reporting. I’d never have known how badly Ellen DeGeneres’ relationship was on the rocks if you hadn’t made it up. And I’m more than certain that you really do believe all the articles you write about Obama cheating on his wife with farm animals, or whatever the hell you were saying. I get it. You make shit up. And people are stupid and insipid enough to purchase your rag.
But let me ask you a question… are you aware Neil Patrick Harris (a man so awesome he’s now known as NPH) is married to his partner? Let me ask you if you ever see heterosexual couples breaking up (or okay, in your case, you make up a story that they’re breaking up) and insist that those “straight lovers” are storming off from each other? Or do you say Brad Pitt is leaving his wife? Would you say that Rihanna was beaten up by her “black lover”? Why did you have to say “gay lover” about NPH?
I mean don’t get me wrong. I know you want to add details for accuracy. I know you want headlines to scream to people. “Gay” must be a huge buyer grabber given how much homphobia there is in the lowest intellectual strata of our culture (i.e. your readers). I’m sure they saw “GAY” in big letters and chuckle like Beavis & Butthead, immediately snickering about how the play with each other’s penis. But I guarantee you that they already know NPH is gay. It’s been everywhere. It was mentioned on every gossip show and reported by all the news media who were busy reporting on such drivel rather than on actually important affairs. They even had a reality show’s contestants cater their wedding, if I remember right. Although that may have been another couple. I don’t remember. I do remember they were part of RuPaul’s Drag Race’s wedding episode as the queens were asked to dress up grooms getting other to look like drag queens themselves. They were the guest judges.
Just to put it simply, the people know. It’s no secret.
Is it too much to ask that, just this once, you say “husband” rather than the big, catchy, chuckle-bait words GAY LOVER as you make shit up about NPH and his partner? His partner, I might add, has a name. And quite a name for himself too. David Burtka. He’s an actor and a chef. He does things that actually benefit society. Maybe one of these days you will too. I know, your paper is useful for the linings of a bird cage, but I really don’t consider that redeeming enough.
In the meantime, NPH and Burtka, husbands and fathers of two, really appreciate your reduction of their family to “gay lover” status, I’m sure. Just as I’m sure what they do to each others’ bodies in bed is the only thing you can even come close to fixating on, let me assure you. After all, it’s the only way you can relate to them since it’s no different than what you do for a living.
Because you’re a bunch of jerk-off assholes who completely suck at your job of buttfucking the truth. Only thing missing is lube.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
…posted a friend on Facebook that I really don’t know. He made sure, in giant letters, to scream about it merely being opinion, as though that makes it better. And of course, “Yeah yeah… depression, I get it.” No, Joe. Clearly you demonstrate that you most certainly do not get it. And calling this opinion isn’t helping matters much. Nor is your tantrum thrown when people have their own, disagreeing with you:
Many friends make sure to correct his attitude, and did a very good job of it:
But Joe singled one out and threw a hissy, defensive fit, making himself the victim here:
Poor Joe. He should just be able to say something judgmental, misinformed, and horrible about the dead when the body isn’t even cold yet, without anybody daring to have an opinion in return! Don’t you people get how Amurika works???
Yes, Joe. It makes us feel great to trash your careless statement/judgment that you keep calling an opinion. Poor thing. I know it hurts. But what’s really hilarious is that now he must make our “opinions” equal with his:
But if you think that is bad enough, check out the moronic behavior of this guy when I stepped into the conversation. From the first statement to the last, he truly squeezes every last ounce of stupid for his “debate” about this:
So now what another person experiences is up for debate. This is the hypocrisy of WAAAAHHHH MY OPINION ISN’T GOING UNCHALLENGED!!! by someone challenging another person’s feelings, and then taking it a thousand steps further into Assholeland.
Yes, he did. He argued from the very first reply that I’m arguing it’s not selfish, as though to suggest that it is. Not only that it is, but that in disagreeing, we’re somehow calling suicide a virtue! Just… dude… I can’t even…
I decided to go through the entire conversation thread, but I didn’t make it far. Because as you see above, I saw some truly asshole maneuvers by the “opinion” holder and I just couldn’t hold it back:
I think his friends are done with his attitude now. Good luck finding others, Joe.
Let’s make things clear about opinions:
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
There were two moments that I'll never forget from high school. I went every day and kept a happy face on, even though I didn't have friends. Not really. I had a few people I'd hang out with on very rare moments. When invited. Which rarely happened. But nobody really knew me, and I was along most of the time. And everyone saw it.
In literature, Mr. Shelton had us read a story about a couple of men who liked to make bets against each other. But one day one of the men bet the other that he couldn’t go a year without any contact with other people. No pictures, no seeing another person’s face, no hearing another person’s voice, etc. He’d have to be in a shed where he would be contained from all outside influence. He could have any food, drink, book, or item he wanted. But he could not see a face or hear a voice. The man bet one million dollars of his fortune.
The challenged man, in his arrogance, upped the ante to three years for three million. The challenge took place, and everything went entirely as planned. He endured the solitude all the way up until the very last night. When the challenger came to the shed to release him, he found the man had left. Behind him he left a note informing the other person to keep his money, because in his captivity, he’d learned what was really important.
Now our class found it silly. But Mr. Shelton assured them that they wouldn’t last a week. They were all hooked on their time with friends. And that was before cellular phones, hook-up sites, the internet, or any of those addictive social media concepts. They laughed. He assured them. And he’d be right.
But suddenly he changed his tone. That’s when he said there was only one person in the class he thinks could endure such a challenge and win. That was the moment he actually pointed at me. I was the one who he meant.
I don’t know if this was supposed to be a compliment. But to me, it made me see the very thing I’d always tried to avoid facing: my loneliness. Only then did I have to face it. And I did not like it. I really never did, but to have it be that noticeable how successful my lie had been only made the loneliness stronger. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I had no idea how to convey it to anybody, and nobody would understand. How could they? If I couldn’t even find words. If I didn’t even have names, or a proper diagnosis. If talking with others felt so futile and most people didn’t really listen so much as just waited for an opportunity to pounce on me and tell me I’m just wrong for what I was feeling?
I entered into a depression so strong that it took months. I dived deep into my school work and, thankfully, passed that year (having been held back in tenth for missing a whole semester in Houston… the fear of the crowds and violence of those enormous schools were why I had my father located and moved to Arkansas to attend the small school there, in Calico Rock).
Eventually I tried to pull myself together and convinced myself all was well again. The school paper had a blank page that they’d have a student fill with silliness and nonsense. I volunteered. It became called The Hopeless Page, and was filled with silliness of my mind’s conjuring. I don’t think the school knew what hit ‘em. I didn’t read the paper before that, but now I bought and read them so I’d have remembrance of what I did. And on one other page students would do “song requests” (which you can’t really play a song in the paper, so that seemed silly). They dedicated Happy to be Alone to me. I have no idea what that is, but I tried to put it out of my mind. And then one other month they dedicated Stop the World; I Want to Get Off. Again, a song I hadn’t heard.
I was a fan of the band, Extreme, having had both their prior CDs. So when I’d ordered their third, III Sides to Every Story, there was the song, waiting for me to finally break open this mystery. It was then followed by an emotional one pleading “please tell me God isn’t dead”, and then there was a trio of songs at the end of the CD that formed one long three-part song about pain and longing for a better world: Rise and Shine (A New Day is Coming), then Am I Ever Gonna Change? and finally Who Cares? These three songs had a lot of biblical undertones, but not of a preachy nature (like the song about the crucifixion, Watching Waiting from their first CD). Instead these came from what I’d later learn were from Ecclesiastes. And it’s about not judging, about suffering, about innocence being ruined by abusers.
And yet one lyric will always stick with me from the one dedicated to me: “We need more feet to walk in one another’s shoes.” From a song saying that they wanted to give up and leave the world. I wonder if they thought I’d eventually commit suicide myself. I have no idea who did it or why. I only know it was a warning sign that I heard loud and clear. I fought and remained, up until today, and hopefully for a long period after.
The CD called “III Sides to Every Story” was divided into three sections… Yours (which had political rants), Mine (which had love songs, and then Stop the World and God Isn’t Dead), and The Truth, which had those last three songs. And those three followed most peoples journey: First, hoping for a new day when people are better and the world isn’t so hateful… then, trying to change ones self and ones own destructive behavior… and finally, becoming cynical and realizing nobody cares. The futility sinking in.
But the reason I was alone was that I didn’t have that pattern. I wasn’t a part of that hateful world. I was the one they hated. And I couldn’t change because I was too weak and needed someone’s hand, so desperately. And mostly, I started it all in that cynical world knowing nobody cared. I never had the privilege of thinking otherwise. In fact, had Shelton not pointed it out, and had someone actually made that bet, I’d have done it happily and considered it a vacation. But instead, I didn’t get to see it as a vacation. I was forced to see it as the sickness and desperation it really was. And I don’t get three million dollars either.
We need more feet to walk in one another’s shoes, and we need more mouths to stop judging them without doing so.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Mark Scott Erickson is an interesting guy. I do not know how he found me, but he only pops up every now and then out of the blue, at random moments, to ridicule something I’ve spoken. He’s shown up on Twitter, on Facebook, and I think he did once on Google+ as well. Not really sure about that last one. But I keep him around because he amuses me.
After all, he has never once said a thing to me that isn’t the absolute dumbest thing imaginable, usually in the most hilarious way. And therefore, I kind of think of him as my little rightwing pet.
Not long ago I changed my Twitter handle, as I do from time to time, on my @BibleAsshole account. I don’t ever change the @ name, but the funny name that goes alongside it. I’ve had it read God’sOnlyEjaculation among other things, but before my recent God’s Buttplug, I had it say GodKnowsHesNotReal. And Mark has mostly hated my atheism as well as my supposed worship of “green science,” and often ends his ridiculous statements with unbelievably dumb questions.
But this time he wanted me to see something that should change my mind about whether there’s a God. And that something comes, believe it or not, from the blog of the utterly ridiculous Joe the Plumber. Who else, right?
Joe the Plumber thinks Noah’s Ark has recently been found. I mean he really believes this. He even thinks he has 14 cold, hard facts about this fictional thing. And of course, he includes that ridiculous Unsolved Mysteries video that claims the Ark was found, which I’d already laughed about before.
Yes, even Ken Ham’s Answers in Genesis group… that crazy guy who put a saddle on the triceratops, has declared that it’s bullshit.
So I posted yesterday about how much I have grown weary about people thinking climate science used to say “global cooling” before global warming. First off, it’s a lie. But as I’ve pointed out before, if science once said something and was wrong, and now say something far different with much more analysis and more insight into the facts, for you to drudge up what was once said to discredit today’s knowledge is highly backwards thinking. It’d be like refusing to take today’s medicine because once upon a time witchdoctors thought leaches cleansed your blood.
Which has little to do with what Mark thought he’d shoot my way. That’s okay. I threw down the facts.
I could’ve just shared that last part, but you wouldn’t know why I threw in the Noah’s Ark remark. Now that I have, you can know. And…
Friday, August 8, 2014
Thursday, August 7, 2014
HBO Real Time
#PoliceBrutality #NYC #RealTime
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Monday, August 4, 2014
Democracy Suspended in the U.S. House
Something just happened on the House Floor that you should know about. Very late last night House Republicans quietly changed the standing rules of the House so that only the Majority Leader or his designee could bring up the bill in question for a vote. Sound familiar? The same tactic was used by the same people last October to shut down the government and keep it shut down. In other words, democracy has once again been suspended in the House of Representatives. SHARE this video if you're sick of the sneaky, dead-of-night rule changes that have helped define this Republican Congress as the most-closed, least-transparent Congress on record.