Post by Dani on Apr 22, 2016 13:46:04 GMT 8
This was a dual thing, one I was looking for some way to get this out, and the other was seeing, reading, and thereby knowing this is the place for it to be. What did i read, well the thread by Ativan Prescribed about mental illness. I was not sure if I could tackle this in one sitting, especially since it is already 8:30 PM, so if this cannot be completed in one go then at the end I will note a part two to follow. If this is the case, please do not respond until I can finish, so a thank you ahead of time.
You may want to put on your nightmare helmet for this one, I am only 'guessing' as I have no idea whatsoever one may think of this. To give this its due, a short bio will be in order, do keep in mind that there are many many hundreds of 'holes' here, that each one taken individually could be too much for many. Here goes:
In the year 1951 I was born on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State, somewhat near the rain forest. I lived in a very isolated logging community. My family consisted of just my mother, and one sister who is 9 years older than me. My birth father was in prison and was full blooded native indian, my mother white as is my sister by a white former marraige to my mom. I was the only native in my school so fitting in was not in the cards, in fact many of them enjoyed pushing of buttons. All of this is pretty much not unusual, what was, was the fact our family was totally non-communicative. Surface stuff was the extent of all talk, without a father I was not told a single solitary thing, with the exception of one story. My mom told me of a father who told his tiny and young son to climb up onto the kitchen table and jump and he would catch him. His son did just that but at the moment of leaping into the air towards his dad, his dad stepped backward and let his son fall flat on the floor. When he stopped crying, he told this son this, "Do not trust anyone, not even me." Many stepfathers appeared and disappeared, one said he would leave and rent an room in town and drink himself to death, he did just that, he had the barmaid bring his bottles until a few months later he died. My sister was always gone, my mom had two jobs, I taught myself. Later my sister was married and gone, my mom met another and moved back east to Indiana. I stayed there. When at last I was sent for I found what true horror was, it came in the form of the stepfather. He was cruel beyond anything words can convey, all psychological. He would tell me of things that should never be repeated, only so he could sit back and watch it percolate in my mind. I had no defenses, I was the perfect blank slate to be writen on. He would buy cards and write in them to mail to me, pretending they were from homosexual friends, I did not even know what gay was. I would have to sit and listen to the condemnation of him as he waved the card at me. Shortly after this, "I", the me I knew faded away, and my 'only' companion was a syringe full of meth. I had no social parameters in which to guide me, absolutely none. I slipped and slid my criminal way to the bottom and set up home, all by myself. I lived in abandoned buildings and shot dope in the dark. Prison eventually followed, I cared not for anything, anyone, in fact during these next 33 years, I never gave people one single solitary thought.
Now, I have 20 years of clean time, the first four or five I have not a clue what was going on except that I had a job and it was just something to do. Next 10 years was trying to unravel the threads of my being, trying to find even just one end that seemed like a potential fit into society. Every one failed. During this process though I finally began to understand who I was, how I came to be, and how to resolve my own issues and difiiculties. At this time I also decided to go to school and recieved three degrees. Interestingly enough reading can be done, solving my problems can be done, learning who I am can be done, even sitting here writing what is on my mind can be done. There is I've found one thing that after all these years that still cannot be done, forming a link between me and society. This is for two reasons, one being that my language is one of aloneness, the kind that requires nothing, nothing but me. The language of society is one of learned by way of acceptable dysfunction, the bending and mutating of any good thing towards an end, the end that satiates the goal of the moment. By no means do I speak of society as a whole, just the common everyday person who has learned that anything is mutable. My own experience seems to show that in many instances they believe their actions are so unseen and clever. Indeed the opposite is true, it is like a person standing on the other side of a see thru screen door thinking the person on the other side cannot possibly know their actions. The second reason comes later.
To the heart of the matter, the topic, mental illness. My mental landscape has been briefly probed, examined and I wear many labels. These labels of which Atavan touched on should by rights have made me a non-functioning individual of no real use or contributor in society. This IS the truth, in every harsh sense of the situation I have nothing to offer. Smile. This perspective is theirs! For them to say otherwise is to admit the very basis of everything they use to determine truth is wrong. There is not much likelihood of this happening anytime soon. The psychiatric, pharmacuetical, medical, penal, court system, attorney, law enforcement, academic, coprorate industry, and POLITICAL machination complex depends on the money reaped from keeping various segments of society pigeonholed into all their own individual dysfunctional groups. The importance in terms of net worth for illness is beyond everything except one thing, the perpetuation of an ignorant society.
Before I could explain what I came here for in terms of my post and my own personal situation I wanted to make that connection to the importance of Ativan Prescribed's thread, as they are intricately interwoven. I am too tired to continue so I will finish this tomorrow and make my original point and why I felt the part one of my history bio was needed and how part two of my bio (learning, coping, failures, gender, transitioning, and those holes in my thoughts) is critical to my own well being. Dani
You may want to put on your nightmare helmet for this one, I am only 'guessing' as I have no idea whatsoever one may think of this. To give this its due, a short bio will be in order, do keep in mind that there are many many hundreds of 'holes' here, that each one taken individually could be too much for many. Here goes:
In the year 1951 I was born on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State, somewhat near the rain forest. I lived in a very isolated logging community. My family consisted of just my mother, and one sister who is 9 years older than me. My birth father was in prison and was full blooded native indian, my mother white as is my sister by a white former marraige to my mom. I was the only native in my school so fitting in was not in the cards, in fact many of them enjoyed pushing of buttons. All of this is pretty much not unusual, what was, was the fact our family was totally non-communicative. Surface stuff was the extent of all talk, without a father I was not told a single solitary thing, with the exception of one story. My mom told me of a father who told his tiny and young son to climb up onto the kitchen table and jump and he would catch him. His son did just that but at the moment of leaping into the air towards his dad, his dad stepped backward and let his son fall flat on the floor. When he stopped crying, he told this son this, "Do not trust anyone, not even me." Many stepfathers appeared and disappeared, one said he would leave and rent an room in town and drink himself to death, he did just that, he had the barmaid bring his bottles until a few months later he died. My sister was always gone, my mom had two jobs, I taught myself. Later my sister was married and gone, my mom met another and moved back east to Indiana. I stayed there. When at last I was sent for I found what true horror was, it came in the form of the stepfather. He was cruel beyond anything words can convey, all psychological. He would tell me of things that should never be repeated, only so he could sit back and watch it percolate in my mind. I had no defenses, I was the perfect blank slate to be writen on. He would buy cards and write in them to mail to me, pretending they were from homosexual friends, I did not even know what gay was. I would have to sit and listen to the condemnation of him as he waved the card at me. Shortly after this, "I", the me I knew faded away, and my 'only' companion was a syringe full of meth. I had no social parameters in which to guide me, absolutely none. I slipped and slid my criminal way to the bottom and set up home, all by myself. I lived in abandoned buildings and shot dope in the dark. Prison eventually followed, I cared not for anything, anyone, in fact during these next 33 years, I never gave people one single solitary thought.
Now, I have 20 years of clean time, the first four or five I have not a clue what was going on except that I had a job and it was just something to do. Next 10 years was trying to unravel the threads of my being, trying to find even just one end that seemed like a potential fit into society. Every one failed. During this process though I finally began to understand who I was, how I came to be, and how to resolve my own issues and difiiculties. At this time I also decided to go to school and recieved three degrees. Interestingly enough reading can be done, solving my problems can be done, learning who I am can be done, even sitting here writing what is on my mind can be done. There is I've found one thing that after all these years that still cannot be done, forming a link between me and society. This is for two reasons, one being that my language is one of aloneness, the kind that requires nothing, nothing but me. The language of society is one of learned by way of acceptable dysfunction, the bending and mutating of any good thing towards an end, the end that satiates the goal of the moment. By no means do I speak of society as a whole, just the common everyday person who has learned that anything is mutable. My own experience seems to show that in many instances they believe their actions are so unseen and clever. Indeed the opposite is true, it is like a person standing on the other side of a see thru screen door thinking the person on the other side cannot possibly know their actions. The second reason comes later.
To the heart of the matter, the topic, mental illness. My mental landscape has been briefly probed, examined and I wear many labels. These labels of which Atavan touched on should by rights have made me a non-functioning individual of no real use or contributor in society. This IS the truth, in every harsh sense of the situation I have nothing to offer. Smile. This perspective is theirs! For them to say otherwise is to admit the very basis of everything they use to determine truth is wrong. There is not much likelihood of this happening anytime soon. The psychiatric, pharmacuetical, medical, penal, court system, attorney, law enforcement, academic, coprorate industry, and POLITICAL machination complex depends on the money reaped from keeping various segments of society pigeonholed into all their own individual dysfunctional groups. The importance in terms of net worth for illness is beyond everything except one thing, the perpetuation of an ignorant society.
Before I could explain what I came here for in terms of my post and my own personal situation I wanted to make that connection to the importance of Ativan Prescribed's thread, as they are intricately interwoven. I am too tired to continue so I will finish this tomorrow and make my original point and why I felt the part one of my history bio was needed and how part two of my bio (learning, coping, failures, gender, transitioning, and those holes in my thoughts) is critical to my own well being. Dani