Back To Basics: uh-oh

After yoga (one of the few things besides running, fucking and pilates that can hush the incessant noise in my head) I am able to take a more focused look at relationships.

What, to me, is a relationship?

Well, what has it been?

I have represented the bad parts of the “x.” Those are, of course, more comfortable to drum up. But what about a guilt-free look at some facts? An honest retrospective towards complete abandonment of old cycles.

He would often ask me how I felt about him. I would often respond by saying I need “more.” I had no idea what I meant. I just felt so strongly I wanted it and, through circumscription, knew he would never produce it.



One time he responded by taking me, as a total surprise, to see my favourite band. (The Cowboy Junkies). Since I was 14 I listened to their albums over and over. I memorized their depressing tones and lyrics and, when I had no clock to check time, I would sing their songs to mark the passage of time.
My response to his gift:
“You know I hate live music.”

Another time he bought us tango lessons. We both loved dancing, so he felt this was a sure way to hone in on “more.” He was always trying to get me to dance with him but I hate dancing with anyone. And I like to improvise which makes it hard for my partner.
My response to the lessons? I responded to the very flirtatious instructor in kind and complained afterward about how much I hated having definite steps.

I could continue; I could make the list worse and more embarrassing; the point has been made. I have done equal worse things in the past to other men and women. I had no business being in a relationship with him, or anyone. I was not interested in it per se. I was fascinated by how far I could push, how little I could care, how annoyed I could be.

A selfish experiment.

While my own, more important world, unfolded like a maze.

So, only a partial answer so far:
Relationships will not ever be this for me again. I choose the grace and effortlessness of absolute aloneness over that. But I feel and have had clear signs that I have successfully abandoned my old routines. Unfortunately I don’t feel any knew ones falling in to soothe me yet. But it is reassuring to have my best friends express to me that I have “grown.’ And you, you have said so too.

It will never, ever, be easy with us. It has not been. We are not people of ease or predictability. There is, however, a kind of dance we do with each other that, through difficult times and good ones, works. Maybe that is the more I meant.

Flight Plan: The Asian Authority Gradient

The tenor of this blog is about to change. I am about to be in the visiting portion of
this long distance relationship.

Hooray! Hooray!

Being me though, I had to do a little investigating about any of the things that might stand in our way of being together:

My flight is on Korean Air. What is their safety history. Funny you should ask!

Korean Air - Safety Record Throughout the late 1990s safety concerns kept Korean Air under the watchful gaze of authorities at home and abroad. After the fatal crash at London’s Stansted Airport, Korean Air was cited as having, “one of the worst safety records in the aviation world.” The safety record was so botched at one point that the founder of the company, Cho Yang Ho stepped down in a gesture intended to demonstrate he was accepting responsibility for the abysmal safety record. Due to frequent safety issues, Air Canada, Air France, and Delta Air Lines suspended a code share agreement with Korean Air for a time in the late 90s. The US Department of Defense has, at times, blacklisted Korean Air and prohibited staff members from using that airline for any purpose. Critics claim that management can be amateurish and unprofessional, with people in senior positions frequently selected not for their qualifications and experience, but because of connections. Another often cited problem issue is that of the cockpit culture within Korean Air. Traditionally, the bulk of pilots were drawn from the ranks of ex-Korean military pilots who brought to the cockpit a very rigid, hierarchical authority structure that did not allow junior officers to contradict or question the decisions of the commander of the aircraft. The 13 June, 1991 belly landing is a prime example of Korean cockpit culture resulting in safety issues. Investigation after the incident indicate the junior officer balked at the command to remove a fuse from the alarm system, but the senior officer overrode him. Mick Toller, head of Australia's Civil Aviation Safety Authority, referred to the situation within the cockpit of Korean Air planes as, “the Asian authority gradient” in which the plane’s captain is God and others dare not even discuss things with him.

It is okay though, they have been on an upswing since the 90s and have a solid safety B grade.
I'd take 10 near crashes if I can only have enough leg room.

What to do.

There is a generalized what to do feeling here. My mouth tastes of sunscreen because that is something I do. I have a terrible cold because that is what I do. I run everyday because that is what I do. My aunts birthday is tomorrow and so I should call her what to do.

It is the best thing to move but I'd rather dig for dark blood in my neck because that is something I do. Think five steps ahead and gather each days details like alarms is something I do. Get lost inside a plastic replica what to do.

Change is my monster chasing me but I don't run what to do what to do.

Breaking up is hard to do.

Come home to x’s calls. New demands, details. New information about subtle attacks on TL and escalating insults directed at her are distressing. I am beginning to see that his mistreatment of her is a diversion of hostility he subconsciously feels but cannot deliver to me. Partly out of material consideration but also out of fear of me. My immediate reaction is to feel entirely responsible for making two people’s lives harder. Oh, and my own too, merely because I held on to something for so long out of self-hatred and dislike of change.

It’s my problem, so it must be my solution.

I think I know how to make things better until it will be over. A few well-placed suggestions and hints and I can hopefully manipulate his own worst fears about himself. Those I know well. I just want him to leave us alone. It makes me feel gross to have to sink to this, to not be able to salvage some sort of dignified friendship out of all the years spent. I am certainly willing. But using my friend as a whipping post is unacceptable. Disgusting.

I just want, as I did a year ago, this whole fucking deal over.

Old Anxiety Tactics

I forgot how much painting and drawing helps.
All I have to do is pick a picture and decide to draw it and I can lose hours
to calm concentration. I used to do that all the time.
I set up a small project tonight and it has worked quite well.

Countdown

Seven days, 11 hours, 17 minutes and 15 seconds and counting.

Family:Friends Ratio

My Family is shit.
My friends surpass my highest hopes.

Happiness is Blandness

If governments were to prescribe anything more specific, then the likely result is highly prescriptive policies which seek to micro-manage people's lives and attitudes. After all, what makes people happy - eating greasy food, for example - doesn't always fit neatly into government policy.

An alternative outcome of such micro-management is wall-to-wall blandness. A glimpse into the kind of world which would be the likely outcome if the happiness patrol had its way was given in a recent article in Men's Health. Based, once again, on supposedly scientific findings, the authors claimed that if you want to be happy you should ditch "moody music" which increases self-focus and fill your iPod with "eclectic rock that takes the mickey". The examples given were Tenacious D and Machine Gun Fellatio.

Birthday Present: Half-Assed Machinist/Invisible Pictures

Birthday Present: Evidence of Me And Dad

"How can you wake up from a nightmare if you are not asleep?"

This is the tagline for the movie The Machinist.
I also think it seems like something you might say out of experience.

I have become a half-assed machinist and I quit. It is notable, I think, to not
eat at all and not sleep at all for a year. It is nothing but irritating to sleep
3 or 4 hours a night and just graze lightly every day for the period of about a month. So tonight,
with holiday fireworks thundering around the neighbourhood I am giving one
last kick at health and if it doesn't work I am going to stop fucking around and end the mediocrity.

I really empathize with you about your sleep disorder/night terrors/abnormal sleeping brain activity. I certainly do not and never will know what it is like to not ever sleep enough (because your eight hours are I fear more like other people’s four). But the results of this past month have given me a few new insights – perhaps even about the overlaps and connections between your illnesses.

My sleep diet manifests for me like this: I remember things, but out of order. I can remember exactly the way the skin around my grandmother’s eyes looked as she spoke to me this afternoon but I have no idea what she said. How mauve and poreless, decorated with soft raised ovals the size of a modest pearl. Like the one in the promise ring she gave me. The effect was miscommunication. She offered me a chocolate and I thought she was giving me the whole box causing considerable discomfort around issues of generosity (which, please don’t doubt, she lacks tremendously). My busy thoughts, which I usually can corral to good effect, now wander off into wet material and drip unrelated memories and ideas onto one another. I track the mess and become more and more alarmed and delighted in this process. More dedicated to that than what is going on around me. Especially if it is something to do with my family or surface activity.

I can’t watch tv. I actually turned off the tv in order to fall asleep last night. It irritated me. Which, in turn, horrified me.


If any of this is what you have to deal with.

Over this past year everything in my life has gotten harder, more painful. With one exception.

My relationships with people are new. TL said to me today that I have been a great friend to her this year. Being a great friend herself, she did not mention the corollary: I used to suck. My relationship with you, her and three or four others are fundamentally different. I have a capacity now to actually care deeply for others.

It is no coincidence that while my relationships with people are becoming more meaningful, everything else is disintegrating. It is because I had built my life entirely around the presupposition that the only way I could be happy is to be perfected/alone








Up until today I had seen few pictures of myself as a child. I have one picture of my mother holding me right after she got home from the hospital that I got from my father’s family ten years ago. I have no memory of her ever holding me and the assumption I held was that as an infant, holding me would have been unavoidable, so it probably happened.




I have no memory of anyone ever holding me or touching me as a child. These pictures, presented to me today as a gift from my uncle, represent both proof that there was a time, before events conspired to make me untouchable, when I was loved and also are evidence proving that I did exist before the age of 4. TL pointed this out to me. My father took all of them. There are dozens dozens of me looking with love in my eyes into his lens.





I post them here as an exercise: make them normal, part of the narrative of my life. Once my mother loved me. Loved.
And because when I look into this moribund photo album found last week in a barn - an album that seems to hold everything - the pictures disappear.

Okay. No more family interaction required for weeks and weeks. Here goes my (sleeping pills) healthy sleep.

Birthday Situations

So I am up early again. Jesuspenis kept me up very late for unknown reasons of whining. Her behaviour is atrocious. She has never been so whiny and needy and anxious. I feel terrible. I am not doing something to hurt her or neglecting her on purpose but I fear it is just generally a reflection of my mindstate.

The keyboard here, at my aunt's is LOUD. I feel like things have changed. I am not sure what but there is without a doubt a heightened tension. The thing to do about it is just act really normal and cheerful for a long while until they trust again that I am not going to rock the cruiseship.

I should call my uncle right now. And eat. And sleep more.
These are things I should be doing.

Here is a link for you.

Closer to Mother

"There's no way to be closer to my mother except
to live inside her, and that I've done that
already." - Steven Spielberg.

Owning Up

Emotional Abuse Can't Hurt Me!

That has been my apothegm. Words to live under. It was true so long as I did not allow myself to feel anything except anger. The problem with that, of course, is that I hated everyone - even and especially those who tried to be close to me. Oh yeah, and myself too.

It also allowed me to be smug.
Smug because I believed that I had, through sheer will, escaped the effects of emotional abuse entirely. I never abused substances or used them! I was never depressed! I was never suicidal!
I win! Like nothing ever happened. Case closed.

But that, is a lie. Or at least just a very stop-gap and soul wrenching way of interpreting the facts.

Fact: I was able to will myself to never turn to drug or alcohol substance abuse. However, in its place I needed to set up the most strict regime of eating, exercise and sleeping possible. And stick to it forever. It works. I guess as long as I know it is not normal. So I can hide the parts I need when I necessary.

Fact: I was able to never be depressed. I did this by not paying attention to any feelings I had except fury. Fun! I was on constant anti-sadness alert for something to launch against.
Currently, I'm not so angry but now it is part of what I find amusing and rewarding in day to day life. I will just try to be equally constructive to balance it out, I guess?

Fact: I never did think about killing myself. My stepfather would then win! Fucker. (See how it all fits together). Instead I just set myself up in impossibly risky and dangerous situations. People would ask: weren't you afraid to travel there with the waring brown people alone? weren't you afraid of getting involved with bad (read: black) people? weren't you afraid of living in your car? weren't you afraid of crossing murderers? weren't you afraid of getting hit by a car? weren't you afraid of getting raped? weren't you afraid the end was right around the corner?

The answer, everytime: unequivocally - No!
It certainly was nothing to do with being brave or adventurous. Much more to do with having nothing to lose. And, even more so, enjoying so much living with legitimate anxiety (based on immediate situations). There is nothing worse than having illegitimate anxiety (based on nothing/emotional abuse) because then you feel bad for feeling bad and everything ratchets up.
If you are wondering if someone is going to use that knife to slit your throat or use that cock to rape you it can be strangely comforting to the anxious. It all makes sense finally and feels real.

Real.

Secretly, silently, I am overjoyed in situations where everyone else is in a panic. I am thrilled. I am in my element, at my best. I understand and everything is clear.

Take this away, all of this away and it becomes very difficult to see a reason to want to live. No revenge, no escaping abuse, no fun to be found in fury and danger. A calm, reasonable, safe and healthy life makes no sense to me.

None at all.

So I am selecting an new motto. I don't trust myself to make one up right now so
I am turning to television.

It is a genuine toss up for me between these three:

Davy Crockett via Disney "Be Sure You're Right, Then Go Ahead"

Ivory soap "Ninety-Nine And 44/100% Pure"

THE ROGUES/NBC/1964-65 "Honor Before Honesty" -

Emotional Abuse: A Review

The emotional abuse of children has been principally analyzed as a form of psychological maltreatment. Garbarino, Guttmann, and Seeley (1989) have identified and traced five principal components of abuse suffered by infants, small children, school-age children, and adolescents:
Rejection or emotional abandonment
Terror
Ignoring the child
Isolation
Corruption
...A review of the literature suggests that children who experience emotional abuse present with multiple emotional anad behavioral problems.... Those who internalize the abuse become depressed, suicidal, and withdrawn. They manifest self-destructiveness, depression, suicidal thoughts, passivity, withdrawal (avoidance of social contacts), shyness, and a low degree of communication with others.... They are likely to have low self-esteem...and may suffer from feelings of guilt and remorse, depression, loneliness, rejection, and resignation. Perceiving themselves as unworthy and the world as a hostile place in which they are bound to fail, many are unwilling to try new tasks or develop new skills. They have difficult visualizing and planning for the future. Emotionally abused children have nightmares, nervous habits, and suffer from such somatic complaints as headaches...

Mnemonic Diversions

Hot Blooded Whores

The 8 functions of blood are: "Old Charlie Foster Hates Women Having Dull Clothes" for Oxygen, Carbon dioxide, Food, Heat, Waste, Hormones, Disease, and Clotting. A better method (making more use of the first few letters of each word) "Wasted Ox
Cart Food Disease makes Clot in Heated Whore".









Mnemonics is what you call a word or group of words that is easier to remember than the thing it stands for.


Right now I am working out some mnemonics that can stand for me. Because I am starting to see that not believing what I feel is real coupled with enjoying being a tv character might signals to some underlying problems of existance.

New Therapist Today:

Therapist: How do you feel about getting an official diagnosis for your anxiety disorders?
How do you feel about taking medication for your anxiety?

Me: But, see, anxiety is my way of life.

I am going to focus on the positive only.

On my way there I was convinced that there was no difference between good and bad feelings because I could think of too many things that felt simultaneously or perhaps interchangeably bad and good and so they cancelled eachother out.

Afterwards I emerged with a different perspective.
And I have decided that this is the safe goal for me for all of this work: altered perspectives. Instead of being "better" if I can just keep gaining new understanding I can feel good about it. The distinction is important because sometimes my new perspective does not seem much "better" from my end. But it can feel like progress, all the same.

I think that my work to assimilate good and bad was just another way of thinking: what I am feeling I am not.
Everytime I think about my mother this is what happens. I get cancelled out. Nulled.

Plus, since I have been turning off the intrusive thoughts and subverting other coping mechanisms too much of my brain is now freed up to bad pursuits like imagining new ways to return myself to misery. Ideally, even worse and far more inescapable traps.

Bad pursuits that I was afraid I'd get up to, hence the compulsions and intrusive thoughts.

So, concentrating on witty mnemonic schemes might be a new (harmless) diversion.

One in what needs to be a much more extensive list.

Brain Dead and Loving It

Kendall is dying.

So I am too.
Spending the morning going nowhere hard with my ex reminds me that me dying is good. The me that thought that he and the whole life I was performing was the best I could hope for is dying.
The change away from this is sometimes freeing but sometimes thick with dread and grief. I think it is worse after sitting across the table with stoned breathing evidence of how much I hated myself. I feel like all the bones in my body have changed to hot wet cement. It seems like too much to comprehend, let along resolve and fix.

Kendall is dying like this: ICP (inter-cranial pressure) is forcing her brain into her brainstem.

So her body will be alive.

Only her brain will be dead.

Therapist vs. Blog

Start new therapist tomorrow.

Funny: With my previous therapist I kinda left out entirely the whole thing about how I got stolen away from my dad, etc.

Kidnapping: Amusing Myself to Death

I always speak about my year of living dangerously, in the back of a Datsun pick-up truck with my father, as though it was an amusing anecdote.

It sure is fascinating. A nice back story that makes me seem so worldly even though I’ve never seen Europe. In the right contexts, of course. Then I can be sure too that the people who say they love me don’t, they just pity me.

Such a light touch I always gave it.

The climax to that Year with Father I also deliver like a proper conclusion to a dramatic tale. In fact I tell it as though it happened to someone else. That’s because it sort of, emotionally, did.

As a child I told that story to myself in my head and to other children probably hundreds of times. Each time I told it I believed it to be a complete fabrication. Something I had made up, that proved I was a bad child and undeserving of friends. I’d think about it even in my own mind and then think how bad bad bad I was.
And it was also useful because it made sure that whomever I had told was thus preserved from ever being important to me because I had ruined everything by instituting a terrible lie as the foundation of our intimacy. Once in place, this lie let me opt out of all obligation to respect them or care what they thought because I knew that the entire situation was bullshit. They had no idea who I was and I didn’t care. Fuck them.

The year with my father is a cipher. I started to realize this when my attention was drawn to the fact that I cannot remember details around actual information given to me about that time. Previous Post On Memory Mess
I might remember the content of what is told to me but then something happens in my brain and how I got that information gets lost enough for me to believe I don’t really know anything. It is all made up.

Note: my memory is usually a steel trap. Photographic. Besides, even those with average memory skills usually don’t forget the details around talking on several occasions with someone that they were, you know, kidnapped.

Even right now I am thinking, none of this happened. Like: I never had a father, I never was kidnapped by him, I was never abducted from him by a stranger, I never ended up in all alone. All well-rehearsed lies.

But it all happened. And this is the part that is difficult to deal with: that makes me feel crazy. What does this mean? For me, crazy means that my brain is off doing things without my permission. Like I’m not running things.

All that practice telling tales about my year with my dad was necessary. Not so that I would never bond with people in any meaningful way. Nice effect though. No, more than that, it was, I’m starting to think, because I was desperate for help. I think that after being kidnapped twice, raped and ending up in an orphanage at the age of three I needed help. But when I got back home instead of help, I got this:

Grandmother: She has been through enough. We will never speak of any of this again.

So I was kinda on my own about it. I think I’d really like to believe that I was good enough to create an effective way of moving through things on my own. That by spending my childhood spinning the whole thing into a protective lie I was healed.

It worked for a while. But now that I am being more “authentic” as the therapists and Oprah say, and actually trying to verbalize what I am thinking instead of feel really pissed off and think angrily of others, it has stopped working.

What happens to post-traumatic stress disorder on 30 year delay? Funny you should ask. Because I can tell you!

Well, my favourite is how I start to breath really rapidly and hear banging in my ears.
Jesuspenis likes this one too and stares at me reminding me not to hyperventilate. Next in line is how I can get racked with terrible sobs for no good reason. Just for a minute, passes by, and is gone. Not sleeping enough. Feeling like I have ulcers.

The fun of this is compounded by my inability/hopelessness about talking about is. See talking about it was what caused the problem. When I talk about it I feel like I am lying. That kind of thing is what got me here. Three decades of the truth-talk-lie-disassociate project, for a rituals expert like me, is not something that can be just wished away or deconstructed with logic. It will take time, and: here is where I get really confused – I need to start talking about it.

LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES LIES
I am a liar
I appeared on the earth at four
That boring childhood crap affects weaklings not me
I don’t need help
I just need to be left alone so I can stop thinking about any of it
I will be fine I don’t feel bad about
Feeling bad
Because it is all for no reason
Except that I lie.
Because I’m ungrateful for how wonderful it was that my family
Saved me
And protected me from those bad bad times.

Pallas Armata: Trailer for New Horror Porn XXX Movie

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THE GENTLEMAN'S ARMORIE;

Wherein the right and genuine use of the Rapier and of the Sword, as well against the right handed as against the left handed man is displayed: And now set forth and first published for the common good by the author

The Art of Suicide notes.

I do like though the sensibilities involved in writing the word good and then scribbling it
out and writing it again.

Perhaps you should publish your notes on your blog.

To the point realism about the whole situation.

Riddence.

I was searching my hard drive for sound effects and I found something that I wished I hadn't.

I don't know how it got there, it was just on the desktop of my back-up drive.

It is a suicide note you had written dated February 28.

It makes me feel very very bad. To read that.

This Song Makes Me Think Of You: NURSE AND COWBOY!

You of me:



The Nurse Who Love Me:



Say hello to the rug's topography

It holds quite a lot of interest with your face down on it

Say hello to the shrinking in your head

You can't see it but you know its there so don't neglect it



I'm taking her home with me all dressed in white

She's got everything I need pharmacy keys

She's falling hard for me I can see it in her eyes

She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys


Say hello to all the apples on the ground

They were once in your eyes but you sneezed them out while sleeping

Say hello to everything you've left behind

It's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it


I'm taking her home with me all dressed in white

She's got everything I need some pills in a little cup

She's falling hard for me I can see it in her eyes

She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys


She's got everything I need pharmacy keys

She acts just like a nurse with all the other guys


Say hello to the rug's topography







Me of you:



Lee Hazelwood and Ann Margaret

HEY, COWBOY

Hey cowboy, where did you get the clothes you wear
Hey cowboy, where did you get the funny hair
What are you doing in the land of the midnight sun 'cause you better run
you're just a toy cowboy
I may not look right but I sure do feel fine
you hang around me and I'll undo your mind

Hey cowboy, where did you get the funny walk
Hey cowboy, where did you get the crazy talk
What're you doing in the land of the midnight sun 'cause you better run
you're just a toy cowboy
If I'm a toy then let me do what I do
you wind me up and watch what I'd do to you

Hey cowboy (what do you want?), where did you get that horse
Hey cowboy , from the men of course
what're you doing in the land of the midnight sun 'cause you better run
you're just a toy cowboy
I'm maybe small but I know I'm right for you
No big cowboy can do the little things I do
(you get that straight little Swedish girl?
Aha, allright)

Elegance and The Artist: Back from the Party

Wow, was I ever in the mood to hang out with some upper-middle class illustrators and academics and talk about my job and my thesis.

I did attack a french woman. For being french, but ostensibly for:

A. Uttering the phrase: "All this new technology stuff worries me. It just wastes more time."

B. Asking, genuinely (or in as genuine a tone as a french person can muster), why would "the artist need theory for anything?"


Well, both of those things are kind of my bag so I let her have it. I was bored so I didn't even hold back a little out of deference to my beloved friend whose party it was. (sorry N!) Hefting Jesuspenis I spoke concentric circles around her until she was lost in a trough and literally backed away never to see me again.

I mentioned my cliterectomy movie and how to see it because they all seemed eager for Art. Funny, all it took was the name and conversation ground to a halt. N. did laugh though. She is a great friend.

The highlight of the afternoon was being invited by an artist to her Art opening. But I was not invited as a run of the mill attendee. Nope.
I was to be "the elegant accessory" for the event, breathing sculptural evidence of her downtownyness, I suppose.

I'm trailer trash with sociopathic leanings, lady. From time to time I actually live in a soap opera. I can't even look at one of your fancy bottles of wine without thinking about suicide and kidnapping. And I am eagerly awaiting further signs of the environmental destruction of the planet, flu pandemics and other obvious but more dangerous to admit disaster scenarios.

And you see elegance.

You are an artist!

Birthday Party Topics of Conversation.

My Uncle called again.

And so I researched some appropriate birthday party talking points:


Generally the left hemisphere of the brain is the site of language, motor activity on the right side of the body, and logical thought based on language. The right hemisphere of the brain is responsible for motor activity on the left side of the body, context perceptions, and holistic perception. The orbito-frontal cortex (the part of the brain directly behind the eyes) is responsible for integrating emotional responses generated in the limbic system with higher cognitive functions, such as planning and language, in the cerebral cortex’s prefrontal lobes. The left orbito-frontal cortex is responsible for memory creation while the right orbito-frontal cortex is responsible for memory retrieval. Healthy functioning requires an integrated right and left hemisphere. A substantial number of synaptic connections among brain cells develop during the first year of life. An integrated brain requires connections between the hemispheres by the corpus callosum. Abused and neglected children have smaller corpus callosum than non-abused children. Abused and neglected children have poorly integrated cerebral hemispheres. This poor integration of hemispheres and underdevelopment of the orbitofrontal cortex is the basis for such symptoms as difficulty regulating emotion, lack of cause-effect thinking, inability to accurately recognize emotions in others, inability of the child to articulate the child’s own emotions, an incoherent sense of self and autobiographical history, and a lack of conscience.




It has long been known that childhood abuse, neglect, or the loss of a parent are associated with adult psychiatric disorders. Now, researchers are discovering how early experiences affect a person's psychological and physical health. The June issue of the Harvard Mental Health Letter reports that childhood trauma and loss can cause prolonged hypersensitivity to stress by upsetting the brain's regulation of stress responses.

Researchers are looking for ways to prevent and reverse the harm. Rat pups from a genetically anxious strain respond much better to stress as adults if they are adopted by unusually attentive foster mothers. In a strain of rats sensitive to alcohol, the risk of addiction is increased by early separation from their mothers. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (Prozac and others) may help, says the Harvard Mental Health Letter; other promising drugs include mifepristone (RU-486) and propranolol (Inderal). For post-traumatic stress disorder, psychological treatment can retrain the brain's response to traumatic memories.

Choice of treatment may depend on the nature of the childhood experience. Mistreatment does not cause the same brain changes in everyone. Individual genetic characteristics are important. The kind of stress-parental loss, neglect, or abuse-may also make a difference.



How does nonverbal communication in infancy become an emotional template in adult love relationships?
An infant is completely dependent on nonverbal emotional means to communicate and satisfy its needs. This nonverbal, nonintellectual sensory experience is the life-sustaining heart and soul of our first love relationship and continues to play a vital role in all our love relationships.
Verbal skills surface some time after the second year, but the newer form of communication doesn't replace the older. The template for communication in love relationships remains nonverbal and emotionally based.
This nonverbal first communication continues to impact us in later relationships by affecting our:
0. trust in others – belief that others will respond to our needs
0. sense of self – brought into focus by dyadic emotional exchanges
0. self image – self confidence strengthened by ability to successfully communicate emotional needs
0. relation to the environment – belief that the world is supportive and friendly
0. distinguishing self from non-self – brought into perspective by success of dyadic emotional communication
0. empathy – able to comprehend the emotional experience of others
moral development – if my feelings matter, other people’s feelings matter, too

Party time!

My Oral Answer to MSNBC Sex Survey

From yesterday's Elle/MSNBC survey:
"45 percent of women said they don't like performing oral sex while 21 percent said they’re uncomfortable with this sex act."


I have this cream, see? It is called: Num-it.

The stuff is mild. It just makes you a little numb. A little less sensitive for an hour or so.

What I am going to do is rub it firmly onto your cock.


Then I am going to wait until it is working, about 10 minutes, to wash you off carefully
with a warm towel.

Why?

Because then you will be able to last for at least an hour or so
while I lick
press
suck and do
all the other things
I need to do.

The Role of Empty Concepts

I wasn’t always like this.

I just realized I was, for a time, completely in love with my first boyfriend…Kevan.
He gave a talk in March on the role of empty concepts. I think he teaches at Rutgers.

There is more here.

Can I pretty please Gang Bang These Girls?

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I'm In A Coma,

Okay. This is going on. But it is not everything, just a part. A key part.
It could seem really silly or playful. It’s not. It is dead serious.

I watch a soap opera, as you know, All My Children. I like to watch it regularly but not because I want to know what is going on for the characters for the show.

I like to watch it to know what is happening in my life.

Over decades, as I have grown up with this show and other ones, at different times I have identified with various characters. You have described how star/celebrity identifications are a continuation of some long-held social patterns. I see that. Makes sense. I can think of reasons, you can too, of why I’ve overstepped this in some ways.

NOT ME

What matters is this: right now I’m Kendall. Previously played by Buffy the Vampire Slayer Sarah Michelle Gellar, I’m the SORAS victim Kendall Alicia Minshew, NOT Buffy.

ME

Like, sometimes I am more her than me. I know I’m not, okay? But, I understand how I am. See the difference.

Not surprisingly, Kendall is right now in a coma. Oh, and also she is pregnant and everyone has to choose whether they save her or her baby. Everyone thinks she doesn’t love her baby, except for her fiancé Zack who knows she really really does. But no one pays attention to Zack. Insipid fan fiction describes him as “dark, haunted.” More concretely it is because he is a casino owning, son abandoning, underworld connected Machiavelli who is responsible for Kendall being pregnant with her best friend’s (assumed but resurrected) late husband.

It was a power outage thing.

On the show you see Kendall in her coma with Zack, her mother, her baby father and her evil gyno at her side. They stand around her and make decisions.

The audience hears her voice, pleading with them to just listen to just watch as she twitches her thumb.

Possible Explanation for Daughtry's Idol Boot

I can feel the roots of my teeth growing.

Another idea about unintentional stylishness, placards and spreads that I just
barely stopped myself from pursuing.



These are my peers?

Eat Cream Pie For Me

uh oh

cream pie


magic !

I trust I've done my t i m e and
Enough is enough, right?

Poison: The Secret of a Perfect Couple

An abandoned poison canister I saw yesterday on the street.

I have never spoken about these specific things before, with anyone.

Right now, that feels like it is making me sick.

Because these things that I am leaving out help me stay stuck re-creating my "life" with my stepfather.

I spent nine years in a relationship with someone I did not like at all.
I am sure this is common enough to hear this after it is over. But I don’t mean that is just how I feel now. Even from the first moments, where things are supposed to be doused or at least tinged in initial excitements and illusions, I was disgusted bored and disinterested.

He didn’t have a chance. No one did, really. I pretty much expected all people to make me miserable. So I needed one who would function to prove me right. And he was ideal.

I never, ever liked him. Not at all. More specifically, I was not in the least attracted to him. Really, I found him disgusting. From the very first day I met him I did not even register him. Later, when he pursued me, I registered that I found him friendly but physically unappealing and not retarded but certainly not intelligent.

It is not the case that I learned to like him. That I could grow to appreciate his talents (which were myriad). I did not.
I think, instead, I decided what "relationship" meant for me: misery re-enactments! A familiar program to settle me solidly into comforting old anxious depression-type feelings where I could throw myself into work then bury myself in my secret world. A world where I avenged myself of the pain inflicted on me by those around me. And feel righteous about it.

I lost something I was really learning to enjoy and get good at, sex. It became another way I could mangle myself.

The more time I spent with him, the more disgusted I grew. There were times, many, when I could barely stand the sight of him. Yet, and perhaps because of it, he pursued and pursued me.
I thought there was something certainly wrong with me because I felt like I did.
I couldn’t stop how disgusted he made me, so I would continue to be disgusted with him and then me in turn and then grow more anxious and do more work.

Some times it was so desperate. I searched for a way out.

To make sense of things I think I approximated the appearance of a relationship by becoming good at material acquisition and behavioral training. Of him, I mean. I thought that if he was always doing as I asked, that that would work. Then I would like him.
It had the opposite effect. My respect for him, which had never been there to begin with, grew to become a complete impossibility. He ceased to even be a person to me. He became just a dog to train and scold and be frustrated by.

It was all so tidy and orderly. Everyone was impressed. We were the perfect couple!


Now, things are not so tidy. No order to it. I have never been so terrified (and aware of it) ever. Developing relationships with people only on the idea that I respect them and not just expect them to perform for me in some way is shockingly new and bizarre.

Being vulnerable is torture. I hate it because it doesn’t guarantee me misery like being in a relationship with someone I am disgusted by did.

These relationships offer the chance, however remote it seems based on the logic of my life so far, of feeling better. Of not being able to feel righteous and wronged, but instead supported and cared for.

That last sentence makes no sense to me. But I am beginning to recognize myself, laying in wait to be wronged. So I can be fulfilled in my poisonous way.

Fuck Her Gently: Tenacious D

Look it is Chyna's Giant Clitoris! This is how she likes it:

This is a song
for the ladies
but fellas... listen closely

You don't have to fuck her hard
in fact sometimes that's not right to do..
Sometimes u got to make some love
and fuckin give her some smooches too..
Sometimes you got to squeeze..
Sometiems you got to say "Please"..
Sometimes you gotta say "Hey,"
"I'm gonna fuck you.. softly"
"I'm gonna screw you gently"
"I'm gonna hump you sweetly"
"I'm gonna ball you discreetly"
and then you say "Hey, I brought you flowers"
and then you say "Wait a minute Sally,"
"I think I got sometin' in my teeth could you get it out for me?"
That's fuckin' teamwork!
What's your favorite posish?
That's cool with me, It's not my favorite but I'll do it for you.
What's your favorite dish?
I'm not gonna cook it but I'll order it from ZANZIBAR!
And then I'm gonna love you completely
Then I'll fucking fuck you discreetly
and then I'll fuckin bone you completely
but then I'm gonna fuck... you hard.....
Hard........

Sister Email: (I was worried I'd never hear from her again)

Hi!
Sorry for the slow reply...life has been chaos finishing placement, moving all my crap out of A's house, searching for jobs....overseas (hopefully!!!), etc.


That's hillarious about T's wedding and also funny about A. A.

There are alot of weddings this summer - it's funny because I have no interest in marriage, and most people think it's weird that I left a relationship with the potential of marriage?!!



Fuck, gotta get out of this area!! haha
Anyways, I hear you're no longer with Max as well and have a new guy? Hope you're enjoying the nice weather! Talk to you again soon I'm sure... Cheers.

5 Mother's Day Gifts

I was wrong.

Mother's Day is tomorrow not last week.
I'm so silly.

Here are my suggestions for mother's day:

One

Two

Three

Oh wait, I've changed.
Through ART and THERAPY and so now I am the adult and she is the .......person.

So.