Liberal women like Alyssa Milano being so pro-war is VERY creepy

Alyssa Milano recently signed on to the letter advocating more senseless slaughter in the Ukraine/Russia disaster, which only exists to make Military Industrial Complex people richer at the cost of hundreds of thousands dead and millions of women and children displaced.  How creepy is that?  Completely.  

I think we all like to have the idea when we're kids of a family where the father is gung ho war but the mother is the conscience, the one who calms him down and reins him in because she cares about morals and human life we men can be blinded to at times.  This new trend of liberal women being so pro-war and pro-extreme abortion is phenomenally creepy.  Those are the Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy women who have no problem murdering their own children for attention.  Who the hell wants a mother or even a female friend who can't get enough of talking about killing children and adults?  You're a creep, Alyssa Milano.  You and your ilk.  

Corrupt Capitalism vs. Good Business

I'm prompted to write this because of the minimum wage raise in California.  It's obviously well intentioned but will end up a disaster because the economic system will just adjust by raising food prices and firing workers.  That said, the old school conservative response has annoyed me to the point of putting down my thoughts.  They're laughing at the idea of "unskilled labor" making $20 an hour.  Critics like Jesse Waters, who makes big money running his mouth and providing no real service every night is one of these Capitalist preachers and it pisses me off.  How dare workers be allowed to make an actual living!  Those workers who slave to ACTUALLY PROVIDE A SERVICE TO OTHERS!!  So I wanted to clarity the difference between these corrupt capitalists and what is good and helpful for society, namely good business.  

Business has been around for thousands of years.  The oldest known surviving records are accounting transactions on clay cuneiform tablets from Sumeria.  "Person A trades a goat, chicken and 50 pieces of copper for one bull," for example.  Good business is merely the transfer of goods for services.  This has had a very positive effect on the history of society as it's helped make life easier and more workable.  Good, honest business is good faith transactions between people.  I give you want you want, you give me what I want and we're both cool.  

Capitalism, on the other hand, is the abuse of business by people already in power positions to keep and expand their power.  It's been a vehicle morally bankrupt Westerners (primarily but obviously not totally) have used for centuries to stockpile resources and keep the non-powerful from challenging their financial rule.  It's its own form of financial totalitarianism, a method of staunch social control to keep a super tiny minority on top and everyone else down.  The Capitalist American, for instance, doesn't admit to this level of "all mine and no one else's."  He states that Capitalism and business are synonymous and that if you're against Capitalism you're against business.  It's how the lying manipulator keeps the system of financial dominance perpetual by mixing the goodness of business with the badness of their behaviors.  The Communist then overcompensates and over-rotates by preaching full governmental control over what people can and can't earn.  It throws the baby out with the bathwater.  Capitalism is checked but so is good business.  Humankind loses with both such methods of power and control.  

So there you have a simple definition of the differences.  Much of corrupt Capitalism comes down to the morally bankrupt, financial criminals who hoard money and abuse others for power.  It's the corruption of good business by a handful of predatorial power players.  Sadly, throughout history, those people often get their way and we're all worse off as a result.  

Why you should feel shame and embarrassment over addicted behavior

 There's a major movement in therapy these days to try to "de-shame" addiction.  I think this is potentially deadly in terms of getting in the way of overcoming that addiction.  

As I myself have chronicled, I was handed an accidental drug addiction to benzodiazepines and a massive overreliance on mountains of anti-depressants.  During those years, I partied and drank, often to get my own pent up energies out.  When you're on a maximum dose of anti-depressants and you're bipolar without knowing it, you have a LOT of pent up energy.  So I drank and partied and overate and generally didn't give a rat's ass.  I wanted to be free of my pain and I wanted to release it.  When I partied, I also talked and and talked and talked.  The world was my therapy appointment and I was going to express myself and share as much as I could.  Looking back at it, I'm ashamed of all of my behaviors and I SHOULD be.  I got sucked into the modern therapy trap, that you can solve all your problems with drugs.  I was like a kid with laundry detergent.  "If a little detergent gets clothes clean, a LOT of detergent will get clothes REALLY clean!"  And, of course, too much detergent destroys the clothes.   

I feel very torn over having taken therapy into my own hands.  After all, it is me.  I take the stuff.  I feel the effects.  I have to live with how it makes me feel.  That I've been forced onto medication makes it all the more tougher.  The medication makes me feel bad yet is supposedly "working."  I got that in therapy all the time in the early days.  I'd go in, tell my doctor how terrible I felt, he told me how well it was working and I'd leave.  I remember trying to figure out as much as possible so I could organize my thoughts as best I could before each appointment.  Those appointments felt like the thin part in the middle of an hourglass.  All that bad sand on the bottom but, if I could just tell the doctor well enough what was happening at that choke point, maybe healthy sand could then spread from there.  All I got in therapy was the medical model.  "Just take your meds and thanks for coming."  So I took my therapy into my own hands, specifically the drugging.  If I felt terrible, up went the dosage.  If I felt horribly sad, up went the dosage.  If I felt horribly anxious, up went the dosage.  After all, I had my world of comfort to protect.  What mattered was work and functioning.  Who cared if I was healthy?  Is anyone?  What mattered was producing and being able to be out there.  In my stupidity, I ended up destroying my functioning as much as anything.  You can't function with a head full of mania and a nervous system completely dominated by downers.  I inadvertently ripped myself apart.  As I've also noted, my GP was psychiatrically incompetent and all but forced me to take it into my own hands.  I communicated the symptoms of mania several times and he missed it every time.  In telling me, "It's you not the drugs" I ended up identifying with my lunacy.  That guy couldn't have murdered me any better if he'd put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.  Massive malpractice in the psychiatric community (though he was a GP) is rampant, I guarantee it.  Sadly, patients have to let go and let God on this one as far as it being worked out.  

Back to my addicted behavior, I am embarrassed.  I don't care if the damn doctor messed it up.  I don't care if my mother all but forced me to take drugs I didn't understand or was prepared for.  I don't care that I'm a legit victim.  I SHOULD have known better.  I didn't have to know everything.  But I should have known BETTER.  And I'm ashamed I let it get that far.  That's my attitude now.  I don't care if doctors threaten me (and they have threatened me.)  My place in this world is my place.  Doctors don't make my destiny.  Drugs don't make my destiny.  I do.  My fear was taken advantage of when I was younger and I resent that.  If anyone asks, "Are you saying you should have known everything about alcohol, addiction, co-dependency and everything about psyche meds and mental illness as a kid without any training or education?"  My answer is, "Yes."  

The End of my Disability Services and more Psychiatric Trauma

 Due to an error in communication, my disability has been ended here in Florida.  I've filed an appeal and it remains to be seen if it's accepted.  If not, I have to leave Florida.  I have no clue how but I have to have my medication and cancer treatments and those are impossible without my disability insurance.  I have no idea is this is Ron DeSantis "new conservative sheriff in town" or not.  If so, it's evil.  Ending disability for someone who's thoroughly disabled is murderous.  That a representative of the evil United States government,  whether federal or local, would do this does not surprise me.  Granted, I don't know if this is true or not.  

Last month was my birthday and my SSA disability payment came in so I was able to survive.  That means both buying food and paying bills.  My food stamps and smaller SSI payments were discontinued last month.  If my appeal is rejected, an emergency response from me and my family is imperative.  I can't last two days without my medicine and I can't pay for it without my disability insurance.  

I've tried to use this time of great turmoil and emotional upset to do some extreme, extensive therapy work.  I actually cut out using my anti-depressant for a few days as it triggers my mania to a slight degree.  I greatly overused anti-depressants in college in the 90s and feel I am still dealing with the effects it's had on my brain.  So I thought going cold turkey, like the drug is cocaine, might be in order.  However, my depression is so profound that I could only think of death and choosing homelessness during this time rather being a continued economic burden on family.  I've been ready to go ANYWHERE as long as it's not in this world.  So I took my anti-depressant again and it's gotten me out of my funk.  When I'm depressed, I not only want to die but I choose death.  When I take even a small amount of anti-depressant, my fighting spirit and instinct to live return.  So I have to accept the positives and negatives of the anti-depressant.  It treats my OCD and severe depression.  I have to ride out the bouts of mania with my mood stabilizer and anti-psychotic.   I just checked on my mood stabilizer and I run out in a few days.  I have a doctor's appointment in 6 days but no means by which to afford the drugs.  I'm not sure how much Lamictal costs but it's in the hundreds and my family will have to pay out of pocket.  As they've failed me repeatedly over the years, I have no doubt this big picture won't end positively for me.  They'll help some but not nearly enough.  The  only possible answer would be moving to North Carolina to live with my Mom and Father-in-Law but my mother has rejected this in the past.  What kind of a mother rejects her disabled son?  Mine does.  If end up living there, I'll probably go back in and delete this part.  If I don't, I won't.  

So not being on my anti-depressant for a week or so has opened up some old issues and I've journaled about them.  All the highs and lows of a time where everything was going wrong.  In trying to stop it, I only added to the problems.  I tried to drug my way through only.  This was 1992-1996 when I was completely ignorant to psychology, psychiatry and mental illness.  America does not teach it in grade school or even HS and that has a devastating effect on the mentally ill community.  If we don't have doctors in our family, we're completely ignorant to our own troubles and it will be virtually impossible for us to help ourselves fight them.  That was me in college.  I had fully formed as a human, even though I realize now I was suffering severe effects from OCD and, a little later, bipolar.  Life is stressful and I was being forced to live it as a normal person.  This had devastating effects on me.  My development is skewed from having two major brain diseases that manifested in HS.  My sexuality developed, in a word, crazy.  I'm now a sexual shut in and my gratification comes from porn, fantasied and autogynephilia.  That is, essentially, being your own sexual partner.  As the people in Wisconsin hated me when I moved there, I was forced to look inward for everything as there was no healthy outward course.  I am not ashamed of this at all because it was a path forced on me and I coped and adjusted in the only way possible as I am a loving person.  If there's no one to love outside, you have to do it inside.  I also developed transvestic fetishism to cope.  I became my own woman to please the man I am.  I look back now and consider it a wonderful coping mechanism.  However, you're also doomed to live a "not normal" life.  This is apparently on the transgender spectrum and I did experience a bit of occasional gender dysphoria, though I now feel that came as a result of intrusive thoughts.  I'm a man and have always identified as such.  However, when you're kind of crazy, your mind strays and you can convince yourself of any lunacy at various times.  I noted that when I first stared taking my anti-depressant, these feelings and behaviors ended.  I'm still attracted to it but I don't do it.  This is why I'm against "gender transitions" for kids.  Some of these kids have homosexual OCD and will be mutilated before they figure it out by an out of control medical system.  I find classification labels extremely silly.  I'm not "this or that."  I'm a crazy person who coped as best he could without understanding what was happening.  I just lived and did it.  

So back to college.  I felt CRUSHING anxiety at age 19 and didn't know why.  I'd also started to party and get drunk once a week for the first time in my life.  I feel that contributed to a growing depression and exhaustion.  I hadn't taken drugs until half way through my freshman year.  That year was GLORIOUS.  The best year of my life.  I'd been an all-area baseball player in my senior year and was sort of basking in the afterglow of that triumph.  I'd adjusted to college infinitely better than expected.  I had new friends, a sort of girlfriend (splitting duty between me and another guy) and I was never more socially happy.  I felt I'd finally made it, finally overcome the total social rejection and abuse I'd suffered every day for three years when I moved to Wisconsin at age 10.  If I only knew those problems would be dwarfed by what was to come.  But for one year, I was happy.  

One night in the spring of 1992, I came back from partying that Thursday night with my girlfriend and experienced such profound exhaustion that she had to help me to my room.  I'd never felt that before.  It didn't come from the partying.  It came from something else.  Mom had split from Dad and was suddenly telling me all about mental illness in our family and all that.  So I went to her local GP and a talk psychologist.  That became my life of psychiatric drug taking.  Psyche drugs are both a wonderful mental savior and a backbreaking mental burden.  One drug can cause or exacerbate another problem and then you have to take ANOTHER drug to calm that down and so on and so forth.  I started taking Prozac and Lorezepam, not having a CLUE what either did.  I went solely on how I felt.  If I was anxious, I needed more Lorezepam.  If I was sad, I needed more Prozac.  Prozac was indirectly treating my OCD and I had no clue of that.  That was a benefit I didn't even know was happening.  I always had an athlete's attitude about functioning.  If I have a broken arm, inject me with something and get me back out there.  For three years, I wasn't interested in learning about depression or anxiety.  That was my fault.  I needed to learn but wasn't having it.  This being sprung on you at age 19 was a dirty, sleazy trick.  I just wanted to take drugs if I needed them (miracle drugs I was told) and get on with my life.  It was like popping a caffeine pill.  Give it to me, let it affect me and I'll get on with my day and not think any more about it.  As the internet wasn't a think yet, I can look back and cut myself a tiny bit of slack.  If the net had been there from 1992-1995 as more than small curiosity, I would probably have eventually looked things up.  I also wasn't even diagnosed bipolar until 1995.   By that time, I was on three Prozac a day and three benzos a day.  I've written in the past about that GP's psychiatric incompetence and misdiagnoses costing me dearly.   I would love to say this name here and get him kicked out of medicine (he's now apparently working with children in Wisconsin) but I'll leave that one to God for now.  I confronted him by telephone in 2000 and that's enough for me for now.  I developed both full on, high level mania and experienced massive memory problems with the benzodiazepines, which I took daily for four years straight. I was not told of ANY of these side effects by the multiple doctors I had by then seen.  The COVID tyranny from the medical community in 2020 makes it all come back to me like a nightmare because I experienced with psyche drugs decades before.  It's the same old medical community BS.  The drugs work miracles.  They cure everything.  There are no side effects blah blah blah.  I was jumping out of my skin and was very suicidal in my thinking by 1993.  I told this to the GP and he said, "It's you.  It's not the drugs."  The drugs were TRIGGERING these things.  The idiot didn't know it.  This error destroyed me for years.  I began to identify with mania and OCD.  "It's me, it's not the drugs," my ignorant self told myself.  I began to think I was borderline godly.  Memories of my baseball success still on my mind and having made it into college, I became an egomaniac.  I perceived myself as some kind of dominant force because of the mania I didn't know I had.  I was still fighting some intrusive thoughts at the same time, which I didn't know where a symptom of OCD.  I began to identify with the intrusive thoughts which is VERY potentially dangerous because those can tell you to do all kinds of horrible things.  I did some things I'm not proud of during those years.  I treated a girlfriend of mine very aggressively in bed and she told me I hurt her.  She kind of hurt me, too.  I didn't think anything of this until afterwards.  I honestly thought I was pleasing her.  I look back on this now with guilt and just a sense of tragic despair.  More than anything, I hope she's okay.  

While I was taking anti-depressants in massive amounts to escape my depression, partying once a week became my lifeline.  It was when I could lose my inhibitions and cut loose all my massive stored up energy.  I'd dance at clubs, socialize like a madman and binge eat my way into a fifty pound weight gain.  I suppose during this time I was entertaining.  I was told I was.  Funny thing is I was socially happier and had friends and girlfriends like I'd never had before.  But my health was taking a terrible price.  Funnier thing is I had convinced myself I was mentally healthy because I was taking drugs.  "They've fixed all the problems," I said to myself.  Meanwhile, my mania was crazy and storing up like a blazing hot hurricane in my mind.  The benzos kept me stoned enough to keep me from flying off the handle so now I had too massive drug problems I'm still paying the price for.  Those things do change your brain and do damage.  I was fed the "miracle drug" and "good drug and bad drug" narrative by well meaning doctors and, as I said, I was not advised to side effects.  I've since learned doctors DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THESE SIDE EFFECTS EXISTED.  They were just covering their asses for legal protection.  Sound familiar?  Sound kind of like what happened with COVID in 2020?  Apparently they're still engaging that.  Experiment, deny problems and eventually admit to the errors.  Now a mania and suicide warning are on anti-depressant prescriptions.  If I served as guinea pig to help others with that, even though it was unwilling and unintended, at least that's something.  I suffered so fewer people in my group would later. 

That's all for now.  

Direction

 As my entire life has become an exercise in being separated from my fellow man on a virtual island, my future posts are going back to being (MIAB), Messages in a Bottle.  As a romantic historian, my view and hope is that one day my comments will be found online like a cuneiform tablet found in the dust hundreds of years later.  "Wow, what was this guy all about?" the discoverer, one with an open heart and mind, will wonder.  What guy, indeed.