Here's a short story I wrote a few months ago. As my book is about psychological fiction, I wanted to write a story that's simpler and a change of pace. This story is short even for a short story, only 2942 words. It's about two soldiers on a reconnaissance mission in World War II.
Friends to the End: A War Story
“Friends to the end!” the two soldiers sang less than melodically, briefly clasping sweaty hands as ridiculously as possible as they trudged wearingly through humid jungle that weighed on the heavily uniformed men like they were wrapped in tortillas and thrown in a steamer. It was the middle of World War II, January 1943, at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands, summertime in the Southern Hemisphere, the jungle laden island scorched with boiling temperatures and sopped with withering humidity that seemed too strong for any man to withstand, much less men in full fatigues. They were on a reconnaissance mission, both members of the American Army’s XIV Corp’s Reconnaissance Platoon, there largely for mop up duty after the Marines had retaken the island from the Japanese by vicious and bitter fighting in the previous six months. Accompanied by three assault vehicles, their party of ten had started in late afternoon when the sun would be slightly less oppressive yet with enough daylight to finish their mission, which was collecting data from the last small pocket of territory on the island, an area considered either free or virtually free of the enemy but too heavily canopied by the thick jungle foliage for aerial reconnaissance to be sure. The assault vehicles had run out of dirt road and the ten men platoon had moved on without them, only intending to move forward about a quarter mile in case they came under fire, though this was not expected.
Our two soldiers, Bob Smith and Dave Jones, as generically and ordinarily named as could be, had been fast friends since joining the Reconnaissance Platoon in early 1942, shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. They clicked instantly, somewhat resembling two of their favorite stars, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby. They had been on several missions, a few involving heavy fire, in the South Pacific up until that point, always performing admirably and without a scratch. They had been so fortunate in avoiding ordinance that they regarded themselves with tongue in cheek invincibility, the kind where you know a truck will easily kill you yet you’re able to walk in the middle of the road without incident anyway. They weren’t godlike by any stretch. They had just been so fortunate, like dashing Hollywood leading men in movies doing their dangerous jobs and always making it through the picture unharmed. In between assignments, they were near constant attendees of whatever USO camp was in their area. They never missed a Hope and Crosby Road movie or an Abbott and Costello GI picture and, though they loved Bud and Lou, they preferred to be the GI version of Hope and Crosby, Bob Smith as, interestingly, not Hope but Crosby and Dave Jones as Hope. Bob, the slightly better looking one, was the kind in the movie that got the girl while Dave, as Hope, looked on understandably, always there with a zinger to lighten the mood. They both treasured each other’s company in this cluttered yet lonely war where family and sweethearts remained behind at home, all GIs hoping to avoid a dreaded “Dear John” letter from their perceived one and only while being ensnared in the surreal world of war, forced to kill or be killed. On this latest mission, they were particularly talkative on the way to their destination, not expecting action of any consequence.
“I’ve got a hang nail,” Bob said, biting it irritatingly.
“Well, stop having a hang nail!” Dave replied. “We have to keep our perfect record alive!”
“I’ll do the best I can for your majesty,” Bob smiled with mild sarcasm. “You do realize there is a war going on, don’t you? Besides, what does a hangnail have to do with our record?”
“If we’re going to blow our record, let’s at least have a finger or toe blown off, something particularly gruesome,” Dave said.
“Okay,” Bob replied. “It doesn’t count unless one of us is maimed. Deal?”
“Deal. Although for your own good, having your nose blown off your face may improve your looks.” Aware of his friend’s good looks, he was always making cracks like that.
“How about you get your nose shot off and I’ll have my eyes gouged out so I won’t have to look at your skeleton head,” Bob said with a chuckle.
“We’ll make a deal,” Dave said. “You get your nose shot off and your eyes gouged out and I’ll get my very own hangnail just for you, okay?”
Bob laughed loudly. “Deal.” His friend cracked him up so much. It was the only thing that made him laugh in the whole war.
The safety of their assault vehicle escort left behind, the ten men platoon began to spread moderate distances apart as they creeped into the unknown territory of that small pocket on the island, the jungle getting thicker and thicker as they progressed. Bob and Dave were the last two to separate. With their “Friends to the end” send off, Bob moved slowly to his left and Dave moved slowly to his right. The sun’s greatly respected presence had moved from a moderately high, almost violent yellow to a much lower, slightly more benign yet almost frighteningly ominous blood red. They thanked the Lord it hadn’t rained for the last three days, possibly a record for the Solomon Islands that time of year, because it would have made their activities nearly impossible to endure. It was oppressive yet tolerably so, the humorous equivalent of playing a baseball game in 97 as opposed to 105 degree heat. Their mission now required intense focus and sensitive ears ready to trigger rapid, lethal action if necessary. Bob and Dave, despite their clowning, were all business when it was called for.
Moving through the jungle was a wondrous experience, like exploring a foreign planet in an HG Wells novel. Enormous emergent evergreens towered over the vast, smaller evergreens of the jungle canopy, so packed with foliage they cut off nearly all sunlight and acted like a roof over an understory level and, just below it, the nearly barren forest floor. The platoon was moving through an area so thick and dark that only shafts of sunlight broke through making nearly all plant life on the forest floor non-existent, which made the landscape seem even more alien and imaginary, like the forest equivalent of the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. The sparse terrain denied them cover but also allowed them to see greater distances and no enemy or enemy activity had been visible to that point.
After a few hundred feet, the canopy opened and they were in a large clearing laden with evergreens barnacled with strangler figs juxtaposed by dozens of King Ferns and flowering plants of all colors filling in the spaces between the trees. As cluttered as the last was barren, the area marked a perfect place for an ambush. All ten men in the platoon were instantly aware of it. Though not expecting a firefight, the set up made all ten men so nervous ten rifles were instantly up and ready.
Suddenly, gunfire exploded from multiple directions. Two men from the platoon were hit immediately. Dick Reynolds, a nice guy that Dave knew better than Bob, took a bullet in the head and died instantly. James Patrick Henry, a passionate, hot headed soldier who was a fiercely proud direct descendent of the firebrand legend of the American Revolution, was hit in the left arm, left leg and upper right chest. He slammed violently into a mix of leaves and dirt and succumbed one agonizing minute after being hit.
“Get back! Get back!” the platoon leader roared, trying to make himself heard over the shattering noise that had been added to by the return fire of the eight remaining soldiers. Though as coldly efficient as it gets, the platoon leader was a good guy that cared strongly for the safety of his men.
Bob felt two bullets whiz by on the initial volley and had hit the ground moments later. He rolled for cover behind a nearby bush that wasn’t much protection but was all he had. Clearly, they had stumbled upon a larger than expected Japanese unit that not only existed but was ready for action. Bullets flew by the bush, one even glancing off the top of Bob’s helmet jarringly before bouncing away. He waited for several minutes until the shooting seemed to shift to his right a little. Sensing an opportunity, he crawled backwards with alacrity, got to his knees then his feet bent over in a crouch and stumbled as quickly as he could away from the enemy fire before diving behind a thicker bush laden with blue and yellow flowers, one of which was blasted off a split second after he took cover. He saw three members of the platoon likewise retreating while three others laid down cover fire, including the platoon leader.
“Everybody out! Everybody out!” the platoon leader shouted. The orders were unnecessary but had to be made anyway in that situation. The three providing random cover fire joined their brothers in retreat with the unstated goal of reaching the safety of the assault vehicle escort. Bob, bringing up the rear of the fleeing troops, looked around, his eyes darting to get the logistics of the situation and, specifically, the presence of his friend, the only platoon member besides the dead he hadn’t accounted for. Like a mother looking for a lost child, he anxiously slowed his retreat when he couldn’t find Dave, bullets roaring and clipping the jungle trees intermittently around him like kids throwing pebbles his way. He crouched and scanned the area where he had last seen his friend. The sun was low but there was still enough light to see a moderate distance. He made out the prone body of Dick Reynolds with a bullet squarely in his forehead on a small rise a hundred feet away. His next sight was of a leg and boot jutting from behind a thick King Fern near a large Tualang tree with enormous buttress roots protruding above ground like the tentacles of a giant octopus.
“Dave!” he shouted. “Dave!” Upon the leg not moving, Bob moved hurriedly in the same crouched position towards it. Moments before, the gunfire had lessened a bit but, seeing a US soldier coming back into the fray, picked up again. Bob reached the leg of what turned out to be his good friend, not moving, body sprawled face down on the jungle floor. In one motion, Bob grabbed the back of Dave’s uniform at the neck and hauled him behind the Tualang tree’s massive roots, the biological wonder providing amble protection. Dave began to move as Bob turned him over, his body bucking in pain from what Bob saw was a gruesome gut shot, blood spewing forth mixed with dirt from where Dave had been lying face down. Frantically, Bob instinctively put his hand over his friend’s wound, eliciting a loud cry from the injured man. Whipping his head around, more to get his brain working than to see anything, Bob, remembering the towel he had stuffed in his belt, ripped it out and put it over the wound, blood filling it up almost immediately as if it had been placed under a steady flowing faucet. Dave cried out loudly again, then seemed to melt as his cry ebbed and ended.
“It’s going to be okay,” Bob lied. “We’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you out of here.”
Dave coughed uncontrollably, his body seeming to shrivel with each passing second. His eyes shot open and he stared into his friend’s face. Laboring to speak, he forced words out through gritted teeth.
“You…have to go,” he said. “I can’t make it out.”
The words grabbed hold of Bob’s emotions and squeezed, nearly sending tears exploding from his face. No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was never supposed to happen like this but he knew it was true. Hemmed in by enemy fire with a wound that was all but fatal even with immediate medical care, it was clear Dave Jones would never make it out of that jungle alive. Dave slumped his head on the ground and forced a smile.
“It’s my fault,” he said, his body seizing up. “I guess my luck just…I blew it. Sorry. That’s one on me. Looks like I let you down.” His eyes opened and he looked directly into Bob’s face without comprehension.
“I…can’t see,” he gasped. His smile slowly faded into a neutral calm and he was still. Tears in his eyes, Bob nudged his friend gently but there was no sign. His friend was gone.
“Smith!” the platoon leader, continuing to fire blindly in the direction of the Japanese, roared in Bob’s direction. The rest of the platoon had evacuated and, other than Bob and Dave, the platoon leader was the only one left at the scene. “Get out now! Now!”
For Bob, it was now or never. He snapped to his feet with explosive energy then froze. No. No. He wasn’t going to leave. He couldn’t leave. He wasn’t going to allow his friend’s body to be hauled out by the Japanese like a dead rat and dumped in some burial pit. Didn’t Bob owe him that? Unquestionably. They were friends to the end. Bob realized that meant his end, too.
“Go! Go! Go!” Bob shouted at his superior, gesturing wildly for the man to leave. The platoon leader, stuck between moving forwards and backwards for a few seconds was also stuck between yelling at Bob Smith and staying silent. Heavier fire came like a rain shower becoming a deluge as the Japanese, aware of their advantage, began to press forward. The platoon leader took a few steps back then angrily turned and ran for safety, secure that he had done all he could and not happy about the results one bit. Upon seeing him flee, believing the area secure, the Japanese gunfire stopped. Readying his rifle, Bob took a deep breath and came out from behind the buttress roots firing at will. The first two bullets missed, the next two bullets struck one Japanese soldier in the leg and another in the chest, killing the man instantly. Aware of the presence of another American, they opened fire in a murderous volley. A bullet whizzed past Bob’s nose as he dove behind the roots once more.
“Hey, Dave,” he laughed. “I almost got my nose shot off! My luck is still holding up!”
He patted his friend’s dead body on the leg. Lost in the moment, he wasn’t concerned for his own safety. He was only concerned with protecting his friend, even if it was only his friend’s body. He couldn’t let it fall into the hands of the enemy without a fight. Dave was still Dave and he deserved all Bob had. Bullets ripped and tore at the buttress roots as Bob bit his hangnail.
“It doesn’t count unless one of us gets maimed. Those were the rules, right?” Bob laughed, peering at the serene calm of Dave’s inanimate face. “Well, you took a shot. It’s the least I can do to make us equal, buddy.”
Bob came out from behind the Tualang tree again and got off one errant shot before taking bullets in the left leg and left cheek. His leg collapsed under the first bullet an instant before the second one knocked him flat on his back. Blood flooded his mouth; he spat it out reflexively. His immediate senses became intoxicated, not with pain, but with the sweet honeysuckle smell of dozens of flowers from a nearby plant as he rolled over onto his knees and slowly crept behind the buttress roots. Assessing his injuries, he nodded in his mind at the realization that the second one would cost him his life. He leaned up against the roots, blood pouring from both wounds. He took his final view of the sun which happened, fittingly, to be at sunset. He looked at his friend.
“We’re even, pal,” Bob gasped, determined to speak even if only in a garble. “I couldn’t let you…have all the fun. After all, we’re friends to the end and…” he gasped shallowly several times and closed his eyes. “…this is the end. It’s okay, though. It will be okay.”
A minute later, two Japanese soldiers, guns raised, cautiously came from around the buttress roots. Seeing the dead and mortally wounded men, they looked down with a sense of satisfaction but also pity. Dead men were still soldiers like them and they were more than aware that the roles could be reversed with American GIs staring down at them dead or mortally wounded. With the American occupation in full swing, the Japanese, almost fanatic in fighting to the end, knew it was probable they would go the same way, possibly in the next few days. In the end, perhaps the only real honor was not in fighting for country but for each other. Hearing the shuffling of feet, Bob opened his eyes and stared in the direction of the two soldiers.
“Hey, Dave,” he said with a smile. “Guess what? I can’t see anything, either.” Moments later, he was dead. The two Japanese soldiers scanned the area as the sun disappeared. Two more dead men, two more stories whose finales would never be known to their family and friends, a sad ending for them but not for the two men for, in death as well as in life, there will always be glory in friends true to each other. Friends to the end.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Free Will Exercise - If you were being forced to kill, would you?
I was thinking on the concept of free will and whether it truly exists for us or not. Various philosophers have made arguments both ways so I started thinking of a situation where a free will argument could be made both ways. Conditions will change in the scenario as it goes along.
You and another person have been kidnapped by a gang. The other person is tied to a chair. You're given a gun by the gang leader and told to either shoot the man or be killed yourself. If you kill the person, you'll be let free and clear and the gang will take credit for the person's murder (yes, it's a dubious situation but stranger things have happened so humor me.) I know it doesn't sound like a situation where free will is on the table but bear with me.
You're handed the gun. First hypothetical condition: You're a devout religious person and you believe killing is so terrible that you'd choose to die yourself rather than risk your immortal soul. This is your choice aka your free will. You're under duress but you are given two options and are free to choose either. You're shot in the head instead of the other person. End of situation. You had a choice but your religious upbringing prevented you from choosing anything other than death. Because you've been religiously programmed, did you have the capability to make a fair choice that could lead to your own survival? This is murky.
Next hypothetical: You're handed the gun. You have a strict reverence for life that is empathetic and compassionate but not religious. You feel for this poor person you're supposed to kill. Your survival senses tell you to kill but you can't. You're too good a person inside. Is this free will? Because of your innate compassion and feeling, you literally can't kill. There's something from deep inside preventing it. Being killed happens because the opposite situation is impossible. Free will is devoid in this situation because a choice of one or the other is impossible. This is the very definition of not being able to make a choice under duress.
Next hypothetical: You're a borderline sociopath and have no problem killing the person. You choose to blow their brains out and do. You're free to go. This is a choice but is it 100% free will? A sociopath lacks empathy because they just do. It's not really a choice for them. However, even if they want to kill, they have the choice not to kill so I see this one as being an argument for us having free will, even if it's a little more complicated. It's not a no win situation for you so it's an easy choice. You're free to make a decision that is beneficial to you.
Next hypothetical: Both the religious character and the empathetic character face a new wrinkle. You won't just be killed if you refuse to kill the other person, you'll be tortured and disemboweled before you die slowly in agony. Would the religious person still be guided by faith not to kill? Would the compassionate, feeling person shoot the other, knowing they'll die instantly, if they choose that option? The threat of torture has created panic in many a person and a choice to kill in that case is much more understandable as being out of character of a normally good human being. The survival instinct is also very strong and can be overwhelming. In such a situation, I think many people would implode, unable to make a choice at all. If so, I think free will is highly compromised. Could a choice be made? Yes. Is the person 100% responsible under threat of torture? I say no.
Next hypothetical: You're presented with the kill scenario again but you'll only be tortured if you refuse but not killed. You're also told that the person you're told to kill is a serial pedophile and child murderer. You're not a killer but presented with either torture or killing an evil person, would it be so bad if you killed that person? In this case, death is off the table but terrible pain is not. Many in a situation where they knew nothing of the other person would choose not to kill because no deaths would occur if you refuse. But knowing you're dealing with an evil person, would you feel it's a moral responsibility to execute the person by choice, even if nothing were on the line? If you chose to kill, would it be so bad? I think we'd all understand if you killed the person. And the fact that the person is a child murderer is a strong incentive to WANT to kill the person. You choose to kill out of free will and being tortured isn't even a major factor. You feel forced to make a decision but it's an easier choice and arrived at more willfully.
Final hypothetical: The other person is a beloved family member. Your options are killing the family member or being tortured and disemboweled while alive. I think free will is completely off the table here. You won't be able to kill the person and will therefore be tortured by default. There's no real choice here.
If any of this had to do with the law, none of it would be considered a free will issue because forced coercion would be the understandable stance. We obviously have free will in many aspects of our lives. We can choose Coke over Pepsi or a football game over a baseball game. We have free will in these ways. Oddly, in these exercises, the sociopathic character may be the only one that truly faces a choice of free will because killing would not be a problem for him. There would be no guilt feelings that would torment him as in the other hypotheticals. So, in such situations, do the normal people have free will to make certain choices? To kill or be killed? It could depend on the person and the situation, if these situations have any possibility for freedom of choice at all. They'll be forced to make a choice but they'll have the freedom to make that choice. Is any free will involved there? I think an argument could be made either way.
You and another person have been kidnapped by a gang. The other person is tied to a chair. You're given a gun by the gang leader and told to either shoot the man or be killed yourself. If you kill the person, you'll be let free and clear and the gang will take credit for the person's murder (yes, it's a dubious situation but stranger things have happened so humor me.) I know it doesn't sound like a situation where free will is on the table but bear with me.
You're handed the gun. First hypothetical condition: You're a devout religious person and you believe killing is so terrible that you'd choose to die yourself rather than risk your immortal soul. This is your choice aka your free will. You're under duress but you are given two options and are free to choose either. You're shot in the head instead of the other person. End of situation. You had a choice but your religious upbringing prevented you from choosing anything other than death. Because you've been religiously programmed, did you have the capability to make a fair choice that could lead to your own survival? This is murky.
Next hypothetical: You're handed the gun. You have a strict reverence for life that is empathetic and compassionate but not religious. You feel for this poor person you're supposed to kill. Your survival senses tell you to kill but you can't. You're too good a person inside. Is this free will? Because of your innate compassion and feeling, you literally can't kill. There's something from deep inside preventing it. Being killed happens because the opposite situation is impossible. Free will is devoid in this situation because a choice of one or the other is impossible. This is the very definition of not being able to make a choice under duress.
Next hypothetical: You're a borderline sociopath and have no problem killing the person. You choose to blow their brains out and do. You're free to go. This is a choice but is it 100% free will? A sociopath lacks empathy because they just do. It's not really a choice for them. However, even if they want to kill, they have the choice not to kill so I see this one as being an argument for us having free will, even if it's a little more complicated. It's not a no win situation for you so it's an easy choice. You're free to make a decision that is beneficial to you.
Next hypothetical: Both the religious character and the empathetic character face a new wrinkle. You won't just be killed if you refuse to kill the other person, you'll be tortured and disemboweled before you die slowly in agony. Would the religious person still be guided by faith not to kill? Would the compassionate, feeling person shoot the other, knowing they'll die instantly, if they choose that option? The threat of torture has created panic in many a person and a choice to kill in that case is much more understandable as being out of character of a normally good human being. The survival instinct is also very strong and can be overwhelming. In such a situation, I think many people would implode, unable to make a choice at all. If so, I think free will is highly compromised. Could a choice be made? Yes. Is the person 100% responsible under threat of torture? I say no.
Next hypothetical: You're presented with the kill scenario again but you'll only be tortured if you refuse but not killed. You're also told that the person you're told to kill is a serial pedophile and child murderer. You're not a killer but presented with either torture or killing an evil person, would it be so bad if you killed that person? In this case, death is off the table but terrible pain is not. Many in a situation where they knew nothing of the other person would choose not to kill because no deaths would occur if you refuse. But knowing you're dealing with an evil person, would you feel it's a moral responsibility to execute the person by choice, even if nothing were on the line? If you chose to kill, would it be so bad? I think we'd all understand if you killed the person. And the fact that the person is a child murderer is a strong incentive to WANT to kill the person. You choose to kill out of free will and being tortured isn't even a major factor. You feel forced to make a decision but it's an easier choice and arrived at more willfully.
Final hypothetical: The other person is a beloved family member. Your options are killing the family member or being tortured and disemboweled while alive. I think free will is completely off the table here. You won't be able to kill the person and will therefore be tortured by default. There's no real choice here.
If any of this had to do with the law, none of it would be considered a free will issue because forced coercion would be the understandable stance. We obviously have free will in many aspects of our lives. We can choose Coke over Pepsi or a football game over a baseball game. We have free will in these ways. Oddly, in these exercises, the sociopathic character may be the only one that truly faces a choice of free will because killing would not be a problem for him. There would be no guilt feelings that would torment him as in the other hypotheticals. So, in such situations, do the normal people have free will to make certain choices? To kill or be killed? It could depend on the person and the situation, if these situations have any possibility for freedom of choice at all. They'll be forced to make a choice but they'll have the freedom to make that choice. Is any free will involved there? I think an argument could be made either way.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Can Ethics Be Rejected Completely as a Human Endeavor?
The following is an intellectual exercise of probably nothing new yet, as one with a different perspective, I feel the need to pursue.
Essentially, mankind has a dual nature. The animal, which is the physical, and the intellectual, which is the higher mind. The animal, of course, seeks to satisfy our physical needs and wants. The intellectual goes beyond; it contemplates life, the nature of man and anything potentially metaphysical perpetually beyond what we know or possibly ever can know. It's the lower mind and the higher mind, the Id and the Superego. The ego, our individual personality, can be rejected in an argument about ethics. Our personality is the rudder between our base instincts and our power to wonder, ponder and create. It's the marriage counselor but it's not a prime mover. "I wish we had peace on Earth" is a nice hope but it's one of personality, namely an individual that greatly wants peace. However, this basic belief is personality, not the superego because it doesn't think about HOW to make such a dream a reality. It just wants peace as a matter of temperament but doesn't argue how peace can happen or if peace is even desired. Those are deeper matters. Some like conflict and some like peace. It's a matter of how we think as individuals, not as we see things in a broader, greater, more profound sense.
As stated, we're driven by our passions and our intellect. Our passion are, quite frankly, stupid, yet we all indulge them with some frequency, some more than others. Some are driven solely by instinct and desire. They fuck, eat, drink and that's about it. In this reality, ethics can be described by our base behaviors. We're dogs and cats. It's just what we do. We live, we die and there's no reason to think about anything else. If we choose to look at this as the meaning of life, we can either call it ethics or reject even the concept of ethics because the behavior isn't ethical or unethical. It just is.
The higher mind, the intellect, must reject this view in any proper abstract argument about how we SHOULD live and behave. The higher mind is our only advantage over the animal kingdom. Our ability to reason and think makes us special. To me, a life solely based on hedonistic indulgence is de-evolved. We've grown the ability to reason, therefore it must be important. If it's important, we should use it and that means speculating and analyzing ourselves and the world around us soberly and dispassionately, something we've been working on since man truly evolved into man from our animal pasts.
So we have these brains that can think so let's ponder about the concept of ethics. Many brilliant philosophers, both religious and scientific, have created moral philosophies. How best can we process ourselves and our world? Men like Aristotle put forth and trusted in the five senses as our primary means of accumulating data. Men like Plato put forth the idea of intuition and perception because our five senses can be faulty and we can misperceive. Since then, great thinkers have become more refined as society has grown. In this time, the idea of ethics has become an enormous subject. What is ethical? From the simpler ideas of Hammurabi's moral code of "An eye for an eye" to the Jewish idea of the Ten Commandments to Kant's Categorial Imperative of Universal Morality, we've always strived to rein in our potentially destructive nature. This is, of course, necessary to create an interdependent society where we work together to achieve our goals and live the age old dream of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Laws are created to help guide us and to keep us from tearing each other apart. Laws are all that bind us in this way. As animalistic as we can be, laws must be created and maintained. It would be wonderful is we could always control ourselves and act as disciplined, rational beings all the time but that's impossible. We feel and we have desires. Sometimes, we're going to lose our sense of order and decency and last out. An absence of laws would mean anarchy and, in all likelihood, the destruction of ourselves as a species.
Law and order are our practical solutions to problems of basic animal behavior. Now it's necessary to consider the beyond, namely the idea of a God or Prime Mover, as Aristotle believed. Since Day 1 of human society, man has strived to understand the world around him. Ancient civilizations built ziggurats, the ancient form of churches, and put them in the center of towns as a foundation of whatever city and society used them. Since Day 1, we've reasoned and speculated on the idea of a God, something beyond, a higher power that we are subject to, a basis for behavior that goes beyond our rules and laws for each other. The idea of divine law, codified mostly by the different religions, is this representation. We have rules to keep us from killing each other but is that it? Do we have a greater purpose? It's easy to pick on religion and many people in our society (and we know who they are) have a field day with attacking religious people as simpletons and morons across the board. I feel that this misses the point. It is our very ABILITY to create religious ideologies that makes us special. Those that believe try to live according to those beliefs. Why? Not because of anything practical but because of POSSIBILITIES. In this way, we are truly being intellectually creative. Often crude, such as in the simple belief of a heaven or hell, but we're thinking of something that could be and that's vital. We're working our minds and we're trying to define and develop a soul, even if only rudimentarily.
I honestly have tried to just present the usual arguments and perceptions of how we as humans try to explain and justify our behaviors as a means of setting up my premise (I apologize if I've been overly wordy.) Now comes my argument of the possibility that the higher mind definition of ethics can largely, if not completely, be thrown out. This argument also rejects animal behaviors. There's nothing truly ethical about animal behaviors IMO because they take no effort to accomplish. Though we all do them at times, animal behaviors are instinctive and cheap. They're hardwired into us and involve no evolutionary process whatsoever. So, if ethics isn't driven by our higher mind or our animal passions, what is it driven by or is it even something we can disregard altogether?
My perspective comes from a mentally ill one. I'm bipolar and have had severe bouts of psychosis, very severe hallucinations and delusions at various times in my life. Driven by a hypersensitive idea of moral obligation, I have strived for much of my life to behave in a way that is a credit to myself and my community, to try to help mankind in as many ways as I can. As any bipolar person can tell you, at times it becomes incredibly difficult to control behaviors, be they high or low. We take medication to try and control symptoms. However, there are times when we're overwhelmed and will act out, occasionally driven by our delusions and hallucinations. This doesn't usually involve violence but will occasionally lead to violence against the self or others, usually for a reason considered valid by the mentally ill person. To put it bluntly, it's "crazy," not evil though it seems evil.
I'm a big fan of "spirit in which it's intended" as a moral compass. If we mean well yet do evil, we can't be blamed in a moral sense because we didn't intend for anything bad to happen. This is a common moral rule that humans have lived by, at least to some extent, for a long time. In an ethical sense, therefore, because mentally ill people are human and this is an argument of the complete human experience, ethics cannot be completely defined by effect. Violence, destruction and death cannot always be viewed as unethical because there are those that commit violence UNDER THE DELUSION that they are not doing evil. Some philosophers, like Sartre, argue that there are, essentially, no excuses for what is considered bad behavior. As a bipolar person, I do not present excuses. I present REASONS.
My conclusion is that ethics are not for human beings as biological creatures because we are flawed by nature and our behaviors are occasionally, also very flawed without evil intent. We sometimes do damage and not even know it. However, ethics IS a subject for the pure intellect, one that is capable of reason and thought on a very high level. In that way, ethics is an intellectual past time, one that we spend our time thinking about in the romantic hope that, one day, we will be able to live up to the standards we set. Like any ideology, it's based on POTENTIAL and a loose ethical set of standards often keeps us from destroying each other. I'm comfortable with intellect being linked to a spiritual sense because what is spirit but we concoct as being important and timeless, the same as ethics? It's not in our best interests to kill each other, unless we consider it necessary (moral?) in a war capacity. Our humanity leads us to these disasters all too frequently. The thought and the hope of the CONCEPT of ethics as a set of ideas, does us credit as creatures with the ability to think. We have potential. If we can ever learn to practice what we think, we'll have as close to comprehensive peace as possible, the very definition of morality. Will we grow in an intellectual sense and meet our concepts and dreams halfway or de-evolve back into mindless animals bent on killing each other? Time will tell. Some have attained, and will attain, such intellectual enlightenment. Sadly, I don't like our chances much as an overall society.
Essentially, mankind has a dual nature. The animal, which is the physical, and the intellectual, which is the higher mind. The animal, of course, seeks to satisfy our physical needs and wants. The intellectual goes beyond; it contemplates life, the nature of man and anything potentially metaphysical perpetually beyond what we know or possibly ever can know. It's the lower mind and the higher mind, the Id and the Superego. The ego, our individual personality, can be rejected in an argument about ethics. Our personality is the rudder between our base instincts and our power to wonder, ponder and create. It's the marriage counselor but it's not a prime mover. "I wish we had peace on Earth" is a nice hope but it's one of personality, namely an individual that greatly wants peace. However, this basic belief is personality, not the superego because it doesn't think about HOW to make such a dream a reality. It just wants peace as a matter of temperament but doesn't argue how peace can happen or if peace is even desired. Those are deeper matters. Some like conflict and some like peace. It's a matter of how we think as individuals, not as we see things in a broader, greater, more profound sense.
As stated, we're driven by our passions and our intellect. Our passion are, quite frankly, stupid, yet we all indulge them with some frequency, some more than others. Some are driven solely by instinct and desire. They fuck, eat, drink and that's about it. In this reality, ethics can be described by our base behaviors. We're dogs and cats. It's just what we do. We live, we die and there's no reason to think about anything else. If we choose to look at this as the meaning of life, we can either call it ethics or reject even the concept of ethics because the behavior isn't ethical or unethical. It just is.
The higher mind, the intellect, must reject this view in any proper abstract argument about how we SHOULD live and behave. The higher mind is our only advantage over the animal kingdom. Our ability to reason and think makes us special. To me, a life solely based on hedonistic indulgence is de-evolved. We've grown the ability to reason, therefore it must be important. If it's important, we should use it and that means speculating and analyzing ourselves and the world around us soberly and dispassionately, something we've been working on since man truly evolved into man from our animal pasts.
So we have these brains that can think so let's ponder about the concept of ethics. Many brilliant philosophers, both religious and scientific, have created moral philosophies. How best can we process ourselves and our world? Men like Aristotle put forth and trusted in the five senses as our primary means of accumulating data. Men like Plato put forth the idea of intuition and perception because our five senses can be faulty and we can misperceive. Since then, great thinkers have become more refined as society has grown. In this time, the idea of ethics has become an enormous subject. What is ethical? From the simpler ideas of Hammurabi's moral code of "An eye for an eye" to the Jewish idea of the Ten Commandments to Kant's Categorial Imperative of Universal Morality, we've always strived to rein in our potentially destructive nature. This is, of course, necessary to create an interdependent society where we work together to achieve our goals and live the age old dream of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Laws are created to help guide us and to keep us from tearing each other apart. Laws are all that bind us in this way. As animalistic as we can be, laws must be created and maintained. It would be wonderful is we could always control ourselves and act as disciplined, rational beings all the time but that's impossible. We feel and we have desires. Sometimes, we're going to lose our sense of order and decency and last out. An absence of laws would mean anarchy and, in all likelihood, the destruction of ourselves as a species.
Law and order are our practical solutions to problems of basic animal behavior. Now it's necessary to consider the beyond, namely the idea of a God or Prime Mover, as Aristotle believed. Since Day 1 of human society, man has strived to understand the world around him. Ancient civilizations built ziggurats, the ancient form of churches, and put them in the center of towns as a foundation of whatever city and society used them. Since Day 1, we've reasoned and speculated on the idea of a God, something beyond, a higher power that we are subject to, a basis for behavior that goes beyond our rules and laws for each other. The idea of divine law, codified mostly by the different religions, is this representation. We have rules to keep us from killing each other but is that it? Do we have a greater purpose? It's easy to pick on religion and many people in our society (and we know who they are) have a field day with attacking religious people as simpletons and morons across the board. I feel that this misses the point. It is our very ABILITY to create religious ideologies that makes us special. Those that believe try to live according to those beliefs. Why? Not because of anything practical but because of POSSIBILITIES. In this way, we are truly being intellectually creative. Often crude, such as in the simple belief of a heaven or hell, but we're thinking of something that could be and that's vital. We're working our minds and we're trying to define and develop a soul, even if only rudimentarily.
I honestly have tried to just present the usual arguments and perceptions of how we as humans try to explain and justify our behaviors as a means of setting up my premise (I apologize if I've been overly wordy.) Now comes my argument of the possibility that the higher mind definition of ethics can largely, if not completely, be thrown out. This argument also rejects animal behaviors. There's nothing truly ethical about animal behaviors IMO because they take no effort to accomplish. Though we all do them at times, animal behaviors are instinctive and cheap. They're hardwired into us and involve no evolutionary process whatsoever. So, if ethics isn't driven by our higher mind or our animal passions, what is it driven by or is it even something we can disregard altogether?
My perspective comes from a mentally ill one. I'm bipolar and have had severe bouts of psychosis, very severe hallucinations and delusions at various times in my life. Driven by a hypersensitive idea of moral obligation, I have strived for much of my life to behave in a way that is a credit to myself and my community, to try to help mankind in as many ways as I can. As any bipolar person can tell you, at times it becomes incredibly difficult to control behaviors, be they high or low. We take medication to try and control symptoms. However, there are times when we're overwhelmed and will act out, occasionally driven by our delusions and hallucinations. This doesn't usually involve violence but will occasionally lead to violence against the self or others, usually for a reason considered valid by the mentally ill person. To put it bluntly, it's "crazy," not evil though it seems evil.
I'm a big fan of "spirit in which it's intended" as a moral compass. If we mean well yet do evil, we can't be blamed in a moral sense because we didn't intend for anything bad to happen. This is a common moral rule that humans have lived by, at least to some extent, for a long time. In an ethical sense, therefore, because mentally ill people are human and this is an argument of the complete human experience, ethics cannot be completely defined by effect. Violence, destruction and death cannot always be viewed as unethical because there are those that commit violence UNDER THE DELUSION that they are not doing evil. Some philosophers, like Sartre, argue that there are, essentially, no excuses for what is considered bad behavior. As a bipolar person, I do not present excuses. I present REASONS.
My conclusion is that ethics are not for human beings as biological creatures because we are flawed by nature and our behaviors are occasionally, also very flawed without evil intent. We sometimes do damage and not even know it. However, ethics IS a subject for the pure intellect, one that is capable of reason and thought on a very high level. In that way, ethics is an intellectual past time, one that we spend our time thinking about in the romantic hope that, one day, we will be able to live up to the standards we set. Like any ideology, it's based on POTENTIAL and a loose ethical set of standards often keeps us from destroying each other. I'm comfortable with intellect being linked to a spiritual sense because what is spirit but we concoct as being important and timeless, the same as ethics? It's not in our best interests to kill each other, unless we consider it necessary (moral?) in a war capacity. Our humanity leads us to these disasters all too frequently. The thought and the hope of the CONCEPT of ethics as a set of ideas, does us credit as creatures with the ability to think. We have potential. If we can ever learn to practice what we think, we'll have as close to comprehensive peace as possible, the very definition of morality. Will we grow in an intellectual sense and meet our concepts and dreams halfway or de-evolve back into mindless animals bent on killing each other? Time will tell. Some have attained, and will attain, such intellectual enlightenment. Sadly, I don't like our chances much as an overall society.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
One stanza poem to a special girl
The other girls, in large amount, are as pretty as can be.
And even if it doesn't count, you're still beautiful to me.
And even if it doesn't count, you're still beautiful to me.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
5th Grade - Welcome to Hell - Part II
I've never recovered emotionally. The fear that I felt everyday still floods me like a hurricane when I think of it. Every second of everyday was terror. When was the insult or attack going to come? It became impossible to have a positive attitude. I imagine WWI soldiers didn't feel overly positive in their trenches everyday but at least they had each other. The worst times were on the bus in the morning, where I often had someone already sitting in a seat move to the edge to keep me from sitting down. "Don't you know you're social garbage, fucker?" was what the move said every time. In class, I was at least a little safe, though I dreaded the classes where the bullies were close to me because they liked whispering insults to each other about me. The breaks in the hall between classes were horrible because I was vulnerable. There were occasional insults and the occasional physical attack at me. I remember the fear and am reliving it even as I'm typing this now. Break outside was another terror because of vulnerability. Girls would be disgusted if I came by. The boys would throw a football to me because they could gang up and tackle me on the ice cold turf. People would kick me out of their lunch room tables until I had to eat by myself or insult me as I sat there. One girl, supposedly the nicest one in school, attacked me in gym class and almost tore my shirt off. Stunned, I just sat down on the bleachers with my head in my hands. The gym teacher did nothing. It was like they were all in it together. Another time we played dodgeball. One of my bullies crossed the line, tapped me on the shoulder and threw a dodgeball in my face when I turned around. Everyone laughed. I laughed, too. Doesn't everyone laugh at the joke? Emotionally, this was devastating and I am still suffering today. I tried to fit in many times, basically a Stockholm Syndrome kind of thing. Then there were the attempts try and mitigate the damage. My Mom was my emotional support and I tried to learn things from her about what they were saying. I tried to learn jokes to impress them. My family told me it was my fault because I got upset at the insults. They were trying to help. They didn't know they were giving the bullies a free pass. My mother told me to try laughing myself. So there was me being bullied and I laughed at getting hurt. I've since felt and learned the dysfunction in my family and how crappy their advice was. Finally, after coming home on the verge of tears many times, Mom just told me to go punch one of them in the nose. As a Catholic kid, their previous advice had been to turn the other cheek. Now I'm supposed to hit someone! I wasn't like that at the time. It took me years of abuse before I got the point where I would fight if I had to. That wasn't me then at all. Everyday after school and before the next day became my heaven. That's when I tried to be happy. As the time came closer for sleep, I'd check the clock every five minutes. I tried to live every second of my life in those hours before I had to get beaten up again the next day. The shame and guilt and fear and embarrassment and depression and feelings of utter worthlessness return when I relive these memories. I have to get to the point where they don't destroy me anymore. I have to get to the point where that traumatized little boy feels safe and happy and worthwhile again.
5th Grade - Welcome to Hell - Part 1
I did the set up a bit to let you know a bit of who I was. I was also a Catholic, and a decent sized believer, at that age and grew up in Catholic school. I had had no social problems in Kentucky and had several friends. Now it gets very tough for me. I have wanted to journal about this for a long time but I haven't been able to face the pain for any length of time. I don't literally remember the first day of school. I remember that first term. The weather was freezing, much worse than anything we'd had in Kentucky. I'm not sure if it was early chemical problems but I remember feeling depressed for the first time in my life. At school, the kids hated me. I suppose I was the picture of being uncool. It was a classic case of doing everything differently than they did. I made jokes which made people laugh at me. People hated my voice, hated my walk, hated my expressions. I rapidly became a social pariah, the bottom of the totem pole. There was only one kid more unpopular than me. Sad to say, I was glad of it. It gave me a chance to insult someone, to be part of the group. Of course, now I look back at it and loathe myself for that kind of behavior. That was my reality. I was not a good person. I was an emotionally floundering, socially desperate person. Girls would laugh at me because they considered me some yokel joke. I was minimized. There was an instance where they did something called "Secret Santa" in Wisconsin. People would draw lots in pairs and gave each other Christmas cards. The girl that got me said: "Not him!" in disgust when she drew me. This was in front of her girlfriends. This wasn't a funny, teasing thing. This just sent a message that I was garbage. I was a social leper. Being near me was like being forced to hug a skunk. The boys would make fun of me because I didn't know all the sexual slang terms. I was a Catholic school kid. What the hell did I know? You know the sensitive young person in the slasher films that has the cruel trick played on him by the "cool" kids? That was me. And if I saw any of those poeple again now, it would be very hard for me not to break their bones.
My Apocalypse - Age 10 - The Move
When I was 10, my family and I moved from Louisville, KY, to just outside Milwaukee, WI. At that age, I didn't understand, in a social sense, what moving from one part of the country to another meant. My Dad got transferred and asked my sister and I if we wanted to go. My parents wanted to go and it was a done deal so we agreed, of course. My sister Shannon was two years older and I think the move hurt her more than me. I had friends but the lure of moving to Milwaukee, namely because of the Brewers, became tremendous. We were huge baseball fans and had been frequent attendees to Louisville Redbird minor league games so the thought of having a local major league team to see was very exciting. The Brewers had been to their first World Series the year before (and lost to Louisville's offiliate, St. Louis, who we were cheering for. The idea of players and a town associated with beer was a major turn off for me but they were a major league team. We were the kind of family that didn't cheer for a team or city like Milwaukee yet we were on our way. I must also admit that we considered ourselves "Southern." I had no idea about the Civil War at that time but my family was a Dukes of Hazzard, Hee Haw kind of family though I also loved shows like Knight Rider, Sanford and Son and pretty much anything on TV. I was a culture sponge at a very young age. So it's 1983 and we move to Wisconsin in the summer.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Stalker's blood?
This is a very difficult post I feel I need to write so don't hate me. I need to get it into the open. I have OCD and Bipolar Disorder. As a symptom of my bipolar, I have what is called "erotomania." This is a delusion that someone I want very much to be in love with me is in love with me. It often takes the form of a "celebrity crush," where I can easily delude myself that the person really loves me via destiny or cosmic karma or some such crap. It's usually wishful thinking but I have deluded myself that certain people of higher social status in my reality are in love with me when that is not the case. Combine erotomania with an obsessive mentality and that leads to a potentially very dangerous mix as I can become fixated and angry. I can then adopt a "So she thinks she's better than me?!" attitude towards someone who either barely knows me or doesn't know me. I'm a lover. I'm not an angry, crazy obsessive but I can be that way. I'm always gauging my motives to prevent such a thing from becoming dangerous but I can be creepy and wear out my welcome, I suppose. I could engage in "stalker behavior" and not always be consciously aware of it. This can be a sick expression of "love," a dark side of delusion, anger, fear and personal emotional vapidness. I hope this post will help me (and you) understand my deep, deep need for love and how a disordered brain can darkly twist a treasured goal into an all-around nightmare. Thank you. Don't hate me. Please.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
The Mentally Ill Code: How to treat each other
I wanted to call this something cool and profound like Manifesto or Commandment to show how smart I am but that's overdoing it. This is a classic IN MY OPINION post. IMO this is how mentally ill people should treat each other. My experience is being bipolar and OCD and chatting with many mentally ill people, both online and in the real world, as well as mental health professionals.
1. No mentally ill person is greater or better than another. We're all equal.
This doesn't have to do with wellness. In this context, "better" means thinking you're superior. There is no caste system in the mentally ill community. I've talked with people before (and I've felt this myself) that think people with less severe mental illnesses than others are somehow superior, more "normal," and thus more like the masses. I've heard "I'm not as bad as that schizophrenic guy. I just have depression" before. My family, especially my mother and aunt, are and have been very much hung up on social status. When I was diagnosed with depression in 1992, I felt that that was going to lower me in the eyes of society. Why? Because I had a bigoted view of the mentally ill as lower life forms. I still considered myself perfectly normal and not mentally ill. I was able to function some on this denial. Then I was diagnosed bipolar and it devastated me. Now, I was going to be forced to take a lower status as a persecuted minority. See how big a jerk I was when I was considered "normal?" and thought I was at a superior level of health? We don't do that in the mentally ill community. A depressed person isn't superior to a schizophrenic person just because their illness isn't as severe.
2. Mentally ill people communicate with each other.
There's great importance in our community on sharing our thoughts and feelings with each other. Often, that means sharing what kind of day we've had or asking for support because we've had a tough time lately. We share our stories and our time with each other to show that we're not alone in our suffering. Part of my thinking on making this blog post has to do with someone that's a supposed mentally ill person who is a public mental health advocate. I've asked this person what his/her illness is and I've shared a few details of mine. No response. I tried again a few more times. No response. Now either this person feels he/she is too good for our community or is just a phony in terms of mental illness. We don't have to share everything with each other. In fact, as people with different social, political, religious, etc views, we don't have to share much at all. What we do need to share is just a little bit with each other. If another mentally ill person asks you about your illness, you should answer, even if only giving the barest details. This is a community mentality. I know some reading this will say this person has the right to not tell me jack and that is true. However, we don't live in a perfect world and our own social groupings do matter. Mentally ill people don't rebuff each other.
3. Mentally ill people support each other no matter what.
My meaning in this is that we unconditionally support each other on matters of mental illness and mental health. If one in our community commits an act of violence, it doesn't mean that we support that action. If a person in our community believes Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton is evil, that doesn't mean we have to support them in that belief. What it means is that, on matters of mental health, on symptoms, on episodes, etc, we support and help each other in trying to get and stay healthy, offer moral support in each other's fight and feel compassion for each other in our sufferings. I'll use an eternal symbol, Hitler, as an example. I, and most everyone else, deplore is beliefs and actions. However, if it's revealed he was bipolar, I would have compassion for his suffering from that illness as I know what it can do. If he were alive, I would support him in getting help and feeling better. No, this wouldn't give aid and comfort to a monster. It would be providing advice that he work on his mental and emotional health and that our community is there if he needs us. This would have clearly been a win-win if he'd had these things taken care of early in his life. That's what I mean by support. Support each other to attack illness and give each other strength and support to carry on with life and pursue happiness.
Those are the three major facets of behavior that I and my friends in the mentally ill community should strive for. If I think of more, I'll add them to the list as "amendments." And, as stated earlier, these are my opinions. We have a social grouping and need to acknowledge and live with it.
1. No mentally ill person is greater or better than another. We're all equal.
This doesn't have to do with wellness. In this context, "better" means thinking you're superior. There is no caste system in the mentally ill community. I've talked with people before (and I've felt this myself) that think people with less severe mental illnesses than others are somehow superior, more "normal," and thus more like the masses. I've heard "I'm not as bad as that schizophrenic guy. I just have depression" before. My family, especially my mother and aunt, are and have been very much hung up on social status. When I was diagnosed with depression in 1992, I felt that that was going to lower me in the eyes of society. Why? Because I had a bigoted view of the mentally ill as lower life forms. I still considered myself perfectly normal and not mentally ill. I was able to function some on this denial. Then I was diagnosed bipolar and it devastated me. Now, I was going to be forced to take a lower status as a persecuted minority. See how big a jerk I was when I was considered "normal?" and thought I was at a superior level of health? We don't do that in the mentally ill community. A depressed person isn't superior to a schizophrenic person just because their illness isn't as severe.
2. Mentally ill people communicate with each other.
There's great importance in our community on sharing our thoughts and feelings with each other. Often, that means sharing what kind of day we've had or asking for support because we've had a tough time lately. We share our stories and our time with each other to show that we're not alone in our suffering. Part of my thinking on making this blog post has to do with someone that's a supposed mentally ill person who is a public mental health advocate. I've asked this person what his/her illness is and I've shared a few details of mine. No response. I tried again a few more times. No response. Now either this person feels he/she is too good for our community or is just a phony in terms of mental illness. We don't have to share everything with each other. In fact, as people with different social, political, religious, etc views, we don't have to share much at all. What we do need to share is just a little bit with each other. If another mentally ill person asks you about your illness, you should answer, even if only giving the barest details. This is a community mentality. I know some reading this will say this person has the right to not tell me jack and that is true. However, we don't live in a perfect world and our own social groupings do matter. Mentally ill people don't rebuff each other.
3. Mentally ill people support each other no matter what.
My meaning in this is that we unconditionally support each other on matters of mental illness and mental health. If one in our community commits an act of violence, it doesn't mean that we support that action. If a person in our community believes Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton is evil, that doesn't mean we have to support them in that belief. What it means is that, on matters of mental health, on symptoms, on episodes, etc, we support and help each other in trying to get and stay healthy, offer moral support in each other's fight and feel compassion for each other in our sufferings. I'll use an eternal symbol, Hitler, as an example. I, and most everyone else, deplore is beliefs and actions. However, if it's revealed he was bipolar, I would have compassion for his suffering from that illness as I know what it can do. If he were alive, I would support him in getting help and feeling better. No, this wouldn't give aid and comfort to a monster. It would be providing advice that he work on his mental and emotional health and that our community is there if he needs us. This would have clearly been a win-win if he'd had these things taken care of early in his life. That's what I mean by support. Support each other to attack illness and give each other strength and support to carry on with life and pursue happiness.
Those are the three major facets of behavior that I and my friends in the mentally ill community should strive for. If I think of more, I'll add them to the list as "amendments." And, as stated earlier, these are my opinions. We have a social grouping and need to acknowledge and live with it.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
My Resume Article for The Onion.
This is just a wise ass Onion style story about American Pharaoh winning the Belmont last year. It's a year old but I liked the concept. Pardon the lack of paragraphs but the damn thing wouldn't let me do it.
HEADLINE:
"AMERICA BREATHES SIGH OF RELIEF NOW THAT GOD DAMNED HORSE THING IS OVER."
America's Triple Crown drought ended this past Saturday when American Pharaoh won the Belmont Stakes by a commanding 5 1/2 lengths, becoming the nation's first Triple Crown winner since 1977 when Affirmed took
the title.
"Thank fucking God," said Montana sports fan Gabe McInerney. "All we've heard on ESPN the last month and every June for the last 38 fucking years is how America hasn't had a damn horse that could win three races in a row. Is it a man that does anything? No. It's a fucking HORSE! Are we starved for national heroes so bad that we have to pay attention to and worship a damn brainless glue factory reject? I live in flippin' Montana! What the hell do I care about horse racing? All I can say is "Thank God our "national nightmare" is over. Thank fucking God."
Reaction from the horse's trainer, Bob Baffert, was more subdued.
"We've always had high hopes for American Pharaoh. He has terrific bloodlines and we've always had a strong belief he could win the Triple Crown. It's just a great feeling having a Triple Crown winner again after all these years!"
When told of Baffert's comments, Mr. McInerney offered: "Well, of course, he's fucking happy! How much fucking money does that guy make from all that shit? He's a flippin' millionaire that's probably on his yacht in the French Riviera right now while I have to fix my damn siding so my walls don't crumble to
pieces this winter."
Mr. McInerney then cupped his hands and said loudly: "Hey, Baffert! Here's what you can do with your damn horse!" before slapping his bottom with his right hand.
Baffert has stated plans for running American Pharaoh in the upcoming Haskell Invitational.
"We're just so happy he was able to give America what it so desperately wanted. A Triple Crown winner.”
HEADLINE:
"AMERICA BREATHES SIGH OF RELIEF NOW THAT GOD DAMNED HORSE THING IS OVER."
America's Triple Crown drought ended this past Saturday when American Pharaoh won the Belmont Stakes by a commanding 5 1/2 lengths, becoming the nation's first Triple Crown winner since 1977 when Affirmed took
the title.
"Thank fucking God," said Montana sports fan Gabe McInerney. "All we've heard on ESPN the last month and every June for the last 38 fucking years is how America hasn't had a damn horse that could win three races in a row. Is it a man that does anything? No. It's a fucking HORSE! Are we starved for national heroes so bad that we have to pay attention to and worship a damn brainless glue factory reject? I live in flippin' Montana! What the hell do I care about horse racing? All I can say is "Thank God our "national nightmare" is over. Thank fucking God."
Reaction from the horse's trainer, Bob Baffert, was more subdued.
"We've always had high hopes for American Pharaoh. He has terrific bloodlines and we've always had a strong belief he could win the Triple Crown. It's just a great feeling having a Triple Crown winner again after all these years!"
When told of Baffert's comments, Mr. McInerney offered: "Well, of course, he's fucking happy! How much fucking money does that guy make from all that shit? He's a flippin' millionaire that's probably on his yacht in the French Riviera right now while I have to fix my damn siding so my walls don't crumble to
pieces this winter."
Mr. McInerney then cupped his hands and said loudly: "Hey, Baffert! Here's what you can do with your damn horse!" before slapping his bottom with his right hand.
Baffert has stated plans for running American Pharaoh in the upcoming Haskell Invitational.
"We're just so happy he was able to give America what it so desperately wanted. A Triple Crown winner.”
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Mentally ill people and nature: Are we supposed to lose?
One definition of nature is "The natural forces that control what happens in the world." As we humans are part of nature, that means us, too. Sadly illness, if we conclude genetics plays a large role in creating, is also natural. It may be considered "bad nature" (like cancer cells) but it's still nature. As a bipolar person, this makes me think of several things. To sum up a tough idea, are we bipolar people (and those afflicted with other mental illnesses destined to lose/fail in life?
People with the strongest genetics can be described as those with the least genetic potential for problems. You can't start a fire if there's no kindling. These people may not be talented to any great degree but they'll have the best chance of survival and, thus, evolving simply because they'll have no ill health in their way and, if you're not sick, you'll eventually get lucky even if you're not talented. "Every dog gets a bone" is the expression.
I will now state my views on we in the mentally ill community and the "normals," people with genes that will not naturally produce illness. I'm aware that I'm generalizing and do not speak for all mentally ill people, nor is my societal outlook for mentally ill people optimistic. It is quite pessimistic. It is also a bit stark but I will proceed and eventually get to more positive comments. The "normals" (a term I heard used by a mentally ill person I used to know) run society. Mentally ill people aren't allowed to become president. Most mentally ill people (I know from experience) will have a near impossible time working the kind of laborious jobs necessary to move the world. We won't be 9 to 5 ship builders or welders or plumbers or electricians. We can perhaps work these jobs part-time so there is hope for optimism in that regard. However, most of us will not be able to stand the grind for long periods of time. It's too hard core functional and stressful to believe otherwise. Most of us can contribute to society in small doses. Others can avoid becoming a financial burden on others by becoming inspirational to others. We can listen and provide counseling, the "I empathize" part of emotional life. Even if we don't (can't) do something Earth shattering, maybe we can provide a helpful service to others that will do great things. This alone is reason to keep trying with people. Without knowing it, we just might be an indirect part of something extraordinary.
Just a few personal experiences now. I always sensed, even when young, that functioning in life would be a difficult thing for me to achieve. I actually always had it in the back of my mind that I would commit suicide when I was 18 as I just knew, deep down, I would fall apart when HS was over. Fortunately, the suicide didn't happen but the breakdown did, in spite of my throwing everything I could against my growing bipolar disorder. This was a terrible time for me because I was stuck. I had always succeeded in my youth both academically and athletically. It was go time in college and I was up to the challenge. However, without knowing it, I was programmed for failure. I wanted to be possibly be a politician because I legitimately wanted to help people. Bipolar disorder slammed that door shut. Who wants a crazy man as their representative? No, that door was shut. It was a loss. A political career, due to my genetic nature, was a no go. Unlike the "normals," I was excluded, not because of me but because of my genes, something I got from my parents. No amount of positive attitude would change the chemical. I was horribly depressed, despite taking anti-depressants, skipped class and slept frequently just to feel regular. I never was like this in HS but I was in college. Bipolar disorder made sure I was lost, made sure I would lose the life I wanted.
I had a terrible nightmare the night before I'm writing this. I was trying to get into a car driven by people I wanted desperately to be with but I was left behind. I would grab at the car and those on it, I would grab hold with my arms but my grip was broken and it sped away. In a movie like Raiders of the Lost Ark, I was one of the soldiers that fell off the truck Indy was driving. As he sped into the rest of the movie and his eventual victory, I was one of the ones that had to deal with not being able to see the rest of the film. I was then forced to deal with other people left behind. The nightmare was the loss, missing the bus of happiness, not being allowed into heaven, left behind in hell on Earth. And it was REAL! It was an abstract reality of my life. It became obvious to me in my sleep that I would always be left behind. I would always be in a nightmarish place. I can control my sense of self and peace when I am awake. What chance to I have when I'm asleep?
I will now end on a positive note. We may be "destined" to lose by our genetic makeup (and let's be honest. It's 90% nature, 10% nurture) but that doesn't mean we will be. Some of us will conquer our illnesses enough to have a contributing place in the world and the happiness that comes with it. We have survived to this in our lives on guile, cleverness, and toughness. We survive. We live because we're hardy and hopeful that tomorrow could be a better day than today. We try to focus on our skills and talents. Many people with mental illnesses are more creative than others and we often express that gift. Due to the pain we have experienced, we often feel more empathy than others. These things may not show tangible, material results but can still be important nonetheless. Yes, we can advise others who may reach the brass ring we are seemingly denied and, maybe, just maybe, some of us will manage to grab that brass ring, too.
People with the strongest genetics can be described as those with the least genetic potential for problems. You can't start a fire if there's no kindling. These people may not be talented to any great degree but they'll have the best chance of survival and, thus, evolving simply because they'll have no ill health in their way and, if you're not sick, you'll eventually get lucky even if you're not talented. "Every dog gets a bone" is the expression.
I will now state my views on we in the mentally ill community and the "normals," people with genes that will not naturally produce illness. I'm aware that I'm generalizing and do not speak for all mentally ill people, nor is my societal outlook for mentally ill people optimistic. It is quite pessimistic. It is also a bit stark but I will proceed and eventually get to more positive comments. The "normals" (a term I heard used by a mentally ill person I used to know) run society. Mentally ill people aren't allowed to become president. Most mentally ill people (I know from experience) will have a near impossible time working the kind of laborious jobs necessary to move the world. We won't be 9 to 5 ship builders or welders or plumbers or electricians. We can perhaps work these jobs part-time so there is hope for optimism in that regard. However, most of us will not be able to stand the grind for long periods of time. It's too hard core functional and stressful to believe otherwise. Most of us can contribute to society in small doses. Others can avoid becoming a financial burden on others by becoming inspirational to others. We can listen and provide counseling, the "I empathize" part of emotional life. Even if we don't (can't) do something Earth shattering, maybe we can provide a helpful service to others that will do great things. This alone is reason to keep trying with people. Without knowing it, we just might be an indirect part of something extraordinary.
Just a few personal experiences now. I always sensed, even when young, that functioning in life would be a difficult thing for me to achieve. I actually always had it in the back of my mind that I would commit suicide when I was 18 as I just knew, deep down, I would fall apart when HS was over. Fortunately, the suicide didn't happen but the breakdown did, in spite of my throwing everything I could against my growing bipolar disorder. This was a terrible time for me because I was stuck. I had always succeeded in my youth both academically and athletically. It was go time in college and I was up to the challenge. However, without knowing it, I was programmed for failure. I wanted to be possibly be a politician because I legitimately wanted to help people. Bipolar disorder slammed that door shut. Who wants a crazy man as their representative? No, that door was shut. It was a loss. A political career, due to my genetic nature, was a no go. Unlike the "normals," I was excluded, not because of me but because of my genes, something I got from my parents. No amount of positive attitude would change the chemical. I was horribly depressed, despite taking anti-depressants, skipped class and slept frequently just to feel regular. I never was like this in HS but I was in college. Bipolar disorder made sure I was lost, made sure I would lose the life I wanted.
I had a terrible nightmare the night before I'm writing this. I was trying to get into a car driven by people I wanted desperately to be with but I was left behind. I would grab at the car and those on it, I would grab hold with my arms but my grip was broken and it sped away. In a movie like Raiders of the Lost Ark, I was one of the soldiers that fell off the truck Indy was driving. As he sped into the rest of the movie and his eventual victory, I was one of the ones that had to deal with not being able to see the rest of the film. I was then forced to deal with other people left behind. The nightmare was the loss, missing the bus of happiness, not being allowed into heaven, left behind in hell on Earth. And it was REAL! It was an abstract reality of my life. It became obvious to me in my sleep that I would always be left behind. I would always be in a nightmarish place. I can control my sense of self and peace when I am awake. What chance to I have when I'm asleep?
I will now end on a positive note. We may be "destined" to lose by our genetic makeup (and let's be honest. It's 90% nature, 10% nurture) but that doesn't mean we will be. Some of us will conquer our illnesses enough to have a contributing place in the world and the happiness that comes with it. We have survived to this in our lives on guile, cleverness, and toughness. We survive. We live because we're hardy and hopeful that tomorrow could be a better day than today. We try to focus on our skills and talents. Many people with mental illnesses are more creative than others and we often express that gift. Due to the pain we have experienced, we often feel more empathy than others. These things may not show tangible, material results but can still be important nonetheless. Yes, we can advise others who may reach the brass ring we are seemingly denied and, maybe, just maybe, some of us will manage to grab that brass ring, too.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Captain America: Civil War: Stark vs. Cap analysis
The Avengers schism is driven by Tony Stark's emotions and intentions vs. Cap's reason and character. As the final fight shows, the schism is really all about those two. Stark is driven by emotion, namely his guilt over Sakovia which, quite frankly, is his fault because he inadvertently created Ultron. Like a drunk needing alcohol to numb his guilt, Tony needs the Accords. They're his path to relief from the guilt, the CONSCIENTIOUS guilt he feels. He's one of the good guys and his path is NOT wrong. It's the right path. It's just the right path for Tony Stark. Cap sees things clearly. He's the reasoner. That's his strength. He knows about governments and how the Avengers would be used, understands that they've caused way more good than harm and aren't responsible for certain things (like the Chitauri.) Stark is *beep* up. He's irrational and driven by his massive ego and emotional issues. Like a narcissistic father, his way is the right way and all the rest need to do that. And, to be honest, it IS a right way. The great thing is that Cap's way is ALSO right. Neither side is wrong. That's why the complexity is fantastic and it creates such a strong emotional feeling because we CARE about these characters (and that is vitally important.) Cap knows the moral character of the Avengers because he sees it in himself. He knows he can be trusted to do the right thing and that the others will try to do the right thing as well. His is righteousness by intent. They're the good guys because they CHOOSE to do good things. In that way, the good choose to do good and they, being the Avengers, have the power to do the most good in the practical world. Being led by manipulative politicians? A disaster waiting to happen. That both sides clearly have a moral point yet are still on opposite ends of the compass is what is fascinating. We want them to resolve their differences but Stark and Cap, while still caring about each other at the end, are still doing what is best for them. That means Tony is on the side of current law. Cap is the outlaw.
Monday, May 16, 2016
A wrong headed left wing view of the mentally ill.
This is just a short post. People with more left wing values (I consider myself left wing but a moderate left winger) see humans and the human potential as positive. Humans are generally good people, even if only down deep. Remove impediments and the true human character will shine through. This clashes with a more right wing ideology that life is nasty, brutish and short, people are inherently sinful and law needs to be in place to protect us from each other. To a left winger, if people are good, what explains bad behavior? It can't be evil because people are good. Therefore, it has to be a perversion or distortion of mind aka mental illness. A person WOULD be good, would not commit acts considered evil, if there brain wasn't all messed up. This is way too simplistic. Serial killers are often not mentally ill yet commit evil acts. Thus, evil and mental illness are not synonymous. Just saying that a person being bad is crazy is often not true. And who wants to be wrong? Only the ignorant and the fearful and the, dare I say, evil?
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Poem - She's Distant
She's distant. Her side denied, I reach, I try.
I send my music. I send my poems. I touch her
hair but grasp air at home, alone. My fingers stretch,
grope with empty hope. Why do I try?
I can't have what I yearn for, can't stop the pain
when I learn more and get the message again and again.
What is wrong in my head?
A major blow, I know it's so as I pine
intent with no danger of threat, a warm, wavy crest
floods my body, my sex, my chest. I sigh, I cry for I
can't stop my lust, can't end it, can't say goodbye.
But she's distant, a lost cause though I love her so.
I feel her warmth and know I can't let myself let go
though she will never know who I am, how I feel. How could
she know when it will never be real?
I imagine it all. Maybe there's a chance she could find humor in,
be smitten with, something I am, a loving, caring, giving man...no.
There's despair for she's right there but, alas, it cannot, could
not ever come to pass. She's right there. She's distant.
I send my music. I send my poems. I touch her
hair but grasp air at home, alone. My fingers stretch,
grope with empty hope. Why do I try?
I can't have what I yearn for, can't stop the pain
when I learn more and get the message again and again.
What is wrong in my head?
A major blow, I know it's so as I pine
intent with no danger of threat, a warm, wavy crest
floods my body, my sex, my chest. I sigh, I cry for I
can't stop my lust, can't end it, can't say goodbye.
But she's distant, a lost cause though I love her so.
I feel her warmth and know I can't let myself let go
though she will never know who I am, how I feel. How could
she know when it will never be real?
I imagine it all. Maybe there's a chance she could find humor in,
be smitten with, something I am, a loving, caring, giving man...no.
There's despair for she's right there but, alas, it cannot, could
not ever come to pass. She's right there. She's distant.
Monday, March 14, 2016
The non-medicated mentally ill: An argument by a bipolar man
As a bipolar person with Bipolar 1, I've learned the hard way how important the proper medications are. I have nothing but respect for mentally ill people that face their illnesses and take their medication to try to deal with it. That said, I hate crazy. I hate craziness. There is nothing redeeming about craziness. When people are extremely symptomatic, their usefulness to themselves and others drops greatly. They can become unmanageable, disruptive and potentially dangerous. They suffer horribly. This is just fact. As a person with a mental illness, I'm very torn on how to feel about people with full blown illnesses who refuse to acknowledge or treat their illness. I feel like I do the right thing. I admit to my illness and treat it. I pity those that don't take their meds and are symptomatic. I resent those that somehow manage to be successful WITHOUT taking their meds. I consider profiting by being mentally ill to be immoral and sad. People shouldn't be rewarded for being "crazy." They shouldn't be detracted from either. It's a tough issue for me. If a mentally ill person can be successful while being full blown crazy and, perhaps, irresponsible for not taking meds they know the need, is that a bad thing? What would that kind of mentally ill person be doing otherwise? If they're successful AND happy not being medicated, is that a bad thing? Like I wrote, I resent that because I suffer for my sanity. However, though I'm writing a book, I'm not materially successful at the moment. I've tried to be materially successful but it hasn't happened yet. Could I be successful if I stopped taking my meds? No. I've tried that and failed. I don't mean to sound insensitive though I probably do. I'm not talking about mentally ill people that suffer in anonymity. I'm also not talking about mentally ill people that don't know or understand that they have an illness. I guess I look at mental illness as an addiction. It's a disease, it's not what people want but it's what people have to deal with. Not getting treatment for mental illness is like not getting treatment for addiction. As a bipolar person, I don't think I'm stigmatizing myself and others. People with mental illnesses need to take their meds. For better or worse, I don't have much patience for those that don't comply. We're talking reality. The only way to make a situation better is if people with mental illness issues take their meds. If not, they should be forced to. This is only absolute if the illness is severe and won't improve without meds. Such is the case in my situation and it is a bitter pill to swallow (both literally and figuratively.) It's been a very difficult road for me to accept that I'll always need to take medication. That's the way it is with Bipolar 1. Cancer often can't be treated effectively without chemo. I see mental illness the same way. I hate it and I want it gone. I don't want the mentally ill gone. I want mental illness gone.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Celebrity culture is Un-American Oligarchy
Is there an organization I can join that attacks "celebrity culture" for what it is, a small, powerful, insanely famous cult that reeks of royal-ism? Celebrities are like members of the King and Queen's court. The very few have power, even if they have done nothing to earn it, simply because they are elevated by many followers and/or are children of already famous people. The more these "chosen" people act out, misbehave, and otherwise make themselves ridiculous, the better. As Mel Brooks said: "It's good to be the king." To be the King or a member of the King's court. By having a celebrity culture, one in which we elevate movie and TV stars to god like status, we're creating social inequality as surely as rich people lord themselves over poor people. We all face this in school growing up, where we feel we have to be a celebrity in order to count. We have to be famous, even infamous. We count if people know us. Those are the rules. Even serial killers take this stance. They want to be known for that they do. They want to be famous. I suppose that makes them celebrities and, in the warped minds of many, more important than the ordinary, responsible citizen. Celebrities have a staggering amount of influence often completely out of proportion to their true societal worth. Millions of people pay attention to Kardashians but not doctors, teachers or even (gasp) their parents. This is a major problem not just in this country but worldwide. In a national sense, I can't think of anything that's more ingrained in American culture that's so aggressively Un-American. We have the power to treat each other as equals. All we have to do is choose to do so. 99.999% of people won't read this or care about a post like this. Why? They'd much rather watch a Kardashian.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Thank you to all who have been checking out my blog!!
Couldn't be more honored to have you take time out of your lives to read some of the things I've written. Eyes and minds give words life.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Cosmic order and justice - An in depth look
A definition of cosmic order can be reasoned. If there is order in the universe and order equals justice (because how can order equal injustice?), then things are just when they are orderly. Therefore, injustice can be defined as disorder. This makes sense in a human capacity because disorder often leads to violence, which is easily reasoned as unjust. However, the realities of the human condition make the idea of cosmic order a tough one to reason through. Everything in the universe is subject to the laws of science and cosmic order, if we're analyzing cosmic order as reality (analyzing it as fantasy is a useless exercise.) Humans, being part of scientific reality, are thus part of and subject to, cosmic order. The next thought step reasons that, if cosmic order, being universal, achieves order through scientific reality in most cases independent of the human experience (such as planets, stars, etc)m then we must conclude that everything happens for a logical reason as it is illogical to believe that scientific reality is illogical. If there is cosmic order and if cosmic order equals cosmic justice, then everything happens as it should happen. The chink in the armor of this idea is the violent, often unspeakable evils that happen in society, be they mass genocides or serial murders or babies dying of disease. How can everything happen for a reason, how can things work out as they should, when there are so many tragedies in the world? Does violently murdered baby "deserve" it's death? Do historical genocides happen because they need to happen? An argument for cosmic order, meaning the idea that everything, in the end, has a logical, understandable "bottom line" is contradictory to ideas of human compassion and decency. There can be no sense of justice and order in what is humanely indefensible. There can be no sense in the non-sensible. The pain of human reality is the variable factor. Pain is usually horrible and order and justice, being harmonious concepts, cannot be synonymous with pain unless it's literally "no pain, no gain," the idea that pain is a process towards harmony and happiness. Pain then is just a step in the evolutionary ladder on the way to peace. So what about the pain of human tragedy? The only humane thought process here is faith based. If cosmic order is to be believed, we can only have faith that violence and horror somehow make sense, even if we can't reason that it does. Such faith is only meant for the inner thought process or in blogs like this one because, to debate it in society, especially in our current politically correct climate, is unrealistic. If we try to argue that babies being raped and killed make some sort of sense, we'd be socially condemned and such condemnation isn't harmonious, unless we see such debate as being pain inducing, the kind of pain that leads to peace. In that way, political correctness is a de-evolved concept because debate, one of the major processes of human development, is severely limited. Logical humans wouldn't risk becoming social outcasts because that directly affects the human need for survival. Social condemnation lead to isolation which leads to death. If we're isolated, we can't have the human contact we need, we won't have a job and no means to support ourselves. If we're to believe in cosmic order and justice, we must have the courage to press on with our thoughts and our debates, even in the face of social condemnation or we will grow weak and fallow as thinkers.
"Dragons" represent male sexuality
As a symbol throughout history, the dragon represents male sexuality and, specifically, the religious idea that male sexuality is something evil to be overcome. The dragon's "wings" are the man's testicles, the neck is the penis and the "fire" associated with dragons is semen. Because the dragon represents a negative view of a man's sexuality, the fire, the semen, is viewed as damaging, destructive and deadly, something to be avoided (ejaculation) as religious views in the past condemned the lustful nature of sexuality.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Gun background checks threaten to further dehumanize and alienate the mentally ill
Firstly, I'll just say that I'm for background checks and limiting gun violence as much as possible. This view is one of humanity and I do the best I can to be a human being. However, with the social lean of a "mentally ill" bipolar person, I often view politics through that crucible. As a member of what I consider a socially outcast and often persecuted group, I analyze the current and ubiquitous gun debates with a detached, intellectual thought process but I, like mainstream people, feel such issues, as well. Gun control vs. gun rights, left wing vs. right wing, is obviously one of the most passionate, contentious subjects in our country (and I'm sure in many parts of the world.) This issue is fascinating for one major reason and that's because it's one of the very few issues that cause Democrats to "let down their hair" AKA say what they really feel. We all know what conservatives feel as they've hated and stereotyped people with mental illnesses forever.
All that said, here are the views of both sides: Conservatives quote the second amendment to defend their gun love/addiction/perverted sexual fetish. To these people, to crack down on certain guns means to take away all their guns. This is foolish and false, of course, but it's how they feel. Their mantra is "guns don't kill people, people kill people." This view is one of intent. That it leaves out the obvious problem of gun accidents which are caused by guns and not people killing people is irrelevant to their argument. Their desire is to choose guns over people. What sets them at ease is that the people they're choosing guns over are the "whackos." THEY'RE the ones that are the problem. Background check those people and all is right as rain. So who gets scapegoated? People like me that have bipolar disorder and, if you also have a mental issue, you're being scapegoated, too. Can't take any guns out of the hands of "real Americans" and can't blame guns so blame the whackos. I grew up with conservatives. This is how they feel.
Now liberals. I posted several months ago about how comments by Charles and Amy Schumer stereotyped mentally ill people as being the primary cause of gun violence. This narrow view, no doubt spoken by Amy Schumer with the strong encouragement of her liberal relative, can largely be excused because she's a celebrity popularity butt kisser and wants to get on the mainstream left wing celebrity bandwagon by calling press conferences and saying things. Democrats care SO MUCH about this issue (nothing wrong with that) that they're willing to leave politically correct territory. Their view? Guns kill people. I suppose they think people kill people too but their focus is on the weapons, themselves. Get rid of the guns and all is well. It's naive and impossible to politic for as guns have existed for hundreds of years and no doubt always will. The message is passionate, repetitious, and perpetual. However, Democrats, as shown by Charles and Amy Schumer and President Obama and others are also into background checks (they're on the lookout for right wing crazies) and treatment for the mentally ill.
Here is my take on that last point, which makes me VERY MAD! As a person with a mental issue, I've gone through incredible suffering. I don't own a weapon, don't want to and have never tried to. I work all the time at staying sane and take powerful medications that make me heavy and anesthetized for certain periods. I, like all others battling such problems, fight it everyday. Why do Democrats want people to get mental health treatment? On this issue, it's not because of concern or compassion. It's to take the guns out of the hands of the "crazies." To me, the comments of Amy Schumer with her grinning goon of a relative by her side conclusively prove that (and I don't want it to be so.) Democrats feel like blacks and gays are their family and friends. As members of persecuted American groups, I also feel kinship with such people. HOWEVER, it's clear that, to Democrats on the issue of gun control, the "crazies" are to be scapegoated by them as well. "Mental health treatment" not because it helps us but because it will cut down on gun violence in their eyes. Left wing ideology preaches that people are innately good. What makes them evil is when they go insane. It's ignorant because many sane people choose evil (as strange as that seems.) Therefore, when evil is done, it's the "crazies." Drug them up and keep them down and away. It hurts my feelings anytime I get that vibe from Democrats because they're supposed to be the "rainbow party" that accepts everyone. Do they have friends with mental illnesses? Are people with mental illnesses a color on their rainbow? Are we?
The struggle to limit access to certain weapons is the contentious point between the two sides and where they both get stuck. Democrats want to eliminate as many dangerous weapons as possible. Conservatives think that AK-47s and other overkill guns are vitally important to making sure Barack Obama doesn't come to their neighborhoods with red Communist tanks or some such nonsense that they truly believe. At the latest shootout, both sides express their views, butt heads a little then cool off to be dormant until the next bit of gun violence comes to our attention (a nearly everyday event in today's world of extreme social media.) Who gets treated like second class (at best) citizens? We do. People with "mental issues." We're discussed like Americans used to talk about blacks. We're not people. We're an issue to be debated and we have no say in the matter. Background checks will undoubtedly exclude people with mental illnesses from owning weapons. Who will make that decision? Democrats and Republicans jointly (so long as the "crazies" pursued aren't traditionally right wing "crazies.") What will the cutoff be? Blacks used to be considered 3/5 of a person. Will people with anxiety disorders be allowed guns? What about people with depression? Well, I'm bipolar and they're all a bunch of psychos so our fearless leaders will exclude me, right?
As I stated earlier, I have never owned a gun and don't want to. I don't need one. I'm not afraid of non-existent gun toting Commies in America knocking on my door to shoot me. The second amendment was very important when the colonists were fighting against British soldiers in their backyards. Does any American really need an arsenal of assault weapons to feel happy and safe?
My last comment is that I'm keenly aware that people with mental illnesses are responsible for some gun violence. Sadly, mental illnesses can so greatly affect people's brains that wonderful, well meaning people sometimes grab nearby weapons and go shoot up a shopping mall. It happens. Mass shootings are often the result of people in the grip of delusions and hallucinations. I'm certainly not advocating putting weapons in the hands of all or people who can be dangerous to themselves or others. My point is that it's a REPRESENTATION issue. I guarantee guys like Charles Schumer don't consult NAMI or other such groups on issues like this (however, I could be wrong on that.) After Amy Schumer's "Dude! I'm a celebrity!" comments, I sent an angry E-mail to his website expressing my feelings. Unsurprisingly, I got no reply. Carrie Fisher (who I think is great) is bipolar. If she sent an E-mail, he would call a press conference to talk about how great it is. The average citizen with mental issues? Excluded. Our opinions don't count on the issue of gun control. This is strange because background checks will effect us the most. Are Democrats and Republicans rendering us invisible as people and as Americans? I will leave that up to you to decide. Thanks for reading this far! You must be a masochist like me.
All that said, here are the views of both sides: Conservatives quote the second amendment to defend their gun love/addiction/perverted sexual fetish. To these people, to crack down on certain guns means to take away all their guns. This is foolish and false, of course, but it's how they feel. Their mantra is "guns don't kill people, people kill people." This view is one of intent. That it leaves out the obvious problem of gun accidents which are caused by guns and not people killing people is irrelevant to their argument. Their desire is to choose guns over people. What sets them at ease is that the people they're choosing guns over are the "whackos." THEY'RE the ones that are the problem. Background check those people and all is right as rain. So who gets scapegoated? People like me that have bipolar disorder and, if you also have a mental issue, you're being scapegoated, too. Can't take any guns out of the hands of "real Americans" and can't blame guns so blame the whackos. I grew up with conservatives. This is how they feel.
Now liberals. I posted several months ago about how comments by Charles and Amy Schumer stereotyped mentally ill people as being the primary cause of gun violence. This narrow view, no doubt spoken by Amy Schumer with the strong encouragement of her liberal relative, can largely be excused because she's a celebrity popularity butt kisser and wants to get on the mainstream left wing celebrity bandwagon by calling press conferences and saying things. Democrats care SO MUCH about this issue (nothing wrong with that) that they're willing to leave politically correct territory. Their view? Guns kill people. I suppose they think people kill people too but their focus is on the weapons, themselves. Get rid of the guns and all is well. It's naive and impossible to politic for as guns have existed for hundreds of years and no doubt always will. The message is passionate, repetitious, and perpetual. However, Democrats, as shown by Charles and Amy Schumer and President Obama and others are also into background checks (they're on the lookout for right wing crazies) and treatment for the mentally ill.
Here is my take on that last point, which makes me VERY MAD! As a person with a mental issue, I've gone through incredible suffering. I don't own a weapon, don't want to and have never tried to. I work all the time at staying sane and take powerful medications that make me heavy and anesthetized for certain periods. I, like all others battling such problems, fight it everyday. Why do Democrats want people to get mental health treatment? On this issue, it's not because of concern or compassion. It's to take the guns out of the hands of the "crazies." To me, the comments of Amy Schumer with her grinning goon of a relative by her side conclusively prove that (and I don't want it to be so.) Democrats feel like blacks and gays are their family and friends. As members of persecuted American groups, I also feel kinship with such people. HOWEVER, it's clear that, to Democrats on the issue of gun control, the "crazies" are to be scapegoated by them as well. "Mental health treatment" not because it helps us but because it will cut down on gun violence in their eyes. Left wing ideology preaches that people are innately good. What makes them evil is when they go insane. It's ignorant because many sane people choose evil (as strange as that seems.) Therefore, when evil is done, it's the "crazies." Drug them up and keep them down and away. It hurts my feelings anytime I get that vibe from Democrats because they're supposed to be the "rainbow party" that accepts everyone. Do they have friends with mental illnesses? Are people with mental illnesses a color on their rainbow? Are we?
The struggle to limit access to certain weapons is the contentious point between the two sides and where they both get stuck. Democrats want to eliminate as many dangerous weapons as possible. Conservatives think that AK-47s and other overkill guns are vitally important to making sure Barack Obama doesn't come to their neighborhoods with red Communist tanks or some such nonsense that they truly believe. At the latest shootout, both sides express their views, butt heads a little then cool off to be dormant until the next bit of gun violence comes to our attention (a nearly everyday event in today's world of extreme social media.) Who gets treated like second class (at best) citizens? We do. People with "mental issues." We're discussed like Americans used to talk about blacks. We're not people. We're an issue to be debated and we have no say in the matter. Background checks will undoubtedly exclude people with mental illnesses from owning weapons. Who will make that decision? Democrats and Republicans jointly (so long as the "crazies" pursued aren't traditionally right wing "crazies.") What will the cutoff be? Blacks used to be considered 3/5 of a person. Will people with anxiety disorders be allowed guns? What about people with depression? Well, I'm bipolar and they're all a bunch of psychos so our fearless leaders will exclude me, right?
As I stated earlier, I have never owned a gun and don't want to. I don't need one. I'm not afraid of non-existent gun toting Commies in America knocking on my door to shoot me. The second amendment was very important when the colonists were fighting against British soldiers in their backyards. Does any American really need an arsenal of assault weapons to feel happy and safe?
My last comment is that I'm keenly aware that people with mental illnesses are responsible for some gun violence. Sadly, mental illnesses can so greatly affect people's brains that wonderful, well meaning people sometimes grab nearby weapons and go shoot up a shopping mall. It happens. Mass shootings are often the result of people in the grip of delusions and hallucinations. I'm certainly not advocating putting weapons in the hands of all or people who can be dangerous to themselves or others. My point is that it's a REPRESENTATION issue. I guarantee guys like Charles Schumer don't consult NAMI or other such groups on issues like this (however, I could be wrong on that.) After Amy Schumer's "Dude! I'm a celebrity!" comments, I sent an angry E-mail to his website expressing my feelings. Unsurprisingly, I got no reply. Carrie Fisher (who I think is great) is bipolar. If she sent an E-mail, he would call a press conference to talk about how great it is. The average citizen with mental issues? Excluded. Our opinions don't count on the issue of gun control. This is strange because background checks will effect us the most. Are Democrats and Republicans rendering us invisible as people and as Americans? I will leave that up to you to decide. Thanks for reading this far! You must be a masochist like me.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
A bipolar fear of mine
As a bipolar person, one of my biggest fears is that, one day, I won't be able to function EVER AGAIN as a result of my illness. Just that the illness, which we're all still trying to learn and understand, will eventually become total, like Alzheimers, and I'll never be able to work on my book or even be able to take care of the basic things in my life. I'm only 42 right now. Could bipolar overcome me completely in the next year? Month? Week? Will it destroy me today? It's hard to get a prognosis on the illness. It's very scary to me.
Monday, November 16, 2015
The life frustrations of a 42 year old bipolar man
It's 2:36 AM EST here in Florida, USA. I'm currently listening to a techno song on my IPOD. It's by Christopher S featuring Tommy Clint. "Tear Down the House." As I listen to it, I think of dreams, dreams that I had when I was a teenager, namely to be the front man of a musical group. I didn't want to play an instrument. I wanted to strut my stuff as a front man. I can sing but I've never gone forward with the idea. That said, I've had a very hit and miss life. What I've done well, I've done very well. The other end isn't so much what I've done poorly so much as what I haven't done at all. I feel secure enough in myself to post that I'm very sexually inexperienced and haven't had a girlfriend since I was 22 in 1996. There have been some opportunities but nothing I wanted to act on. It's usually been the girls I want don't want me; the girls that want me I don't want. Anyway, I'm bipolar. My luck with women faded around the time I was diagnosed (1995.) I'm much more of a clean liver since those college days but I can't score. I'm good looking but I'm unemployed and working on writing a novel. It's very good and very long but I don't delude myself that it will sell. I have no clue how to make money and I'm not healthy enough to work full time and I can't find a part time job to fit me. I must admit that I see many women as gold diggers naturally. Women need security and go for the money. It's not that they're very shallow and don't love men but they're the baby birthers and they need financial security and stability. That leaves me out. No money. No love. I don't consider myself a loser. To me, winners and losers are people that become good people, good human beings. This is a tough thing to do in our world and the most humane people are the biggest winners. That said, I can't delude myself that I'm a material winner because I'm a big loser in that area. I grew up with excellent grades and I was an all conference baseball player that was known for game winning hits and being able to handle pressure. As I my bipolar disorder kicked in, I couldn't do anything without feeling so anxious I could barely move. A clutch and cocky guy had become a wreck that just couldn't do life anymore. I often couldn't even do the basics like raising a glass to my lips without shaking so badly I'd almost drop it. I was horrified to see I was going to need a lot of help in my life and I would never be able to live the happy life I wanted to live, namely one of independence and success. I wanted to conquer the world and I had the talent to go far. Then the death sentence diagnosis. I often put a good spin on the situation and there's much to be said for a positive spin. Some nights, like this one, though, send me to the keyboard. I'm living that life of quiet desperation. I'm writing an excellent book, literature, that is meaningful and inspiring but it's about people in the mental health system. That's not a popular subject. I can claim a certain amount of artistic and intellectual snobishness but it can't hide my material reality all the time. I'm struggling greatly and I'm very sad about it. I plow forward with a book that's becoming my own personal War and Peace for several years now with it being my only hope for any money. I survive on charity; my Dad pays my rent and I survive on disability for the rest. I'm desperate. Very desperate. I'm not sure how much of it is illness or my own fears but I feel like I'm swimming as hard as I can against an incredible current in my face. I'm paddling as hard as I can but I know I can never reach shore. Happy people are often next to me but a million miles away, too. They're in a place I just couldn't reach, for whatever reason. So I struggle with frustration, trying to not let it come down on me like a piano falling on me from out of the sky. It's just so hard; so hard to do things I used to breeze through. I need to cry but I'm so resigned to my life that sadness is unnecessary. I feel like I had my death sentence years ago. Now, it's about doing the best I can just to stay sane for two minutes. I'm not going to make it as a front man.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
What this bipolar person thinks of society - Part 1
STICK WITH ME PAST THE BRIEF TECHNICAL STUFF! I'm writing "Part 1" because this is a big post I'll have to split up. When I say, "Society," I'm talking human beings. If I typed, "The World," that would include animals, trees, etc. How I see "rocks and plants" isn't my intention with this post so I'll continue.
I'll be boring (probably even more than usual) for a few paragraphs in explaining the Xs and Os of what society is to me from an anthropological and sociological perspective. If you haven't already closed this page, read on. From an anthropological view, humans are motivated by gut instincts such as procreation and the urge to satisfy our needs for food, water, etc. The sociological view of humans is that we form into groups of similar people to satisfy our need for belonging, protection and emotional and spiritual happiness. This is why we form into groups with people of similar religious and political views, as well as groups over things like our favorite sports teams, favorite TV shows, etc. Though humans often like arguing their positions, no one wants to argue all the time. We seek peace and calm, often with family members (the smallest group there is.)
HANG IN THERE! So humans are motivated by gut, physical needs and the physical, emotional and spiritual needs that come from group interaction and participation. STA?Y WITH ME! I've posted his information to give you, the reader, the sense that I know what I'm talking about when it comes to what society is. My perspective isn't distorted and my post isn't a "Society sucks man!" kind of thing that comes from not having a clue what society is.
OKAY. My perspective: I was born in Louisville, KY, in 1973. My family and I considered ourselves at least somewhat "Southern" though I had no idea what that really meant at the time. In 1983, we moved to Wisconsin. I was attacked for being "Southern" by Northern people who are as bigoted and hateful about such things as Southern people are supposed to be (and often are.) For the first time in my life, I learned what it was to be an absolute outcast. Only a few peers in my world came close to defending me. That said, I was far from perfect myself. Some peers wanted to be friends with me but I didn't really click with them. I wasn't completely alone but I went from a great communal feel in KY to being in Siberia in Wisconsin. I'm not saying KY is better than WI, just that I was in a family and community atmosphere from where I was born. That didn't exist where I moved to. So now I'm hated and insulted and rejected and physically assaulted just a few short months after I had friends and extended family and emotional happiness in another place. I leaned some devastating lessons in life's jungle at 10 years of age. I learned what crushing sadness is; I learned what terror is; I learned what loneliness is; I learned how sick group mentalities and bigoted humanity can be; I learned powerlessness and hopelessness; I learned deep humiliation and self-loathing; I learned to hate myself and everything that I was. I learned how evil the world can be because, when you're 10 years old, the world is everything that you experience. I've had to fight and struggle to survive from a very young age in this thing called "society." That is my perspective.
Part 2 will come soon. THANKS FOR READING.
Keeping in mind that we're all animals when it comes to our motivations,
I'll be boring (probably even more than usual) for a few paragraphs in explaining the Xs and Os of what society is to me from an anthropological and sociological perspective. If you haven't already closed this page, read on. From an anthropological view, humans are motivated by gut instincts such as procreation and the urge to satisfy our needs for food, water, etc. The sociological view of humans is that we form into groups of similar people to satisfy our need for belonging, protection and emotional and spiritual happiness. This is why we form into groups with people of similar religious and political views, as well as groups over things like our favorite sports teams, favorite TV shows, etc. Though humans often like arguing their positions, no one wants to argue all the time. We seek peace and calm, often with family members (the smallest group there is.)
HANG IN THERE! So humans are motivated by gut, physical needs and the physical, emotional and spiritual needs that come from group interaction and participation. STA?Y WITH ME! I've posted his information to give you, the reader, the sense that I know what I'm talking about when it comes to what society is. My perspective isn't distorted and my post isn't a "Society sucks man!" kind of thing that comes from not having a clue what society is.
OKAY. My perspective: I was born in Louisville, KY, in 1973. My family and I considered ourselves at least somewhat "Southern" though I had no idea what that really meant at the time. In 1983, we moved to Wisconsin. I was attacked for being "Southern" by Northern people who are as bigoted and hateful about such things as Southern people are supposed to be (and often are.) For the first time in my life, I learned what it was to be an absolute outcast. Only a few peers in my world came close to defending me. That said, I was far from perfect myself. Some peers wanted to be friends with me but I didn't really click with them. I wasn't completely alone but I went from a great communal feel in KY to being in Siberia in Wisconsin. I'm not saying KY is better than WI, just that I was in a family and community atmosphere from where I was born. That didn't exist where I moved to. So now I'm hated and insulted and rejected and physically assaulted just a few short months after I had friends and extended family and emotional happiness in another place. I leaned some devastating lessons in life's jungle at 10 years of age. I learned what crushing sadness is; I learned what terror is; I learned what loneliness is; I learned how sick group mentalities and bigoted humanity can be; I learned powerlessness and hopelessness; I learned deep humiliation and self-loathing; I learned to hate myself and everything that I was. I learned how evil the world can be because, when you're 10 years old, the world is everything that you experience. I've had to fight and struggle to survive from a very young age in this thing called "society." That is my perspective.
Part 2 will come soon. THANKS FOR READING.
Keeping in mind that we're all animals when it comes to our motivations,
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
My early years of being bullied and humiliated
This is hard for me. I'm trying to organize my thoughts and feelings properly and I'm finding it difficult. I'm 42 and have been in therapy for years and I'm feeling angry and very agitated about writing about my experiences of emotional abuse suffered at the hands of classmates when I was between 10 and 16 years old. I have a lot of emotion stored up over it. I don't want to seem like a whiner or someone who just wants to dump his emotional problems on others. That said, I'll go into my story and end with my thoughts and feelings about how it effects me today.
I was born in Louisville, KY, in 1973. For ten years, I benefited from a close extended family and good friends in my home state and I was very happy and well socially adjusted. At age 10, my father was transferred to Wisconsin. I was a little torn about leaving home but took it as an adventure. For some reason, it didn't really bother me that much to leave. Wisconsin had a major league baseball team (we moved just outside Milwaukee) and I was VERY excited about that. I remember meeting some of my new classmates (it's fifth grade) the first few days. My Dad, a businessman, told me to shake their hands when I met them. This seems like good advice to me today but I suppose it's not how cool kids do things. My handshakes drew strange looks from my Wisconsin peers. I made a lame joke about the name of one of the people I met; not offensive, just lame. I remember a kind of sarcastic "okay" and feeling that I'd messed the whole thing up. Being a ten year old that loved to play, I went about socializing and hanging around other boys on break. I may as well have had leprosy. No one there wanted anything to do with me. I was from Kentucky and was thus, "a redneck." I had no clue what that even was yet I'm from the "South" so that means I'm a redneck. I was made fun of for my voice and for my walk. Three boys got together and mocked my walk right in front of me. I suppose the little bastards thought it would be funny. It really upset me. I couldn't talk or move without feeling self-conscious, like the eyes of the room were on me. I'll put this into context by saying that this never happened to me in Kentucky. I was some sort of oddball for these people in Wisconsin (oh, and I was in a Catholic school.) In between classes became a nightmare. Bullies would come and bump into me or insult and mock me. Certain classes were a nightmare if the bullies sat near me. In grade school, we had one group and that group went to all the classes. There was no escape. I wasn't very small but I wasn't a fighter. At break time, everyone played "smear the queer." I, to my horror, was the "queer." I'd be standing in the snow with the other boys playing football. They'd throw the ball to me (I didn't want it) and then gang tackle me. I tried to carry as many of them as I could before falling. Once, I sprained a finger being heaped on. I don't know why but I kept sitting near my bullies at lunch. While I was about to pass out from my sprained finger, my main bully kept calling me a jerk off to my face and high fiving his friend. I made it to my feet and was half carried out of the room because of the pain in my finger. That took place in the church basement where there were other incidents. I was garbage to that group. I was worthless. Wisconsin schools had a Secret Santa thing we didn't have in Kentucky. We drew people randomly. One girl drew me and loudly voiced her disapproval to her friends. She had drawn the school loser. I was devastated. Whenever I tried to get into a group discussion, I was mocked. I was like the court jester only I didn't get the joke. My bullies read my notes in class when I was in the bathroom and had plenty to mock me on when I came back. They talked about sexual slang terms to me knowing that I didn't understand them. There was the whole "What's a dick for?" thing, which is I think a joke from Spies Like Us. I didn't know the answer, just that I was being abused. They, of course, said "You don't know what a dick's for?!" I got called gay a lot so I guess that's what that meant. I used to ask my parents if they knew any of these. I even started watching movies trying to learn the slang terms, most of which were very dirty. We had a day when we did outdoor activities like a track and field meet. I tried to talk to others and was laughed at by a group of girls that were mortified I was near them. Oh, they made fun of my haircut too and my hair color (red.) It would be fine if any of this was good natured but it wasn't. It was all done to dehumanize and humiliate me. One girl, considered the nicest in school, attacked me in a gym class and half tore my shirt off. I sat down on the bleachers in shock. No one did anything. I can't remember how I got another shirt. Maybe the worst incident came in gym when we were playing dodgeball. I was having fun. I threw a ball and turned to go to the back line so I wouldn't get hit. I felt a tap on my shoulder. My main bully had crossed the line over to my side and threw a ball in my face from point blank range. Everyone in the gym laughed at me. Things got a little better by only by eighth grade (I learned how to make people laugh.) I remember I got home one day in eighth grade, four years after I'd moved there, and told myself that I'd finally had a day at school when I wasn't laughed at or insulted. My final humiliation in grade school came at the year book signings. Only a handful of people wanted to sign my year book. A few of those that did signed that I was a fucker or they were sad they knew me. When I moved on to HS, it started all over again as I was one of only two people from that Catholic school to go to a public HS. I survived, though I was always unpopular. However, I did have some friends, though they eventually back stabbed me.
Right now, I'm 235 pounds. If any of those people were in front of me this instant, I'd tear them to pieces. In fact, I want to go back there right now, at my current age and size, and see them when they were 10. I'd beat them all to death. Seriously. It's why I try not to think about or dwell on this stuff.
I've lived and relived certain moments of these years in brief flashbacks. I say "brief" because I don't linger on the memories. I get mad and it seems like a cycle. Every time I go to the gym, "I'm not going to be a victim today. I'm going to fight back today" is always in my mind. It always spurs me on to lift more weights and keep a surly "You're not going to fuck with me" attitude. Every time, it's like I'm about to go to school again, only this time I'll be ready. No one will mess with me anymore. These thoughts aren't always at the front of my consciousness. I try to have that attitude in general when I'm exercising but it's always traced to my upbringing. I work out to defend myself. Maybe if I'm bigger and stronger at age 42, I can go back in my mind and come to grips with the times I was abused and pushed around because I was nice and sweet and innocent. The problem is that I've long since moved far away from where I grew up. I wanted to leave. I didn't want to stay in a place where I had been hurt so much and I couldn't go on being angry in that place, almost looking for certain bullies from the past so that I could get even. That kid that kneed me in the leg in front of the other guys because I was "in his seat." That one that humiliated me in front of the other guys. I'd go through the motions of beating them up in my mind. I was consumed by anger and, sadly, feel that I still am at times. I haven't seen or talked to any of these people in years except for one. I called my main bully on the phone from Florida in 2005. I couldn't hold onto that hate anymore. I told him how he'd bullied me. He apologized sincerely. I don't think he thought about it one day after grade school. The victims are the ones that have to live with the hate and shame and humiliation every day. The bullies live in bliss.
Now that I've written this, I'm going to state that I've bullied others, too. While I was being bullied, I tried to bully other newcomers to my grade school from time to time. Sadly, I became a "social ladder" person. Anything to not be on the bottom. I grew up learning how to insult people to get the laughs of the group for me instead of against me. Maybe that's why I went on to minor in politics in college. All that just makes me look back at myself with even more shame that I mocked and laughed at others at times so that I wouldn't be the butt of the joke. All those jokes on the Simpsons about Bart's classmates ring very true to me. Oh, and no one wanted to sit next to me on the bus and they'd block the seats to keep me from sitting there. I forgot about that one.
In closing, I'm going to state the name of where I went to grade school. It was St. John Vianney in Brookfield, Wisconsin. Shame on everyone that worked there at the time. There was rampant bullying and horrible abuse and the principal and staff never did anything to protect the students.
I was born in Louisville, KY, in 1973. For ten years, I benefited from a close extended family and good friends in my home state and I was very happy and well socially adjusted. At age 10, my father was transferred to Wisconsin. I was a little torn about leaving home but took it as an adventure. For some reason, it didn't really bother me that much to leave. Wisconsin had a major league baseball team (we moved just outside Milwaukee) and I was VERY excited about that. I remember meeting some of my new classmates (it's fifth grade) the first few days. My Dad, a businessman, told me to shake their hands when I met them. This seems like good advice to me today but I suppose it's not how cool kids do things. My handshakes drew strange looks from my Wisconsin peers. I made a lame joke about the name of one of the people I met; not offensive, just lame. I remember a kind of sarcastic "okay" and feeling that I'd messed the whole thing up. Being a ten year old that loved to play, I went about socializing and hanging around other boys on break. I may as well have had leprosy. No one there wanted anything to do with me. I was from Kentucky and was thus, "a redneck." I had no clue what that even was yet I'm from the "South" so that means I'm a redneck. I was made fun of for my voice and for my walk. Three boys got together and mocked my walk right in front of me. I suppose the little bastards thought it would be funny. It really upset me. I couldn't talk or move without feeling self-conscious, like the eyes of the room were on me. I'll put this into context by saying that this never happened to me in Kentucky. I was some sort of oddball for these people in Wisconsin (oh, and I was in a Catholic school.) In between classes became a nightmare. Bullies would come and bump into me or insult and mock me. Certain classes were a nightmare if the bullies sat near me. In grade school, we had one group and that group went to all the classes. There was no escape. I wasn't very small but I wasn't a fighter. At break time, everyone played "smear the queer." I, to my horror, was the "queer." I'd be standing in the snow with the other boys playing football. They'd throw the ball to me (I didn't want it) and then gang tackle me. I tried to carry as many of them as I could before falling. Once, I sprained a finger being heaped on. I don't know why but I kept sitting near my bullies at lunch. While I was about to pass out from my sprained finger, my main bully kept calling me a jerk off to my face and high fiving his friend. I made it to my feet and was half carried out of the room because of the pain in my finger. That took place in the church basement where there were other incidents. I was garbage to that group. I was worthless. Wisconsin schools had a Secret Santa thing we didn't have in Kentucky. We drew people randomly. One girl drew me and loudly voiced her disapproval to her friends. She had drawn the school loser. I was devastated. Whenever I tried to get into a group discussion, I was mocked. I was like the court jester only I didn't get the joke. My bullies read my notes in class when I was in the bathroom and had plenty to mock me on when I came back. They talked about sexual slang terms to me knowing that I didn't understand them. There was the whole "What's a dick for?" thing, which is I think a joke from Spies Like Us. I didn't know the answer, just that I was being abused. They, of course, said "You don't know what a dick's for?!" I got called gay a lot so I guess that's what that meant. I used to ask my parents if they knew any of these. I even started watching movies trying to learn the slang terms, most of which were very dirty. We had a day when we did outdoor activities like a track and field meet. I tried to talk to others and was laughed at by a group of girls that were mortified I was near them. Oh, they made fun of my haircut too and my hair color (red.) It would be fine if any of this was good natured but it wasn't. It was all done to dehumanize and humiliate me. One girl, considered the nicest in school, attacked me in a gym class and half tore my shirt off. I sat down on the bleachers in shock. No one did anything. I can't remember how I got another shirt. Maybe the worst incident came in gym when we were playing dodgeball. I was having fun. I threw a ball and turned to go to the back line so I wouldn't get hit. I felt a tap on my shoulder. My main bully had crossed the line over to my side and threw a ball in my face from point blank range. Everyone in the gym laughed at me. Things got a little better by only by eighth grade (I learned how to make people laugh.) I remember I got home one day in eighth grade, four years after I'd moved there, and told myself that I'd finally had a day at school when I wasn't laughed at or insulted. My final humiliation in grade school came at the year book signings. Only a handful of people wanted to sign my year book. A few of those that did signed that I was a fucker or they were sad they knew me. When I moved on to HS, it started all over again as I was one of only two people from that Catholic school to go to a public HS. I survived, though I was always unpopular. However, I did have some friends, though they eventually back stabbed me.
Right now, I'm 235 pounds. If any of those people were in front of me this instant, I'd tear them to pieces. In fact, I want to go back there right now, at my current age and size, and see them when they were 10. I'd beat them all to death. Seriously. It's why I try not to think about or dwell on this stuff.
I've lived and relived certain moments of these years in brief flashbacks. I say "brief" because I don't linger on the memories. I get mad and it seems like a cycle. Every time I go to the gym, "I'm not going to be a victim today. I'm going to fight back today" is always in my mind. It always spurs me on to lift more weights and keep a surly "You're not going to fuck with me" attitude. Every time, it's like I'm about to go to school again, only this time I'll be ready. No one will mess with me anymore. These thoughts aren't always at the front of my consciousness. I try to have that attitude in general when I'm exercising but it's always traced to my upbringing. I work out to defend myself. Maybe if I'm bigger and stronger at age 42, I can go back in my mind and come to grips with the times I was abused and pushed around because I was nice and sweet and innocent. The problem is that I've long since moved far away from where I grew up. I wanted to leave. I didn't want to stay in a place where I had been hurt so much and I couldn't go on being angry in that place, almost looking for certain bullies from the past so that I could get even. That kid that kneed me in the leg in front of the other guys because I was "in his seat." That one that humiliated me in front of the other guys. I'd go through the motions of beating them up in my mind. I was consumed by anger and, sadly, feel that I still am at times. I haven't seen or talked to any of these people in years except for one. I called my main bully on the phone from Florida in 2005. I couldn't hold onto that hate anymore. I told him how he'd bullied me. He apologized sincerely. I don't think he thought about it one day after grade school. The victims are the ones that have to live with the hate and shame and humiliation every day. The bullies live in bliss.
Now that I've written this, I'm going to state that I've bullied others, too. While I was being bullied, I tried to bully other newcomers to my grade school from time to time. Sadly, I became a "social ladder" person. Anything to not be on the bottom. I grew up learning how to insult people to get the laughs of the group for me instead of against me. Maybe that's why I went on to minor in politics in college. All that just makes me look back at myself with even more shame that I mocked and laughed at others at times so that I wouldn't be the butt of the joke. All those jokes on the Simpsons about Bart's classmates ring very true to me. Oh, and no one wanted to sit next to me on the bus and they'd block the seats to keep me from sitting there. I forgot about that one.
In closing, I'm going to state the name of where I went to grade school. It was St. John Vianney in Brookfield, Wisconsin. Shame on everyone that worked there at the time. There was rampant bullying and horrible abuse and the principal and staff never did anything to protect the students.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Poem - My Lost Love
The hour was long, I knew not when, I’d find my long lost love again.
A loss long past; days fly but die hard and fast; cursed memories too pained,
too condemned to keep, to remain ashamed, strained, aghast.
My love faded and changed, her face beautiful, perfect, unsoiled,
arranged making me feel I had once more won those timeless
days of joy begun when love’s fresh dew and warm rays of sun smiled
on our love new, pure, powerfully felt vividly as one.
Deep kisses giving way to long caresses; holding each other, the unbreakable
grip of two lovers, never wanting anything other, never separated, never alone,
never craving another.
But I knew it an illusion; my primal heart not letting go, not able to see
truth behind false fusion with woe gaining speed, breaking into my mind,
a woe on whose brain it set and and gleefully, savagely, sadistically dined.
I was not foolish but fooled, distracted, blissfully numb in the belief of a gentle
nudge of when that golden, cascading tide when we would hold each other tight
again would come, whether morning, noon or night whenever from, our bonds
too strong, our fear too great to crack or stress or sever what we had, our heightened
sense of the dread of banished loneliness unsaid. We’d die together, our hearts
and souls intertwined forever.
Then I opened my eyes to the broken mirror, a loathsome image I could only despise,
shattered in love’s cold strangle, feelings squeezed then crushed then left to dangle
in the dark light’s shadowy shine of lies; I realized her forever lost and cried.
I knew the twist, the twist fated forever weathered and withered again;
the twist never to mend, without ease, without cease, without peace,
without end; The twist that could only be the cruelest blow to my heart
there ever has been for I knew that my heart, the lost love part, would never
find her again.
A loss long past; days fly but die hard and fast; cursed memories too pained,
too condemned to keep, to remain ashamed, strained, aghast.
My love faded and changed, her face beautiful, perfect, unsoiled,
arranged making me feel I had once more won those timeless
days of joy begun when love’s fresh dew and warm rays of sun smiled
on our love new, pure, powerfully felt vividly as one.
Deep kisses giving way to long caresses; holding each other, the unbreakable
grip of two lovers, never wanting anything other, never separated, never alone,
never craving another.
But I knew it an illusion; my primal heart not letting go, not able to see
truth behind false fusion with woe gaining speed, breaking into my mind,
a woe on whose brain it set and and gleefully, savagely, sadistically dined.
I was not foolish but fooled, distracted, blissfully numb in the belief of a gentle
nudge of when that golden, cascading tide when we would hold each other tight
again would come, whether morning, noon or night whenever from, our bonds
too strong, our fear too great to crack or stress or sever what we had, our heightened
sense of the dread of banished loneliness unsaid. We’d die together, our hearts
and souls intertwined forever.
Then I opened my eyes to the broken mirror, a loathsome image I could only despise,
shattered in love’s cold strangle, feelings squeezed then crushed then left to dangle
in the dark light’s shadowy shine of lies; I realized her forever lost and cried.
I knew the twist, the twist fated forever weathered and withered again;
the twist never to mend, without ease, without cease, without peace,
without end; The twist that could only be the cruelest blow to my heart
there ever has been for I knew that my heart, the lost love part, would never
find her again.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Types of justice: No. 2 - Personal justice
Personal justice is what it sounds like. It's what we as individuals hold dear, namely our value systems. Our views of immorality and legality often overlap with our idea of justice but definitely not always. We feel an injustice has been committed when what we value has been offended. The idea of justice is one of finality. It's an "In the end" concept. The final decisions of court trials are what we consider justice, although we do see things that are "wrong" at times with the defense and prosecution along the way such as when a defense attorney accuses a father of sexually abusing his daughter (like in the Casey Anthony case.) We think: "That's wrong. That clearly didn't happen and it's wrong for the defense attorney to have used it as a defense." Court room tactics often annoy our sense of right and wrong. In such moments, we feel that an injustice has been done, though we usually don't use the term "injustice" for smaller things because we view justice with such heavy finality. The idea of justice has weight. It's serious and usually non-subjective. Morality can often be seen subjectively. What is moral for one isn't moral for another. Not so with justice. No one thinks: "The murderer got off without any punishment. In my value system, that's a good thing." Such thoughts are considered detestable by the vast majority of people as are the ones that think it. This is the main difference in what is considered moral and what is considered just. Though the two do often overlap, many traits of morality are subjective (such as certain hedonistic pleasures) while those of justice are usually not. Orthodox religious views are ones that tend to link their ideas of morality with justice. What their bible or prophets say is considered one and the same. It's like the fusion of church and state. To many religious people, church doctrine is all there is. To me, the two are not synonymous. Justice isn't blind. It's usually crystal clear. The term "No justice, no peace" is a very fitting one for society. We're often able to forgive ourselves for certain small "immoralities" and we're much more likely to forgive certain small immoralities committed against us but we will not let go when our sense of justice has been offended. We can forgive the tactics of a defense attorney but we cannot forgive a final unjust verdict because the verdict has that sense of finality. If a killer gets away with it, that's all there is to it. Can't be tried for the same crime twice so justice not only hasn't been done, in all likelihood it will NEVER be done. In such cases, we question ourselves and our system. Certain illegalities can be overlooked (like jaywalking) so long as we get the big things (justice) right. If we don't, we're driven to overhaul certain parts of our legal system. We do that occasionally with matters of immorality that disgust us (like child molestation) but we usually don't see this as being a justice situation. We don't think: "The child molester has been caught. Justice has been done." We think: "The child molester has been caught. The evil person won't hurt children anymore." This is splitting hairs a bit but you get the idea. In matters of murder, the idea is to punish the killer. That is justice. In matters of child molestation, the most important thing is incarcerating the perpetrator so he doesn't do it again. Separation via incarceration is considered the just verdict. Laws are constantly being adapted when it comes to protecting children (as they should be.) In these cases, justice and legality can be considered synonymous, though it's more a case of immorality and legality being synonymous. As a society, we don't execute child molesters. We just lock them up for good. That's immorality fueling legality. Justice is involved though we don't usually see it that way. In cases like child molestation, we usually leave it up to our views of social justice, such as child molesters being beaten or even killed by prisoners in jail. Obviously, this isn't legal justice. It's a sense of social justice overlapping with punishing immorality. The prisoners will accomplish what the legal system might not, namely a possible execution. That is a matter of the enormous concept of social justice, which I'll comment on in my third post on justice.
Well, these are some opinions of how justice, legality and immorality can intersect or be separate depending on how we, as human beings, see individual situations. It's based on perceptions, fueled by what we hold dear, of what we see as the correct way to handle things. How we see the situations is how we make decisions we consider just.
Well, these are some opinions of how justice, legality and immorality can intersect or be separate depending on how we, as human beings, see individual situations. It's based on perceptions, fueled by what we hold dear, of what we see as the correct way to handle things. How we see the situations is how we make decisions we consider just.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)