tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34701419704464567102024-02-08T02:03:19.241-08:00The Life of a Motherless ChildBenjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-68399280960879707662018-01-23T13:15:00.000-08:002018-01-23T13:17:46.288-08:00That Sophomore Year (PreSeventeen)<div dir="ltr">
That sophomore year was pivotal. I was fighting with practically everyone.The only people I remember being nice to me were lower than I was on the social pecking order. Not even they actually liked me. I think they just found me entertaining because I wasn't mean to them like everyone else. I've always had a soft spot for the down trodden. No one liked me. I had one male friend, but he was in the same predicament as I was in many ways. He went the other way in life. He conformed. He ended up being a religious bigot like his parents. I on the other hand was destined to be notorious. I wasn't going to be no factory worker. </div>
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I remember there only being two joys in my life, art and wrestling. In my sophomore year I was already taking all the art classes that I was going to be able to take. My art teacher told me once in class that during wrestling season that I was a much better kid. My grades were better, my attitude was better, I was nicer, more calm. Wrestling season gave my life purpose. No one could fuck it up but me. If I lost a wrestling match, it was because of me, and no one else. I hated team sports. That Centralia football team lost every game of the season except one both years I played. I hate losing. Wrestling was the only thing I knew myself to genuinely be good at, and I was legitimately good at it. Everyone agreed. I loved that sport. I've said for most of my life, that if my parents would have supported me at all I would have become an Olympian. I definitely would have wrestled in college. </div>
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Somehow I had talked them into buying me a letter jacket. Not sure how I pulled that off, because those are not cheap. One whole side of the jacket was decked out in nothing but wrestling medals. I won a lot. I did the youth wrestling tournaments too, and I participated in freestyle and greco-roman. In the freestyle season I went to state, and got second place. No one in my family came to watch. It was always this other kids parents who would take me to tournaments. Matter of fact they were upset that it was going to cost money to send me to nationals. Fifty bucks. I don't remember Barry ever going to any of my wrestling matches or tournaments. Not once. The town of Centralia was small. Home matches were never far away. He would simply rather just be drunk.</div>
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Nearly everyone was picking on me. That Darin kid that I've told you about. Even he knocked me out in a fight my sophomore year. They were making fun of me. I said some shit back, we ended up squared off in the showers of the locker room. Darin had a life of being beat up by his older brother, so I wasn't shit to him. It wasn't even a fight. Without hesitation he hit me right in the temple, and down I went. I learned a valuable lesson that day; tall skinny guys with long arms can punch really hard. I never let that happen again. </div>
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The only reason that girl wanted to take me to prom was because no one else was stupid enough. She had grown up with everyone else in that town. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone but me, knew the social parameters. I was just the new kid, and naive as fuck at that. I didn't know any of those kids, or their back grounds, or their social status, and I didn't have any friends to fill me in. I was just the son of a factory worker, who was nothing but a drunk. My parents didn't teach me shit about life. </div>
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I was friends for awhile with this kid in the neighborhood, who was slightly crippled. Even we got into a fight. Same deal. Talking shit escalated into a fight. There was a neighbor girl who would be nice to me, we hung out for a summer once, but I never saw her at school. She got jealous about other girls and turned mean.</div>
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To Barry I was a burden, same as with JoAnn. I was made fun of a lot for not having cool clothes. For not having the good shoes. For not understanding what was going on. Going shopping for school clothes as a major guilt trip. I had to throw straight up fits to keep them from going to Walmart. I had moved to Centralia because I was finally old enough that JoAnn couldn't exactly tell me where to live. Something about being thirteen. It took a lot of bitching, but we all know in her heart she was happy to be free of me even though it probably did hurt her feelings. She had a way about making up shit to have hurt feelings about. She simply could not control me any longer. </div>
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I remember being in the seventh grade, going to a huge school in Jefferson City. There was something like seven or eight hundred kids in just the seventh grade. Biggest school I'd ever gone too. The seventh grade was its own three story building which was bigger than any high school I had seen. It was huge in my eyes. Same story. Everyone picking on me. I had gotten into a fight, with a girl of all things. Fucking bitch was making fun of me in front of a huge group of people. That's a fight, don't care if you have a vagina. She literally wanted to fight me. Was shoving me, smacking me, the works. A huge group of kids gathered around for that one. I ended up in the principal's office of course. JoAnn got called into the school. I was sitting in a chair outside the office, but could hear JoAnn talking to the principal. I'll never forget, she told her, "Have you considered spanking him?" to which JoAnn responded, "You go out there and spank him." No one came and spanked me. I'd have fucked around and went to jail. I'd already had enough ass beatings in my life.</div>
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I couldn't stand JoAnn. It wasn't exactly a secret. That year we were living in probably what was the worst shit hole ever. It was worse than the trailer parks. I've driven through Tebbetts MO many times now as an adult, and slow rolled that house in dismay. It is so small I don't know how we all lived in there. She was married to her third husband, and he had two kids too. So sometimes there were seven of us in that two bedroom house, in a town so small there wasn't even a gas station, or a grocery store. The bus ride to school was well over an hour long. </div>
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Soon as I turned thirteen I let it be known Barry's house seemed like a better option to me. Barry didn't move around all over the place. Matter of fact, before the seventh grade was over she had moved to another farm house, out in the middle of no where, outside Jeff City somewhere. Barry seemed like a much better option. All our lives we had only ever been with him every other weekend. He had only lived in two different houses that whole time. Both way nicer than anything JoAnn had ever lived in. We'd, my brother and I, would get to go to his house during the summer, so we knew it was different living with him. That seemed way better than always being manipulated and controlled by JoAnn, when all she was ever really doing was picking other dudes over us. He would just be drunk, and play his music.</div>
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Barry and JoAnn played this game about who was the worse parent. Both sides of the family would get in on this game too. I always blamed JoAnn for the abuse I suffered. Barry got outed as the every other weekend dad. He played the victim card on that tip, but it is true the courts do it like that. All the same, they all acted like I wasn't the direct result of the abuse I had suffered. It was just easier to blame me. </div>
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By the time I got to Barry's in Centralia it was simply too late, and his drunk ass wasn't going to lift me out of the mire. Barry had a crazy temper, and he was actually capable of whooping my ass, unlike JoAnn. One time he couldn't get the lawn mower to start. He didn't even try, but for a couple of minutes either. For some reason he had an iron claw hammer in his hand. I'm not sure how that tool is used in lawn mower repair, but he had it. He said some expletive with this insane pitch to his voice, and hurled that hammer into the shed on the other side of the yard with such force that it scared the shit out of me. It crossed a forty foot gap with no arch, and sounded like a gun shot when it hit the shed. That did help keep me reigned in a little bit in the sense that I wasn't out right defiant. His drunkenness though allowed me to be sneaky. I could sneak out at will. There were times when I would sneak out the front door, which was in the living room, while he was in the living room. Like literally right behind him. He'd have these head phones on, playing his bass guitar, just drunk as fuck. Every night. </div>
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I got wasted drunk for the first time when I was thirteen after moving to his house. Mad Dog 20 20. I was puking of course. Acting a fool at this dudes house who was much older than I was. Nothing was said about it. He never even knew. I even managed to sneak back in wasted drunk. I remember one time coming home so drunk, I couldn't get up the stairs to my bedroom, so I just sat at the kitchen table and passed out. My head kept slipping out of my hands and thunking the table. They had to of noticed, but they never said anything. He was the kind of guy, that one time he found condoms in my room, and he just took them, and never said anything. I made fun of him for this stupidity. What fucking good did it do to take my means of not getting a girl pregnant, if you're not even going to say anything about it? This guy had no business having children.</div>
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That winter I was sneaking out and stealing Christmas lights off of people's houses. I literally had decked out my room with all these lights. Nothing. Nothing was ever said. One night I went all over town stealing for sale signs, and political signs, and filled this kids yard with them whom I didn't like. I thought that was just hilarious. </div>
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I use this metaphor a lot nowadays when I'm dealing with others. I had good hardware, but bad software. You know what I mean? I was like a modern day fancy computer, up to date technology, but was running Windows 3.1. I was super intelligent, but just had the shittiest of software running. Malware infections. Viruses. 56k dial up with a 256 color monitor. It's crazy how bad life can suck when you don't know shit about life. </div>
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I snuck out once, and didn't come home. I didn't call or anything. I just stayed out. I was gone for two days. I had been running around town vandalizing, messing with people. I had also been messing with a girl. I was never not trying to get a girl to love me. When I finally got home Barry was furious. He started whipping me with a fly swatter. It only took a couple of swings and the rubber end came off. He just kept whipping me with the wire. I would turn to the side, so it hit me on the back of my body, and then just turn back to face him. He was too strong. I couldn't whoop him. </div>
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When that girl toyed with me, she had no idea she was lighting a fuse on a stick of dynamite. None. I was playing poker, without really knowing the rules, with a shit hand. Like back in the day though, like one of those old school western type movies, I had a loaded gun under the table, and was going to rob some people win or lose. </div>
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All of this just further hardened my heart. It really is true. If I would have had even the slightest inclination to be suicidal I would have died that year. Instead I turned my rage outward. Fuck the world kinda shit. I had no one to talk too. My grandfather had died the year before too. He was the only guy who ever was nice to me, or taught me anything. I cried for a long time in my room alone after he died. I cried for weeks. Everyone else just told me that something was wrong with me. </div>
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I still to this day cry sometimes, wishing I had a mother to talk to when my life sucks. </div>
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Looking back it was all because I never had anyone to talk to. No one ever understood my dilemma. No one ever let me have my feelings. That shit has happened all my life. A lot of people still say the same old dumb shit to me. They don't even understand their own selves, how they going to understand me?<br />
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Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-59685938203760800732018-01-22T14:10:00.001-08:002018-01-22T14:10:13.204-08:00Rampage (PreSeventeen)<div dir="ltr">
It's been one of the most common themes of my life. There is this huge gap between how I have seen myself, how I actually am on the inside, and how others see me. This gap has existed all my life. None of these people had any idea what my childhood was like. This gap made high school even more challenging, as if that part of life isn't already hard. High school can suck for people who aren't even abused. The main reason this gap made my life so treacherous is because I could never actually tell what was going on until it was way too late, and by then the next cycle of illusions had already begun. I had no way out.</div>
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It wouldn't be until my thirties that I figured out why the males had such a dislike of me in high school. I had such a low sense of self. I'm not sure internally I had any self esteem at all really. I knew how to fake it of course. My relationship with JoAnn was such that nothing I ever did was good enough. Neither of my parents, and especially my step parents, they never supported me at all. By the time I was in high school they had effectively given up on me, and were just waiting for me to be old enough to be on my own. I had been truly convinced that there was something wrong with me, and my external experiences only ever confirmed this. How could I know that girls liked me and thought I was attractive? Girls don't just come out and say those things. Even if they had, I wouldn't have believed them. So of course, all the dudes were jealous. Particularly the alpha males. </div>
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I'll give you an idea of the hate. One of the real issues was simply my total lack of social awareness, and the nature of the people I was dealing with. I was always the new kid too. Being the new kid ensured I was at the bottom of the pecking order. On top of this the ignorance that JoAnn had enforced on me caused me to be incredibly naive. I was constantly in situations where the gap was so wide I couldn't see across to the other side. </div>
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I was stuck in life in my own eyes. I craved attention. To be popular. To have friends. So I had to risk it. I ended up at a house party one night. I had to sneak out after Barry was drunk on the Jack. It was fairly stupid of me to show up at this kind of party, because most everyone picked on me. Like I said, I craved to be cool, and liked, I risked the danger. This party was not in town either. Obviously when the people who are known to pick on me are drinking it can't possible go any better than it did at school. I was walking around the party socializing with people who weren't overtly mean to me, being careful not to engage those who normally pick on me. I was drinking too, so inevitably I had to go looking for the bathroom. Someone said it was down the hall. I opened the wrong door. When I opened the door I saw a guy going down on a girl. I didn't really know this guy, but I knew the girl. After finding the bathroom, I told some people what I saw, thinking it was funny. </div>
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Fifteen, twenty minutes later I'm outside talking to someone I knew, and this guy comes flying out of the house in a rage. He did not think it was funny. He's yelling for me. I knew I was fucked. I started walking away, and got myself positioned on the other side of a car. He's practically screaming at me. He's pissed I ran my mouth about what I saw in the bedroom. He was totally shit faced. I knew better than to even attempt to fight this guy when he's surrounded by all his jock buddies. Without any warning he threw his beer bottle at me. Straight to the face. I managed to barely turn my head to the side, but the bottle caught my chin. Luckily it shattered off to the side, over my shoulder. I took off running. </div>
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It took me a couple of hours to walk home. The guy who gave me a ride to the party was as low as I was on the totem pole, so he wasn't going to be able to help me. My chin was cut open pretty good. I had to parallel the gravel road, walking through cow pastures, and plowed fields, all the way back to town because they were out driving up and down the gravel road looking for me. They still wanted to kick my ass. His buddies were egging him on to get me. Basically a bunch of drunk red neck kids roaring up and down the gravel road in a pick up truck. I had to lay down whenever the headlights of their truck was facing my way. Interestingly at school the next Monday he never said anything about it. Sober he was a different guy. </div>
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This is also the same year I won my first fist fight. I had become friends with this girl over the summer who was also a new kid. She wasn't ugly either. She wanted to go to a basketball game, but didn't want to go alone, so she asked me to go. Of course I said yes. As we were climbing the bleachers to sit down this senior started making fun of me. I mean out loud in front of everyone. He wouldn't stop. My blood started to boil. I started talking shit back, so pissed I didn't care. He told me to meet him at the park. I said, right now. </div>
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Someone drove me to the park. At least fifteen other people showed up, none of them my friends except the kid who drove me there. I was in such a fury I didn't care. This guy squares off with me. I faked a left and punched him right in the nose. It backed him up, but he came right back to me. I was in a fury for being made fun in front of so many people. I faked another left, and when he went to deflect it, smashed his nose again with a right. His eyes were watering, blood was running down his face. He did this weird dance while stumbling backwards, but because everyone there was his friends, he couldn't quit just yet. He was losing. He came back at me again, and I did the same damn thing again. Faked a left, and smashed his nose. He was bleeding all over himself. It took all the fight out of him. His friends told him to give it up. I was so fucking pumped. I just beat a senior in a fist fight. </div>
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By the time I got back to the school everyone knew. There was a group, waiting like a mob down the hall. When I walked into the school, someone shouted, "there he is." All these upper class students started running my way. I turned and ran. Of course, this guy was one of the more popular guys. Of course, he just had to be friends with everyone that mattered. The following Monday, I found out much to my dismay that my history teacher was this guy's mom. I didn't even know why he was picking on me. I had never even talked to this kid. </div>
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One of his friends put me to a fight the following week. This guy picked a fight with me, making fun of me, and everyone was pissed at me because I won the fight. This time though, I was no longer in a fury. I didn't want to fight his friend, but I couldn't back down either. I can't stand being called a pussy, and that is exactly what they were calling me. That guy smashed my nose so hard, when I bent over after the fight, the blood wasn't dripping, it was literally running like a stream. My little brother was the only one who went to that fight with me. He was worried. At least I didn't wuss out. </div>
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This is the same year that I got knocked out several times during football practice. This senior, David Davenport had it out for me. This guy was built like Heman. Seriously. Dude had a six pack. He was short and compact. Dude had muscles that I only dreamed of having. He was setting weight lifting records at the school. He was the buffest guy on the team. He was easily twice as strong as me. He was always trying to knock my helmet off hitting me during drills. I don't know why he hated me. He never told me. The coach never stopped him. I never backed down either. </div>
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In the same way the girls with daddy issues couldn't not be drawn to me, the other boys with mommy issue couldn't not hate me. I wasn't safe anywhere. </div>
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It was a perfect storm of sorts. I had this bad boy image, facade. I was the wounded child archetype in effect. This is a magnet for the female energy. Add to this that I was not ugly. I mean, I was never the best looking guy, but not many females have ever said that I wasn't good looking. Add to this I had an ideal physique, and blue eyes that shine. My sophomore year of high school I was six feet tall coming in at 170ish lbs. Add to this the energy of always needing to prove myself, to be competitive, to feign confidence; females liked me, and the other dudes knew it even though I didn't. I was the only one that didn't know it. I did not see what others saw when I looked in the mirror. </div>
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It was the craziest shit ever. After chemistry class, while walking down the hall to my next class, this girl would make eye contact with me. At first I thought I was dreaming. It was a fluke, but it just kept happening. She was a senior. I didn't even know her name. I had to ask others. She was in a completely different clique than I was. None of my friends were friends with her. No one who I talked to knew her at all. As far as I was concerned she was from an entirely different world. I didn't have any idea at all about the goings on of the upper class students. Yet, there was no mistaking it this girl was making sure to make eye contact with me when we would pass in the halls once a day. That was basically the only time I would see her, and she was making sure I knew she was looking at me. </div>
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This girl was fucking beautiful. What the fuck was going on? </div>
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It was consuming me. I was looking forward to her walking past me in the hall. I would be sad the rest of the day if for some reason our paths didn't cross. I would have done anything to get a girl to like me. I eventually worked up the nerve for a hi, waiting for the time we would pass and there wouldn't be so many other kids around. I had no clue how to approach this girl. None. She was out of my league, and I knew it, but she just kept on locking eyes. After I said hi to her, she did the rest. Maybe she was waiting for the right time to catch me when not so many people were around? I ended up with her phone number. It took me awhile to work up the nerve to call her too. We talked on the phone a couple of times. I even ended up at her house once to watch a movie. I was too young to have a job. I couldn't take her on a date. I couldn't drive. I had zero experience dating a girl. I was only fourteen. What the fuck was going on? How could this girl possibly like me?</div>
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I made the mistake one day of saying that I was talking to this girl to some other guys in school, and got made fun of for weeks. This one guy in particular just railed the shit out of me for believing she even liked me. I wasn't the only one who found this situation too good to be true, almost everyone was in shock. He was so fucking jealous. </div>
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It got even crazier. This girl asked me to go to prom with her. That shut up that particular hater. Turned out I wasn't making it up, but oh my god did the hating get turned up in general, all the way around. There were a couple dudes so jealous that this girl was crushing on me they were practically starting fights with me during school. Of course, their pretense for attacking me was her, it just wasn't being said out loud. They couldn't admit their jealously in such a way. I was so naive and ignorant I just thought they all hated me. This girl was top of her class. She was one of the most popular girls in the whole school. She wasn't the stuck up, too good for everyone, kind of beautiful. She was that cute, sweet, person that everyone loved, and she asked me to prom, what the fuck is going on?</div>
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The people in charge of taking care of me let me down big time too. I don't even know how to express how stressed I was about this prom situation. I'm a first born child. I stress out about any and all situations of which I have not done before. I had no clue at all what was expected of me at a prom. I'd never even been to just a regular school dance. I was stressed to the max. Barry waited till the last minute to take me to get a tux. He hated ever having to spend money on me. I think they were banking on the relationship falling through before the dance. They probably couldn't believe it either. I think they were hoping I would screw it up with this girl before the dance, so they wouldn't have to rent a tux. I had to buy the flowers too. Because they waited until the last minute, and my having such a common build, all the popular tuxedo's in my size were out of stock. I was the only kid at the dance in a pinstripe tuxedo. We all know this girl's shit was all perfect. Her father made money. She had support. She knew what she was doing. </div>
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So for me the gap is most visible. My parents didn't support me at all. I had no clue what was going on. Even wearing the pinstripe tux I had to act like I knew what I was doing. I had no idea. All these people expected me to live up to my facade. They saw this good looking kid, who did well in sports, had decent grades, nice smile. They didn't know I was a wreck. </div>
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Even the after prom party was at this girls house. All her senior friends, and their dates were going to her house afterwards. Camping, bonfire, the works. All these seniors were celebrating. Most of them had grown up with each other, and had been going to school together all their lives. I was the new kid, a nobody. We had a spot in the barn to sleep. My parents actually let me spend the night out at fourteen on a prom night. I begged and pleaded of course. I wasn't entirely stupid. </div>
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I didn't have a single friend at this party. I didn't feel like I belonged at all. I never even stood around the campfire, I just hung back in the shadows, and got drunk of course. My first prom, and I didn't win out, but I at least tried to get laid. Somehow magically I didn't end up just completely belligerent. My fourteen year old ass didn't have a clue how to go about that situation. She shut me down. I probably ruined any chance I had with this girl that night trying too hard, but I figured out the scoop anyways. </div>
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He was there too. Her ex-boyfriend was literally the most popular guy in the school. He had the new girl he was dating with him. Blond haired blue eyed dream of a guy. This guy was the best looking dude in the school. I mean this guy was immaculate. He was the stud football player. Quarterback. He was off to some big college. He was literally everything that I wasn't. Turns out she was just using me to try and make him jealous. </div>
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The mommy issues rendered me unable to deal with this. The feelings of betrayal, of being used, of being picked over. The feelings of not being good enough, when I thought for sure this girl liked me; was more than I could handle. The rage came to the surface. Something inside me snapped. </div>
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I ended up at party a couple of weeks later. All these same seniors were there. I got smashed. I was that guy. Stumbling around like a fool. I ended up laid out on the ground, just acting the emotional fool. People started kicking me. The girl tried to get me out of there, but couldn't. She got people to stop kicking me at least. That was the end of that.</div>
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Like I said I snapped. I couldn't contain my rage any longer. It wasn't up to me after that. I had no way to deal with the pain. I had no where to go. Not only had I been played a fool, I acted the part perfectly. How could I not? I somehow magically had this completely anti suicidal worldview. Killing one's self was the stupidest thing ever in my mind, so my self destruction got channeled outwardly to the fullest. Had I been the suicidal type; I would have died. </div>
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I went on a crime spree. I broke into into this kids house who was always making fun of me and stole a bunch of money. This bought gas for the car rides. I started sneaking out constantly, vandalizing, and car hopping. When it started catching up to me I ran away, and vandalized even more. I had a couple of friends who were following me around on my rampage. They had cars. I was vandalizing anything I could. Fuck everyone, fuck the world, fuck god; just fuck everyone. I didn't give a fuck.</div>
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I ended up in the projects of Mexico MO. The parents of my friends were catching on that I was a run away, and I was running out of places to go. The cops were catching up to my friends. The cops didn't like going into those projects, so I didn't have to worry about being spotted. When the cops caught up to my friends, naturally they all told the cops that it was me who did all the vandalizing, and it was. They really did just watch. I didn't mind them telling on me. In my rage I was proud of my actions. My mindset was 100% FUCK THOSE PEOPLE.</div>
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I was too dumb to be a runaway. I didn't' have anywhere to go. Even in the projects I was told I couldn't stay, so everyone was telling me to just turn myself in. I got a ride back to Centralia, just walked in the police station, and told them who I was. I was charged with six felonies, and over thirty five misdemeanors. I was sent to a juvenile detention center, and I was proud of it. Because of the nature of my vandalism, I was asked, told, to not return to Centralia. The whole town hated me. Mother fucking notorious. </div>
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<br />That town hated me so bad, a couple of years later when I was a senior, playing football for a different high school, we had a game in Centralia. When I made my first tackle they announced my name over the loud speaker and the whole place boo'd. They didn't announce my name anymore the rest of the game. </div>
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At my age I couldn't legally be held in a jail cell, so I was immediately taken to a juvenile detention center in Columbia MO.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-24227817063801367082018-01-19T17:25:00.000-08:002018-01-19T17:27:41.803-08:00Dealt a bad hand (PreSeventeen)<div dir="ltr">
My first job was at a Little Caesars pizza in Fulton MO. It was a brand new store. JoAnn found the job in the news paper, and took me to the interview. She wanted me to get my own car. She also needed me preoccupied in the evenings. I was sixteen. The job was super easy. There was no challenge about it at all. I don't remember how I lost the job. I think I just stopped showing up. I do remember this is when I started smoking. I had been at a party, where others were smoking. I was standing among a group of girls, all older than me, and they asked if I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to fit in, so I took a cigarette. Like everyone does, I coughed really hard, and they laughed at me. I had already smoked before, but it was when I was thirteen living at Barry's. When he caught me, he really threw a fit, so I hadn't smoked for years. Well, laughing at me in a group only inspires me.</div>
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I wanted to not cough when I smoked, so I started smoking Camel non-filters until the coughing stopped. It only took a couple of packs. Less than a week. Self destruction in effect. This is when kids could get away with buying cigarettes at the gas station. I remember paying ninety three cents for a pack of Marlboro Reds. I preferred to smoke Marlboro, but I needed to get my lungs acclimated. I can't stand being laughed at. Camel non-filters did the trick. I smoked a lot at Little Caesars so JoAnn wouldn't know I was smoking. </div>
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I had to get a job another job, so I ended up working at a Golden Corral. It was much closer to my house. The scene was much more appropriate to my culture too. That is to say, white trash. It was also a actually doing some cooking, which is something I have always loved to do. It's not exactly the easiest thing at sixteen to be cooking twenty steaks at the same time. I was always proud that I could work rush hour shifts and never have any re-cooks. Several adults couldn't do that. I've always been a natural when it comes to cooking dead animals. My bar-b-que is off the chain. The best part of working at that GC was the sense of freedom it gave me. I had never experienced that level of freedom before. </div>
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I was surrounded by what I now know to be fucked up people. Almost everyone partied and did drugs. JoAnn had always kept me on lock down, so this job was a really good cover for the lifestyle I wanted to live. It opened the doors to a world I did not know existed. I was still on juvenile probation, so she would use my probation officer to keep me locked down as best she could. She would call my probation officer, whenever necessary to keep me in line, but what should be obvious by now is that I am much smarter than the woman who brought me into this world. She did not have what it takes to keep me reigned in. Unfortunately being intelligent is double edged, because being really smart without any wisdom, or life experience, is nothing but troubles. I was really good at getting into trouble. JoAnn worked evenings, so as you can imagine I used this to my advantage. </div>
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I met my future wife working at that GC. I invited people over to the house one evening, and Rachel came over. I had no choice in being attracted to the girls with daddy issues. None. And they had no choice but to be attracted to me. It's interesting how the unconscious can make someone seem so beautiful. How the pull becomes a must. Stronger than magnets. Stronger than gravity. Stronger than the pain itself. Blinding. She was beautiful to me. </div>
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We were sitting on the back porch. Everyone was drinking. I started talking about the music that I love. We all know alcohol lowers one's inhibitions. This crowd at my house wasn't the rough crowd that I had been trying to impress. There were no macho males around to ridicule me. I wasn't trying to impress anyone. These were people from GC, and some local kids from the neighborhood. I had my guard down a bit, I was being honest. I loved what I call 80's glam rock. I genuinely love that music. When I was a kid in Hermann I would listen to this radio station out of St. Louis. Sometimes I would wait for hours to hear my favorite songs so I could record them on cassette only to listen to them over and over again. </div>
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My first ever vinyl record was a single, We are the World. You know, when all those singers got together. I remember living in Centralia at Barry's and literally being in front of the TV the first day MTV came on. It was amazing. Duran Duran, Madonna, Wham, Boy George, George Michael, Toto, I listened to all that stuff. I had every Madonna cassette. I would go to sleep listening to George Michael's first solo album. Oh my god Depeche Mode's Violator album. Loved it. Loved it all. It turned out my love of glam rock radically changed Rachel's view of me. In her eyes I went from being this dumb jock, to a sensitive guy with a heart. </div>
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Oh I, I just died in your arms tonight, It must have been something you said. <br />
I keep looking for something I can't get, broken hearts lay all around me<br />
And I don't see an easy way to get out of this<br />
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Oh I, I just died in your arms tonight, It must've been some kind of kiss<br />
I should have walked away, I should have walked away<br />
Is there any just cause for a feeling like this?<br />
On the surface I'm a name on a list, I try to be discreet but then blow it again<br />
I've lost and found, it's my final mistake, She's loving by proxy, no give and all take<br />
"Cos I've been thrilled to fantasy one too many times<br />
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It was a long hot night<br />
She made it easy, she made it feel right<br />
But now it's over the moment has gone<br />
I followed my hands not my head, I knew I was wrong</div>
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That was my fucking jam. Cutting Crew in the house.</div>
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She was older. She had her own place. I chased her hard. She had several boy friends too. I wrapped her up like I do. She was even messing around with a guy who was in his thirties. I went to high school with this guys son. He didn't stand a chance. Rachel was already out of high school, I was still a junior. I was just a dumb kid true and through. It didn't matter though. This would be a recurring theme through out my life, this attempting to get women who are not capable of loving me, to love me. It's a common theme among abused boys. An almost fanatical attempt to get a woman to love us.This isn't something that is unique to me, but maybe the thing that made it unique about me is that I took it so far. I spent over ten years trying to get this woman to love me, and all the while she was always sleeping with others, always, just like when we first met. </div>
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It had to be obvious to anyone with any sense at all, that my shit was whack. Even fucked up people could tell. One day at work, I was talking to an assistant manager. He loved music too. He would talk about his extensive CD collection of which I was always supremely jealous. I think his name was Bob. He was a legitimately nice guy. He was endearing in that way. Much older than I. He had already been to college. He had a certain wisdom about him. We were talking one day while I was on break, and he asked me about my life. I told him some things about my family, and why I had so much anger and rage. This was the first time in my life someone had some compassion for me. He looked at me and said, "Some people get dealt bad hands in life, and Ben, you got dealt a shit hand." I've never forgotten Bob for that. Someone was actually fucking nice to me, and not just telling me that something was wrong with me. The dude actually listened to me. He understood.</div>
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It was too late. Too late for compassion of any kind. My life was not going to get any better any time soon.</div>
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The crowd I was trying to impress were all older. They all were drunks. Initially they didn't like me, but the slowly warmed up to me. They would also use me for entertainment. There was a house party. Some of the rough crowd was there whom I desperately wanted to be apart of. These guys were legit trouble makers. Fighters. Just like me they would go looking for fights. The party was boring, so you know what they did? They went and got me a fifth of Evan Williams. Half a bottle in, and I was fucking with every body. Shoving people, being rude. My friends thought this was great. At one point one of them was holding me up by my belt loops as I shoved my way through the house. Drinking straight from the bottle. It was a preppy party, and my "friends" were using me to crash it. None of the preps were going to mess with me since I had these older guys behind me, waiting for a fight.</div>
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I ended up stumbling outside to take a piss. Just totally shit faced. When I tried to go back inside a guy had locked the door. I was too drunk to understand what was being said, but I understood what was happening. I wasn't having that, and I started pounding on the door. It was causing a scene so he ended up trying to unlock the door like that wasn't what he was doing. As I stepped in the door, he was up against the wall, like he was holding the door open for me or something. Soon as I stepped inside the door, I decked this guy right in the mouth. His head bounced off the wall, his glasses and hat kind of suspended in air above his face. It was like some cartoon shit. Pop! It was so comical to me I started laughing. He slid down the wall, and right when his ass hit the floor I gave him a couple of knees to the face. Party was over.</div>
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The next day I had to work. So hung over. I ended up downing nearly three fourths of that bottle. This guy's girlfriend ends up dragging him into the restaurant, and asked a manager to bring me out to the front. She was literally dragging this poor guy behind her. She demanded that I apologize to him. I was so stunned by this display that I actually complied. The poor guy had braces and his lips looked shredded. Top and bottom. When I got to the back, I laughed so hard. I had no idea who that guy even was, but I went to school with his girlfriend so I guess she felt inclined. I was destined to become notorious. <br />
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Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-53536962752700449862018-01-18T17:50:00.000-08:002018-01-18T17:52:47.056-08:00It's Never EndingI talk to a kid regularly. By kid I mean someone who's in their early twenties. He has an older brother who was abused, and shows all the signs. He has a different mother, so he escaped the overt abuse. His older brother though, has been to prison a couple of times. He likes to do hard drugs. He has a crazy ass partner, who we all know was abused too. This kid I talk to mediates sometimes when his older brothers life is dark. He loves his older brother, and wishes he wasn't so self destructive. Me being who I am, I am inquire a bit about the situation, and offer what knowledge I can. He says his dad is willing to make amends, wants to make amends. I tell him though, it no longer has anything to do with his dad. The rock has been thrown. It's entirely up to his brother to do the self work. No one can do it for him. Most of the issue revolves around the mother anyways. Much like happened to me, this guy's mother choose other men over him. He got beat for his acting out as a small child, and what followed was a life of anger and rage. It happens to boys so often around here I do not understand how it is not common knowledge.<br />
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There are all manner of ways to describe the phenomenon.
From spiritual, to religious, to energetic, to basic laws of attraction.
It really doesn't matter how it gets described, it is happening. What I
tell my abused friends is that it's already the case, you're going to
suffer if you repress it, and you're going to suffer if you deal with
it. There is no way out of it. If it gets repressed, you're always going
to be ignorant of why you suffer. If you deal with it, you'll know why
you are suffering, and that sets one free. The truth, sets one free, this dramatically lessens the suffering, but
grieving is a life long process.<br />
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A couple of days ago I put on one of Louise Hay's affirmation video's on YouTube, and listened to it while I cleaned house. I get tired of chanting in my head, so I decided to let her soothing voice do the work. The order of the affirmations pretty much follows her book, <i>You Can Heal Your Life</i>. When she got to forgiveness, something inside me clicked. I felt a change. This started a chain of synchronicity. My emotions, or feelings, or both, stirred deep within. I started to cry at the sink. Next thing I know I was calculating how to get that kid over to my house because he likes to smoke weed. So there I was, confirmation I've been put in my feels, because my psyche was calculating how to stop the pain. I stamped it out; I'm not mind altering. I'm riding this one out.<br />
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"My peers, lately, have
found companionship through means of intoxication—it makes them
sociable. I, however, cannot force myself to use drugs to cheat on my
loneliness—it is all that I have—and when the drugs and alcohol
dissipate, will be all that my peers have as well." Franz Kafka<br />
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Ask, and you shall receive. I asked for it, and I got it.<br />
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Remember that I said, when you have mother issues, it is the woman you love who will be the trigger of the unresolved emotional trauma? It will be your girlfriend, or wife, or faux mom, who stirs the pot. For me it is my wife. It's just a fact of life if one has unresolved trauma; one is going to manifest the people who trigger the pain. The unconscious wants to bring about healing, so like I said above, one is going to suffer regardless.Whether one chooses to deal with the triggers doesn't matter to the unconscious; it's going to manifest regardless. <br />
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Due to my sobriety, and my conscious choice to deal with my feels I have in effect caused myself to be more vulnerable than I have ever been in my life. The resent books, the synchronizing events, are all bringing about the intense feels. I am approaching true grieving. Having recently learned that I've never properly grieved, grieving is imminent. But thinking about grief, reading about it, doesn't heal the wound. The studying is like the first step, a baby step at that. What needs to happen, what must happen, what is happening is a real life experience, with a real life person, and my wife never lets me down.<br />
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I'm not going to talk about my wife too much personally, because the truth is it's none of your business. The severity of my mother issues renders it impossible for me to be able to tell what is really going on anyways. The best way to explain it is, I'm two different people. On one hand, I am in total control of myself, but on the other hand I'm a panic filled terrified child. If I'm single, read here, not in love with someone, I have psychic abilities, and operate at a high level of awareness, but the second I love a woman, in regards to that woman, like I said, panic filled, terrified child. I in effect, lose all of my psychic and mental abilities. When in love I cannot tell what the fuck is going on. I've heard this is common for anyone in love, so I must assume having these crazy ass mother issues that it is amplified considerably. It makes what should be glorious times, into terrifying ones. <br />
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For instance, say I call my wife, and she doesn't answer, my mind will immediately go to worst case scenario without even a blink. Who is she talking to? What is she doing? What is going on? Why didn't she answer the phone? Say my wife is talking about how much she loves me, then gets home later and seems cold and distant. What happened? What did she do? Why is she cold? Where did my love go? Panic stricken terrified child. The triggers are endless; the fear is real. She doesn't have to do anything wrong. So like I said, there is no reason to talk about my wife because I wouldn't know what is going on anyways. It could be anyone. It has nothing to do with my wife. It has been every woman I've ever been with.<br />
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It's important to realize this has nothing to do with thoughts. I can think all I want that she is doing nothing wrong. Matters not. I am dealing with unresolved emotional content. <br />
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This is something that I have carried with me all my life. It has taken a tremendous amount of inner work to even get to the point where I can do this. In the past, the only relief has been to be single, to create incredible ego defenses, walls as they call them, or to maintain such a level of control that I know for certain what is going on at all times. Let me tell you, all of this requires a shit ton of energy. Luckily a childhood of trauma provides just that. <br />
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First the Louise Hay trigger. Then the wife trigger. Shit fuck. My chest is tight. I feel panic, fear, creeping in all around me. It is all around me. I feel out of control. I feel like I'm going crazy. I've got no outs, no drugs, no alcohol, no friends. Just me, myself, and my feels. No one is coming to save me. Down into the dark I go. <br />
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I get on Facebook. It's my only source of news. Got to keep up on the shithole. I'm a member of a group that is about recovering from childhood trauma. The person who runs the group did a live video, and what do you know, it was about triggers, right at the top of my feed. I give it a listen. She talks to the fact that if one wants to heal from trauma they must use their triggers as a guide. She says a trigger is a sign of where the past unhealed trauma lies. By avoiding triggers one is basically avoiding growing up. You see, no one is responsible for how we feel. I don't even get to blame the woman that gave birth to me at this point. This shit is mine. <br />
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I think this is part of it. It must be the case. I was only seventeen
years old when they put me in the hole. There is no way I dealt with that emotionally, properly. Anyone who has seen photos of me says that I look totally different after that experience. All alone. No friends. Months
and months alone in a cell, trapped like an animal, pacing, talking to myself; no one was coming to save me. It seems as though part of me died in there. My own mother turned her back on me. <br />
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The feels are crazy. Maddening. How many times was I abandoned? How many times was I left in the dark? How many times was the shit beat out of me and she never came to save me? How many times did she leave me alone with those men? It's literally a physical sensation. Tight chest, feeling panicked. Terrified. No where to go. No where to hide. No one can help me. No one to blame. This is between me and my own body, my own psyche; this is my life. I lock myself in the bedroom. I tell myself I"m not going to die. I feel like I'm going to die. <br />
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Where is she? Where is my mother? Gone.<br />
I am motherless.<br />
I just cry and cry, and cry some more.<br />
I just want a mother.<br />
I just want to fill this hole.<br />
Where is she? Where is my mother? Gone.<br />
Motherless this life of mine.<br />
Just pain, and pain, and pain on pain<br />
I rock myself, I clench my fists.<br />
I just want this pain to end.<br />
Where is she? Where is my mother? Gone.<br />
It's never not the case<br />
I've seeked and sought, and used my force.<br />
Nothing but triggers to stir the pain.<br />
I am this hole<br />
Where is she? Where is my mother? Gone.<br />
The rock has been thrown.<br />
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I'll never stop crying about not having a mother. It's not something one gets over. There is no moving on. Self medicating doesn't work. There's no positive spin to spin. Some days are just better than others. The woman who gave birth to me is still alive, but that is not my mother.<br />
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“Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?”
―
John Keats<br />
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The pain of my life has awakened me. I can't imagine having woke up had I had a "good" life. I'd be watching TV, voting for Obama, working some shit job making some asshole rich. I can't say it hasn't been terrifying. All I can say is; I'm wide awake. The day is coming, sooner than later, when I will bridge that gap: I will fill this hole myself. That is my only concern in life.<br />
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It's just that today I'm going to cry.<br />
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I'll never forget watching that food documentary. It was about this farm to table chef on the east coast. You see, at first I was like, damn! this guy is fucking handling business. Wife, kids, jogs before work, running this crazy ass restaurant, but then the tears. Half way through the show, while interviewing the chef, he teared up talking about how his mother died when he was a young child. Turns out all he was doing was covering up his pain with his work. His marriage wasn't good. He was so busy there's no way he spent time with his kids. His job was his life. He openly admitted to being a screamer with his staff. An addict without the drugs. For all we know he used drugs, it's not like he was going to admit to his bullshit on a documentary about his "success." Everyone praising him for his seeming success.<br />
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Not this guy. I know what it is to not have a mother. <br />
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<br />Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-8806632565309270242018-01-17T11:11:00.003-08:002018-01-17T11:31:26.473-08:00The Schism<div dir="ltr">
There is a fundamental property of the average human mind in this culture, and that is duality. I'm not wanting to go into this concept deeply, but there are root causes in Western culture for this type of thinking. I'm saying this because it is not the only way to think. Dichotomy. Us versus them. In this mode of thinking, which I assume almost everyone reading this will have, everything can be divided up into two things, and that is what I'm doing here. It is a dichotomy. It is us versus them. </div>
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There are two types of people, those who repress, and those who feel. Just like good and bad, there is a sliding scale upon which we can measure. There are those who are totally repressed, and there are those who are totally in their feels, and there are all the positions in between. And of course, people fluctuate between the two. The issue is when we break it down into simply repressed versus feeling we've turned something which in reality is extremely complex into something that seems simple simply because we worded it simply. Yet, it is simple, when we get right down to it, the ingredients are simple that is, but the mixture is complex. It's both. In describing the phenomenon there is no dichotomy, but in reality there is. Like salt water. It's just salt, and water, there is no opposition, but once they get mixed together, separating them becomes a chore? It requires some processes, effort, and energy, to unmix the two. </div>
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I laughed so hard. We were in the midst of a painful talk, and it was the perfect distraction. The conversation had turned dark. I was asking my grandmother to tell me stories about when I was a child, trying to take it away from the darkness a bit. A couple of months ago upon my request she mailed me some photos she had of me as a child. The wife was wanting to know what I looked like as a child. My favorite photo sits next to my screen as I type. In honor of that little boy inside, we mischievously smile at one another. I've got the same shit eating grin on my face, the same ornery look in my eyes, then as I do now. That part at least did not get beat out of me. I don't mind saying it at all; I was a cute ass little baby. Grandma told me that I was not always easy to deal with. I told her to pray for my wife, laughing, because I still am that exact way. The wife is still trying to figure out how to get me to do things without being able to tell me what to do. </div>
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Grandma told me about this time they bought me this shiny metal dump truck, and I had taken it outside to play. When it was time to come inside, they told me to bring the truck in, but I refused. For days I refused. Now I know what some might think, all babies go through a stage where they are defiant, but I'm telling you, still to this day; I cannot be told what to do. My grandma was referring to the fact that my whole childhood I was difficult. After days of refusing to get the toy truck and bring it inside, grandpa threw it away. I was laughing so hard. My grandma is still trying to get me to bend, at least for a job she says, my life would be so much easier she says; nope, no fucking way. Laughing so hard. This poor woman couldn't even get me to listen as a baby. Poor woman is still trying. </div>
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When I get a job, within the first week there has to be discussion about not telling me what to do. I can be asked, but no one can tell me what to do. I won't fucking do it. I worked for five years once for a guy that screamed at everyone. He never raised his voice to me once. Fuck that. By agreeing to work at a job, I am agreeing to perform certain previously agreed upon tasks in exchange for certain goods (money), and that is it. I do not agree to any other forms of social bullshit. I'm sure most of you are aware that there is this certain idea that people who pay others money own them or something. It's practically automatic in this culture. Centuries of farming humans for a paycheck has taken it's toll on the human psyche. Ya, fuck that. I'll be homeless and without. No one owns me. I never signed no social contract. A gun is required if you're going to tell me what to do. My poor grandmother thinks my life would easier if I just bowed down a bit, conform, but I told her, it appears to me to be obvious that I was born this way. Laughing so hard. </div>
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She told me another story when I was about four years old. I was riding a big wheel in the drive way. A preacher man had come to visit, and was walking in my lane. There was a small hill, maybe fifteen feet long that went up to a garage. It was like a y, connecting to the main driveway. I would ride the big wheel down the little hill onto the flat stretch of the drive way. My grandmother said she couldn't remember exactly what I said to him, but it embarrassed my grandfather terribly, because I cussed at the preacher man. She said it was something that I must have heard from Donnie. She said they made sure I wasn't around after that when this preacher man would come to visit. Oh my god I was laughing so hard. It appears I was born to put preacher men in their place. He probably told me that I should watch where I was going, or some such, and I bet money I let him know he should watch where he was going. I laughed so hard. No one tells me shit.</div>
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These stories from my childhood made me feel such love for my Self. I stayed true to at least that. Still to this day; no one tells me shit.</div>
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Could we not easily say, that those who conform, are repressed?</div>
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It seems to me, that within my own family, I am the black sheep. I am the one who did not conform. Fortunately for me, but unfortunately too, in my family I'm the only one. I will agree that my own psyche repressed a great many things, but I did not repress in the name of conformity. I don't remember as a child making a decision to not remember the traumatic events. My psyche did that on it's own. This is a different thing than an adult refusing to see the facts at hand. So here, we come to a crux in the conversation. Conscious repression, and unconscious repression. There seems to be a vast difference between deciding to repress one's self, and it happening automatically. This is where I am drawing a line in the sand.</div>
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Once upon a time I made a conscious decision. It wouldn't be for many years that I discovered this tactic being used by others. The Alchemists call it turning lead into gold. It's when you take the shit of your life, and turn into something useful. In my own life, all I seemingly had was shit, so in a certain way it wasn't that difficult for me start turning things, my "negative" qualities, into something useful. Don't forget, that from my own perspective, I believed that I was fucked up, and that something was wrong with me, so from that vantage point it was all shit. Just like these stories of me as a child not being able to be told what to do. All these repressed people thought something was wrong with me for not conforming. Why wouldn't I do what I was told? According to them, something was wrong with me, for simply being who I am. </div>
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Why weren't they figuring out a way to get me to what they wanted without using commands? </div>
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In a certain sense, particularly as an adult, it's not that hard, to be a non conformist with this kind of personality. One could say that it comes natural, so of course it's easy for me. Well, that is true, but there are a great many heavy prices, consequences too. Being a non-conformist hasn't been easy even though it seems to come natural. It has still required work, because I as a monkey, that is to say, my body, wants the approval and affection of others. I got beat as a child for not conforming. I've lost out on countless opportunities that others gained easily because they conformed. Money is also a primary driver of conformity. If I don't bow my head like most everyone else, I don't get to have nice stuff. Unwilling to put up with dumb bullshit, there are literally millions of jobs I simply cannot do. Seems to me, from this vantage point, most adults are still acting like children, am I right? Eat your meat, or you don't get any pudding. I've gone without a lot of pudding.</div>
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It lifted my heart so much hearing those two stories from my childhood. When I look at this photo, staring at little me, with that glint in his little eyes. </div>
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What I've noticed as someone who doesn't consciously repress is that people are always asking me to act differently for their sake, so that they do not have to feel, but they never want to act differently for my sake. How is anyone else, any more important than me? So you can see, here now, clearly, this is the foundation of almost all the shadow work that I do. The very second, the millisecond, someone acts as if I should be different so that they can be more comfortable in their own skin, that is the exact millisecond I demand the same from them.</div>
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If you've never heard the term shadow work, this is a Carl Jung concept. The Shadow is the aspect of one's personality that is repressed. It is the part of one's Self that one denies. So when I say that I do shadow work, what that means is, I cause people to deal with their repressed aspects. It is hard work. As you can easily imagine this is not something people enjoy. And since literally everyone has consciously repressed their feels, they all give me that millisecond. Matter of fact, if one becomes a full time shadow worker, one will not have any friends. This entire blog is shadow work. I'm writing about the things, no one wants to talk about. Yin/Yang. I'm not making any friends.</div>
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Remember my grandmother asking me not to say anything in a book that would cause others pain? She was attempting to protect my brother, but the issue at hand is they are both repressed, and consciously so. It's a conscious choice they make every day. They do not want to face the darkness of their lives. My brother will gladly point out how fucked up everyone else is, but the second I point out that he is fucked up, he will turn his rage towards me. He can easily admit when others have been abused, but he will not admit that he was abused. This is classic shadow projection. The issue here, is, that shadow work is exactly what he needs, but no one is doing it for him. Grandma needs it too. His rage prevents anyone from getting too close. He and I have literally been in fights. My grandmother will turn cold as ice the second I put her in her feels. They are not the only ones consciously repressing their feels. They are just the ones in this particular story giving me that much needed millisecond.</div>
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This is what makes me a shadow worker. I know my own rage well, I've never repressed it, so I do not fear my brothers rage. I too can turn cold as ice, I don't repress that either, so it does not bother me to walk on ice. I know how to swim. </div>
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Good and bad. We can always divide it up into good and bad, or here, right and wrong. Who is right? Who is wrong? My brother will tell you he is right. He will go about naming all the ways that I am fucked up in his eyes, to discredit what I am saying, so that he does not have to feel his feels. One time I prevented him from drinking and driving, and all he did was talk about me being high. I must be wrong, because if he can't make that the case, he will be forced to deal with his feels. He was not prepared to own up to the fact that he was a drunk. </div>
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So perhaps its time to acknowledge another duality; ignorant and knowledgeable. We all know how it goes if you tell someone to their face they are ignorant. Oh well. Facts are facts. It's a well researched fact that repressing ones feelings and emotions is not healthy, and that it causes all manner of side effects that are detrimental to life. So it logically follows that anyone doing so, must in fact, be ignorant. It is also extremely easy to make the argument that to be human is to feel, and have emotions, so anyone consciously repressing these qualities is not living fully human so to speak. How can that be good? or right? They are not in touch with their own being. How can this be a good thing? So why doesn't my brother acknowledge that he was abused too? Because it hurts. He has to maintain this self image that he is not fucked up. Unfortunately for him, that is my favorite image to smash. </div>
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I said to her, why must I not do what I do, for his sake, when he is unwilling to do what I say, for my sake? He gets so completely in his feels that I say it like it is regarding his parents that he practically goes crazy. That is the state of his feels. Why are his repressed feelings more important that my unrepressed feelings? We all know the answer. They are not. And here we can see what is going on in the world. The repressed feelings people outnumber the unrepressed, or better yet, spontaneous feeling people greatly, and are completely dominating the culture. </div>
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I'm here, now, letting you know, your feelings won't kill you. No matter how badly you hurt, no matter how fucked up it is, you can face it, face your own feels, and it won't kill you. I do it all the time. There is nothing special about me. I stay in the dark more than the light in a certain way. The issue will be all the repressed people criticizing you, and telling you they know, and you don't. Telling you to get over it, move on, grow up, take medication, think positive. Some will be so bothered by it they will punish you, and that is the real issue. What could kill you, is a repressed feeling person. Look around, they are straight deadly.</div>
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Historically speaking, this is a heretical concept. The idea here is that the truth comes from within, and not without. Conscious repression is actually an outward fixation. It's conforming one's self to the dominate culture. It's an admission that the truth about how one should be is out there. I say fuck that. The truth about how one should be is within. Honor ones self, listen to your own inner voice, your own inner knowing. A couple of hundred years ago expressing this would have gotten me strung up by the church. Burnt at the stake. They would literally burn me alive for those few sentences. The Church repressed everyone, claiming they were the authority over how one should be, and to disagree was a death sentence. This is exactly what happens to us as children, we are forced to conform, or die. Death here, being the withholding of love, which seems like death to a child. That is a fractal my friends. That is the gist of it all. I never really listened to any external influences about how I should be, or live, despite all the hating. Whenever I did listen, I paid a price in regards to my own soul. </div>
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Nearly all these people have been doing exactly that, killing their own souls, conforming to how they were told to be.</div>
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Which one are you?<br />
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Sadly, depending on how repressed one is, at first, one's feelings and emotions will be immature. The point is to start growing up. Repressing one's feelings and emotions so that one can better perform in the culture is not growing up. That is literally just domesticating one's self. Fuck that. Everything one needs is already within.<br />
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“A warrior must cultivate the feeling that he has everything needed for the extravagant journey that is his life. What counts for a warrior is being alive. Life in itself is sufficient, self-explanatory and complete. Therefore, one may say without being presumptuous that the experience of experiences is being alive.”
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Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-22923974819245890602018-01-16T16:53:00.002-08:002018-01-16T16:53:46.912-08:00No Wonder (Childhood Memories)<div dir="ltr">
I broke down and made the call. I simply need more info. I can't simply guess. Part of the recapitulation process is just knowing the logistical facts. You know, I lived here then, then moved there, and so on. So I called her mom. She's the only one I can talk to without it just being over the top confrontation. My grandmother is the only one who will speak to me even though we do not agree about life. She does pray for me every day. I'm her oldest grandson. I can tell it bothers her, but she won't say no. I asked her to tell me stories. I could tell it was uncomfortable for her, the questions I was asking. It's not an easy story, but like I said, she wasn't refusing to tell me what I asked.</div>
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I've been saying the affirmations. Say it with me; I forgive these people for not being who I wanted them to be. I've spent so much of my life in rage. That is not an easy statement to make. Not and mean it.<br />
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So naturally, synchronistically, I got exactly what I asked for. You see, part of that affirmation is understanding they were people too. They were once little children too. Just like me they needed love. So this story isn't only mother fuck them. I'm not that much of a fool. This universe isn't spinning around me. Life is complex. I just seem to take it further than most. Albert Camus once said, "Always go too far, because that is where you'll find the truth." That's my shit right there. I love to run things right into the ground, smash them to pieces, to see what is what, even my own mind; even my own feels. If rage it is, then rage it will be. I ran it into the ground. I say we have to do both, be the rage, but we have to also forgive.<br />
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I had to explain to her, that during my studies I learned that it is typical of people violently abused to not develop memories. I simply do not remember my childhood. <br />
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She did make a condition though. Before she would answer questions she made me promise not to put anything in a book that would hurt any family members. She was referring to one of my brothers. When Donnie died, I publicly said it was a good day it not so nice a way. From my vantage point he played a primary role in smashing my life to shit after all. Pretty much my whole life has been; fuck that guy. One of my brothers saw my public display and was upset. He called grandma to talk about it. My grandmother cannot stand to cause people pain. Me? Not so much, and this is obviously an area that her and I do not agree on. I will most definitely hurt someone's feels right to the face without batting an eye. So her condition was that I not say anything to upset my brother. She wasn't wanting to tell me anything about Donnie, but she ended up telling me something about him anyways. <br />
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My grandmother told me that when Donnie and Doug were young, Doug still being a baby in diapers, their mother put them out on the front porch, and locked the door. Grandma said they never saw their mother again. Mother fucker. Mother fuck. Mother fuck that guy, and yet....I felt sick inside. How could anyone do that shit? No wonder this fucking guy was like he was. No fucking wonder he threw me under the bus. He was young when he married JoAnn. Fuck. Kids who aren't even outright abused don't know what the fuck they are doing in their twenties. No one does.<br />
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I know the feels. Most of my issues in life were about my own mother, and had nothing to do with anyone else. The relationship between a boy and his mother is life itself. I've always known there is a separation there. I've always held my mother accountable. He was not responsible for me. She was responsible for me. No fucking wonder this guy was the way he was. No wonder he was with a woman like her. No wonder his brother Doug drank himself to death. Donnie basically did too. That fucking Jimbo guy? Never had a chance.<br />
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Mother fuck. <br />
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I've studied abused people pretty much my whole life, first hand, with my own eyes. I'm that guy who is always paying attention to almost everything, calculating, evaluating, measuring everyone up. The violence of my childhood made me hyper-vigilant to my proximity. I capitalized on my gains. I used my powers to my advantage. I've spent over a decade now studying abused people as a professional would. I also study those who study them professionally. People like Alice Miller, John Bradshaw, and Thomas Moore. People who've spent their careers counseling abused people. I've read hundreds of books written by professionals of all different kinds.<br />
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I always knew his childhood could not have been good. Mother fuck. God damnit mother fuck.<br />
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I could hear the pain in my grandmothers voice when she talked about some of the things I had done that had really stressed her out. She talked about the time when I ran away. She thought that I might have gone to her house and was hiding in the woods. She told me she went back to the woods and just yelled and yelled for me. This made me cry. I was no where near those woods.<br />
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You see, when it really gets down to it my grandmother has no idea how fucking crazy I am. All these crazy situations I've written about, she knows nothing about. She would be terrified if I ever let out my demons. She would think I was a demon. I told her, that I did what any violently abused male would do when I was young. My life followed that trajectory nearly perfectly. So did his.<br />
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No wonder this guy was the way he was. Can you imagine your own mother putting you outside as a small child like that? There's no way life goes well after that. His father was a drunk piece of shit too. What must his childhood have been like? On and on this shit goes. Here where I live; it is the fucking norm.<br />
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My line ended with me. I made sure of it. Mother fuck.<br />
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I forgive these people for not being who I wanted them to be. Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-6795641504429027152018-01-03T12:28:00.000-08:002018-01-03T15:39:56.002-08:00A Recent Manifestation<div dir="ltr">
One of the things about me is that I do not keep track of time, or days consciously. I put zero mental energy into time. My unconscious keeps me on track. When did this particular story start? I've no freaking clue. Maybe a month ago? Maybe two? Fuck if I know. It apparently doesn't matter. This one isn't going to be easy to tell because as we all know life is complicated. The shit is all blended together as far as I'm concerned. This is one of the issues with living a spiritual life; there is so much going on at any one time that life becomes incommunicable. Here a myth, there a myth, everywhere a myth myth. When it is consciously realized that life is a dream, it becomes a symbol within a symbol. This creates the issue of where to begin this particular story. So much was going on. Still is. It's not over yet either. I crossed a significant threshold though, and I want to share it before it's gone to the next. I have no intention of slowing down.</div>
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I'm forty two years old now. Once upon a time I was talking to someone in their mid twenties, whose trauma was, like mine, the definition of their life. The twenties are incredibly dark years when one was systematically abused as a child. If we were forced to compare lives this persons childhood was considerably worse than my own. Way worse actually. She was complaining about still having to deal with it. I laughed a little bit, but wanted to cry. If only she knew. I tried to tell her it was something she was going to deal with for the rest of her life, but she didn't want to hear that. I tried to tell her the brain is still developing all the way into the mid thirties. Life changes when this happens. Real growth takes place. She's duped. The culture tricked her into thinking shes an adult already. She already knows, doesn't this sound familiar? We all think we know what's up in our twenties. What a lie. Like I said, I'm into my forth decade now, and the trauma is still the defining characteristic of my life. It's still in my unconscious, my body, projecting onto the world.</div>
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There is a very simple explanation for this, but it's not time for that yet. I'm going to drop that at just the right time. I followed my game plan as best I could. Before even attempting to get into my feels I had to get my mind right. I had to learn how to think. I had to educate myself thoroughly. I had to solidify my ego in the appropriate way. All of these things are well documented. The issue is that they are all processes, and they take a considerable amount of time because each of the steps in each of the different processes require experiences. They require interactions with other human beings. It requires synchronicity. There isn't a straight path either. </div>
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This little stretch of my life began when my wife told me to read a book by Louise Hay titled <i>You Can Heal Your Life.</i> Just so happened this book came to me when I was writing in my Metaphysical Monkey blog about the unconscious. That is what this book is about; talking to your own unconscious in a loving way. Reprogramming yourself autonomously. I've read more than a few books about auto-suggestion, self-hypnosis, positive-thinking, and the like studying the unconscious, but this book is the best one I've ever read. She lays it out in the most unbiased loving way. I'm saying that you can feel this woman loving you while you read the book, and that in itself has a healing effect. It is profound how well she put the thought down. </div>
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So the issue, having been traumatized as a child is that I am blocked emotionally from my own body. Emotions are as important as thoughts, because they are the energy. Just like one must learn to think, one must learn to feel emotionally. Another way to say this is that I do not ever actually know how I feel. I'm two people emotionally. Now this is probably confusing, because if you met me you would definitely realize I have feelings, and I express them, and use them, matter of fact I project mine into the room, so if I am in my feels everyone can feel it. The issue is deeper. I'm struggling for a metaphor. These feeling I feel are like make up. I can put them on, and take them off. I have a choice in which make up I'm going to wear. Maybe another way to express it would be, there is the real ME, and there is this facade I use.</div>
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Ever since the trauma of my childhood I've had to wear a facade, and after having had to wear this facade for so long, I became the facade. In psychological terms my inner child is complete lost. My identification became solidified with the fake me. When it comes to feelings and emotions I do not know who I am. Still. After over a decade of hard work. Sometimes this makes me quite sad, but again, that is just my facade, who knows it should be sad, but isn't necessarily actually sad. Sad isn't it.</div>
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You can see why I wanted to laugh and cry when this friend of mine was complaining about the trauma of her life effecting her still. She hadn't even begun to do the work that must be done to heal it when we were talking. So many times I wonder if I"m chasing a ghost. I've always asked this question, who would I be had I not be abused. So many times I wonder if I should just give it up and be an egomaniac like everyone else. Maybe I should just turn on the TV, dive into another video game, go back to getting stoned all day every day. Pretend to be an authentic human being like everyone else. Numb and repressed. </div>
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Fuck that.</div>
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That Louise Hay book was so good I literally felt a shift inside. The problem with healing trauma is that it is dark. Extremely dark. It is not rainbows and butterfly's. This is why I completed that list I mentioned earlier before diving into it emotionally. If I had not learned to think, educated myself, thoroughly grounded my ego in the appropriate way, diving into those emotions would kill me; literally. It would make me go insane, hurt someone or myself, tear shit up, who knows. These things actually happen to people. It's a serious issue. If those dangers were not the case, there wouldn't be the divide in my psyche. You understand? If it weren't the case that the emotions of the trauma wouldn't destroy me; they wouldn't be repressed.</div>
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This is something that Hay doesn't talk about. Talking about it would scare people off. They would put the book down. In that way her book is a spell. Reading the book casts a spell on the reader. I watched it happen to me. While reading the book I could feel things shifting inside my psyche. Not only was I reading the book, but I was doing the affirmations. The Universe loves me. I love myself. I am worthy of love. I even went to so far as to do the forgiveness affirmations. I repeated many times out loud, I forgive my parents. All of this put powerful things into the works. This unlocked doors to allow for synchronicity.</div>
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Interestingly the dream books are the same way, the psychoanalytic ones. They will talk about patients, and their dreams, but they do not talk about how, before the healing, it actually goes down for the patient. They don't give the details. They have the freedom to do so, name changes, changes in story even, but they don't. They can't afford to scare people off. They can't say, such and such, was dealing with this trauma, had this dream, and then got cheated on, lost everything, learned their lesson, and now lives a more full and complete life.</div>
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I know better. I've already been applying the knowledge and process of using current life experiences to engage my emotions. I've already fallen in love with women who I knew were going to cheat on me so that I could re-experience betrayal emotionally because I repressed it when I was younger and didn't deal with it. I already knew what this Louise Hay book was going to manifest. </div>
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I continued to write my blogs, and I continued to read books. During the scope of this story, from the Hay book till right now I synchronized six different life changing books. All in succession of need. Back to back to back. It has not been exactly fun. I've not had any fun since that Hay book. I've not had much fun in a long time actually. I've been in near total darkness for something like six months now. I got fed up with a repeating cycle in my life, and forced the issue. Darkness upon darkness.</div>
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I wrote a blog about childhood memories. I didn't know it then, but I wasn't going back far enough with the memory. Most of my life I've focused on the abuse that occurred at the hands of my first step parent. I had avoided this Motherless blog for some time because it stirs up so much darkness, but the affirmations unlock doors you see. Unconsciously. I was internalizing the fact that my entire life was a lie lived in fear. It was only my facade that was so brave, if even that. It was my broken half that did all those crazy things in my life. I ended the blog with a Shakespeare quote, "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." After posting that blog my life went dark. I can't stand living lies. The kind of darkness that would have ruined me if I had not gotten my mind right first. If I had no solidified my ego appropriately realizing my life was a lie to that degree would have ended it all. The kind of dark that makes one feel lost and all alone. What was I going to do...</div>
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Just a shell. I've still got to do what I have got to do. One foot in front of the other. Just a shell walking around. Unconscious autopilot. I go to my home away from home, and on a whim check the new book section. Synchronous style, I let my intuition do the looking, I'm just a shell. I wish I could teach people this. Can you see the difference between going to the library thinking, or knowing, "I am going to get this kind of book" versus just walking in having no idea what I will come out with, if I come out with anything at all? My eyes lock on a book. <i>Bearing the Unbearable</i>. The kind of book I would not normally read. It's about dealing with death. I pull it off the shelf and go home. </div>
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Right on time. Holy shit. I cried so much reading that book. It was the validation I needed. I associated the death the spoke of with the little boy in me who died long ago, who I've missed dearly ever since. This book shined some much needed light into the dark. The Universe really does love me. This book confirmed one of the major sources of anger in my life, all my life. Real validation for my feels. I've spent almost my entire life surrounded by insensitive emotionally repressed assholes. The author, Joanne Cacciatore, truly understands the feels. Do you know what she repeatedly says through the book? That people dealing with grief suffer more at the hands of insensitive emotionally repressed people than they do over the grief itself. Maybe that is not the best way to say it, it's probably better to say that the actions of insensitive emotionally repressed people causes more harm to the psyche of someone grieving than the incident that actually caused the grief. Grief doesn't actually harm, it's a natural human phenomenon. The coldness of fellow humans though actually harms one who is grieving. This is exactly how it went in my life. The stories she tells about how others were treated during their grief is exactly how I have been treated.</div>
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Hey Ben, Get over it, Move on, Think positive, Get some help, You need medication, Something is wrong with you! I've heard all of these, all my life. All the people who refuse to even acknowledge they were abused telling me how to deal with it. Go figure. Never not one time have I received understanding. Do you know why? Because around here child abuse is socially acceptable, and also because understanding costs about a hundred dollars an hour.</div>
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Holy shit this book changed my life. That is two books via synchronicity. Boom boom. And we ain't done.</div>
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Up and down, round and round, we go. Darkness, then some light, then right back into the darkness. Why? Because reading a book doesn't undo a life of repression. Why? Because life is a process. An organic experience. Reading a book doesn't heal the wound. It doesn't undo the trauma. Real life experience via interaction with other humans does. The books merely lead the way. They guide and assist. They provide support. Books are obviously particularly important in my life. How could I possibly know what someone who has spent most of their adult life studying grief knows? But right when I needed to know, there it was. Same day. When I first began this journey over a decade ago I considered that type of synchronicity an miracle. In a certain way these books could be viewed as the literal voice of the Universe; my unconscious made manifest.</div>
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I study a lot if you can't tell. There is always a pile of books around me. Right now one of my areas of interest is on shamans and dreaming. Shaman is a loose word though. A shaman is not only a person in the jungle. For instance, Carl Jung was a shaman. Terrence McKenna was a shaman. There are urban shamans. Shaman and psychoanalyst are synonyms. A shaman is someone who understands the unconscious and who also goes there. Shamanism is without a doubt the most intense, and complicated professions. I'm a member of some shaman pages on Facebook, which I silently troll for information. Dreams are brought up a lot, so naturally people post books. Interesting right? I love books. I keep a Google doc file for books to read. Someone asks about dreams, someone comments, I chime in, and boom, this guy gets brought up who writes books about dreams who is also a shaman. This guy is still alive. I go to the library. Nada. I go to the reference desk, ask for one in particular. Nada. Some time goes by. Perhaps I needed to read that book about grief first. I don't pretend to know the machinations of my unconscious. Perhaps I needed to get through this other dream book I checked out first.</div>
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I end up at the library on the other side of town. I can't remember why. Following my unconscious I end up in a non fiction isle. I'm scanning the shelves with my intuition and boom; there he is, a Robert Moss book. <i>The Boy Who Died and Came Back: Adventure of a Dream Archaeologist</i>. It is a memoir. Mind blown. You'll have to understand that once one begins conversations with the unconscious everything is synchronous, EVERYTHING. This whole situation is symbolic. The profession of the author, the title, the dreams. Life itself becomes symbolic, and everything is a dream. I feel much less alone. I needed this book. This guy travels all over the world talking to people, giving lectures, guiding people in their dreams. This guy does things that every single person I've ever known in my life would say is bat shit crazy, yet there he is; living the life.</div>
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What is that saying? Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self esteem, first make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes. This quote is attributed to some famous people on the internet, but it's just the tweet of a frustrated woman that went viral. Does it matter? I've for a fact, been surrounded by ignorant insensitive assholes all my life. Even the ones who claimed to love me oh so much were just that; assholes. True enough most of them weren't necessarily doing it on purpose. They, like me, are in a certain sense victims of the culture, but at the end of the day, facts are facts. Assholes.</div>
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The shaman book was double edged. Yes, I'm not alone here on earth seeking as I do, but holy fuck do I have a lot to learn still. Reminds me of the phenom big fish little pond. If I walk out my door right now and just randomly start engaging people I'm going to be so learned that they won't know what the fuck I'm talking about. Put me next to this shaman guy and I'm barely in kindergarten. I have indeed been surrounded by the most ignorant of people all my life. This ego inflation business is no joke.</div>
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I think in all I requested twelve books on symbols and dreams from the library. Still waiting on a couple, already knocked down several. Two were shit. Several of the books came recommended from a Jungian page on Facebook. One of them turned out to be one of the best books I've ever read in my life. <i>Ego and Archetype</i> by Edward F. Edinger. Same as the previous books; right on time. One of the easiest ways to know a book is synchronous is that I do not have to struggle to read it. Nom nom nom. My mind will just absorb them. I can put down a synchronous book sometimes in a single day. Edinger's book was too deep for all of that though. It took a couple of days to get it into the noggin. The book is truly amazing. I can't wait to buy my own copy. It tied the whole myth, ego growth, dream, unconscious, life into one process so to speak. It relayed a lot of information I already knew in a new way, and brought it full circle. Matter of fact it showed how the psyche grows in a repeating circle. Up and down, round and round; we go. It explains the cycle in depth. It showed me where I got stuck as a child, and where I am stuck here now. That is priceless information.</div>
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I can feel my psyche just churning all of this new information. I asked for it. I initiated the process. This is what I live for. </div>
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From the affirmations, to the grief, to the shaman, to the ego. I can feel that I am changing inside. I'm still saying the affirmations every day. The Universe loves me. I love myself. I am worthy of love. The Universe loves me. I love myself. I am worthy of love. I can feel it building up. I am going to do my best to not avoid the pain. I'm not going to avoid it. </div>
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Remember I said human interaction. Well, it shouldn't be a surprise that the one person who activates the feels more than any other is going to be the ones we love. This is a real inhibitor of growth in this culture. Everyone wants the perfect relationship without doing any of the work growing up. Well, if one hasn't grown up emotionally a perfect relationship is not ever going to happen. In my life, here now, that is my wife. This is obviously double edged. The one I love, is the one who triggers my pain. I knew this going into the relationship. I already knew how it worked. It is after all a fact of life that it is our relationships that heal us. This is why I educated myself during my years of being single. If you ever take up the idea to heal yourself, you will immediately begin manifesting relationships that are towards that end. If you don't know how to think, that process isn't going to go well. These relationships will not be all peace and love. No one grows when everything is peachy king. Just expecting it to be all peace and love will bring about suffering without even adding in the trauma. </div>
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All the while, all this is going on, my shit is being triggered by the one I love. It is a constant state of affairs. Constant. Constant. Constant. It's piling up. It's coming to a head. Up and down, round and round; we go. And what do you know, she synchronizes me a book.</div>
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I add it to the pile. I've got several going already. It's not time yet.</div>
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Half way through the first chapter my world gets turned upside down. He speaks directly to what was discussed in the Edinger book but from a completely different angle. The book is <i>Coming to Our Senses</i> by Morris Berman. The book is masterful, so I'm not going to be able to do it justice summarizing it here, but it is about how us modern humans are not in touch with our bodies, and why. Who would have guessed? That is the problem I have. He explains how when children are not raised as we were meant to be raised, that is evolutionarily, you know, with it in mind that we are 98% chimp and have been around for millennia, which is something the religion that dominates our current culture does not do even a little bit: Breaks our psyche. The psyche break came about, or I should say the scale tipped, in the 1600s when philosophy and religion decided that humans should not be animals. Think about this, everyone is incultured, thinking the way we do it, is the way to do it. This is a huge problem, because despite what anyone thinks we are monkeys. We are biologically animals just like all the rest of the animals on the planet. He clearly talks about the split in self that all of us modern monkeys have. What is important to realize is that this is the case for anyone raised in the modern way. The way this culture teaches us to raise children, mindlessly passed down from generation to generation; breaks us from our own bodies psychically. Since our bodies are our unconscious mind, this is a break in the psyche. Bad news. You'll have to read the book.</div>
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Many months ago I met a woman on Facebook from Europe on a Jungian page. This person has done a significant amount of homework regarding life. She shares books and information with me from time to time depending on what I'm posting. One topic she has studied thoroughly is genital mutilation. Shouldn't be that hard to imagine for anyone with any kind of sensitivity at all that having ones genitals surgically mutilated at birth is traumatizing, and this topic has been thoroughly studied, so it's not really up for debate. Unless of course you're arguing with an insensitive emotionally repressed ignorant ass. Well, I posted a picture of a page from this book, and shared it online because it basically summed up how and when we are detached from our own bodies during early childhood. She liked the post, and said she had read the essay cited on the page. </div>
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All the while this is going on, I'm being triggered by my love. On top of that I'm in the darkness of my life having read all these things. I wake up in the morning, and this woman on the other side of the world sends me a photo of a newborn baby being held. Something inside snaps. The gate opened up. A door unlocked. I know for a fact they mutilated my genitals. I know for a fact my mother did not take care of me when I was a baby. I know for a fact I was abandoned and neglected. I just can't remember it consciously. Well, my body does.</div>
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I end up in the bed. I'm purposefully not thinking about it; just trying to feel. Just feeling my body. I keep thinking I'm not going to fight it. I don't want to block it out. I'm not going to run away. I'm not going to repress it. I'm not going to do anything else; just trying to feel it. I sob and cry. Rocking back and forth. Swaying. Feeling crazy and crazy can feel. I end up laying flat on my back, my arms and legs going stiff and rigid, crying and crying. So much energy. My body is raging. I think to myself I look just like a baby would in a crib. My whole body is hurting. Feeling so crazy. Panicked. I can't bear it anymore. I reached out. Got to find someone who understands. I message the woman who sent the pic. She understands. She was abandoned too. She's done her homework. But then, she doesn't understand. She's giving me advice like I have not done my homework. Everyone always does this to me. They always think because I have yet to experience my feelings firsthand that I don't know what I am doing. Back into the darkness. </div>
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I don't fight it. I turn my mind off Eastern meditation style. Just experiencing. Here now. I just let my body do it's thing. Crying and sobbing. My body starts hurting. My whole body hurts. I feel as if I've been working out like a madman. It builds up again. Too much despair. It's been hours now. It's getting too dark. I reach out to my love this time. I attempt to put my feels to words. She listens.</div>
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Spent two days recovering physically. The ride isn't over though. </div>
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All I know is, had I attempted that emotional episode earlier in my life it would have broken my psyche. Words cannot describe the craziness of that experience. Do you know how crazy a baby feels left alone in a crib with no idea where it's mother is? Probably not. More than likely this culture got you. More than likely this culture got you so badly, that you're insensitive and emotionally repressed. More than likely you think it is perfectly acceptable to leave a baby crying all alone. You have too, otherwise you'd have to come to terms somatically that it happened to you. Facts are facts.<br />
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One of the definitions of a shaman is one who heals their self. I'm manifesting that. My hope has always been that by telling my story it will empower others to do the same. Most people have Stockholm Syndrome, and this is the greatest barrier our culture faces. Everyone loves their abusers because they've been conditioned from birth that it's okay. It's not. </div>
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Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-1283941912450227912017-12-26T16:44:00.003-08:002017-12-26T16:44:45.070-08:00Spiritual<div dir="ltr">
There can be no telling of this story without god. Spirituality is just a plain fact of my life. I'm currently reading an incredible book that talks about religion. It has turned out to be one of the better books I've ever read. The book is called Ego and Archetype by one Edward F. Edinger. I am in debt to this man for putting this book together. It is that good. I'm not sure how much Carl Jung I would have had to read to figure out what Edinger has said in this book. This man laid it out in a single book that is quite easy to read. He had to do a lot of homework. It is not easy to understand all that Jung was trying to say, and anyone who understand history knows that because of the culture Jung could not say everything he knew. I've learned the most about Jung's life work reading the books of others who studied him. This book is one of those, and it has changed my life.</div>
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The book is primarily about three things, the ego and its relation to the Self, the symbolic nature of the Self, and how myths when explained psychologically are a path to the Self. Of particular importance to me is the story of the Lord Christ as a psychological phenom. When the stories and dreams of the bible are interpreted as how the psyche develops a whole new world is born. Of course all of this is of great significance to everyone, but this is incredibly important to me because of my childhood. I've engaged the Lord Christ in my life for a long time now, and as has been perfectly explained to me having read this book much of it went exactly as it should have. Waking up, growing up, purposefully increasing one's consciousness is not exactly fun. It's actually the opposite. It can be fucking terrifying. There is always a phase in growth known as the "dark night of the soul". </div>
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On top of that, it always scares me when I read about how some people's psyches are permanently damaged due to childhood trauma. Edinger speaks of this. He has first hand experience of such people. I cannot help but ask myself, am I one of these people? That is a terrifying thing to have to ask one's self. I still feel much as I did when I was a child; no one loves me. By even asking this question I am giving voice to what I have been being told my entire life; there is something wrong with me.</div>
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The way I think of it, it's a double bind. Perhaps a triple whammy. Everyone, even if not abused, develops an ego, and must go through psyche work to find the Self. But the abused person, semantics; either develops a different kind of ego, another ego on top of the ego, or the link between the ego and the Self becomes broken. I can make a solid argument that because everyone in this culture is so ignorant of what it really is to be a human being, that all children are abused, so there are some fine lines about this ego business. I've never met anyone living in harmony with nature and culture. I'm sure different analysts, and psychologists have all manner of ways of describing these ego problems. I've read enough psychology books now to know this is exactly the case. Does it matter though what words we use to to describe the phenomenon? We know it is happening. </div>
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That's why I am telling my story, because surely I am learning here too. They almost all agree one must tell their story. Humans are story tellers. It's why we have a frontal cortex.</div>
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It seems to me the real break to my psyche happened in two parts, at the same time it seems. One with society, or culture, and one with god. Not only did my own culture cast me out, so did god.</div>
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My family was already broken, I just didn't know it yet. You see, I had no idea that my situation at home was not right until I started going to public schools. In my child eyes, it was all I knew, and being it was all I knew, that is how I thought it was for everyone. I remember it as a feeling, I felt normal. I mean to say that when I went to kindergarten I acted my normal, and because I thought everyone had the same normal, that I would fit in. It took me a long time to figure out why I never fit in because this assumption was just how I saw it. Denial in childhood for self protection perhaps. Obviously, my home life was not considered normal or healthy by cultural standard projections, and so it started dawning on me very slowly that something was terribly wrong with me. This is perfectly normal for a child at this age to make that assumption. All children at this age believe the whole Universe revolves around them. I had no way to realize it was my parents who were fucked up. It wouldn't be until adulthood that I fully put the puzzle together </div>
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I was sent to the principles office the first week of kindergarten. My public school career started off wonderfully. For some reason when the teacher stepped out of the room I got up on top of the table dancing, acting a fool, to which she conveniently re-entered while I was mid stride. I don't remember why I was doing this. I was probably just showing off. I was probably unable to contain my anxiety. I was probably already longing for the attention of some girl in my proximity, hoping to be loved. </div>
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I remember too, in those first weeks of school a girl sitting next to me, who asked to go to the bathroom, and was told no. The teacher said she could wait. A couple minutes later I could hear fluid hitting the floor. This was when we were all still unsure of how it all worked. She had no way to articulate, to stick up for herself, that she could not wait. She ended up peeing her pants, and I laughed at her. Donnie had apparently already effected my sense of humor. I got into trouble for this too. No one knew of course that I got beat at home for wetting the bed every night. I didn't know what shadow projection was at five obviously. Needless to say I didn't really make any friends in kindergarten. Technically I shouldn't have even been in school yet. I was too young. I didn't make the cut off date birthday wise, but JoAnn was in a hurry to get me off her hands. I passed the tests, and did well enough, so she was able to convince them to let me in. I was always the youngest in my classes all the way through high school. </div>
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I didn't do well in public schools socially, big shocker, and it only strengthened the brainwashing that something was wrong with me. I was always in trouble. Due to the fact I have never been able to remember anything actually traumatic in the first six years of my life, and the way my life darkened at this time, I've always wondered if someone at the school got a hold of me. In the city where I currently live, still in the Midwest, only a few hours from the small town in which I grew up, I've seen several people arrested for engaging children in public schools sexually. It happened four times that I know of in two years. Maybe the principle was spanking me too. I just don't remember. I do know that my life went dark. I lost touch with my own psyche. I lost contact with the Source. </div>
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It turns out, that when a child realizes that the thing being done is known to be unacceptable, that one's self worth really goes down the toilet. If everyone gets beat, and beating kids is okay, then somehow the psyche can bear this, but once one knows that they know they shouldn't do it, and they are doing it anyways; darkness ensues. Real deal darkness. This is what makes sexual assault on a child so debilitating, the perpetrators always know they shouldn't be doing it, and the child can always feel this. As far as I can tell, for me it was violence, and the man doing the most violence found it quite acceptable. </div>
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Kindergarten for me would have been 1980. It's fucking 2017 now. I watch a ten year old, and a five year old go to school every day. I walk them to school most days. It's only a couple of blocks away. It's an inner city school, and even though it is not a large city, this place has all the things a big inner city would have. Prostitutes are known to hang out at the gas station across the street from the school at night. Drugs are everywhere. Third graders are talking gangster, acting like thugs. My wife over heard a kid in the forth grade, upon being asked by his teacher what his plans for the evening where, that he was going to Netflix and chill. If you don't know this is slang for having sex.</div>
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I've learned that the people in these bigger cities are just as ignorant and repressed as those who live in small towns, they just have a trick up their sleeve. They will not be racist, or sexist, or hate gays, or eat better, and then will think they have the upper hand. They will have some trick for tricking themselves into a sense of superiority over the person living in the trailer park, the person who is one rung lower on the pecking order, but usually they are just a little better with money. If you delve into their personal lives they will be just as ignorant and repressed about what it is to be human. They will think because they dress better, eat at better restaurants, have a nicer car, do more "city" things, that they are not just as ignorant and repressed. It's just a fancier way to be ignorant. It's like most rich people that I've met; take away their money and they end up being more white trash than those in the trailer park. </div>
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This is the case at this public school I walk to; it's the same as any other in the Midwest. These school teachers are not trained whatsoever to deal with these kids, living in one of the highest crime per capita neighborhoods in the whole country, who are all being abused at home. They think that college degree makes them actually intelligent. If you ask them they will tell you they know how life works. Now I'm not saying there are not intelligent public school teachers, there are surely some, but I can promise you they are sufficiently buried in the culture and bureaucracy that they have no voice. It makes it easy for me to see, why instead of asking what was wrong with my home life, they simply said; there is something wrong with him. That is much easier to do </div>
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The point I'm trying to make is that nothing has changed. Four decades later and nothing has changed. </div>
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The ten year old is an introvert. I am an introvert. This ten year old isn't being abused like I was, and the public schools social environment is still fucking up his sense of self with their mass ignorance. He gets picked on, and made fun of. His teacher calls him to the front of the class despite his terrifying introverted fear of doing so. He has a list of things he has to deal with. I think to myself, what chance did I have? This kids mother loves him, and she shows it. For me it was even worse when I went home. I was trapped on all sides with no way out. </div>
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Most "educated" adults don't really know what the unconscious is, much less that there is multiple layers to it. We have our own personal unconscious, then there is a collective unconscious, and then there is a level beyond that. We could go out right now and find all kinds of public educated fools with psychology degrees that have never even studied Jung at all. How is a child going to manage it? I'm saying this, because if most adults did have this awareness, then it would be in the collective unconscious, and this outward pressure of ignorance would not be dictating more ignorance. In other words, if the majority find it acceptable to be different, and realize things wisely, this can be felt by everyone even if they are not aware of it consciously.</div>
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If you were born in the Midwest as I was, you would have been immersed in the most ignorant of collective unconsciousness. This would have tricked you the same as me. Profound ignorance regarding life, and what it is to be human would be the norm. I remember reading something in prison, about how only three percent of the population was actually functional. My counselor was giving me this information in his attempts to rid me of some of my loneliness. He was trying to help rid me of some of my shame letting me know that most everyone is dysfunctional. Not three percent of the prison population, but three percent of the actual population. This was one of my first hints that not all was as everyone was pretending it to be. This mentor of mine was showing me a bit of the cultural facade. </div>
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In Hermann MO, the year 2016, the recorded population was 2,366 people. I can't imagine it was much higher in 1980. This means there were potentially eighty adults at that time who would have been considered functional in my collective unconscious. Seems to me they were terribly outnumbered. </div>
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Put this into context please, for yourself. If you're in a room with one hundred people, and only three of them know the actual way something should be done; are they going to win out? Say you are at work, and there are one hundred employees debating an ethical or moral issue, like say, spanking, and only three people know that spanking is wrong; what is the social standard going to be? Mother fuckers are going to be getting beat. Make it ten percent. Even if ten out of a hundred wouldn't be enough to sway the field. </div>
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In 2016 the state of Missouri claimed there were six million people residing within. Going by this estimate of three percent, there are roughly 180,000 functioning adults in this state. Now if we take into consideration where Missouri stands as a whole culturally, I'm going with this number being way too high. Missouri is going to have a lower average than quite a few other states. Intelligent functioning adults don't tend to live in run down small Midwestern towns where most everyone is bigoted. Hermann, MO isn't where one goes to find a nice job. There were no jobs. The founder of the town had skulls and cross bones on his fucking tomb stone.</div>
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I remember getting kicked off the bus. This riding the bus business created so much turmoil in my life. I've been responsible for children as an adult and went out of my way to keep them off the bus because of my own life experience. I was getting into trouble on the bus constantly because other kids would pick on me. I have this particular personality that sticks up for myself. I was born that way. I have this crazy thing about not backing down from fights even if I know I'm going to lose, especially if it is on public display. Fuck that shit. Ride or die. I would even try to fight high school kids for picking on me. I didn't give a fuck. If I couldn't fight directly I would calculate behind their back. Because it bothered me so much to be picked on, I was picked on even more. It was a vicious circle, and I didn't have what it took to get out of it. In the early 80s the worst thing for a boy was to be called gay. It didn't take long before I was being called Ben-Gay. The name comes from an analgesic heat rub. Add to this that Donnie would constantly belittle, ridicule, and beat me for being emotional and sensitive. I got extra beatings for crying like a pussy, as he would put it. So when the kids tried this shit, not being so big as Donnie; I was willing to fight for my honor.</div>
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Every day on the bus it was some drama. When the bus driver finally took actions against me this put JoAnn in a bind. She had to work, she couldn't afford to take me to school. She didn't even have a car. Donnie used the car to get to his job, and he was gone long before I needed to be at school. She was a stay at home babysitter. I was too young, the school too far away, for me to get myself there. My life was basically threatened at home to not get kicked off the bus. JoAnn ended up going into the school with me. She had to make it work. They worked out a deal. I had to sit in the front seat behind the bus driver. If I was good I got a blue piece of paper that I would have to take into the principle every day, and then I was allowed to raise the flag at the school every morning. If I got x amount of white papers in any given period of time I was off the bus. What they did not know was that I found it incredibly embarrassing to raise the flag. I was being punished for being good. To be singled out in such a way was torture. So there I was, being tortured on all sides.</div>
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Everyone was picking on me, even the people who were supposed to be looking out for me.</div>
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When the next school year came around the paper thing dropped. I'm pretty sure it was the first grade when I was raising the flag. One day, this kid JoAnn babysat was sitting in the same seat with me on the bus. A bunch of kids were making fun of me, and he started chiming in. I really don't know how to say it. When people make fun of me publicly I can feel it inside. They might as well be striking me physically. Since JoAnn babysat this kid, in my mind he shouldn't have been chiming in. He should have known his place. He said something extra mean, everyone was laughing, so I grabbed his head and slammed it into the bus window such that the window cracked. We all know how it went down when I got home that day. It cost Donnie money that time. Money he didn't have.</div>
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There was no where safe for me.</div>
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Of course we went to church. We had to go to church. No one was a good person if they didn't go to church. Church sealed the deal. The church was directly across the street from the gas station Donnie ran. A small white church with that classic Christian feel and look about it. The steeple on one end of the high pitched roof. The classic steps leading up to the door. The wonderfully placed stained glass windows down both sides. Large yard in front of the entry. It wasn't a Baptist church so it had a much lighter feel to it. Serene feeling compared to the Baptists churches I had attended. I could feel the Lord there, and this added to the dupe. </div>
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Maybe it wasn't school that made it all go so dark. Maybe it was what I was hearing at church, while at the same time experiencing the school. Maybe it was that both of these things were happening at a time when I began to remember. The church duped me the mostest. The school did not have that energy. I can still feel the energy of churches. It's a thing. I know others who have this same sense. I'm not going into metaphysics and magic right now. My five year old self didn't know anything about metaphysics or magic. All I knew then was what they were telling me, and that I could feel and "see" things of which solidified the concept of god in my mind. </div>
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If I take the Myers-Briggs personality test, I score as an INFJ. Normally I would be quite skeptical of such a simple test being revealing of my personality, but when I got on INFJ blogs and read first hand accounts of other people's experiences of social life as an INFJ it was a critical moment for me. I cried. My mind was blown. It confirmed that in certain ways I was not so alone as I had believed. It lessened the noose that is always tight around my neck. Perhaps after all, nothing was wrong with me. Not ever really having a sense of self, never knowing who I really am, always wondering how I would be if I had not been abused, reading those peoples stories affected me profoundly. I've always had to be other than I am in a certain way in order to survive, but obviously even for the craziest of people that only goes so far. We all, even if we go stark raving mad, follow our own natures to some degree. It appears that I followed my nature as well. </div>
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Turns out that a male INFJ is the rarest of personalities, something like less than one percent of the population. A male INFJ is by cultural standards quite feminine in many aspects of personality. Sensitive, and emotional being two of those things. Those two things got me beat and ridiculed more than a little. Turns out, no one was ever going to know me. This is a double bind of the worst kind. I can't not want to be known. My heart longs for it to the point of constant pain. This hole they created with their abuse, abandonment, and neglect was too big for me to fill on my own. I was going to have unknowable qualities without the abuse. </div>
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I must find god, for it's only god who knows me. </div>
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Unfortunately, I was in my thirties when I found this out, so this INFJ information did my five year old self no good. Being an INFJ ties in with spirituality because what this means is, is that I have an ability to see things others do not see. I can practically see the unconscious activity of others. And so if we are talking about god, which is the unconscious, I have a personal window into that realm. I can see things going on that others do not notice and it doesn't take anything extra on my part. It happens naturally for me. I was never able to figure out why everyone else couldn't see what I saw. This added to the idea that I was flawed. This added to my loneliness. This ability also made my life synchronous in a way, or I should say, I could see synchronicity when others could not, and I attributed this to god. These ignorant small town Midwestern folks thought of god as some guy up in the sky, handing out punishment and rewards. I could see this happening, so it proved to me that god existed. That there was this force operating behind the scenes, and that force must be god. I knew this because I could "see"it. </div>
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It would be a long time before I figured out this was not how it works. The issue was that my little child mind could not see the bullshit of organized religion, of the culture. I could not tell the difference between the personal, the collective unconscious, and the deeper levels of the unconscious. To me it was all god. I had no way to separate out the lies from the truth. I did not know how to defend myself against this storm, so I swallowed much of their bullshit whole. This made my life dark.</div>
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Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. <br />
Jesus loves me this I know<br />
For the Bible tells me so<br />
Little ones to him belong<br />
They are weak but he is strong</div>
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Over and over again I would hear about god loving his children, protecting them, yet everywhere I went, especially at home, that was not the case. I learned that not even god loved me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-9178744932101744372017-12-22T11:36:00.002-08:002017-12-22T11:38:22.263-08:00Semi-remembered storiesI'm forty two now, but even if you had asked me about my childhood when I was sixteen I wouldn't have been able to recall anything under the age of four. I've got some memories of kindergarten, but not at home. I've never remembered the violent or stressful times, which would have been most of the time. They've studied this too. That is how it goes. Children who undergo violence and stress, their brains don't develop the same as a child who doesn't. They say it changes one's DNA.<br />
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These first four years of my life I've never remembered anything. I used to repeat stories though. I'd even imagined them after hearing them, as if to make them my own. Pretending. Imagination is powerful stuff. Of course, I had my favorites. Some I would tell, and some I wouldn't.<br />
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They lived in Mexico, Missouri. He had a job at a steel factory. He ended up working there for decades. I've no idea what she was doing. I just know she dropped out of high school. Their parents had to of been helping them even though they created so much shame for the family. Of course they had to get married.<br />
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My brother and I are three years apart. I've been told he didn't learn to talk until he was four or so. They say I would tell people what he wanted or needed. I talked for him. My brother and I have distinctly different personalities. We've always handled things much differently. What was going on that my brother feared to talk?<br />
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There is the story about Barry beating me when I was two and a half for spilling his tool box in the basement of their house when there was water all over the floor. JoAnn let this one slip. For her to even bring it up means that he really went to town on me. Him being drunk means he didn't hold back. She was needing Barry to seem a monster to alleviate her of her own guilt and shame for ever even being with such a fuck. She played the same game as the grandparents; blame the other side.<br />
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You see, I'm piecing together the puzzle here on my own. This dude was maybe twenty years old, a factory worker in a small shit town, and a drunk already. He was drunk when he beat me for knocking over his tool box. The house most certainly was a rental, and there is no way their financial status was good. We all know how money stress makes for bad decisions in life. The shame he would of had. The terror of real life all around him. He obviously would have been taking it out on me and her. He obviously did.<br />
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I thought about it a lot. If he was insensitive enough to beat a two and a half year old baby what the fuck else was going on behind closed doors? It must have been enough to have me wanting to burn the place down at three years old. I'm old enough now to know that the shit people do behind closed doors is a hundred times worse than the shit they do out in the open. This is particularly true when it comes to typical Midwest white trash.<br />
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Barry and JoAnn eventually separated because one night, when driving to her parents' house, she fell asleep a few miles from their house at the wheel. The car rolled several times through a ditch into a cornfield. Luckily this happened near the only farm house on that stretch of road. My little brother was thrown from the car, and I stayed in the back seat. All the blankets must have protected me from harm, and my brother too, somehow came out unscathed. Being tossed from the car must have saved his life. JoAnn was wrecked. The steering wheel and her got into a fight and the steering wheel won.<br />
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When people showed up, no one realized I was in the backseat of the car. Everyone was focused on JoAnn and my little brother. I still to this day cannot grow a proper beard because if I end up in a car for too long I pull it out. A thirty minute car ride can result in half my beard being gone. The anxiety is still too real. Obviously my body remembers what my conscious self does not. I've learned that when the conscious does not recognize reality the unconscious finds a way to tell the story. We'll talk about that concept a lot more as the story goes. <br />
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When Barry showed up at the hospital he went crazy on JoAnn, accusing her of trying to kill his kids. Drunk. She must of been making the drive in the first place to avoid his drunk ass. Some typical white trash shit. Somehow this was more than JoAnn could take, but that can't be. What was going on behind the scenes? What bullshit did these two have going on? No one knows. Neither of them had any idea what the fuck they were doing. Still to this day that is the case. Some day I'll unlock my body, and will know consciously, but until then I'm making safe bets.<br />
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I'm betting she already had another man in the wing. She always had other men in the wing. She was always sleeping around, so there is no reason to think it wasn't happening when she was younger. She was after all that little girl doing whatever she could to get a man to love her, which most certainly means spreading the legs. I'm not hating. I understand the plight. I'm just calling it for what it is. Since the dude had no self esteem, his wife sleeping around would have been absolutely maddening. No one would have said JoAnn was ugly. <br />
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Then there is the story about me when I was threeish. After the car wreck. Grandma Ann told this story. She said I came to her house once, and had
threatened to burn down the house so that my mommy would move back in
with my daddy. I was probably fourteen or fifteen when she told me this. I remember
asking myself, "Goddamn, was I just born fucking violent?" How does a
three year old even come up with something like that? What was going on
around me that even made that an option for my three year old self?
Hearing that story changed something in me, and while I do not remember
being three, I've never forgotten that story.<br />
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There is a story of Barry giving me beer. Wanting to seem cool. I still love beer. <br />
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My left hand point finger looks different on the tip than my right. My grandfather made a toy box for my first birthday. I cherished this box for a long time in life. It was made of plywood, with the alphabet engraved across the top, and the year it was made. He carefully painted the grooves of the letters with different colors, and stained it nice like. It was a big box too. When I got too old to play with toys I kept clothes in it. Anyways, one day my brother closed the lid on my hand and I lost the tip of my finger. It's a permanent reminder of this time in my life. I eventually lost the box when I separated from the first wife. I left it with her son. Since I'll never have children, at the time that was as close to a son as I was going to get. He once upon a time called me dad after all.<br />
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She left Mexico Missouri after the wreck, and my life continued to become more of a wreck.<br />
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<br />Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-87171270510244035422017-12-04T17:41:00.001-08:002017-12-04T18:37:26.372-08:00The last real gankYou will have to bear with me nerding out a bit to get to the good part. Sorry for ya. Deep down I'm just a nerd.<br />
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I won't lie. I'm a gamer. It's one of my favorite drugs. I've gamed as hard as I've done most other things. First it was Ultima Online, then EverQuest, then World of Warcraft, and after finally getting tired of the grind; League of Legends. I player killed so much in Ultima Online that I was famous on the server. I quit playing when the Japanese players that we warred against all the time figured out a bug and looted my house. That was a game in which one could loot the players killed. I had amassed and incredible amount of stuff. In that game, player killing was such an issue they eventually changed the dynamics of the game to get rid of Player Killers. I guess you could say I had something to do with that. <br />
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I checked out of reality once for almost four straight years during my first marriage playing EverQuest. It was the first of its kind. An absolutely huge game. It was amazing. It would have been an ungodly amount of play time if I could have, or would have added it up. Then came WoW, which was a huge step up from EQ. Incredibly addictive. There is a function in WoW that will tell a person their total game played time for each character. I added this up once, and I had over half a year played time in total. I kept playing the game long after that tally too. I had four maxed level healers, with decent gear, and a geared out PvP shaman. My brain still drools sometimes thinking about jumping into a battleground, and turning the tide in a 40v40 with the mad heals.<br />
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If only I could somehow convert all that played time into even more book reading; I'd be one of the smartest, most knowledgeable humans alive. No joke. <br />
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My favoritist thing ever was the player versus player, otherwise known as PvP. I loved for the pvp. I love to win team fights. I love to win. These games let me let loose with the competitive side of myself. So naturally, League of Legends is to me the best game ever made. League is not a Mass Multiplayer Online Role Player though, it is a Multiplayer Online Battle Arena, and these are two totally different things.<br />
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In League of Legends it's always a 5v5, with the same map, but with a huge variety of champions to choose from at the beginning of each match. I'm not going into the specifics, but the point is twofold. One is the ganks, the other is the insta-karma, and these two things go hand in hand. Ganking is a gamer term. To gank is to take something which is not yours. You can gank kills, read here other players, gank monsters, gank towers, gank wins. My win/losses in League is in the thousands of games played. <br />
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You see, I noticed playing League what I call insta-karma. Say someone keeps getting ganked on your team, and you talk shit to them for sucking; next thing you know you've been ganked. That's insta-karma. It happened so much, either my own karma, or watching others in game, that it kind of got creepy. I noticed with the video games, because so much of it was totally random, that the synchronicity was much higher, it happened much more. Who was deciding who gets qued with who? Shit was random. And this is why I know it to be creepy: It can be looked up; the human psyche effects random number generators. Happens to not be so random with the karma.<br />
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This is the story of the last time I ever ganked anyone in real life. Unlike in the video games, where the insta-karma can happen literally within seconds, in real life it usually takes a bit longer. In video games there's no real danger. No friends lost. No blood shed. No life changing karma. In real life it can get really ugly. <br />
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I don't remember exactly why I didn't like this guy. Goofy ass white guy named Arnold. I think he said some dumb shit to me like he was smart. I hate that shit. On top of this I wasn't afraid of him physically. Problem was, I was still in two house, still a noob. This house was 90% blacks from mostly St. Louis. It was something he said, something he did, he rubbed me wrong. Thinking back on it I can't believe I did what I did. None of the whites approved, but I didn't bother checking with them either. I was still riding solo. I didn't know anyone. <br />
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Anyways, for some reason Arnold went to the hole. My time for retaliation for his smart mouth had arrived. In Booneville, there are metal lockers between the bunks, and one at the foot of the bunk, out in the aisle. Whoever is on the bottom bunk, gets their lockers between the bunks. Arnold had been in prison long enough to have a bottom bunk. The bay he was in had eight or nine bunks on each side of the room, with a good ten foot gap for an aisle down the middle.<br />
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The lockers are rectanglish, about 3.5 feet high, 3 feet wide, 3 feet deep, with a common style dial a number padlock to keep it closed, which they sold at the canteen. Same kind of padlock your parents probably bought you for your gym locker in high school. The lockers were made of the same type of metal like public school lockers too, you know, thin enough if you grabbed a corner, you could make the door wobble by shaking them vigorously.<br />
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Well, it makes way too much noise to use something to hammer the lock off. The guard would hear a boot smashing at the lock, so if you want in someone's locker you have to peel the top and bottom corner down towards the middle, much like you'd fold a paper airplane. The locker had a bottom compartment with two shelves. Arnold's bunk was in a different bay than the one I stayed in, so while he was in the hole I just rolled into his bay, and started pulling at the top corner. Man oh man was I a fucking noob.<br />
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Before I even got the top corner really pulled down at all, the gangsters jumped in. Seemed like at least ten of them were swarming in like that shit you see in Black Friday videos. I just jumped into the deep end of the pool not knowing how to swim. In other words, I really didn't even get anything out of the locker. They took it all. Had no idea a locker could be emptied that fast. His prison issue shit was all that was left behind. You can bet money they had all done that shit many times before.<br />
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Listen to me, I was so noob I didn't even know these dudes' names yet. When Arnold's locker got swarmed like that I knew I had made a terrible mistake. They practically shoved me out of the way to get at this guys stuff. I was just another punk ass white boy to them. They didn't even know my name. <br />
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Guess what? Can you guess? I bet you can't. A gangster was keeping his shit in this Arnold guys locker. Said gangster was also in the hole. When said gangster got out, guess who all the gangsters who took his shit said got his shit. You guessed it, the noob ass white boy in the other bay. They didn't even know my name. They just pointed me out. Turns out there are minimums on how much shit one can have in their locker, so this gangster was keeping his extra shit in the white boys locker. That's a hustle. This white boy Arnold was relying on a gangster for protection. I had no idea who was who. None of the other whites were going to come to my aid; I had made a bitch move. Man was I feeling low.<br />
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I had to wait for the blow back. I didn't see it coming either. I thought that Arnold just lost all his shit even though I didn't get any of it. I was wrong. It was a week later when the gangster got out of the hole. Arnold had already been out, but he was powerless. He never said anything either. No one was saying anything to me. Even knowing it was me who started the locker peel, there was nothing he could do. Let's call the gangster Red, he was what they call a red skinned black guy.<br />
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The same day Red was out of the hole he was in my bay questioning me, demanding his shit back. I kept telling him I didn't have his shit, to which he asked, who does? Now, look here, I'm not totally fucking stupid. I wasn't so noob that I didn't know I couldn't tell him, and even if I had wanted to tell him, I had no idea the names of these other gangsters so I would have had to literally go and point them out. I didn't know their level of power or which gangs they were in, and that mattered more than anything. I had already made a terrible move, but now it would get even worse. One more wrong move and I could easily have half the prison hating me. I could mark myself for straight up hell. A couple of those gangs were ridiculously large, and every member would have had associations with other gangs, not to mention the Islamic Brotherhood and the Muslim nations. One wrong move and I'd have the entire lower hill on my ass. <br />
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One wrong move had already put me in tremendous danger. Luckily for me though, Red wasn't in one of these notorious gangs, he just had his own crew. I didn't know this though. I had no way of knowing. I was shooting craps penitentiary style. When he kept pressing me, I eventually smarted off, and told him that if he was so gangster he shouldn't need me to tell him who gots his shit. I wasn't the only one who hit that locker. Check mate. Well, sort of. He wasn't finished with the issue. He wanted his shit back. He tells me he's coming back, and when he gets back he wants his shit. Turns out he didn't have enough gangster power to actually get his shit back, so pressing me was his only option. <br />
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Man the tension was fucking thick. My childhood of violence had prepared me anatomically for this type of stress. I wasn't going to crack. I know for sure he wasn't coming back alone, and remember, I was in a housing unit with one hundred inmates and only about twelve of us were white. Who knows how many gangsters were in there just looking for any reason whatsoever to whoop a white boy.<br />
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There were two other white boys in my bay. They both had been in for awhile. Long haired chill type of cats. I went to them for advice. I didn't even bother to ask them for help. I could tell thy were just looking for a good show. They explained to me how it was going to go down, the house politics and what not. They ended up playing an old school Metallic song for me to get me even more pumped. I ended up getting one of them to let me barrow their extra padlock, which they weren't supposed to have, which meant a guard wouldn't know where it came from. So now, not really feeling relieved at all, I am at least armed. I now had a padlock in each hand, with the ring over my middle finger. The extra weight of the locks also helps land nice solid punches.<br />
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I could feel it. The air around me was humming. Always the cacophony. Those housing units were always a fucking circus of gangster shenanigans. He was getting his boys together. I could sense it. I was just sitting on my bunk, heart pounding, waiting for them to come into the bay. Mentally going over all the different scenarios I could imagine. How I was going to fight my way out. I had a real advantage at this time that they did not know about. I grew up getting the shit beat out of me by a step dad. I wasn't afraid to get my ass beat. Been there, done that. I was just wanting to get it over with. I can't stand the waiting. <br />
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Soon as the guard went down the hall to the rec room, here comes Red with six other gangsters. I could hear them pumping each other up. The bay I was in was a small one. There were only eight bunks down one side of the room, and I was third from the end away from the door. I had plenty of time to see them coming. Because the guards always liked me so much I had gotten myself moved to this quieter bay. The guards loved me for keeping it real as they say. The space between the lockers at the foot of the bunks, and the wall wasn't enough room for three people to stand shoulder to shoulder. I stood ready to fight in that space. Before Red gets to me with his boys I'm standing in position so they can't surround me. I've cut them off tactically. This was incredibly important. You can't ever let them surround you. <br />
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Red is acting even more gangster now that his boys are with him. His speech is dramatically gangster with his boys. I was still struggling with the ghetto speak. It can be really hard to understand. They are all fidgeting. He again demands his stuff, and again I tell him I don't have any of his stuff. That I didn't get anything from the locker. He looks at my hands and asks me why I gots a padlock in each hand, and I immediately respond, for the same reason there are seven of you?<br />
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Believe you me, I was going to wreck one of these gangsters. One of them wasn't going to make it out of that bay unscathed. They could feel it. Believe it or not, because of my fearlessness I had the advantage. With two padlocks in my hands the cops were going to get involved. There was going to be blood. With it being a six on one, I wasn't going to get into any real trouble for maiming a gangster. Straight up self defense right there. <br />
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Red turned and walked away, talking shit of course, but he turned and walked away. None of his boys were willing to fight me for someone else's shit. <br />
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It was going to be awhile before I was safe though. It was going to be awhile having to, even more than normal, watch my own back. I had some sleepless nights. <br />
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I've never ganked anyone in real life since that day I hit that locker. I swore off stealing from others. I realized then, how that shit goes. It was a spiritual moment. I reaped what I sowed. What comes around, goes around. I got mines. Turns out real life goes just like those video games. Insta-karma. <br />
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<br />Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-23909116636837782172017-11-15T17:36:00.001-08:002017-11-29T09:05:35.687-08:00Tough pill to swallowIt's weird how shit goes. JoAnn will brag about it, like she did me a favor, and I'll have to be honest and say, I guess she did, but whatever. My wife contacted her in this past year, letting her know she ain't off the hook. She just tried to talk herself up. She's always said she did the best she could, as if her best was good enough. Someone's got to make sure she knows her oldest son still suffers because of her actions. Don't jump to some lame ass conclusion here either, don't judge me. My life has followed the trajectory of a violently abused male almost perfectly. I'm not being a victim. I'm acknowledging shit for what it is. She is a pro at blaming everyone, and not taking responsibility.<br />
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Supposedly they put her on medication as a child, and it messed with her, so she prevented me from being medicated. Props. That's one of her great parenting achievements. What's weird, is that she didn't have no problems turning her head the other way, letting dude beat the shit out of me, choke me out, humiliate me daily, but putting me on medication was just too far. Goddamn these people were ignorant. Still are unfortunately.<br />
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I'm debating getting back into their lives, and let me tell you that stirs my pot. <br />
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Of all the people in my past, my grandmother is the one I have the fondest memories of, and she was the one that wanted me on medication. Matter of fact, she still to this day says that shit right to my face. I need medication. Even now she thinks that I should get something. I just tell her if I'm going to medicate I'll smoke weed, please and thanks. Honestly though, I don't even smoke anymore. Over these decades of dealing with my shit I can finally just sit in it sober and not want to die. I want to say to her so badly, "No grandmother, what I needed was a mother who didn't let others abuse me, who herself didn't abuse me." This "mother" of mine is of course her daughter.<br />
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I went many years without talking to my grandma. After I finally worked up the nerve to tell my parents to fuck off, I pretty much quit talking to all of them. I held them all accountable. Recently, though, some shit went down, and I ended up calling her. I was in the weeds. Going through what is commonly called a "dark night of the soul", and had reached out for help. Naturally, as is always the case, the Universe synchronized, and help arrived.<br />
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I basically found out that in this life I'm here to experience two things, one of my lessons is unconditionality, and the other is strength. The way it was explained to me was that it is not a test, not a pass or fail, but that it's simply what my life is about in a way. Strength and unconditionality. I was also told that I am a truth seeker, and that I bring the truth like a hammer. <br />
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I found this out by having an Akashic reading done on my life. The reading was specific to my current blocks in life. You know, the things that are affecting me at this juncture, going through another shedding of ego, read here, dark night of the soul. I know a lot of people will be highly skeptical of this, but all I can say is, I was told things about my life that it simply was not possible for the person doing the reading to know. Absolutely impossible. I spent a whole week trying to wrap my mind around it. Constantly analyzing how this person could have known the times in my life when I made particular vows, the times in my life when the storm changed directions. How could this person have known those things about me.<br />
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On top of this, the same person did an Akashic reading for my wife, and it was even more crazy, the things this person knew, there was simply no way they could have known those things about my wife. For me, this put to rest any skepticism regarding people being able to access the Akashic Records. I don't know what to say other than that I am an incredibly skeptical person about such things, and I've not managed to discredit it. I've read a significant amount of material regarding this spiritual phenomenon, from Edgar Cayce, to India mystics. It's not a difficult subject to look into. <br />
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After a two hour conversation with the Akashic reader, regarding my life, hearing this information caused a lot of things to click in my head. Suddenly a lot of things made since. There have been so many instances in my life where I loved people unconditionally, for no real logical reason. Matter of fact I've always taken a ton of flack for it. I follow my inner voice though, an my intuition simply requires it. The issue that stood out to me was my arbitrary application of this phenomenon. So naturally hearing this, I realized I was not applying this principle of unconditional love to my family.<br />
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This means I was, and have been, making my life far harder than it needed to be. <br />
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I called my grandma that same day. She had always been the one who loved me unconditionally. Even though she doesn't know exactly what love is, she falls short, if I called her, she would help out despite any dislike of my choices. It's a weird feeling let me tell you. First, it's her daughter who threw me under the bus. Second, she was that sole human that kept me from being a straight up psychopath. That's a weird spot. It really brings to light that ancient Chinese saying I love to use, "For every great Sage, there is a great Robbery. If you look up legit psychopaths, they are the ones who get abused, but never have any support at all. Grandma was that support for me, because when I was around her I was safe from harm. When I was at my grandmothers, no one harmed me. Third, she was always wanting me medicated, because she believed something was wrong with me. Fourth, like I said, I've always been able to tell she doesn't like my personality. I'm a fucking truth seeker, and this woman avoids the truth like the plague. Fucking whack am I right? It's the perfect mixture of mind fuckery. <br />
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I'm still tossing it around in my head, I could just as easily make an argument for holding them unconditionally accountable. It wasn't me keeping them ignorant in life. It wasn't me stopping them from reading books, studying, figuring out what is going on. I've always said if my dumb ass can figure it out, anyone can. <br />
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My grandmother is the reason JoAnn left her second husband. I was eleven years old, round a bouts, maybe twelve, and he finally choked me out in front of my grandmother, at my grandmothers house. I was crying about something, and he just put his hand around my throat to make me go silent. My grandmother had to of been livid. She forced the issue that JoAnn could not do herself. JoAnn was told that if she didn't leave him the cops would be called. <br />
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It's a Jedi mind trick; loving unconditionally.<br />
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When I finally called her, me being me, the conversation tends to the deep side. I hate small talk. She literally said, point blank, that she avoids anything that makes her uncomfortable. I was trying to explain the dark side of child abuse. An effort to justify my actions. She admitted, if her beliefs are put into question at all she abandons ship. My entire childhood, she never let anyone rock the boat. She would not say anything to anyone if it might upset them. Naturally she was the source of much abuse, just from her inability to confront bullshit. Nothing has changed. Had she stood up and been confrontational with the bullshit when I was a much smaller child, I would not have been abused for so long. <br />
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It seems after all this time, some things never change. The inability to feel the feels holds everyone back. It's by no means only my grandmother. <br />
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I talked to one of my brothers recently. I got his take on the current situation since I've been out of the loop for so long. They are all busy repeating the cycle. Fucking up their own lives, acting like they know what they are doing, when it is clearly obvious they do not. This is extremely frustrating for me because at this point in the game, so many people have dedicated their lives to studying abusive families; the shit has been spelled out. The fix is not a secret, it's public information free at any library in the country. Hell, some people who don't even study up on the subject work it out. Not my brother, but the others. He pulled it together in his own way. One of my brothers at least, has risen above the shit a bit. The rest are still being as ignorant as can be. They won't hear what I got to say either, so we don't converse. They wouldn't understand what I got to say. They think they are educated with their high school diplomas, college degrees, their shit jobs, watching TV, fucking off life. Even the dumbest of monkeys has an opinion.<br />
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I don't mind people being dumb, ignorant, and/or stupid. I mind them being those things while pretending they are not. It's quite a distinction. <br />
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What a mind fuck. You see, I've a real problem with Stockholm Syndrome. It's one of my crown achievements in life; I never had Stockholm Syndrome. Before I was thirteen I bragged openly about hating my mother, and father. I did not love my abusers. I wanted too, and I wanted them to love me, but I knew it was not the case, and I never pretended otherwise. Of course my monkey suit wants monkey love, but as the condition of unconditionality requires; I must love myself unconditionally. I've always refused to love those who abuse me.<br />
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Unconditionality. I think I may have let myself down. I can't tell. I think I might have done myself right. I can't tell. <br />
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How am I going to pull this off? How am I going to live my truth, and yet, be in proximity to my abusers? It's going to be a Jedi mind trick. She saved me, she fucked me over. She loves me, she doesn't like me. She would do almost anything for me, except call out my abusers. It's weird how shit goes. For every great Sage, there is a great Robbery. Fucking life. <br />
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I'm going to go see her soon. If nothing else, perhaps I'll come home with a recovered childhood memory or two. <br />
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You see, I've also always had a problem with forgiveness. Bitterness. I've always said, had they even slightly taken care of me I would have been an Olympian. I have the natural athletic gifts that is necessary to be a champion. I have the intellect to succeed at anything I do, but they brainwashed me. They so thoroughly convinced me that something was wrong with me that I still fuck up my life. She still thinks something is wrong with me. <br />
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You see, the main perpetrator of my abuse has finally died. This was my youngest brothers father. When we talked on the phone he told me about how it went down, when he found out and all. I'm not here to tell his story though, but let's just say he doesn't or didn't get upset that I celebrated. He didn't get mad at me because I was glad the dude finally died. I think this particular brother is the only family member who acts understanding towards me about the situation. This brother of mine isn't plagued by Stockholm Syndrome. He like me, keeps it real.<br />
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We talked about forgiveness though, and he made a valid point. He said he could forgive his friends for wrongs, because he chooses his friends, but we didn't choose our family. This makes sense, in a worldly way. Why isn't it that our families are held to the higher standard? Why doesn't it make sense that instead of having to accept a shit mom, we say our mother should have been the last person in the world to abuse us? But then, which I didn't point out to him, comes around this business of the Akashic Records. It turns out we do choose our families. We do choose when and where we incarnate. All the Akashic Records peeps agree, we pick our families so that we learn particular lessons in order to grow our souls.<br />
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The purpose of life: to grow in consciousness like a tree grows up into the sky, while at the same time growing deep into the ground.<br />
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We can't be using logic if we only pick and choose which part of the Akashic Records we want to hear. We don't get to pick and choose. Doing so is all ego. I don't get to pick in choose with my ego, and then claim I am being aware in the truth.<br />
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In a previous life I was part of a banking cartel. My father was jealous of my abilities, and had my wife killed. I've always felt my parents were secretly jealous of my intelligence, and that is why they shamed me so badly. If you've read other posts from this blog you'd know I robbed a bank when I was seventeen years old. I got some serious karmic shit going on. Serious trust issues. Money issues all my life. There's more to it than I'm saying here, but it is obvious I'm working off debt.<br />
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Why would I go into the mathematics of incarnation here? I tend to shed my beliefs in the face of facts. Do your own homework. My other blog clearly points out the bullshit of this culture. I'm not here to convince anyone; I know what I know.<br />
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Somehow I've got to pull off a Jedi Mind Trick, and work my way out of this mind fuck. Rise above. No one said life would be easy. I just read that still today, 2017, Africans are being sold in broad daylight as slaves. We all live in a rape culture. Why should my life have been easy?<br />
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Following the shamanic path, I'm going to have to get over myself. Rise above my bitterness. I'm going to have to see these people for who they are, not for what they did to me. I'm going to have to shed some more tears. <br />
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I'm going to learn to be unconditional in all ways. It's going to be a tough pill to swallow. <br />
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<br />Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-58160045667610747582017-10-20T11:33:00.001-07:002017-10-20T11:33:26.169-07:00Getting it all wrong<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-0c738ca3-3b0f-68fe-ef75-2b23e6f55e89" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s a serious problem; getting it all wrong. Not talking about a little bit wrong. I’m talking about being totally fucking wrong. Let me explain what I’m talking about. When a person is abused horribly in childhood, they lose their identity. They have to become something other than who they are, because who they really are isn’t cutting it. In order to survive, the psyche breaks. It becomes two things, and the true self goes into hiding. This is a well documented phenomenon, and doesn’t really need explained. If you don’t understand this concept you will need to do some reading. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It really is a terrible place to be, Who am I? It’s the rarest thing going for a human to actually know who they are.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There is a small book written by a famous guru from India, Bhagavan Sri Ramana Maharshi. The title? Who am I? I like to read the stuff of sages. Right or wrong, they cause one to actually think about what is really going on. I kept this book on my coffee table for many months, pondering life at a time when my life seemed to be the greatest it had ever been up to that point. I was living a lie though. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I didn’t know who I was at all. I definitely know more now, than then, but the inquiry persists. When that book was on my table I was perfecting my facades. Perfecting yet another persona. I knew what everyone else thought I was, but I had no idea who I was. I had almost full control over how others perceived me. It was a game I was playing. A skill I was perfecting. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ve had to be, what I needed to be. Since there was no safety in my life ever, I was only ever a reaction to that. Without a sense of safety it wasn’t safe to be me. The real “me” was scared to death and was buried quite deeply, and safely beneath a Fort Knox of defenses. So deep even I could not see it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I was a child being me caused beatings, abandonment, anger and neglect. In my story, I’ve had to be other than I am from the get. This means that never not once in my life have I felt safe. Note the important word: felt. By the time my childhood was over my body was stuck in hypervigilance. Hyper protection mode. I learned the world was violent and dangerous, and that I had to be prepared to defend myself at all times. Matter of fact, that decision wasn’t even up to me. My body did it for me. My body did what I could not. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I remember being in my mid twenties, sitting in a psychology class at the local community college, and the whole time I was plotting out all the courses of action I would take should shit go awry. If the building catches on fire, I’m going out this window. If this guy does something crazy, I’m going to beat his ass in such and such a way, and escape such and such a way. At all times I was calculating my proximal safety. And never ever was my safety ever actually in question. I remember judging everyone else too. While I’m sitting there calculating everyone’s thoughts, and motivations, they were thinking about cookies and TV shows. I was prepared, they were clueless.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What was I defending though? What was I protecting? My emotional body, my psyche, my physical self, my soul? The truth is my body no longer needed a reason. It was a permanent state of affairs. It was never up to me, and even if I had wanted to, I would not have been able to stop it from happening. Who was I? I was a perpetual preparer for disaster. Nothing was safe according to my body. I was in a perpetual calculating mode of existence. That was my normal. That was my life. I didn’t have another way of being. I didn’t know there was another way of being. I just knew I didn’t want to be like the TV watchers sitting all around me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I recently read an article that resonated with me deeply. Synchronicity is an amazing phenom. It’s important that you read this article, linked at the bottom. It’s something that I’m sure will have a profound effect on anyone who was abused as a child. The science and study of abused people is drastically closing the gap. Soon it will not be a secret regarding how to answer the question; Who am I? The author says it better than I’ve ever heard anyone say it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Anytime someone told me to 'love myself' I felt so damn angry because those of us with complex trauma literally formed our 'self' as a being who has had to not love ourselves in order to stay connected with others around us. We learned instead to be connected to others' projections of us, demands, violations, perceptions. We learned to derail our social engagement system into being perfect, being good, being the caregiver, not feeling, not knowing, not needing....many of us have deep core wounds around the paradox of love: what we were taught by trauma and neglect to recognize as love and as safe, is actually unsafe, but our autonomic nervous system developed in these relationships and so we physiologically recognize abuse as love, as the most familiar, as what we are seeking and often, what we deserve, when we reach out for connection.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That is some freeing shit right there.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In my own life, I’ve never experienced the feeling of love. Not real love. Only abused people will fall in love with an abused person, and abused people don’t know how to love. Even if it were to have happened to me, I would have had no idea. Just like safety. It’s totally happened for me. I know for a fact that there have been many times in my life where I was perfectly safe and sound, but my body did not acknowledge that. It has stayed hyper vigilant 24/7. As you can imagine this state of hypervigilance makes a personal relationship nearly impossible. Particularly if one is trying to be with people who do not have the complex trauma. The “normal” person becomes exhausted rapidly in the face of constant vigilance. They will break under the pressure.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So where does it go wrong? Everywhere.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My first real acknowledgement of getting it all wrong came in my early thirties. I came across a book called The Way of the Superior Man by David Deida. Let me tell you, do not be thrown off by the title. It should read the way of the Superior Human. If you take the time to read this book, which I promise will change your life, you will find in the introduction the explanation for the seeming sexist title. This book is for everyone. He centered it on a specific gender for the ease of writing out the thought. Not because it is for males only.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Anyways, this book made me realize that I wasn’t as fucked up as I had been thinking I was. It caused me to realize I had been living a lie. All my life I thought I was doomed to be with “crazy” women because of my mother. This belief only further fueled my hatred of that woman. My mind was creating stories to validate my hatred. It’s a well known phenomenon that us humans typically get with lovers who are like our parents. So there I was, purposefully staying single, because the only females who ever came my way; were “crazy”. I was refusing to play the game anymore. I couldn’t stand being reminded of my mother anymore via my own personal love relationships. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Well, David Deida perfectly explains that the most masculine males are attracted to the most feminine females. It’s a matter of polarity. So if you are like me, having been hypermasculinized, really feminine females seem like the craziest thing in the world. It amplifies the polarity. They are whimsical, emotional, they are not logical. They are the exact opposite of a really masculine man. We’ve all probably heard sexit jokes about nobody being able to figure out women. So it turns out, that even if I had been raised even remotely appropriately, I was still going to be falling in love with the “crazy” ones. All along I was blaming my mother. Blaming myself. Just happens to be that my mother is one of those females. You will probably have to read the book to get the full effect of what I’m saying. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s a polarity thing. Neutral people get with neutral people. Everyone has their own mix of masculine/feminine, and we are only drawn to our equal opposite. Alpha males cannot resist alpha females, even if it drives us crazy. That is precisely what attraction is.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So there I was. Beating the shit out of myself about how fucked up I was because of my mother and all along it was nothing more than my being an alpha male. Who am I? I’m a fucking alpha male. Abused or not, that was going to be the case. I can’t get back all those wasted years living a lie. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That example is far from the only lie I’ve lived. I just came to the realization this past couple of weeks that once again I got it all wrong. Completely wrong. You see, all my life I’ve had issues with money. No matter what I’ve tried, no matter how hard I’ve tried: I always fail to keep a job. I was chalking this up to narcissism. Chalking it up to my abuse. Doing the same thing I did as a child, believing everyone else, and stuffing my true self deep down. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Try to understand something about a narcissist. What this means is that all of one's energy is going into self protection. If you ever find yourself in the presence of a narcissist, it’s as simple as this; all their energy is protecting their true self, who is buried beneath it all. That person only seems selfish because they’re stuck. That person desperately needs love. Be aware, that person doesn’t even know they have a choice to be otherwise. The permanent state of hypervigilance requires all of one's energy. There’s no energy left over for anyone else. No energy for anything else. Nothing but self protection. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So any job I’ve ever had, whenever more than I could bear was placed on my shoulders, job is over. We all know in this culture that if you go to any kind of typical job whatsoever, one is being used. One is making the guy at the top more money than one is making for their self. Surely it makes sense, looking through the lens of narcissism, that I can’t afford that.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This story sounds good doesn’t it? Makes perfect sense doesn’t it? Well, it’s not true. It just sounded really good at the time. This is a story given to me by others. It’s really easy for people to pick on traumatized individuals. It’s easy to say, the reason they don’t fit in is because they were abused. The problem is, no one was born to fit into this culture.</span></div>
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<a href="https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-mozilla-004&hsimp=yhs-004&hspart=mozilla&p=monkey+grape+cucumber+video#id=2&vid=63e292108301692f839f0abb12b977b3&action=click" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-mozilla-004&hsimp=yhs-004&hspart=mozilla&p=monkey+grape+cucumber+video#id=2&vid=63e292108301692f839f0abb12b977b3&action=click</span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Here it gets deep. I explained it to a friend recently like this. No one has parents who legitimately looked into their child’s true self, and then raised them accordingly. Everyone of us has been told from birth certain things about how we are supposed to be. The simplest example of this would be; boys are this way, and girls are this way: conform accordingly. This means, anyone raised “normal” or typical, has really just been indoctrinated at birth. Technically speaking they are split too. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One of my favorite thinkers worded it this way, “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” Jiddu Krishnamurti said this. We can all look at this culture and tell it’s whack. So why conform? Well, as children we don’t have a choice. As children we are unable to question. We simply absorb. So it stands, that here in America, every child is adjusted to a sick culture.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Being that we are the result of millions of years of evolution, and this culture has not taken that into account regarding raising and educating children; everyone has been split off from their true self. This means you. Even if you were never beat, never harmed, never neglected, even if a harsh word was never spoken your way; the culture got you. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">For the person who suffered complex trauma, like me, it is a double whammy. Not only did the culture break my psyche, but then I had my psyche broken from the break. Instead of just tearign a piece of paper in half, my piece of paper got shredded. So the question of Who am I? has become profound. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Want to know something I’ve noticed in life? Anyone who I’ve ever met that was raised “appropriately” is asleep at the wheel. They never even grasp in the slightest way that their piece of paper has been torn into two pieces. They are half a person. Mystics consider these people dead already. It’s only the abused people who wake up to the bullshit of the culture. Think about that when it comes to the word indoctrination when I use it, and the techniques prescribed on how to raise children.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Can you see how difficult this task has become? Even raised appropriately, asking the question Who am I? Is going to be a serious challenge. One has to find that other piece of paper. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Back to the grip. Turns out my failures had nothing to do with narcissism. Turns out I am a truth seeker. Turns out a legit truth seeker cannot sustain energy when what is being done is not true. If it isn’t in line with my truth it is untenable. I’ve always known I was a truth seeker, but I never knew how that plays out in a person's life. I’ve never actually known another truth seeker. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">A truth seeker cannot sustain living a lie. In other words, once it has been pointed out to me that I am living a lie, I change immediately. It is instant.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I smoked weed every day for over ten years. Someone pointed out to me that I was holding my wife back by doing this. I quit on the spot. If I say I love my wife, I cannot hold her back. It was an instant change. I cannot live a lie. I simply cannot do it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So….If I take a job, and I’m being told one thing, and it turns out to be another: Done on the spot. Doesn’t matter who it is, or how much it means to them that I stay, or even if I will be homeless. I will literally be homeless before I will live a lie just to make money. Matter of fact this has happened to me many times. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Surely you can see all the external judgements this causes in this greedy culture. In this sexist greedy culture if as a male, one cannot provide, one can’t “man up” and go to work no matter what: one is a failure. There is a tremendous cultural pressure on a male to perform. As a truth seeker though, I cannot live a lie, and obviously it is a lie that a male must perform. Who made that rule? The same people who do not take into consideration of what it really is to be a human being. Think about this. Who decided this?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Using me as a guide, consider how much I’ve beat myself up saying something is wrong with me. That I’m fucked up. That I’m flawed because I can’t do what “everyone” else is doing. All my life I was believing others, instead of listening that small voice. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">How much are you doing that? Simply because you don’t fit into that mold that culture stamps on everyone. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hope you wake up soon. We need more people who know who they really are, that will be the only way the shit show stops.</span></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Who-Am-Teachings-Bhagavan-Maharshi/dp/818801804X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1508520839&sr=1-2&keywords=who+am+I%3F" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">https://www.amazon.com/Who-Am-Teachings-Bhagavan-Maharshi/dp/818801804X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1508520839&sr=1-2&keywords=who+am+I%3F</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.crazyherbalist.com/blog//part-2-cptsd-poly-vagal-theory-and-falling-in-love" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">http://www.crazyherbalist.com/blog//part-2-cptsd-poly-vagal-theory-and-falling-in-love</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Way-Superior-Man-Spiritual-Challenges-ebook/dp/B004A8ZWM4" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">https://www.amazon.com/Way-Superior-Man-Spiritual-Challenges-ebook/dp/B004A8ZWM4</span></a></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-58964061356004152932017-06-09T10:48:00.000-07:002017-06-09T10:52:19.772-07:00Lit my fire<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-13302abe-8df7-ada4-a9ca-7fa8c159b2df" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Once I knew I was going to be involved with the community garden movement in Springfield, I surveyed my surroundings and went to work. I think that a lot of research has to be done, and even though I’m not the best at it, I still do what I can. One of the things I’ve been doing is pestering local businesses about composting. Each place is different, and has unique situations. This idea has been met with much resistance.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I was looking for a part-time job, it was crossing my mind that I might have to resign myself to working in a kitchen again. I had used my personal power, I casted a spell; I am done with cooking. It’s not uncommon though for the Universe to back me into a corner. The first restaurant I approached sealed the deal though. The lady was very receptive to the idea, but then she said, if it’s going to get done, she’d be the one doing it. I asked, are you the owner? She said, no, she’s just a lowly waitress. She takes me to the back, and on the cook line was a guy who hates his life just radiating negativity. He doesn’t give a damn about composting, nor will he. That self loathing though, got me like, I’m going to just live under the bridge; I’m not working in a kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So right here is my problem. These people ruling over me, making decisions about my life, aren’t even smart enough to recycle wasted food. If I applied there, that guy would have been my boss. These elected officials, store owners, city officials, etc. they have college degrees, and important jobs, and they are acting like they know what is best for me, yet they aren’t even making sure the simplest of intelligent things are happening. How hard is it to throw compostable materials into a separate container, and put a lid on it? People brag about how advanced, and great America is, yet we can’t even do the simplest of things. Everyone knows damn well, it’s the intelligent thing to do. If someone makes an argument that being wasteful is the right thing to do, that person is dumb. That will be scientifically verifiable.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Keep in mind, Springfield already has a compost system in place. They have several locations within the city where people can take their yard waste; leaves, grass, small branches, etc. They also get tree mulch from their city owned tree trimming trucks. They have a composting site outside of city limits, already selling compost. There is a full fledged trash service already running. There is no reason the businesses who routinely throw out large quantities of food can’t be composting.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now some libertarian somewhere will be shouting. Small business owners will be shouting. Just another fee! Just another rule/law/fine. Another bureaucratic card in the deck. Sadly, this is the result of our failing public education system. If we had a legit public education system people wouldn’t need to be told to compost, and not be wasteful; they’d just do it because it’s the intelligent thing to do. Properly educated people in mass, do the better things. Because our American public education system fails to actually educate people they have to be told to do the right thing, by some authority figure, or they won’t do it. That government funded public education system creates a populace that needs said government. People won’t own up for this fact, but what they will do, is still walk around like they are smart, and educated. They have a piece of paper. These are important people!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Case in point, the locally owned coffee house. I do my best to support local business. This place makes great coffee drinks. I’ve been slowly learning though, that a lot of small business owners might as well be a Wal-mart exec. Some of these people are greedy assholes to the max. I’ve met several now who are straight up bullies, and treat their employees like shit. There fundamentally isn’t a difference between these people and the King who farmed his peasants for gold and labor. Same shit, different degree. These people seem to embody this attitude, that they are more special than the rest, because what seems to me, no other reason than that they go to work every day ruling over people who are less fortunate in life; just to make a paycheck.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was house spousing when it started. I didn’t have any money personally. My wife bought the things needed to get the composting started at this coffee house. A rubbermaid, food grade, 32gal Brute container. Lid sold separately. White, like the ones used for ice. Then there was the dolly, because a 32gal plastic container filled to the brim with coffee grounds can’t be picked up by a single guy of my size and strength. It took a grunt to get it tipped back on the dolly.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What I was constantly thinking about was what it would take to keep that single coffee house in coffee beans. I’m going into urban farming. I’m thinking I would need fields and fields of coffee trees. I, of course, had to google this. According to the casual search, I find; “Since the average coffee tree produces 10 pounds of coffee cherry per year (2 pounds green beans), then </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">16 coffee</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> trees are required to supply the average American's coffee drinking habit.” That container weighs hundreds of pounds when it’s full! It gets dumped every five days on average! The wet coffee grounds probably weigh more than the fresh berries. It would be way more beans per five days that was being composted. Probably close to twice as much, if not more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is just one coffee house. Just one. How many coffee houses are there in America? Google knows; </span><a href="https://www.statista.com/topics/1670/coffeehouse-chain-market/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">https://www.statista.com/topics/1670/coffeehouse-chain-market/</span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is insane! Where are all those trees? Look it up. Slaves are everywhere. The Steinbeck story, Grapes of Wrath, is alive and well. It’s still happening. That story is powerful.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I started collecting it, and a couple times during the thing, I made sure I explained my situation. I was volunteering for some non-profits. I would keep the manager posted on my progress. We were going to grow flowers to put on tables and at the counter. It was going to be cool. My goal with the flowers was to just raise awareness about the community gardens in general. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I paid with the stuff with my own money. I was dumping the coffee grounds at the community garden behind the youth center. I took the first couple of loads home to experiment with. I’d never used them in gardening with that kind of quantity. The local horticulture specialist says they are considered a nitrogen source. Google agrees. This guy knew I wasn’t always going to be able to pick it up same day it was full. I always make sure the boundaries are covered. He knew I had way more going on than just picking up their compost.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What I didn’t do, was establish who the owner was, or the boss. My dealings were with the manager. He’s a nice guy. Every employee I met was excited and happy the grounds weren’t going in the trash anymore. Most of the employees are millennials, hipsterish, college kids, and artists. I dig it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I would get a text or call when it was full, and then I’d go get it. Sometimes though, it wouldn’t be until the next day. Sometimes I had stuff going on. This particular time I was exhausted. I woke up so sore that morning I couldn’t walk normal. I’d been doing what I call third world labor on a local farm. It is back breaking work in the sense that one is bent over perpetually, non-stop killing weeds. There is such a long list of things to do, nothing could ever actually get done fast enough. It really is hard work. It is a legitimate humbling experience.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was weird to me at the time. So many times I could feel it, that the compost would be full. It was a weird thing. Of all the things to be linked to, why the compost tub? Well I know now. That manager was the one wanting the compost to happen, and his boss did not. This is why I always got the vibe from him to not inquire about the boss. He was being as sneaky as he could be without ruffling his boss’s feathers. I’m sure he could tell there would be problems.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Let me tell you; this “boss” guy is a legitimate dumb asshole. I’d not done my homework on his personal life, and story, but I’ve seen his type enough now it’s like reading one of those cheesy romance novels. Everyone knows how it’s going to go. This guy, I guarantee, is the textbook douche bag, who has never read a management book in his life, ruling over poor people who want a job, to feel good about himself. He only has his position of power because he is a big person physically, and has a strong personality. He’s done no homework in life. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I go in through the back door. I’m wearing my big straw hat because the sun is already blaring. I have to walk the dolly several blocks, to the garden and back. He sees me, and then turns to his manager to verify that it’s me. He is clearly stink eyeing me. He’s damn near glaring at me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I could tell that some mad passive aggressiveness was going on before I even got to the coffee house. I could feel it. When I got there, they had overfilled the container so much that I couldn’t get the lid on it. It was literally heaping up a full foot high above the rim. They had just kept dumping the grounds on top, with the buckets I had to purchase. They didn’t even come up with the small buckets to use at the bar. I had told them that I really didn’t mind it being full af, but heaping that high out the top isn’t full; that is heaping. It is obvious that I couldn’t put the lid on it, and dolly it out. I literally stated that I was confused and didn’t understand. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">All the way to the garden, and back, I’m plotting. This time I made sure to walk it home too. I wanted to make sure it’s good and clean going back. I rewrite my contact info on the lid with a sharpie. I’m too old for this passive aggressive crap.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">His stink eye sealed the deal. I knew without a doubt this guy is being an asshole to me. It was really busy, but I’m not dealing with passive aggressive crap. There is something inside me that refuses to bow down to anyone. I must stick up for myself, or I can’t hold my head on high. I start letting them know that I can’t do my part if it’s heaping out the top. It should be common sense that I can’t dolly it out like that. This guy is glaring at me practically. He’s a big burly barrel chested bastard. Grey hair. He’s got to be in his fifties at least. Way too old to be being a passive aggressive asshole. I can promise you, that’s how he manages his employees. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He’s talking to me like I’m on the payroll. He literally smarted off to me about picking it up on time. Like literally said it out loud. I tell him, I’m not being paid to do this. The trash service comes at specific times, like clock work, because you pay them to do so. This is volunteer work. I am exhausted. You guys didn’t even ask why I couldn’t make it. I tell him that in most cities businesses pay to have their compost taken away. It is a paid for service, that has been being done for free, and at my own personal expense. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The manager did his best to displace the situation. He tried to tell me to come back another time when they weren’t busy, but his boss wasn’t having it. The real truth is, and he said it out loud, is that it is extra work for them to take it to the back. He’s says to the manager we’re done with this. He keeps talking to me like he signs my paycheck. This guy, he doesn’t even know my name. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He asks me if I need help getting my stuff out, as he struts to the back. He smarts off again about not being able to pick it up on time. I never agreed to that. How hard is it to just throw it away like you were doing before, until I could come and get it? How hard is that? He says something dumb under his breath, and I just smart off, as I walk away, about him going back to throwing it in the trash like a smart guy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This lit a fire in my ass. This gives me a reason to be in city council now. These people shouldn’t be allowed to litter. I can’t even sit on the sidewalk in this city without a cop harassing me. I know for a fact I would get fined, and have to go to court if I was littering. Throwing useful things into a landfill is littering. It’s stupid. It’s wasteful. I shouldn’t even have to explain this to people, that is how good American public education works.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ve seen firsthand the amount of food wastes grocery stores throw away. I’ve seen how much restaurants throw in the trash. Now I’ve seen what a coffee house is throwing away. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This guy wants to be a dick to me; I’m going to make sure he has to pay for that composting service.</span> </div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-83995520574406833682017-06-07T05:59:00.001-07:002017-06-07T06:01:18.633-07:00That Background<p dir="ltr">Life is legitimately crazy. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t really care what some dude sitting at some college somewhere says about how people should spell or write. I write like I talk. I’m talking to people through written words; why would I do it any other way? This isn’t a one way street. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It would be a lie to say it’s a phobia. It’s more of a hatred. All things bureaucratic to me are inane. I’ve read somewhere that intelligent people have a harder time at life for various reasons, and this is one of mine. My inability to do dumb shit, just because someone else says so, makes my life hard. Keeping track of everything on paper is dumb; I am a monkey damnit. I didn’t sign up for the circus.<br>
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I really need to get over myself.</p>
<p dir="ltr">We are monkeys though, and as such, we literally evolved for communal life. That’s what nepotism is. It’s not my fault Christians fucked that up. Am I right? As if we couldn’t follow the archetype of Christ, and live communally? Shit is absurd. Anyways.</p>
<p dir="ltr">My goal was, and is, to be so deep in this gardening game that I can’t be told no. Remember? I’m stuck between two cultures. This one culture is sheepled to the max. Such types never like me. They must always get the facade. Unfortunately, they are the ones in charge of the paperwork. To be clear; it is the ones that sign the paychecks that run the show. </p>
<p dir="ltr">At the youth center where the garden is; there are rules. Lots of rules actually. It’s a safe spot for kids. I can logically wrap my mind around why all the rules are necessary. Lots and lots of rules saved me once up a time. Matter of fact, for a very long time I would tell people prison saved my life if for no other reason, than for once in my life, when I woke up in the morning; I knew exactly how it was going to go. I knew exactly how my day would be structurally all day errday.</p>
<p dir="ltr">In prison the structure is perfected. One eats at the same times errday. One gets lined up to be counted at the same times errday. One is allowed to get out of their cell, go into their cell, watch TV, play cards, lift weights, socialize, go to church, hang out; at the same times errday. This is a critical part of domestication. If children are raised by fucked up people, they most likely will not have had any structure at all. Structure of this kind feels safe. It is dependable. It eliminates tons of stress. One never has to worry about when they will get to eat, sleep, or shit. There are so many reasons kids need certain levels of structure. Life is very hard for anyone without this level of domestication.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I know this because it goes against my personality to do anything anyone tells me to do. Yet, I still needed this domestication, or how would I have ever gotten through life? It seems we all have to fit in together at a certain level, or we would be legitimately wild. A wild human. Well, like it or not, a wild human would not last long in this culture. In this culture Christianity has been purging the wild ones for thousands of years now. If one is wild, it can be felt by the domesticated ones and their autopilot is to destroy the wild ones. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Still though, I would never, and will never again unless I must; sign myself up for a background check. All my life that shit has haunted me. The stigma, the immediate placement at the bottom of the pecking order; a criminal. I really can’t believe I never killed myself. That is what society wanted after all. Anyone back then, who wasn’t a friend of mine, would have been all like; fuck that guy, lock him up, and leave him there.</p>
<p dir="ltr">There was a time when I was still really bitter about it all. I would trick people into talking about how they would treat violent criminals, then look them right in the eye and tell them I was one. Is that what they would do to me? I would always make sure they had known me for awhile first. You could see the nepotism kick in. They would always back track, but I knew the truth; just another stupid monkey.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I was trying to sneak by. If I wanted to go inside the youth center to talk to the kids about the gardening project, I had to follow the rules. They are telling me all that really matters is that I have never harmed a child. Pedophilia. That kind of thing. There was a great deal of ambiguity about it though, because it wasn’t the people whom I was talking to, it wasn’t their decision. The background check was through a government website. I mean, I robbed a freaking bank. I had over thirty charges on the books before I was 17. I can’t remember honestly how many times I’ve been arrested. They were running a legit background check.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I got arrested once merely for having been to prison. Cops showed up, someone says, “he’s been to prison.” Cuffed, and in the car I go. Spent twenty four hours in a holding tank on “investigation”. I was in my own yard, at the house where I lived. If a highway patrol pulls me over, and I’m sitting in his car, and I hear my name come back over the airwaves, I always hear the code words for potentially armed and dangerous. Being the sensitive guy I am, I can always feel the energy change at that moment in time. It’s instant. I can feel it go from just regular old guy, because I yes and no sir them, polite as fuck, like I’ve been in the military; to this guy who is now a fucking douche. I can see them think about where their weapons are, as if I were never not doing that the whole damn time.</p>
<p dir="ltr">All the jobs I was smart enough to get, but never could get, made me very bitter. Even if I had not been raised like an animal, never been abused, never even went to prison, but merely had the label attached to my name; life would suck. You know, kind of like a government goof up, where any time anyone runs a background check it turns up “armed and dangerous.” Life is going to suck if that’s the case. There were many times I couldn’t even get a shit factory job. And I was abused, I was raised like an animal, so I have a goddamn shine in my eyes. As if I can do anything about that. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I can’t tell someone who doesn’t know me at all what I did without twenty questions ensueing. I can’t say anything about much of my past at all without suddenly someone being all up in my business. My life did not take the standard sheeple trajectory. My private introverted ass does not care for this intrusion in my life. I prefer it to be up to me, who knows what when. I’ve lived where I live now for almost three years and no one has known about my past. It was a nice reprieve. A vacation if you will.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The whole time I’ve been doing this gardening thing I’ve been so anxious. It was going to be awhile sneaking past that background check. Wasn’t like there was going to be at time, or calendared spot that says, “now safe from having to do a background check.” I was signed up for a long wave, but the wave crashed.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I got put to it. They were being pushed by the paycheck signers to handle business. I don’t blame them or anything. I’d do my job too. If my job was to protect, look out for, and provide a safe place for kids, I’d run a background check on anyone that came within a hundred feet of the building if I could to make sure they were not a pedophile. This is a rape culture; pedophiles are errwhere.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I’m off the grid. I have not had a bank account for over a year now. Luckily for them, they gots the computers right there. She proffered her own debit card to seal the deal. Stuck like chuck.</p>
<p dir="ltr">For days I paced. Waiting. I was preparing myself for the bad news. I find it best to go ahead and start doing emotional work before big events in life. Prepare for the worst; hope for the best is my motto. I was even having strangers pray for my well being. Now you know it’s serious. Everything had been so harmonious. Everything had fell into place so naturally. I was betting on that, because honestly, that’s all I got.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I got the email from the government. I had to keep re-reading it. I couldn’t tell what it was saying. Nowhere on it did it say denied, or approved. The email was encrypted for my privacy. Super official government stuff in my eyes. The land where I do not belong. The land where I’m magically at the bottom.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I call the lady who put me to the background check. I tell her I got this email, and can’t tell what it means. She tells me that it would be very clear about being denied, if that were the case. I tell her it doesn’t say anything like that. She says, “You’re good to go.”</p>
<p dir="ltr">I just cried. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I cried for awhile actually. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Now; it really is go time. That was the only dead weight I had. <br></p>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-59452645775894313022017-06-02T08:38:00.001-07:002017-06-02T08:38:50.866-07:00The Universe called me out<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-a486d8cd-6974-c931-a522-929b332cf929" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was Memorial Day. Since the libraries are closed due to the holiday I posted up in a local coffee house to charge my phone and get some reading done. I’ve been re-reading the don Juan stories, and was almost finished with one of the books. As I was reading a man sat on one end of the couch, directly across from me. I was posted up in a comfy single seat. He put his laptop on the coffee table, and proceeded to do whatever it was he was doing. I really wasn’t paying him any mind.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My typical reading fashion is to read a chapter or two, put the book down, and then read an article or two on FB that is not the same topic. It’s not easy anymore to stay on top of all the technological advances being made. New ones happen almost every day. I share some posts, and depending on my mood, or the mood of FB itself, set the bait with some mirrors, ponder it all, then pick the book back up for another chapter or two. The don Juan stories are deep, and heavy with metaphor, so often I sit and ponder for minutes at a time. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He was sitting across me for who knows how long. When I am reading I don’t really have a sense of time. I only had one chapter to go, and this guy, Dan, asks me if it’s a good book. I tell him it’s one of the best, and after he inquires, tell him briefly about the book. Everyone finds the Castaneda stories interesting. Who wouldn’t be thrilled being tricked by a shaman?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We ended up having a two hour metaphysical discussion. This guy was really big on the “law of attraction.” It’s a definitive stage of spiritual growth. It’s definitely a step on the path, regardless of whichever path one chooses. It eventually came to be known to him that I am an atheist. Poor guy could have no idea that I was shamaning him, but the whole time we were talking he was giving me one of the greatest gifts, so I had to return the favor. I don’t like accepting gifts, so I always give one back.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Towards the end of the discussion, after having backed him into a logical corner, he admits defeat. Not directly, but in that kind of questioning, “seems to be this way” plea. I’m right eyeing him, and I say clear as day, “Maybe you don’t yet have enough personal power to live your life without needing beliefs.” That was as much as he could take. Any more and he would have been running out of there. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He gave me a tremendous gift though. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ve been threatening to write a book so long now, I doubt anyone thinks I will do it. What most might not know though, is that everything I’ve ever written is for the most part digitally saved. All that is the rough draft. My life prior to the age of 21 is book worthy all by itself. I’m at least smart enough to be keeping that part safe. I must admit it is a bit daunting to me even though it shouldn’t be. Typically the words just write themselves. The stories find me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Writing a book reminds me of college. After having gone to college I can clearly see it was the easiest thing in the world to do. But for me, it was more difficult than anything I had ever done. You see, as a child I was brainwashed that college was out of my reach. Making it to MU without sabotaging myself was a real miracle. It took everything I had to pull that off. The emotional process of actually walking onto campus was one of the most powerful experiences I’ve ever had. Not because college is awesome, but because I did not fuck it up. I proved those pieces of shit wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This book thing feels that way. I could easily write a book. Anyone could. I cannot so easily overcome my own self-destructive patterns. That, is the real work.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The whole time this guy was talking to me about his idea of god, he had a small paperback book in his hands. He eventually showed it to me. It was a collection of poems he had written. He told me he has published other books. I was just sitting there taking it all in. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">His photo on the back, bar code, artsy cover; everything about it was real. It was a real book the same as any I’ve ever read. Here is where the Universe kicks me in the nuts. He said it was his rough draft, and that it only cost him 2.53$ to have made. He has one made, and then does his editing on the actual book. It took everything I had to keep my jaw from dropping. He said he’s sold a couple thousand copies of the other books he has written. Okay, now the Universe is kicking me while laying on the ground recovering from the nut shot.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He has me read one of his poems. His favorite one in the book. It was something about giving love to those who hate. I’ve already taken up the god tactic, so I can’t press him on this one too. But no where ever in history, has the evil guys gave up because their enemies loved them. That is just not how it works. That is some idealistic Christian bullshit. I’m not even into poetry, but I oblige him. He spent some time talking about some other books he’s written. He chided me for keeping him from getting any re-writing done, but he knew he wanted that metaphysical conversation.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He told me about his professional life. He likes to fix things up carpentry style. Told me about other jobs he had, things he’s done. You know me, I’m always asking questions. He’s tells me why he took up this writing poetry.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He used to know this guy like ten years ago. This guy had a good job, and was working on making a movie. I think maybe Dan looked up to him because he seemed to be being creative in life. I couldn’t get the gist of why they were such friends, or even why this guy stood out to him so much. Then he says, crazily, that he just saw this guy last week at the library. They got to talking, and it turns out this guy is still doing the exact same thing; working the same job, still working on his movie. He’s astounded by this guy, seven years he says, and he’s still doing the same thing. He tells me he took that as a sign; he needs to change what he’s doing.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I just kept thinking how amazing the Universe is. This guy, on this day, with that book, and those stories. He could not have had any idea what he was doing. More than likely he was just getting more validation for his “law of attraction” theory. By the way, I don’t discredit that theory, but it is far from all there is to it. In typical Christian fashion, he seemed to be holding it way too far up on high. There is so much more to life than going around paying attention to the fact that we all attract things. The Universe balances everything. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Needless to say I cannot stop thinking about that little 2.53$ book. I’ve often in my head calculated the odds. Gauging by the number of reads my blog gets, versus the number of FB friends I have, if I extrapolate those numbers out to the population as a whole, my writing would get enough readers. Logistically speaking there is no reason I could fail, except that demon following me around still, telling me I’m stupid.</span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-22014139290590676152017-05-31T09:33:00.001-07:002017-06-01T09:55:18.778-07:00Two dumb kids<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-c52ac397-5f5a-681b-e714-5fb93fa82ff1" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Keep in mind I’m still the new guy on the block. I’m still investigating. Asking questions. Watching more than socializing. The homeless can tell I’m in between. Not quite one of them, but yet, they can tell I am. It is the same on the other side. They can tell I’m not quite one of them, but they can tell I am. This is precisely where I love to be; no one can pin me down with their thoughts.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Who is that guy? What is he doing?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In my eyes the homeless are moving in around the garden. Over the past couple weeks more and more of them are posting up. Ever since I signed the garden leader papers a couple has been living on the railroad property at the back of the lot. They are always around. For the most part they don’t litter, and haven't messed with the garden, but their actual camp looks like a small landfill.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Change is coming though, and they can all feel it. They know I am not lingering around for nothing. They may not be able to describe it, but their unconscious knows I’m charging the location with my personal power. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I usually roll by the garden early in the morning to check on things. I usually pick up the dangerous trash first; broken glass, needles, metal objects. One never knows what it will be.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I eat a few of the newly ripened black raspberries, check to see if anyone missed a strawberry, then meditate for a few. High harmonize.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Over the past month I’ve been steadily imbuing the garden with my energy. I read there a lot. Reading is a great source of power. I like to go there to take a piss, instead of wasting water at the library. It’s only a couple of blocks away.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">On this particular morning I find someone has set up camp right in the garden lot, behind the mulch piles that have not been leveled yet. I knew this would happen eventually, because the large piles create a haven on the back side. Their shit is everywhere. They even made a little stove out of bricks pulled from the garden bed borders, with a cast iron skillet for cooking. This is cool in itself, but they just leave all the trash laying around.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My issue is, I’m volunteering at a youth center. I am not volunteering to clean up after grown ass adults. I’m doing this to help kids like myself. I’m lingering today to make sure this person cleans up their own mess. I’m going to let them know what I am about, why I am there, and why they can’t trash up the place without some grief from me.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Rare Breed director was around. We talk for a minute. He’s always busy with meetings and administrative stuff, so he’s never in the back. He likes to hear my stories. I let him know, it seems to be getting worse. He told me that he had to come down on Monday, Memorial Day, and there was a huge party going on, on the deck. I agreed, and told him they’ve been living there. He said he’s been coming in earlier and noticing that sometimes there are almost ten people sleeping on the deck. None of them are youth. None of them are under twenty one. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I finally see someone at the back of the lot. I start walking down the tracks. I’m still wanting to know who posted up in the middle of the lot. As I approach, I realize it’s two kids. They shouldn’t be there. They don’t even give pause at my approach, but continue to go through a backpack lying on the ground, in the middle of what is obviously a homeless camp. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m thinking how dumb are these kids? For all they know that backpack is mine, and they didn’t even stop pulling stuff out of the pack. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I waste no time. “What the hell are you doing?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One smirks, one looks afraid.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I say, “You are going through someone’s stuff. How old are you?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They say, in unison, “I’m thirteen.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They look so young. They didn’t look thirteen to me. The one is so small and thin I could pick him up with one hand by his curly hair. The one smirking, he’s fat, he wouldn’t even be able to run away if he needed to. It’s summer and school's out, but these kids are nowhere near their homes. I start telling them that they are putting themselves in danger, because if the people who live at this camp catch them it isn’t going to go well. I’m telling them they are in danger.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The brave, or dumb, however you think of it, one keeps smirking at me. That never goes well with me. I start heckling them, because they weren’t wanting to leave. They wanted that backpack. I finally see their bikes. I realized they are actually being clever. They hid their bikes, before approaching the camp. This isn’t their first time.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now, it gets turned up. I’m heckling. They are getting the man voice. I started radiating my energy to get them to flee. I tell them they won’t be the first kids I’ve followed all day, until they go home, so that I can make sure their parents know they are not intelligent enough to be out on their own. They get their bikes, and ride off down the tracks. They must of knew I was bluffing; I didn’t follow them home.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m starving. It’s my third day without food. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As they are riding off on the north most set of tracks, I lost sight of them behind rail cars just sitting motionless on the rails. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Coming down the southernmost set of rails, as they are riding off, is a person I’ve seen many times hanging out on the porch of the Breed. I’ve never talked to him directly, but today is the day. This guy is super shy. Introverted like me, so I just go direct. I explained my situation, about the homeless guy setting up shop in the middle of the garden lot, and ask him what he thinks I should do. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This kid is smart. A genius. He says, “They are staying around the Rare Breed because they don’t know where else to go. If you want to solve your problem, solve their problem, and find somewhere else that they can go.” I tell him thanks, and let him know that is exactly what I needed to hear. Why didn’t I think of that?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We kept walking together. I started asking him personal questions, but the non threatening kind. Where do you eat? Where do you shower? How long you been on the streets? Where else have you been homeless? After all, my real mission is to have first hand experience living on the streets here now. I want to know, not think I know. I’m not going to be the guy helping homeless, when i don’t even have firsthand experience of it myself. I can’t stand being a hypocrite. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He asks me my story, why I’m here. I give him the short of it, and now I’m in. He’s taking me to a place to eat for free. There is a place that serves lunch to the homeless, about six blocks away. He told me he’s been walking for over an hour to get there. I thank him for his kindness. I don’t know his name.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I had to sign my name to get the lunch. My name was 161 on the list that day. More than a few came in after me. It reminded me of prison. Chow line. I honestly couldn’t tell the difference except there were no guards. It was surreal and dreamlike. I was just taking it all in. It’s the same anywhere, everywhere, even among homeless; there is a bit of every kind of human nature. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I see the woman who lives on the corner of the lot. She calls me a cop when she thinks I can’t hear. We’ve had words before, so she does not like me. Once I was taking picture of the lot for Facebook, and she accused me of taking picture of her. She wasn’t even in sight. We had a bit of an argument about it. She’s still bitter over losing that argument. I sit down next to her at the table. Those fold in the middle, white plastic tables. Four topper. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I say, “Can I ask you something? Aren’t you living on the back corner of the Rare Breed lot?”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She says, tentatively, after giving me the stink eye, like why are you sitting next to me, “Ya.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I say, “I was just down there, and some kids were going through your stuff, so I chased them off.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She’s alarmed, but says, “Thanks. We got all of our important stuff on us, phones, knives, and stuff, but thanks for letting me know”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I say, “I would want to know.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She says, “My husband and I got a twelve person tent. We’ve been looking for somewhere to put it because too many people go through our stuff down there.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I am relieved to hear this. This means it won’t be me evicting them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She is getting up to leave, “I am going to go check on it now.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s no secret I am a sensitive guy. Having fasted for three days, and staying physically active, my sensitivity was off the charts. The aliveness of this feeling is hard to put to words. One just feels alive. But right there in front of me was reality. All the food stuff I had read about all those years was hitting home. All that preaching about taking care of one’s body was about to be real. Reality in effect. The chow line gave me pizza, and as I ate it, I could feel my body changing.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">By the time I finished my two pieces of pizza, I was no longer feeling so alive. I was feeling sick. I felt like shit actually. I wanted to throw it up. I chugged a bunch of water, and decided to walk it off instead. My rationalizing said it wasn’t going to kill me. How many times in life had I scarfed far more than two pieces of pizza? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">All the rest of the day I felt bogged down over that food. In my head I’m thinking, these people are already bogged down in life. This food is just sealing the deal. My starving body said to eat, but what I ate was not good for my body. Sad though, because I already know, should I get hungry enough; I’ll eat anything.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Time to head back to the Breed. I needed to find this homeless dude, and put him to task. If I have to clean up his mess, he really isn’t going to like me. It’s the only way it’s going to go well for him; I’ve got to catch him on sight. I’ve got to give him the chance to do the right thing. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I notice the woman, down on the corner. She’s married, and her husbands brother is there. He’s crazy amped up. This is one of those scabbed faced, punk rock looking tweekers. He starts telling me what happened.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Those kids came back and got his pack. He became frantic, and started screaming where did they go? Someone told him which way they went, and he went after them. Now keep in mind, as he is telling me his story, his knife is out, and in hand. He was wild eyed. He had chased after them, and he had pulled his knife on them. The only thing that stopped him was the cop parked down in the industrial flats. It’s just rail tracks and flat abandoned concrete everywhere. All the buildings are gone. If there had been no cop, there would have been no witnesses.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This guys says to me, “If a kid puts himself in a man's shoes, I’m going to treat them like a man.” I told him I wasn’t going to prison for touching a kid. He continued to rage and rant about his plans for such kids. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I don’t know if those kids know it or not, but that cop saved them. If that guy had not noticed the cop parked in the shade, he would have unleashed his rage. That guy is nothing but rage. I don’t even know if the cop knows he saved those kids or not. For all I know he was facebooking in the shade. I wasn’t there. I tried to scare those kids, I tried to warn them. That was all I could do at the time. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">They seem lucky from where I am standing. I wonder how many times I got lucky like that and never even noticed it. I did many similar things at that age, riding my bike around during the summer. Did I smirk like that? I can’t remember. I don’t see how I didn’t. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I go back to the little stone table I sit and read at. I’m in the middle of a very important book. One of the staff from the Breed comes out the back door. He’s accessing a bunch of stuff that’s been dropped off at the back of the building. I’m asking him how he would handle these homeless people. As we are talking a cop driving towards us, from under the bridge. Huge bastard. Almost every Springfield cop you will see downtown is a big guy. NFL big. Turns out the dial is being turned up. The cops are being authorized to issue tickets to people lingering on the property. The cop came to get that piece of paper from the boss.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Things are about to get real. </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-35199740726906820332016-12-31T10:06:00.003-08:002016-12-31T10:19:52.845-08:00No end in sight...<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m writing about this for several reasons, but mainly just because I’m feeling it. The signs are all around me. I’ve been studying myths, and this book about suicide came my way. It’s called the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Myth of Sisyphus</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Albert Camus. Sisyphus is a man cursed by the gods to forever push a huge boulder up a mountain. Every time he would summit the mountain with the boulder it would simply roll down the other side, and he would be forced to push it back up the mountain again. No end in sight. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-a6372acc-561b-8810-78da-d9af149c3346" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Enlightenment is a funny thing. It’s sold as a cure by most guru’s, but it is not a cure. They tend to exclaim, merely learn these truths and forever after your life will be “Insert amazing awesome spiritual adjective here.” Using the word to the average TV watcher invokes visions of saintliness, or perfection in life. Anyone with any kind of awareness at all knows nothing could be further from the truth. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It doesn’t cure anything in a way that is meaningful regarding one’s past. Sure, finding some new level of awareness will create a wave, and one might ride high, for a while, thinking life is great and wonderful, but all waves eventually crash against the beach. Enlightenment is understanding the dark as much as the light; understanding the high wave as much as the low. More than that, chasing the low wave, chasing the darkness with the same fervor as one chases the high wave, as hard as one chases the light.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We are the accumulation of our past. Nothing can change this. We are living evolution; evolution in effect. Both as individuals, and as a collective. We are the direct result of our experiences. The sum total. No new piece of information will change that. It will only add to what is already there. Most people fear change, they worry about who they will be after the change, especially with ego work. The loss of ego is so scary because it generates a feeling of loss of self. The feeling of “loss of self” is terrifying, but it is also impossible. There is no such thing. Fear of the loss of self is fear of one’s own imagination. It’s just a trick of the ego to perpetuate itself. One cannot lose their sum total self. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you came over to my house, and spent a week talking about life, deep stuff, metaphysics, and then left with a new worldview on life; you would still be the direct result of all your life experiences. Even if your worldview change was radical. If I put you to talking about all the fucked up things, all the things you’ve avoided, all your fears, and self created mind games. If I picked apart your beliefs and theories on life and showed you your lies nothing would change. Even those memories and experiences we are unaware of, and those forgotten; all of them will still be there, with you, forever. They are you; you are them. In these terms reality doesn’t give a shit what we think. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So there you would be, hypothetically speaking, enlightened after spending a week with a non-thinker, and guess what? You still have your life, you’re still the same monkey, sitting in that monkey suit. You will still have all your memories, all your shitty decisions, regrets, mistakes, it will all still be there. Your shit job, your shit culture. If anything, from this ‘higher’ perspective, enlightenment makes all these things seem even worse, because now one is aware of what it could actually be; a literal garden of eden. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, the loneliness of that. The only thing that has now changed is the story you tell yourself about what it all means. Everything that ever happened, still happened. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m also writing this for those like me who’ve spent so much effort wanting to forget. Wishing to forget. Praying to forget. I’ve been dealing with abuse all my life. My own, and friends’ of mine. People I don’t know too. I hear their stories through my friends, through my reading. One doesn’t have to study psychoanalysis for very long to realize most of the children of the world do not reach adulthood without someone raping them. Abused such that it wreaks havoc on their lives forever after. I am forty one now, and the trauma of my life still affects me profoundly. I hear people in their twenties and thirties exclaim, “I just don’t want to deal with it anymore!” I say, “Tough shit.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It makes one suicidal.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No new found awareness will wipe this away. Spirituality is not a cure for trauma. Spirituality doesn’t fix anything except how one thinks. Unless of course you wish to exchange your intellect for faith. This is a road many take, but if you pay close attention their unconscious mind does not let this go. For the rest of their lives they repeat the same lessons over and over again like a petulant child standing before the universe refusing to grow up. Children in grown up bodies are everywhere. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If anything the opposite is true, enlightenment brings more confusion, uncertainty, and that one merely acquires personal power mastering it. In these terms it could be said that enlightenment is the certainty that one is uncertain. That is, one grows stronger bearing it, and making use of it, instead of being used by it. Taking shit, and turning it into gold. The stamp of shit will always be there. There will never be some happy sunny beautiful day free of the stamp of shit. To believe so is merely idealism; fantasy. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve not been hiding away long enough to write freely about my experiences yet. Certain people might be able to connect the dots, and determine who I am writing about, and this is something I loathe to do, but in this case I feel safe in that no one here knows of whom I speak. I am purposefully leaving it general. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My friend was terribly abused. You can see the rage in her eyes. They shine from it. Like most people abused in such ways, she has to lie to herself to maintain self image, to stay alive. If she came to terms with the reality of it all at once it would destroy her. She must live a lie. For now at least. Her lies bite her though, at every turn. Her sum total mind does not want to live in lies. She knows this too, can feel it at every turn, but doesn’t have the personal power yet to transcend. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her significant other does not show love to her child in a way in which she wishes her child to be shown love. She is far from alone in this regard. She is asking me about this, because she knows I have been a part of raising children who are not biologically mine. She is trying to make sense of this man she loves. She knows I was raised jacked and still love children, why can’t her man?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She says her boyfriends claim is that the little boy does not act in way that deserves love. In other words, her boyfriend was saying, if this child is to receive love from me, he must act a certain way. This is probably obvious to us, reading this, imagining this from the outside, “Why must this child do anything to be loved by his caretakers?”, so why isn’t it clear to my friend? She is intelligent. She is highly sensitive. What mother needs a child to act a certain way in order to love it? To probe even deeper, we might ask, if she loves her child so much, why can’t she love herself the same? Or the other angle, why isn’t she protecting her child from this man who does not love him?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, the simple answer is, she lives an ideal. She lives a lie. The lie here being that her boyfriend is this great awesome guy she imagines him to be. She does not understand, that because of her past, no guy who loves children naturally would be with her. Her lie is that she is worthy of some great awesome guy just because she is who she is. Most women, abused or not, suffer this fate. They think the perfect guy is just going to come along; just for them, without them having to really do anything at all. Egomaniacal comes to mind. They think they are special just for being, but do not bestow the same sentiment on the male. She cannot see that she does to him, what he does to her child. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here is the kicker, she has lived with her boyfriends father. They lived together at his father's house for a period of time, to avoid homelessness, so she has first hand experience of what a douche this guy's dad is. She knows what a piece of crap his mother is too. She knows for a fact, witnessed with her own eyes, that her boyfriend was not loved as a child appropriately at all. She has all the proof she needs, so why is she asking me why her boyfriend can’t love her child?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She is doing what everyone has done to her. She is doing so unconsciously because of her self taught lies. She is doing what almost everyone I know is doing. She is taking someone who was raised fucked up, and then expecting them to act like the ideal. This is exactly what happened to her. This is exactly what happens to her every day of her life. It happens to every single one of us. Never not once has she caught a break in life, except maybe through her acquaintance with me. She was completely thrown under the bus, raped, abused, neglected, all of it, and then is being expected to act like the ideal. The ideal mother, the ideal girlfriend, wife, citizen, employee, all of it. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She holds herself to this ideal, in the same way she holds others to the ideal. This prevents her from loving herself. How can she love herself, if she cannot even face who she is? As I’ve said, she is the sum total of her experience. As I’ve said, her experiences were a living nightmare. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She just wants to forget it all. If she remembers it, it will kill her; she knows that. Her only way out is to live a lie so hard it might possibly becomes true, fake it to make it, but this isn’t the way out. It will never be true. She will, I will, we will, always be the sum total of our experience. The way out is coming to terms with reality. The way out is through the darkness. The way out; is not a way out.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Can you see this? Can you see in her extremeness a reflection in your own life? So what if you were not abused. You then, don’t even have the excuse of abuse for not handling life. Avoiding the truth is living a lie. Living a lie is not forgetting. It is merely perpetuating the bullshit. Enlightenment is sitting in the bullshit. Going through, sifting through; the bullshit. My friends and I, those thrown under the bus, those of us who are aware of it, we are the modern Sisyphus; forever pushing our boulder up the mountain only to watch it roll down the other side. No end in sight. Pushing a rock covered in shit. </span></div>
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Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-53711270029075346232016-11-08T10:36:00.003-08:002016-11-08T12:39:35.010-08:00He changed my life. <div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-ae967ce4-453a-08c3-a191-3dbea38a21e6" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I knew a guy once. He gave me several memorable moments. A few moments that are always in my mind somehow through the spiral of life. This particular memory is one of those that is like a dream; nothing but symbolism. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I was a kid I looked up to him more than a little. I idealized this kid. He isn’t around anymore though. He lost the will to live. This is part of his story through my eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">High school sucked for me. My childhood forced a certain social ignorance on me, essentially because nothing was ever explained to me by an adult. I’m a legit introvert too, and it’s a well known fact public schools aren’t exactly designed for that personality type. Cool kids aren’t the ones in the back reading a book where I grew up. Matter of fact in every small town I’ve ever lived in I’ve been made fun of for being smart. Like legitimate social ridicule for being intelligent. I did always want to be popular though. Being sensitive I always wanted what the people around me wanted. Nice clothes, cool shoes, who lives where, to be popular etc. I grew up in small midwestern towns surrounded by small minded people. I was powerless in the face of it, it was all I had to go on. I had no self-esteem. I bought it hook line and sinker.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This guy though, he had it all. He was tall, athletic, funny, all adding up to luck with the girls. A most desirous thing to any freshman highschool boy. He lived in a huge nice house. He had the clothes, the shoes. His parents had fancy cars, fancy jobs. He was friends with all the popular kids. He was one of the most popular guys in the high school. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I lived next to the railroad tracks. I was lucky if I got cool shoes. My parents didn’t go to my sporting events, or any of that, and like I said they never explained anything to me. Dude was a factory worker, his wife a secretary. I know now they still don’t know anything, so there was good reason for them not explaining things to me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This kid though, he changed my life. I aspired to be like him. His reality was a dream to me. Turns out though, my dream was not his reality. Not even close.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He was the first to knock me out in a fight. Well, really it wasn’t even a fight. We squared off, he knocked me out. That’s not exactly a fight, that’s just a kid getting knocked out in the locker room. We got into it after football practice. I never had a chance, he caught me right in the temple like it was second nature. It seemed as natural for him as wiping his butt. Just something unpleasant that had to be done. He probably didn’t even want to do it, but I just put him to it thinking I was tough. Everyone laughed, I just got my stuff out of my locker after gaining my senses, picking myself up off of the shower floor, and burned out. I was never one to have friends on my side on sports teams. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What I remember most about this guy though, was the shine in his eyes. It has always burned in my mind's eye. HIs eyes always shined. You know how it goes sometimes in high school, after a fight, friendships often result. A fair amount of respect is gained simply by standing one's ground, win or lose. I wasn’t a terrible athlete either, so the jocks didn’t exactly hate me being on their team. I was just never in their inner circles. I didn’t get invited to their parties, or to their houses. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Somehow though, I don’t remember how, but I managed to get invited over to his house. In my child mind I was achieving great social success. I was elated actually. I was going to go hang out with one of the most popular kids in the whole high school. As an introvert, who constantly frets and is anxious about social experiences, this was huge. There was no warning for what was to come. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">When I got to his house, as I walked in the door, his older brother was beating the shit out of him. Like, not pulling his punches at all. Just completely, wholeheartedly bullying my friend. I was just a freshman, not even finished with puberty, his older brother was a senior. He was also tall and athletic, much bigger than I, and was more than capable of beating both of our asses, so I just watched. I could not afford having beef with this senior at school. I had enough problems already. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Because of my sudden presence, my friend had to man up. He was probably wishing I had showed up at any other time. He looked me in my eyes as he was escaping his brothers blows, downplaying what was happening, and man did his eyes shine.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I knew then all was not so perfect in my friends life. We were freshman in high school, how long had he been enduring his older brother? All was not as it seemed. Even then, in my ignorant small town mind, I knew firsthand what it takes to create a child who is violent to their younger siblings. I was one myself. Who knows how his parents were behind those closed doors. Rich people are drunks too, they are pill addicts too. Cokeheads. I learned that day for the first time, with my own eyes, people with nice things are just better at pretending everything's okay when it is not. This is one of the reasons people’s eyes will shine; they are hiding rage. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s not possible to be physically abused by an older sibling and not feel rage. It’s not possible to be physically abused by anyone and not feel rage. If my friend could have found it in himself to be honest about his life he would not be stifling rage. When one is stifling rage, with no outside source to direct it at, it gets directed inward. One's self destruction switch gets flipped, and down the dark spiral one goes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Looking at it from the outside, he completed the circle. He believed the lie. He measured his self value by cultural standards, material success. When he lost everything due to economics, he never got back up. He used up all his life energy telling a lie, pretending he was okay when he was not. Even when he had all his material possessions he was not okay; he was just filling the hole.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I’m sure all manner of opinions can be made about the choices he made. The truth is he was in the weeds from the get. I wish I could have helped him, but like so many the truth seems too painful. It’s a phenomenon I see everywhere I look. People are raised terribly, and then are expected to be competent capable adults. And even worse they will judge themselves quite harshly for being unable to do so. Even worse still, they will expect it of others. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Most people I know spend the bulk of their energy thinking of ways to not deal with their issues. That is like being at work expending energy on ways to be lazy. They can’t see that either way, they’re going to suffer. Either way, they are going to expend the energy. One can face the rage, or die alone in an apartment. Either way it’s going to suck. It doesn’t seem to make sense, unless you add to the equation that a lot of people simply don’t want to be well. If I ever make that choice, there won’t be anything anyone else can do about it. It’s best to just nod, say farewell, and say thanks for those lessons learned. He changed my life like no one else could of at that moment in our lives. I’ll never forget those moments, or that shine in his eyes. </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-2394633465246013462014-05-05T13:08:00.000-07:002014-05-06T06:44:25.152-07:00Grandpa<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Life is definitely crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Especially in comparison to how we are told life should be by institutions,
organized religions, and public schools. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Real life cannot be communicated even though I feel compelled to attempt it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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My writing has come to a stop recently for this reason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's not enough to read and study, it must be
applied; lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've been busy doing
that living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Swimming in the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Groping for something solid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Praying for a ray of light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wrapping my mind around what has been done, so that it can be undone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something happened to me a long time ago that happens to
almost everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hardest part is getting a person to realize it. Even if it is not to
the same degree; it did happen to you too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman who gave birth to me was abused too, but as a
child I obviously had no awareness of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my
child eyes that woman was my everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was god.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew everything
and I knew nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could send me to
hell, or place me in heaven at her whim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My life was
in her hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was my
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her everything was her
father.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It can be easily labeled and classified using classic
psychology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've never read about it and
it not be mentioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A parent abuses a
child, that child grows up, has its own children and abuses them in turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is as predictable as gravity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a child has no awareness of this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So blame plays no part in this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way things were, is how I believed things
were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who doesn't do this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blame means nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The name of the game is to see it for what it
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> C</span>ause and effect have no value here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That man though, he was only a man after all, her father, in my own life was the very
source of all my childhood nightmares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was merely taught to idealize him. Because I was a child, force would be a better word. In
my specific life, judging by those that I physically knew; he was the literal source of
my abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I did not know his parents. </span>He threw his daughter under
the bus, and she basically had little choice but to do the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn't know any other way supposedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps the same can be said of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What seventeen year old girl with an abusive
father is going to be able to raise a child correctly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bus was driving fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where I stand today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I step out of this situation emotional situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
look at it from as many perspectives as I can muster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one I take here is that of a counselor or
mentor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is to say, I am using my
thinking, to mentor my inner self, because at the time of this abuse the child
in me could not understand nor deal with what was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My opinion of its causes and effects mean
nothing when attempting to simply regard what did in fact happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What was happening?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was loving the man who abused my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As a child I was loving the abuser of the god of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That man was the only man that was ever nice
to me, yet he is the one who brought into being my suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the sole source of my plight in
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the reason I was being
beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the reason I lived in
fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the reason my mother did
not love me, yet he was the only man who was nice to me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He died when I was eleven or twelve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cried for weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no one to replace him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one to help me with his loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I without even knowing it loved the person
who caused my abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you believe
that I felt safe when I was around him?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don't you know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Church says you must love your parents no matter what; even if they
abuse you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don't you know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Public schools say you must love your family
even if they throw you under the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a terrible paradox for a child because a child has absolutely no
way to wrap its mind around such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We are taught all manner of ways to justify it, explain it, and
rationalize it as adults so that we don't actually have to deal with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That one should love
their family no matter what is a devastating blow to the psyche of a child
whose parents do not know what love is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could fill a book with heart felt poetic sayings that cause one to feel love
for their abusers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is just
advertising propaganda for dysfunction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It simply is not true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One does not have to love someone simply because they share genetics;
that is racism defined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try explaining that to a child though. It's a truth
very few wish to face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you know
why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it requires seeing the
abuser in one's self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you are merely
doing what was done to you, because that is how you learned it, and you didn’t
learn any other ways; more than likely you are neglecting and/or mistreating your
children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than likely you were
neglected and mistreated and just think that is how it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it wasn’t straight up abuse you don’t
really have to think about it because you can still survive in society without
doing so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile the girls down the
street in the corner house are being raped every night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is what the woman who gave birth to me
is unable to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She doesn’t want to own
up to all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is unable to come to
terms with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is too painful for
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">At this point most people will have already had an emotional surge. I can hear it now, "Did he just say I neglect and mistreat my child?" Such an individual is afraid to face the facts. Such an individual, like the woman who gave birth to me, places their emotional feeling of the moment above all other information. Selfishness defined. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s easy to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
another thing to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are like me, the first thing that pops into your head
regarding this chain of blame is that he must have been abused as well, to have
been able to abuse her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without a doubt
this is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This phenomenon goes very
deep in our culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> This is just another reason to disregard the blame game. Cause and effect is of no use. </span>For thousands of
years this culture has been abusing children in mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blame game would never end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Child abuse is so rampant; the majority grow up
accepting it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Making statements like,
"that is just how it is."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet,
nothing could be further from the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The correct way to say it would be, "that is just how everyone
makes it."<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So where does it stop?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In my family; it stops with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In many ways I am thankful that he died when I was so young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am glad he died before I realized the
truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I realized what he really
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I idealized him; I was a
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had the thirteen year old me been
aware of what he had done to the god of my life he would have had to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had the thirteen year old me been made aware
that he was the source of all that had happened to me and he still been alive;
it would have gotten ugly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new focus
for my rage would have materialized instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And that he was male meant I would have dealt with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He would have had to answer to me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Someone will say, but he was abused to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what of it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was abused as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where are my abused children?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where is my daughter who longs for my
love?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, this is where it
stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is how it stops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line in the sand is that he never
tried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never tried either; still is
not trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She like him blames others
for her woes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She takes no
responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes it is true, that he
was abused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also true that he
abused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must be held accountable for
both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are individual things that
must be handled individually at the same time keeping in mind the whole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must be held accountable for both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Else the cycle merely continues.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accountability is the line in the sand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What gets covered up in all this labeling is the reality of
the situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only man who
patiently taught me anything at all was the very reason I was being choked
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the very reason I was being
ridiculed and demeaned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does one
express that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How does one remedy that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it any different with her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved the source of my suffering just because he had the label "grandpa."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because she had the label "mother" she was able to turn the abuse against me, by blaming it on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only did I
love her because I came from her, but also because everyone said I must.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be beat for not loving her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What is wrong with you they say, that you hate your mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> All the while it was blamed on me. I was told it was my fault I was being abused more times than I can count. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It simply is not possible to articulate that feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Language does not suffice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What word is there for the precise amount of
hate and love at the same time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
description is there for the energy that entails?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her I have always hated, but he was someone I
didn't hate until I was old enough to be told stories of her growing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The part had already been played.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was played a fool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was tricked into loving the source of my
abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They tricked me in every way imaginable. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've learned though my feelings about this only affect
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my daily life I know no one who
even knows this about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a torment
of the soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's my own journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone else is the same, but on their own
journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their emotions about their
journey have no real effect on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Because of this the way in which this matter is dealt with emotionally is
individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
How it is handled outwardly
though, in action, is another story altogether.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The only way to remedy the situation outwardly is through
responsibility; accountability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When one is being accountable emotions have little value. </span>I know
this, because that is what I applied to myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I took responsibility for my own actions, and the bullshit stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The very moment I made that decision my entire life was forever after altered. </span>The moment I blame someone else for what I
do, I am justifying what I do, which means I will continue to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to hold myself accountable for what I do,
regardless of what others have done to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In that same way I hold them accountable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are responsible for what they did to me,
regardless of what was done to them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It cannot be true to love one’s self and at the same time
willingly allow one’s self to be abused, or to abuse another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this accountability doesn't happen, the abuse keeps on
happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way in which one takes on
accountability does not matter, but that one does is all that matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the saying of it can be said in a myriad
of ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without realizing it in one's
self one cannot do it to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One cannot truly love someone else
if they cannot love their own self first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One cannot hold another truly accountable, if they cannot hold their own
self accountable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's up to me, the
same as it is up to you, to do this work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To handle this task.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is not our fault this society is whack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not our fault that it literally tricks
people into believing it is okay to abuse children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does this by never actually doing anything
about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It tricks us into thinking so
many things that are not true by teaching the lies before we are old enough to
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is directly our fault if we
continue to pass it on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all have the
ability to step out of this cycle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">If I can do it, so can she, so can he, and so can you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very very
lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My personality is such that it is
nearly impossible for me to not stick up for myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I literally cannot rest if it is not
happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So naturally that is what I
did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood up for myself and told
those people to fuck off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most though do
not have this backbone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people
cannot bear the idea of not having a family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of not having a mother or father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
don't want to look an abuser in the eye and reconcile the truth regardless of
consequence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I have no choice though,
but to ask, “How can this person actually love me if they are abusing me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm sure somewhere you will find a
psychologist that says that's true, that she did love me, but I don't buy
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is available to
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What love really is, is free for
all to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is if you
honestly love someone, you do not abuse them, because when you really love
someone you find out what love is first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Real love requires effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Attaining the knowledge of what real love is requires effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone can say the words, “I love you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who raised me merely did what was
done to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apathy defined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my journeys in life most people I have met were neglected
and mistreated as children and do not realize it at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandfather was in his fifties when he
died and he was still an ignorant man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He died clueless to the ramifications of his actions. He
died in a hospital without ever reconciling with his daughter at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He discovered no real truths about life, or
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a cruel and mean man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His children did the same thing in turn and
have been cruel and mean to their sons and daughters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you talked to her today, she would tell
you that she loves me and that she did her best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise you there was no love in that
house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no rule book you know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is no judge either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How one
handles this matter is about as individual as it gets, but if it isn’t handled
the cycle continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To break the cycle
though certain things do need to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The pain has to be faced down. It has to be gone through. Fully experienced. They story has to be told. Getting a grip on my emotions I had to look at things for what they are free of my emotional opinion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just because I was tricked into feeling love for her doesn’t mean
I am not going to acknowledge what happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
For instance, using the label abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That the title mom is involved does not magically mean abuse is suddenly
acceptable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because she gave birth to me
does not mean it wasn’t abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
society tolerates abuse if it is done by someone in the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plain and simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just saying that out loud is pretty messed
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say it with me, “If it is a family member
who abuses the child we don’t do anything about it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is even more messed up is that after
saying it, people will still go home and do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The easiest thing to do is point the finger at someone who abuses their child even more, so that one may justify/continue their own abuse. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mirror is a sketchy place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one likes to look there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why doesn’t the title mother mean that one goes above and
beyond figuring out what it means to handle such situations, what it means to love, to raise children appropriately?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is too ideal right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Those expectations are too high right? </span>Why was my grandfather going to church, going
to work, then going home and abusing his daughter?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why was he respected?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why did people love him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some still do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From my perspective
the belief that one love their family no matter what is so ingrained from such
an early age that people will literally suffer their entire lives and still
love that person, never realizing their false love is the very source of their suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Society has robbed
children of the ability to stick up for themselves because the parents
themselves don’t know how to do it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only positive male role model I had as a child was a
perpetuator of child abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only
thing the woman who gave birth to me wanted was for her father to love
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She passed that on to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made me long for her love like her father
made her do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did unhealthy things
seeking that love in other men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Men as
disgusting as my grandfather was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
drug me through it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the while telling
me she loved me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everywhere I look I see it happening to other children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everywhere I look I see it in the adults I
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day I walk home from school
and I see it in their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just isn’t
something I can ignore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s right in
front of my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to take a shower now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The memories of my grandfather are like a dream. I had a dream of a good grandfather. One who loved me and taught me things. The child I was was a dreamer. I'm an adult now. I have to face the truth whether I like what I see or not. These memories of mine are not real, thus the dream. </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-46177133889392410342014-03-05T07:46:00.000-08:002014-03-05T07:46:02.149-08:00Power Failure
<br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Missouri has some
powerful storms sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Living
anywhere in central Missouri there is always a chance of some terrific weather
regardless of season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's only a matter
of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Booneville was directly hit by
a big storm one night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily for me I
was on work release already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t in
the ghetto anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was pitch black
outside except for when lightening flashed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When the power went out it stayed out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The backup generators didn't work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The entire prison was suddenly without electricity, and it didn't come
back on for hours.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Luckily for the
guard in our house he wasn't in the ghetto either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an older guy, and small too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think his name was Browning or something
like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walked like Fred
Flintstone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talked funny too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn't a mean guy, but he could be
cranky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't know it at the time,
but the battery went dead on his radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was locked in a room, with no lights, with over eighty inmates, and
no one to communicate with the outside world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He sat at his desk the whole time and never said a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to of been terrified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cacophony was in full effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember, if a civilian didn't see it, it
didn't happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I was in work
release it was still pretty intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
lot of those gangsters didn't like me at all, and I'm not being racist, but in
the dark I couldn't see them at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Of course cats were
having sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course there was a white
guy getting sexed in the wreck room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
wasn't being raped either, but had agreed to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was weird figuring that out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's kind of how it works with
cocaine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don't do it with people
they attempt to hide it from you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prison
really opened my eyes to just how much and how many males sex each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More than a few times I was shocked to see
who was into that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are a lot of
married men who still like other men I can tell you that for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They called it the down low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There weren't many gangsters who didn't have
some sugar in their tank.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Shit went crazy in
the other houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bunks were thrown down
the stairs at the guards in 6 House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5
House was a circus with the lights on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They just locked the bay doors in 5 House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hole filled completely up in one
night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt bad for those guys in the
ghetto that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There weren't enough
guards for all of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gangland went
bananas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-69453322163889819522014-03-04T08:30:00.000-08:002017-06-01T09:51:33.574-07:00Roaches.<br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Prison really was a
disgusting place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would probably be
safe to say that it still is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After I
got out I showered several times a day, every day, for months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't get the disgusting off of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any time any dirt got on me at all; I took a
shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taking a shower all alone is a
glorious freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a luxury unlike
any other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Roaches are a real
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roaches live up to their
reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roaches were
everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They fly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had a city under the prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their headquarters was under the chow
hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prison had a tunnel system
under it for the plumbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These tunnels
weren't tall enough to stand up in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kind where all
the pipes ran along one side near the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The top of it was arched, so it had that really creepy feel, made of bricks and was really old by my
standards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plumbing crew guys were
the only inmates that went in those tunnels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one really anyone wanted that job either because of the roaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Near the chow hall the walls would be alive
with them.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
It's just like the
movies they said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The entire surface
would be crawling with cockroaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
moving wall of scuttling, clicking, sometimes three inch long cockroaches doing
what they do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw some huge
cockroaches outside of that chow hall flying around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like there was a war going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prison was being invaded from the inside
and was moving out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
They really were
everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The civilians who worked the
kitchen were big women except for the head guy who was a weird looking white
guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never saw him really, except for
across the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The women though were
walk funny big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scary looking big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They couldn't have run if they had to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had terrible attitudes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How could they not hate their lives? Who as a kid, was like, "I want to work in a prison kitchen when I grow up." No one.</span><br />
<br />
The food was as gross as the roaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to be really careful about what I ate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would always investigate, hitting up other
guys who were already eating trying to figure out if it was safe or not. I
couldn't starve, but there was a limit to what I would willingly eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I saw it with my own
eyes one day working for maintenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were going around cleaning out all the AC units.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the time no one was ever behind the
chow hall; it was off limits to general population.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lying on the ground getting ready to go in
the back of the kitchen managers personal truck were boxes labeled not for
human consumption.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always wondered why
that guy was allowed to bring his personal vehicle into the prison itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one else ever did that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was probably just fattening his paycheck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
There was meatloaf
one time that had a glossy shine to it where it was sliced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chicken bone casserole was a no go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I almost broke a tooth once biting into a bone. I was starving that day, but never again. </span>There were beans on the plate every single
meal except breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my
favorite meals was hard boiled eggs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> How could they fuck that up? </span>I
would always trade commissary items or something from a future meal for the
extra unadulterated protein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I knew
people in 4 House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the inmate kitchen workers were in the same housing unit. Word on the street
was that cats sometimes poked a hole in the meat and sexed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would have someone watch out for them
while in the cooler alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were
some nasty freaks in that house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Word on the
street was that 4 House was where the freaks went because they always had
plenty of opportunity to do their thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At work and in the house itself there were lots of opportunities to be
alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was always at least one bay
in that house that had its lights out because they all worked different shifts. </div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I had to be really
careful about what I ate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt very
much I made it out of there without eating something disgusting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt anyone did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When people who obviously do not care about
themselves are preparing food it's never going to be good food, and it never
was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Never not once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
In the corner of the
chow hall where the trays are picked up there is a long narrow window that runs
horizontally at about waist level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
of the kitchen managers is always sitting right at the window on the other side
of the wall to make sure no shenanigans are occurring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running along the kitchen side of the wall
was a counter with big long food pans in heat sinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an inmate at each pan, and they
would fill the trays military style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
whole prison ate in less than an hour and half.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One day as I was walking up to get my tray a roach was just running
around on this ladies arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She never
even moved to shake it off or nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was just running around doing its thing easily crawling over the fat
folds in her arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't eat much.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The only reason I
was eating at all was because I was lifting weights so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I played a lot of hand ball too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a very active sport, and we were
quite competitive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t stand for
people to be better than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had extra
money on my commissary I would buy protein powders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had a meal replacement powder too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only other thing to eat was ramen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still love ramen, but ramen is not
nutritional at all and it does not sustain a person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compared to prison food ramen is absolutely
delicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to go into that
disgusting chow hall though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was that
or starve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't afford to lose any
size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So much of my power in there depended on my size and strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got to where I was benching over
300 lbs. and could squat 450. I simply couldn't do that starving all the
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
When I tell people
this part of the story they always ask me, "but why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why was it that way?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With all those inmates why wasn't it cleaner?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why wasn't the food better?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">" </span>To me it is pretty simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When there is only one guard, who doesn't
have a real weapon other than a radio and some mace, per hundred inmates, that guard
couldn't really make us do much of anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those guards were always walking a fine line and they knew it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were quick to call for help when it got
sketchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn't have what it took
to make us do much of anything other than obey the rules. No one in Booneville
wanted more time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
There are so many
fixes to this problem it's not even funny, yet it still persists to this
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the case even outside of prison. The people in charge are always
changing the rules inside the prison, but never changing the reasons for which a prison is even needed in the first place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They never change the culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Cats could
have been learning to legitimately cook in there, but instead it was a
circus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could have been leaving
prison with a way to provide for themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The people in charge didn't care about them any more than they did me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That's really what it all comes down to; if the people in charge don't
even care about themselves, how can they care about others?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t care about us at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That means they didn’t care about you
either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Using those civilian
women in that chow hall as an example, they brought the entire prison's food
quality down to their level in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Through their actions they ruined it for us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their lives were in a state of ruin and they
reflected it out into the universe accordingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm
sure they had their reasons in life for being what and who they were, but I
don't really like making excuses for apathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They obviously didn't care about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They didn't care about me at all or they would never have put that shit
on my tray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I still have this
thought to this day; if I could at nineteen be at least trying to get my head
out of my ass, what was stopping them?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were much older than I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
had their freedom, couldn't they at least try?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is the golden rule after all; do unto others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I prefer saying the golden rule another way;
thou art thou brother’s keeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wouldn't have served that disgustingness to anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-21310093426509163962014-02-28T11:57:00.000-08:002014-02-28T11:57:59.912-08:00Genuine fear.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most intense moment I ever had in prison was while
working for Stan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It was a rare occasion for me to feel genuine fear. </span>He had a bunch of
stuff in his car that he needed to get to his office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn't want to carry it all so he asked me
for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I complied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably wouldn't have though had I known
what he was going to do to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
my façade, the hyper-masculinity, I am a very cautious person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't ride motorcycles for instance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am always aware that every time I pass an oncoming
car on a two lane highway, doing 55 mph, that I have just had a near death
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't take unnecessary
risks ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you ever see me doing
something sketchy it's only because have already thought it out in my own way,
or I would not be doing it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stan couldn't see this part of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one understands the calculating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is too much intuition involved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt it ever crossed his mind that he had
endangered my life at all, but I was acutely aware of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth is I probably wasn't in danger at
all, but that just wasn't how I saw it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For all I know those guards weren't even paying attention. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we got to the front gate I was already nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only time inmates are near the front gate
is when they get to leave to go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Inmates aren't even allowed to walk within a hundred feet of it. Part of the security of the place is that no one really knows what it is
like past the visiting room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is
just never a reason for inmates to be there other than for leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides the day I left there for good, this
was the only time I had been in that area.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never met a high ranking white shirt that gave a shit
about inmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To them we were basically
just animals. To me they were just bigots; men who judge by the eye with no
depth of thought whatsoever, yet were making life altering decisions regarding
others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never liked to be around
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever they said went. Since I was merely an animal to them there
was no power to get from them. There was no advantage in dealing with them. They could only bring negative consequences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No inmates had
power with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were always in headquarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a small area at the entrance to head quarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was basically a rectangle shaped enclosed chain
linked box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Headquarters was
encased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snag wire, chain linked fence,
cinder blocks and bullet proof glass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looks
like a fort with big light poles all around it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides the hole it was the
only part of the prison with high tech security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The entry road to the prison passed right in
front of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had full vision on the three
sides not attached to the visiting room building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The small chain link box at the entrance was for security
purposes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I called it the double locked
door technique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you were to be
entering the prison, they would buzz you through the chain link fence
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once it was secured, they would
then buzz the main door to the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Both doors are never open at the same time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stan had me step out into the box.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'd been locked up over two years by then, and right there in
front of me was the parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right
there was freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The closest I had
been to it in years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not cuffed or
shackled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main door slammed closed
and I heard the lock engage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then buzz
click.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chain link door swung
open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hands were shaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Stan did, what was to me, the
unimaginable. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked me to help him
get the stuff out of his car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
panicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's acting rushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's in a hurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't want to seem stupid in front of him,
but I was scared to death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't want
to cause a scene and argue with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was like I was floating on air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adrenaline
was pumping through my veins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could have been shot dead for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An inmate, not cleared, standing outside the
perimeter fence, can be shot on sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's a minimum of five years without parole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was trying to get that shit out of his car
and back into the box so fast I was sweating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I needed back in there and I needed back in there right then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should not have been outside the fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those shotguns are always loaded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five flat years on top of what I had already
done might as well have been a death sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I got back to his office with the stuff I was
quite upset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said something to him
about it too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no need to put
me in jeopardy over some crap in some boxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn't trust him anymore after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He saved my life, so I couldn't be truly upset.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn't control what those guards would
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn't assure my safety in such
a situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of those guards
literally prayed for someone to try to escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I made it clear to him that that would never happen again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would have to find someone else to go
outside the fence if he needed help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-22093342734582244062014-02-28T07:39:00.003-08:002014-02-28T07:39:47.690-08:00Marriage
<br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
It's a thing I
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's kind of hard to explain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I defy odds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I do my own thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To people who
spend their lives obeying the rules and doing what they are told I seem quite
wild and unpredictable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I make up my
mind to do something the whole world could tell me I am wrong, and I will do it
anyways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At nineteen I didn't know how
to stick up for myself in any way other than being hyper-masculinized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't even know it was intuition I was
using.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My spiritual studies hadn't really begun yet. </span>I could hear that call within my
mind and I would honor it regardless of consequence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s part of being an idealist maybe, never
caring about practical consequences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
loved her and that was all that mattered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What society thought about it mattered not.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Rachel wanted to
marry me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not joking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn't really my idea at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally everyone was telling me not to do
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By this time though it was clear
to me that no one even knew me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
let them. All they knew were my facades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They knew the show I put on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
knew what I was raised to be, what prison made me, what this society cast me
as.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rachel though, knew who I really was
more than any human on the planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is
that not a wife?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What does it matter if
there was a ring or not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't know
why she needed me, but I knew I needed her.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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She didn't want to
wait till I was out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wanted to get
married while I was in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't
afford to disappoint her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't afford
to lose her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t afford to
question it all either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I considered it
for some time before saying yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sometimes in life one must do what they must do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being married caused a huge internal conflict
in me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I so badly didn't want to be like
JoAnn, married five times before I made it out of high school that I swore to
never divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My desire to not be like
JoAnn made marriage a really big deal to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was my bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My being married
to her had so much more to do with life than whether or not it lasted our whole
lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not see that fact as being a
reason to say our marriage was a failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The truth is I
married her because I loved her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got
married because I needed out of there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not just prison, but I needed out of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed a new life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was something Rachel and I shared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her life had not been so much better than
mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only were our childhoods quite
similar, but we were born very close together in the year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was born on the 1st of Sept. and she on the
4th.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a great deal we shared in
common as Virgo's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We have been
separated for over ten years now as I write this, almost as long as we were
together, and I still miss her as a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whether she meant to or not; she saved my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I not feel some connection with
such a person?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
She bought the
rings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were exactly what I
wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plain gold bands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an idealist the rings just didn't have
anything to do with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither did the
preacher man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JoAnn picked him out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Naturally to her such things mattered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leave it to the woman who can't keep a
husband to think the preacher is important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's kind of sad how long it took me to get that bitch out of my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m practically defined by my
ability to stick up for myself and that was still quite difficult to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that I hated her did not remove my
desire for a mother.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Rachel wore simple
white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a real wedding dress, but
something modest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They escorted her to
the church during lunch with the preacher man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was from whatever church JoAnn was using to feel good about her shit
life at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ceremony was over
in less than ten minutes and they escorted them all right back out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That had to of been a trip for Rachel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During my bit in Booneville not many civilian
women were ever in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could it
not have been a trip?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had to walk
through the upper quad, with the big brick buildings everywhere, inmates in
grey everywhere going to and from chow, cackling and snickering about the girl
in white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not sure how she could not
have felt some fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only having one
guard around is never really reassuring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
We barely got to hug
and kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone was criticizing me
for this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People would say, “You got
married in prison?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did they know Rachel was all I had?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did they know that I had no family?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did they know sex had nothing to do with it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even within the realm of love I was on one
hand an idiot, and on the other a genius.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was an idiot for thinking I would never get a divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a genius for marrying her despite all
the criticism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see people
looking at me like I was a fool, I could feel it, but that was the difference
between them and I; I could see it in myself, but they couldn’t see it in
themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a single one of those
people criticizing me were happily married themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even at nineteen I knew I had to pay prices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marriage isn't about finding someone and then
living happily ever after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's that
fairy tale shit they sell on TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Marriage is about bonding with someone.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I could see it even
if I couldn’t say it clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According
to societies standards there were a million very obvious reasons we should not
have gotten married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to life
we had every reason to marry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
those failings society was pointing out so adamantly we had a bond that in my
experience was quite rare among humans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve never had one like it since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It nearly killed me too, when I lost it years later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've read the stats regarding men who lose
their wives and it is sketchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I
said, it's a thing I do; defy odds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
divorce was just as odd defying as the marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I won't lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My memory regarding Rachel is sketchy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've spent a great deal of effort over the
last decade getting her out of my memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For over a decade she was the center of my life, then one day she
wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was devastating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to move on I had to practically act
like it never happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's one thing
to mourn someone who dies, but another all together when the one you mourn is
still walking the earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I don't even
remember what housing unit I was in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
called her one day during the afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was feeling
sick to my stomach because I kind of knew what was coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She informed me that she couldn't do it
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was seeing her
neighbor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing I could
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Had I not put in so much work to pull myself out of the hole that
conversation would have ended my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
could feel the spiral out of control trying to suck me in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I just sucked it up,
and through sheer will did not let it all go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a defining moment in my life because I had every reason to just
unleash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I impressed myself with my ability
to reign it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so embarrassed I
didn’t even tell anyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just kept it
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think I even let myself cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just told myself that I always knew it
would happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had taken so much
criticism for marrying her I wasn’t going to humiliate myself by telling people
what she was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Naturally I got
depressed, but I just kept on marking the days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kept praying in the weight pile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Kept devouring books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kept
accumulating power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only had like five
or six months before my parole board meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a voice in me saying it wasn't over yet with Rachel, even
though she said what she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was on
my own for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Growing up is a
bitch. I was proud of myself for not having snapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
After I got the
verdict back from the parole board meeting I called her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent several days working myself up to
that call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hadn’t even been writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no idea what was going on in her
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t talked to her for
months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told her that I would be out
within a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We both cried on the
phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t even know that I had
gone up for the hearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was as
shocked as me by the release date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
going to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t blame her
for not waiting it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could that
be easy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t her fault whatsoever
that I was in there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t give a
shit about anything; I was going to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had somewhere to go again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were still married after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
What would you
pick?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A life in prison or a marriage
deemed imperfect by society?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an
easy pick for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-24509032947426355942014-02-26T12:33:00.000-08:002014-02-26T12:33:24.356-08:00Racism is real.
<br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Supposedly in this
culture my being a white male gives me some privilege.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am white, six feet tall, with an athletic
build.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Statistically those three things
make me more likely to succeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Obviously though I had been thrown under the bus and found myself
absolutely surrounded by inner city blacks who really didn't like white people
because of their situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Through
reading I had some knowledge of their situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was watching it go down with my own eyes,
at least a certain part of it anyways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn't have any experience of city life yet, but in prison it was happening to
me too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I might not have been black, but
the stigma of being a felon was just as limiting on my future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not saying they are equal things, being
black and being a felon, but it lets one know what it feels like first hand to
have certain things made unavailable simply because of a label.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you don't believe me just check the
committed a felony box on a job application and go looking for a job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Cats name was
Rat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never figured out why they called
him that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was like 5'4'' maybe, but
built.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He still had the wide shoulders,
and as is typical of black people he had the muscular build and six pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you randomly selected one hundred blacks,
and one hundred whites in prison the physical difference in appearance is
startling, and I mean that by not taking skin color into consideration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be like eighty black guys with a
six pack, and maybe ten white guys with one if you are lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is crazy is that in terms of lifestyle
they do absolutely nothing different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were so many blacks with six packs who never ever did a damn
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It makes them appear much more
intimidating to a pudgy looking white guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rat though lifted weights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
athletic and could back it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's
crazy how good at basketball some of those small guys can be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though he was short he still carried
himself, and didn't have a small man's complex about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dude was intelligent and we had
conversations a few times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't
consider him a bad guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
This other dudes
name is Sergeant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hasn't been in for
very long yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's in Six House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s still learning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His head is shaved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's one of those white boys on upper hill
that finds it easy to be openly racist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He doesn't know the rules on lower hill it seems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hasn't learned his lesson yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't like racist people so he and I didn't
ever talk much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't associate with racist
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no respect for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just not that difficult to wrap one’s
mind around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Rat was one of those
rare gangsters that had a job in maintenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like I said, he was smart and new how to play the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn't always like being in the ghetto
either, and a maintenance job was a way out temporarily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A job on a maintenance crew came with several
perks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just because he was in a gang
didn't mean he liked constant noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
intelligent person would like the circus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There weren't any guards at the maintenance building usually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of that job was having some
freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The civilians were called
maintenance supervisors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were four
or five crews, and each had a supervisor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some jobs were more serious than others like plumbing and
electrical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes we would be
sitting around the trucks waiting or whatever and there wouldn't be anyone
around except inmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's just me,
Rat, and Sergeant at the back of a truck.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Rat is sitting next
to me on the tail gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Small talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's gangster talking, which Sergeant isn't
quite familiar with yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn't understand
everything being said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He's kind of
sneering that Rat is talking that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It quickly escalates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rat is on
edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rat asked him point blank why he
shaves his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dude is trying to act
hard at this point because a 5'4" gangster who is smarter than he is; is
calling him out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dude says right back,
"Because I don't like black people."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rat jumps off the tail gate and says, "What you mean to say is, you
don't like niggers."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rat started
approaching him. Sergeant looks over at me as this happens like I was going to
help him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He even made it obvious as he
backed away from Rat, looking at me like I should help him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I didn't do
shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wasn't going to either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was hoping Rat would beat his ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His parole board hearing was coming up
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t afford to clown on
this white boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sergeant had it coming
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say stupid shit and you got it
coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn't have let Rat get
jumped either had Sergeant had a bunch of white boys around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being on lower hill I knew exactly what it
was like to be the only person with a certain color of skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That feeling is a real thing.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
When I was in 1
House there was a dude named Epps who hated white people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did not hide that fact either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an officer in the Nation of Islam
church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always running his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always adding to the cacophony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was bitter like me, but too wrapped up in
his own shit to see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's called the
shadow effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a well-documented
psychological phenomenon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's when the
thing you dislike about someone else is true about you and you just can't see
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t want to see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was racist and didn't want to realize it
on an emotional level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth to him
was painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is how it was with
most of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don't realize it is
each of us alone that decides who we are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead of taking personal responsibility for his own situation in life
he blamed others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I understood his
plight, but he happened to be quite racist about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I can only take so
much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had already made it clear to him
that if I could not say overtly racist shit neither could he.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one calls me a honkey, or cracker, or any
of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He made sure he used those
words just never directly at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He'd
say it when coming around a corner, or as I was coming in the bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He liked to do it just to push my
buttons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He liked to call me a
Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since he was given the African label, I was
given European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had it right
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The European culture that American
culture came from was disgustingly racist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sexist too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just straight up
bigoted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Epps was acting like it was me that made
those decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These guys were just
like me; really smart in some ways and totally ignorant in others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a genius title, but I wasn't the white
man holding him back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had me confused
with some other white people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
We were standing in
line to be counted, and he's running his mouth looking right at me talking
about Europeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was pissed off about
how he was being treated at his job. You see the problem with this cat was that
he was ranked in the most racist church in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merely out of principle, they will all take
his side over some racist shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd seen
the call go down before when I was in that bay with Miniman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wouldn't have mattered what the reason, it
would have made it quite unsafe being anywhere after picking a fight with this
dude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's not only that there are other
guys in that church, but that those other guys are also all in various
gangs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It goes from messing with one guy
to potentially hundreds instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
knew that fact too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Racist as he was he
was not an idiot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was doing the same
shit as me to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He played the
power game too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a job in admin
too, and knew how to talk white when he needed to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
My eyes flared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so sick of this dude running his
mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole bay is quite for
count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am looking right at him like I
was daring him to take a step forward. I say, "I'm not a fucking
European.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm a fucking redneck. I was
born in Missouri."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silence for a
couple seconds, then laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some
other gangsters snickered at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
other blacks got tired of listening to his shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have tried to beat the racism out of
him had he moved towards me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's easy
to run your mouth when you have hundreds of cats behind you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was so pissed I would have risked it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have risked my safety for a few
months for the chance to stomp that guy’s ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I did the next best thing though, and made him look stupid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Checked him in front of everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
It doesn't take much
looking into the matter to realize those blacks had legitimate reason to be
pissed off in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were thrown
under the bus, and kept ignorant just like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As racist as those church organizations were they did make those guys
more aware of their situation in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The racial tension was always high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was always in my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if I
had any more to do with being born white than they had in being born
black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't want to be in there
either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The worst ever was
when I was on work release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
absolutely cannot fight, or get any violations for that matter while on work
release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They won't let you out if you
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stupid prison staff let a racist
movie air over the cable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mississippi
burning or something like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Idiots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A well respected white boy got worked over in
5 House because of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There weren’t
enough whites in those bays for that kind of movie to be watched simultaneously
by hundreds of blacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found out after
the fact that the white boy had been told if he swung first; it would be all
in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being in work release I was no
longer in the know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The chow hall was
two big open rooms with a divide wall in the middle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Half of the wall was a counter with drinks
and condiments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was always milk
and some kind of crazy kool aid drink that stained the shit out of the plastic
cups. I never drank that nasty stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
it did that to the cup what was it doing to my insides?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other half of the divider was the
dishwasher's station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards station
was at the open end, and everyone had to go by it to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the far ends were single entry doors, and
then in the middle were double doors that everyone left through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards always acted like everyone was
passing shit around during chow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
wasn't really a station, but an open area where the two rooms connected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards always set up shop at the corner
tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lines formed along the outer
wall, so from the guard station the whole room can be seen clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tables are all bolted down including the
seats; four seats to a table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
controlled the length of the lines via their walky talkies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was some politics in which houses go
when, and to which side of the chow hall which houses go to avoid
conflicts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards were always
clueless though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I was coming back
from working in a town called Blackwater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was at the end of the line about fifteen feet from the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were probably thirty or forty inmates
in front of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The row of table’s right
next to the line, right by the narrow slotted window where the trays appear,
were filled with white boys. I could feel the tension in the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew some racist shit had gone down but I
didn’t know exactly what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found out
after the fact that all the cats in line standing along the wall were the
blacks from that bay in 5 House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
were trapped between the brick wall and a row of about twenty white boys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dude they rolled stood up and just
drilled a cat right in the face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before
I could blink the whites were all on their feet throwing down on those
gangsters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those cats didn't know what
the fuck was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guards came
running in and started spraying mace on the cats who wouldn't stop
fighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One guard took a shot to the
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once a guy is maced he is no
longer responsible for landed punches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Everyone knows this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rookie guard
spraying mace like that with so many fighting was a dumb thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the guards came in most everyone was
burning out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gangsters were jumping over
the counter into the kitchen area trying to get away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some white boys managed to escape because the
guards let them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The guards knew what
was up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I felt like such a
bitch though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to just stand
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cats who had had my back were
sticking up for one another, and I wasn't able to return the favor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had I gotten that four or five year out date
that would have been me in there throwing down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could have let it all go if even for only for a few moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have gotten my opportunity to go to
the hole for a while too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead I had
to stand there and hope they didn't notice me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was ashamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to get out
though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put my head down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t really eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fumes from the mace were still in the
air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food was even worse to me
knowing I would be out soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t
care about my pride that time; I was going to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3470141970446456710.post-36081736742783859982014-02-26T07:49:00.002-08:002014-02-26T07:53:41.531-08:00The scam.<br />
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The man who
sentenced me to ten years in prison knew almost nothing about me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had his own life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was one case in thousands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His impact on my life was quite
detrimental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My impact on his was a few
hundred bucks for his time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In total I
do not think I spent more than fifteen minutes in his presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He barely talked to me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The prosecutor did not ever talk to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had no clue who I was at all.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
That fact makes it
arbitrary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopeless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A statistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A paycheck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That makes them bigots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This part of the system comes from kings and
queens farming their people for money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>See that word 'their' implies ownership.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It means they own you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
broken system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The judge is just like a
king sitting up high behind his big bench doling out wrecked lives like his
life depends on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Completely
uninformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those people are just doing
what their told, no different than those convicted do, they just get paid to do
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If those people cared for me at all
they would never have sent me to prison. They would never send anyone
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
It's no different in
there either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No different at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a booklet they hand out when you go
to prison that explains the rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
had a chart that showed how much time a guy had to do before being able to see
the parole board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to do thirty six
months on a ten year sentence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had
been in long enough I had to find a new guy to double check the months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within the prison system is the parole
system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had their own department
and offices in the basement of the admin building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think there were five or six of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let that sink in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five or six people for something close to a
thousand inmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's human farming
without the physical brand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With humans
you don’t have to burn the skin to leave a mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
A guy gets to see
their parole officer two times in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Once before going to see the parole board, and once after to find out
the results.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two times; that’s it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first time it's basically a job
interview.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she calls the various
housing guards that you've spent time with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Builds a profile of sorts, and makes a recommendation to the board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The person who was in charge of my future
barely had a thirty minute conversation with me one time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a little better than the prosecuting
attorney that is for sure.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
As you can imagine,
the weeks before the parole board meeting one is on another level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The time between the interview and the
meeting is quite tense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw a lot of
cats crack under the pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
almost a given that when a guy had a parole board meeting coming up everyone
gave him some space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually the whole
game changes at that point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless
of the result everyone always acted different after that meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn't the only guy in prison who
self-sabotaged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of guys would
fight because they couldn't handle the tension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When one's future is arbitrarily in the hands of others who do not
actually care about you at all; it is stressful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The parole board
forced the one I hated more than anything back into my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was insisting that because she had been
working in prisons for so long, and knew some of the parole officers, that it
would help me get out sooner if she was at the meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't argue with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She showed up in her prison uniform like she
was fucking proud of it or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
just wanted out of the ghetto really bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My contempt for her at this point was practically out in the room at all
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was only allowed to have one
person with me when I went in front of the board.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I was anxious all
morning waiting for the phone to ring in Stan’s office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had their own room in the same building
as the visiting room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because JoAnn was
going to be there I had to be stripped searched before and after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Got to get that humiliation in; don’t want to
skip that part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The board consisted of
three people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within the parole system
were parole board positions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They paid
more than in prison officer positions, but they had to travel to all of the
prisons, all the time.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
They asked me some
questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another job interview
basically except all the stuff my in prison officer asked me was in front of
them on paper already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost just like
the fucking movies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These people
probably didn't even like their own lives, so I knew they didn't care about
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were just doing their jobs to
get a pay check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who dreams of being a
prison parole officer when they are a kid?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who has that passion in life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
That was it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn't last fifteen minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it became the same waiting game I had
been playing for three years just much more intense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the guys who had crimes similar to
mine were getting three and four year out dates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were being made to do over five
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was prepared for that too, but
I still had hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the most part I
played all my cards right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fighting
violations really weren't a big deal in their eyes because it was expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I had my interview with my in prison
parole officer she asked me if I had done any drugs while in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just looked at her and said if you don't
the white guys who stand up for themselves won't have your back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They won't let you in their circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's just how it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She nodded in understanding and said thanks
for not lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would have to be
something seriously wrong with a person if they didn't want to smoke cannabis
while stuck in prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
In the interview
with her it was the same with the fighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She literally said it to my face that if you’re on lower hill and you
don't have any fighting violations you’re somebody's bitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just started laughing with her because I
wasn't anyone's bitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My efforts in the
weight pile were pretty obvious at this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was like a tree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lifting
weights was my church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's where I
prayed the most. Even without any knowledge of prison life, or me, not many
would assume I was someone’s bitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do
have the crazy eyes after all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
The kicker was that
she was engaged to my boss Stan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm not
saying she did anything wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From my
perspective the advantage was that she knew me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had some idea of who I actually was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a social connection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew my struggle in life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She herself went on to help kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t just another face with a
number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She saw past my façade’s a
bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would come to the office to
chat with Stan when I was there sometimes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I am sure that she and Stan talked about me when I was not around, and I
never really hid much from Stan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
order for him to be able to best help me he needed to know the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted that help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got the verdict back she told me that
she wrote me a good report.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked
really hard after that to earn that privilege.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can't say she stuck her neck out for me, but I wasn't going to be the
one who made her look bad for writing it.</div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Getting the results
back comes on an unknown day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phone
call comes randomly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paced a lot
waiting on that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I am anxious and
pacing people say I am like a tiger in a cage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It can be felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gangsters
gave me my space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had other stuff
going on too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t talked to Rachel
for several months. I wasn’t going to crack though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My whole life, my future, was riding on
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was aware of my own
institutionalization, and was not sure what another two or three years was
going to do to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was giving me a
sick feeling thinking about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two more
years in the ghetto?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no way
that much time in there would not have had a negative impact on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dangerous riding hope like I was, but
I had to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bad news would probably have
ended with me in the hole for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I sat down in her
office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hadn't even opened the
envelope yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was waiting for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she opened it with her fingers
the hair on the back of my neck stood up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was go time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's all riding
on this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was at a fork in the
road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she read it she smiled and told
me congratulations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a two year out
date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked her to re-read it to make
sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to contain myself, but I was
also stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something good had just
happened to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was a rare thing in
my life. I’ve never been quick to believe good things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to run screaming out of the
building, but couldn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t
openly celebrate at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to be
super careful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not fuck this
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
It wasn't all
good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cats that didn't get good outdates
tended to want to take it out on cats who did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I lost a lot of power that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went from being a guy with a ten
year sentence, to a guy getting out in a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's a big difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Huge.
There were more than a few white guys really upset with me over it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shrugged them off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even told one of them who kept making
comments right to his face, "I did the thing, I did what I had to do to
get out early, and you didn't."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
told him, "I didn't hold you back."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He didn't really want to put me to a fight, he was just bitter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Him and I had shoulder boxed a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn't want to fight me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gangsters though were different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would be well aware I couldn't afford to
fight as easily as I could prior to that verdict.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Luckily for me there
was a work release program, and I was getting out of the ghetto for good. </div>
Benjaminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16273332925569922524noreply@blogger.com0