I didn’t sleep well last night.  Might have had something to do with the 3 bottles of wine BB and I drank, ya think? I also could not turn my mind off.  I have to stop this behavior.  And by behavior I mean what is happening with me and MM.  Actually for the last couple days it’s pretty much been one-sided with me sending out random emails, texts and yep I even left a VM.  The holidays fuck me up.  Every year the holidays fuck me up.  My usual calm collected self becomes slightly crazy.  I am embarrassed.  I know better than this. I know how to cope with this I just didn’t do well the last couple days.  Today is a new day.  Work, tanning, running, helping my friends niece, dinner and bed.  No drinks, other than coffee, today.  Get it together.  I will.

“We have always been here. Since the American Revolution. We will always be here, waiting in the shadows ’til America needs us again. We are your Veterans and we love you more than our own lives, America.” –Anonymous

This venerable and much honored WW II vet is well known in Hawaii for his seventy-plus years of service to patriotic organizations and causes all over the country. A humble man without a political bone in his body, he has never spoken out before about a government official, until now.  He dictated this letter to a friend, signed it and mailed it to the president.

Dear President Obama,

My name is Harold Estes, approaching 95 on December 13 of this year. People meeting me for the first time don’t believe my age because I remain wrinkle free and pretty much mentally alert.

I enlisted in the U.S. Navy in 1934 and served proudly before, during and after WW II retiring as a Master Chief Bos’n Mate. Now I live in a “rest home” located on the western end of Pearl Harbor, allowing me to keep alive the memories of 23 years of service to my country.

One of the benefits of my age, perhaps the only one, is to speak my mind, blunt and direct even to the head man.

So here goes.

I am amazed, angry and determined not to see my country die before I do, but you seem hell bent not to grant me that wish.

I can’t figure out what country you are the president of. You fly around the world telling our friends and enemies despicable lies like:

” We’re no longer a Christian nation”

” America is arrogant” – (Your wife even announced to the world,”America is mean-spirited. ” Please tell her to try preaching that nonsense to 23 generations of our war dead buried all over the globe who died for no other reason than to free a whole lot of strangers from tyranny and hopelessness.)

I’d say shame on the both of you, but I don’t think you like America, nor do I see an ounce of gratefulness in anything you do, for the obvious gifts this country has given you. To be without shame or gratefulness is a dangerous thing for a man sitting in the White House.

After 9/11 you said,” America hasn’t lived up to her ideals.”

Which ones did you mean? Was it the notion of personal liberty that 11,000 farmers and shopkeepers died for to win independence from the British? Or maybe the ideal that no man should be a slave to another man, that 500,000 men died for in the Civil War? I hope you didn’t mean the ideal 470,000 fathers, brothers, husbands, and a lot of fellas I knew personally died for in WWII, because we felt real strongly about not letting any nation push us around, because we stand for freedom.

I don’t think you mean the ideal that says equality is better than discrimination. You know the one that a whole lot of white people understood when they helped to get you elected.

Take a little advice from a very old geezer, young man.

Shape up and start acting like an American. If you don’t, I’ll do what I can to see you get shipped out of that fancy rental on Pennsylvania Avenue. You were elected to lead not to bow, apologize and kiss the hands of murderers and corrupt leaders who still treat their people like slaves.

And just who do you think you are telling the American people not to jump to conclusions and condemn that Muslim major who killed 13 of his fellow soldiers and wounded dozens more. You mean you don’t want us to do what you did when that white cop used force to subdue that black college professor in Massachusetts, who was putting up a fight? You don’t mind offending the police calling them stupid but you don’t want us to offend Muslim fanatics by calling them what they are, terrorists.

One more thing. I realize you never served in the military and never had to defend your country with your life, but you’re the Commander-in-Chief now, son. Do your job. When your battle-hardened field General asks you for 40,000 more troops to complete the mission, give them to him. But if you’re not in this fight to win, then get out. The life of one American soldier is not worth the best political strategy you’re thinking of.

You could be our greatest president because you face the greatest challenge ever presented to any president.You’re not going to restore American greatness by bringing back our bloated economy. That’s not our greatest threat. Losing the heart and soul of who we are as Americans is our big fight now. And I sure as hell don’t want to think my president is the enemy in this final battle.

Sincerely,
Harold B. Estes

When a 95 year old hero of the “the Greatest Generation” stands up and speaks out like this, I think we owe it to him to send his words to as many Americans as we can.

Please pass it on.

O Readers,

This is a letter I am writing for my own catharsis, my own release, and my own power.

I wrote it for a man who makes youtube videos. Click on his name.

I claim this story and my involvement in it as 100% my responsibility. I require nothing from you.

Please read it, if you want. Please ignore it, if you want.

Read on, knowing that I share in order to heal my self.

I also share because I believe in the absence of boundaries within my reality.

Self-compassion!

-Mohseyep-

*******

Jason,

I am writing you to give you more information about my background and episodes. This is a long story.

I will also attach links to various writings/pieces that are relevant to my story. There is a lot of story here, because I feel pretty passionate about the part of my consciousness that you represent. The healed one, and the wounded healer.

Take your time, do not feel obliged to read all or any of this, and get back to me when it feels right for you. No rush. I expect nothing from you.
Namaste,
B

I started my journey with psychiatry after an extended period of pretty intense depression. At that time, lets say beginning around January 2008, I was in a relationship that had soured, was living with my then-partner in Halifax, a city in which I had gone to university, from which most of my friends had moved on, and I was planning a year-long trip to Korea to teach English. I was working in a bike store as a mechanic after having graduated form a history of science and history double honours, highly academic BA. I was unhappy with just about everything about this situation, though I didn’t have the consciousness to know it, or the communication skills to express it. I was receiving my unhappiness as an ‘external’ manifestation, because I wasn’t taking the time or self-care-diligence to look within and really know how I was doing. This externally based sense of unhappiness stemmed from my continual research into the darkest aspects of humanity: conspiracy, corruption, war, corporatism, propaganda, powerlessness, apathy, environmental degradation, etcetera.

In September 2007, right after graduating university, I had my first LSD experience. I had moved to BC, and taken acid with two old highschool friends and one new friend, a man I now know much more about and respect totally. I knew I wanted to change my life in some way, but didn’t know how. I took the opportunity, and was connected to my divine mind, the one mind, for about 12 hours. Madness, unconditional love, total surrender, and absolute empowerment resulted. Then I woke up the next day, and continued living my life in the patterns that I had become accustomed to.

I came home from work in Halifax for about a week In April or May 2008 with no idea why I was weeping uncontrollably. I was deeply and thoroughly depressed. After some time, my partner called my parents, and they (my father is now retired, but was a family doctor for about 35 or 40 years, and my mom worked with him in his office) suggested that I go to the hospital. Thus began my relationship with hospitals and psychiatric medicine. I came to them in my most enfeebled, distraught, and desperate state, and received nothing but drugs. The environment in which I found myself was not conducive to comfort or compassion. Hospitals, in my experience, are deeply clinical and highly controlling places to be. So, after another few days, It became apparent that I could not continue at work, so it was decided either by my parents, my former lover, or myself to move with my partner back to Victoria BC, Canada, where I could live with my retired parents and recover, get some more help and have some unconditional support. Now it is obvious to me that this support was fully there from my partner. However, she needed support to love me through that time.

I began to see a shrink here in Victoria in May to July 2008. Within a few visits, I was prescribed Effexor for… obsessive compulsive disorder, and depression. There was no actual care involved. She sat well away from me, took notes, and stared at me. Her miniature dog barked at me occasionally. The role of the psychiatrist has been reduced by marketing, propaganda, and pseudo science from somewhat caring and interested in the patient’s story to the role of a human drug dispensary. Looking back at this experience now, I can see how telling my story to this psychiatrist was no more effective for my healing process than telling the full details of my story to an empty vending machine, deep in the lifeless guts of a long-abandoned underground warehouse.

My girlfriend had moved in to the house my family was sharing with another family, and these months were dreadful. The relationship was over. Everyone knew it. My ex stuck it out because I believe she still loved me deeply, even if I had moved on in my life to a new phase, new challenges. I was relieved every time I got time away from her. This was two summers ago, Beginning in the worst part of my depression around mid june and all of July. As I said, the relationships in that house were toxic: my parents to their mortgage-sharing house partner, me and my ex, everyone around us knew it. Taking effexor, I began to feel vaguely better, but not in a way that I absolutely KNEW was the answer.

I decided to move away from the city, and began to work on some farms on the gulf islands for all of August and much of September. These were deeply healing times for me. I began to have success with meditation. I had spent some of my time in the house reading online about the language of empowerment, the secret, manifestation, Wayne Dyer, and lots of the other gurus and pseudo-guru-cash-seekers. I found a CD of John Kabat-Zinns Mindfulness meditation and brought it with me to one of the islands. I began to get really excited about meditation. I built relationships with my farm hosts, and the animals, and myself. I began to feel much more human, and left a lot of the paranoia about corporate greed and governmental corruption and conspiracy behind. Or so I thought.

The relationship ended at one point, and I even helped her move away. It was a sweet relief, I think, for both of us. I still have unhealed wounds around relationship, but for now am pleasantly engaged in unattached, unconditionally loving, mindful singleness for the first time since I started pursuing long term monogamous love when I was 15 or so. I believed for a long time that young men were supposed to do that.

Upon returning to the city, I seemed much better to my family and few friends that I had found here. In early October, you may remember, we had an election in Canada. Just prior to the election day, about three or four … I can’t really remember for how long, I began to have my first genuine ‘manic’ episode. I believe that the high dose of Effexor I was on contributed much to this episode. It really is the perfect self-fulfilling prophecy: give the depressed person super-potent uppers, then crucify him for being manic later on: forcibly give him new drugs and tell him that he has a lifelong inability to manage his inner life, while the drugs repress his emotions, barring their expression and completion.

Anyway, things started to become much more meaningful. My concentration and logic abilities went way down, and my sensory experiences heightened and accelerated. I planned a lot more, and wrote down a lot more. I barely slept. I ate less, though I felt incredibly energized. I felt like through the basic meditation practice I’d been granted special powers. I no longer differentiated between words, spoken or written, from the objects they represent. No wonder the Egyptians believed names and words held total power. I felt like I could manifest just about anything, because everything that I experienced was so perfect in each moment, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience. Things that were traditionally near-meaningless became much more profound: bread crumbs, garbage, the sound of my footsteps. I felt expanded and connected, and more creative than I can ever remember.  I helped to carry out the election as some kind of officer, though I forget of what kind. I told voters where to go all day, collected sheets from pollers all day, and had the most beautiful, celebratory experience of sharing food I can every member. At one point, I’m sure the lead officer/citizen was convinced I was insane. This was fine at that point, because I knew I was creating my experience; it didn’t bother me. The paranoia hadn’t started yet, this would come the day after, in the hospital.

After getting home that night, October 14th, 2008, I began to write a blog, much of which I remember as total gibberish to me now. I deleted all of it during a sensation of shame earlier this year. At the time, the blog held the secrets of my existence, and I was broadcasting them to the world, proving once and for all that enlightenment is no more than allowing the free flow of feelings to guide our way through life, and that everyone can do it.

I burned the midnight oil all that night, and made some pretty incredible art on this computer.  I’d been impassioned about recording my experience and making art out of it for some time before. Some of the videos you can still see on my youtube channel. Look at predictive calculus, black new white, back to the middle, Mental # 1, Song No.1, All time no time, EMBARRASSMENT? The last 4 are especially significant for my experience of acute psychosis. In order to be able to see them, We first need to be youtube friends, then I will open them up to you. My name on youtube is Mohseyep – Please, feel free to add me and check them out at your leisure.

Anyway, I was up all night playing with light switches, making videos, talking to myself, burning magazines, feeling free and celebratory, excited and uninhibited, all those wonderful light feelings you describe so well online. The death of my ego, and the uninhibited expression of my inner light. Eventually, I began to feel depleted, drained of energy. I’d been burning a bright light of love within my heart for most of that day and all of the night, and I had sent out powerful vibrations to the rest of the universe, and to those people who were still paying attention. I wanted something to happen, because I couldn’t understand it with logic, the part of me that has been conditioned to expect full comprehension of everything in the universe. My ex phoned me, and I was running a bath, finally accepting the cathartic reality of my madness-freedom, and I was in no mood to talk to her. Our conversation was short, and very bitter. She almost immediately phoned my shrink, who pink-slipped me by phone with two large cops standing over me in my family home. I was taken by ambulance to the lowest security ward of the local psych hospital.

I spend two weeks there in hospital, struggling with the fear and the control and the anger, being drugged and not given a choice, let alone receiving the openness and space that I’d just given myself. I fully and joyfully resonate with your interpretation of mania as a sacred, natural, healing process that the body undergoes to heal past trauma. Because for two weeks this sacred self-healing experience was systematically and coldly repressed, I left there with a lot of unexpressed rage. I wanted nothing to do with the system, and nothing to do with the creepy doctors who saw me from time to time. I was highly motivated to get out. I’m now beginning to recognize the PROFOUND anger I can summon, if I choose to (though its not a highly productive choice, in fact its the one choice that the system needs to maintain its control over so many lives), not to mention the connection between the psychiatry industry and the systems which corporate culture, in collusion with near-completely corrupt lawmaking institutions have created in order to maintain control over the illusion of money and engender enough fear to feed our complicity. In this sense, I believe approaching mental health with a radically different approach is a deeply political spiritual act.

So, after being diagnosed with depression and OCD earlier that summer by an incompetent psychiatrist, I and my family all struggled to get me released after two weeks. In this case, I was taken off the effexor, and during my stay in hospital, I was diagnosed anew with bipolar disorder. I was put on the standard for antipsychotic medication here in BC: Olanzapine. In hospital, I gained 10 pounds on this drug. Outside hospital, I stayed on the drug for a very short period of time. At one point, I gained 8 pounds in seven days. I was absolutely infuriated by the treatment I had received in the hospital. I felt extraordinarily alone, and like no one else, especially not my parents, could understand the magnitude of my anger at being so harshly and obviously stuffed back into the repressed box society assumes to be natural. I burned the medications, and never looked back. This was one year ago, in November. This rage might connect to the choices that led me to my next episode, and it might not.

Med-free, I began to look for work. I was playing bike polo with a good community of men. I was having fun, and doing my best to manage the excitement I felt. I was writing a lot at this time, and doing a lot of release work with some recordings from www.limitlessness.com. An old friend of mine visited at this time. She is a nurse, and considering what I’d learned about energy, giving, and receiving, I became inspired. I applied to nursing school for September 2009, and began immediate work on a distance-education prerequisite course to fully qualify. I believe myself to be a wounded healer, and I thought it would be a great way to have a career and blend in, while getting lots of opportunity to hold space for people. The course started in January. It is a full-year course, and by March, I was 3/4s done it. My discipline and motivation in this period was very high. It’s no surprise, considering the direct repression of my experience that I agreed to, that I was working to get myself BACK into a hospital setting. Maybe this is conscious, maybe not. I don’t know. What I am sure of, is that I want healing.

I found a part-time job in a local tea shop, serving retirees around the end of November, in time for the Christmas season. At the restaurant I met a woman who immediately interested me. She was about 56, and had been practicing Reiki since 1984. I signed up for Reiki 1 in February, and loved it. I developed a relationship with other young members of her community.

In March, I met a whole new community, and my world began to expand at an unprecedented rate. I can give you an account of that evening here, on my blog:  http://mohseyep.wordpress.com/2009/03/09/the-burning-moment/

Not a good day, really. First thing this morning I had an appointment with my doctor, requested because I thought maybe I want to try anti-depressants again, to combat the naturally increased levels of anxiety associated with my job. The doctor ended up seeing me half an hour late, as he always does, causing a great deal of stress as I would have to be at work within the hour. He only gave me a few minutes, just like he always does, in which I had to persuade him that my problem really isn’t just a case of mild newcomer nerves. I got a prescription for three months’ worth of citalopram, which I was on last year. I had thought it might be useful to try something else, something that won’t cause all the unpleasant side effects that put me off citalopram before, but since the doctor was clearly too busy for a proper discussion, I had to make do with what I was given. I really can’t wait to move next month so that I can sign up with a new doctor.

When I was finally out of the doctor’s surgery I rushed home to take the first tablet in the course, before I had to go to work. Maybe it’s an alcoholic thing to do, rushing home in a frenzy to take a pill in the hope that I might feel better, rather than leaving it for tomorrow. With some extra serotonin in my system, I think I felt OK on the tube to Notting Hill this morning. I certainly didn’t feel horrible like I have every morning for the past two weeks. That can probably be put down to the expectation effect, rather than any real chemical action. SSRI’s such as citalopram take weeks to have any real effect, which is how they are not habit-forming.

At work I had three hours of customer service to look forward to – after yesterday’s ‘experience’ they seem to think I’m ready to be let loose on the public properly. I logged on to find about 300 customer e-mail enquiries that urgently needed responding to. The same guy who sat with me yesterday at the helpdesk sat with me again today, offering help when it was needed. I got the impression after an hour that I should be starting to feel more confident in answering the enquiries on my own. My supervisor began to sound tired and bored with my endless requests for help. After two hours, I noticed him rolling his eyes nearly every time I spoke. I began to panic, horrified by the thought that I was being a burden, and I made a few mistakes, choosing to go ahead and respond to enquiries alone rather than risk further eye-rolling by asking for more help.

After three hours I had to take a break just to calm down. I went out to Starbucks, sat down and stuffed my face with sugar. My hands were shaking; I was sure that I’d finally proved myself to be the failure that I always thought I was in their eyes. I’d reduced someone who was supposed to be helping me to eye-rolling boredom. In his eyes, I could be a bit slow, at best. Stupid, at worst. The thought of being seen as stupid is absolutely horrifying to me. I don’t know why.

After using up my paid break I returned to the office where I was allowed to get on with the other part of my job, the bit that I’ve got used to over the past two weeks, where I have to update the website with retailer offers. I’m comfortable with this bit of the job: it’s got nothing to do with customer service, it’s just typing words and numbers into a live website. Of course, two weeks ago I was in a similar place with this part of the job to the place where I am now with the new part. I thought I’d never understand any of it two weeks ago. Now it’s almost a piece of cake. If I can get my head around that, surely I can understand anything. Well, that’s what I’m hoping.

At 5pm Melanie announced to the office that our thanksgiving dinner was ready and waiting for us downstairs. I didn’t know why the whole company was choosing to go to a thanksgiving party, until I got downstairs and saw all the alcohol. About fifty fresh bottles of various descriptions sat on a table in the corner of the room, and the thirty or so employees of the company were fighting their way over to the table to lay claim to their share of the night’s alcoholic refreshment. Melanie and some of the other directors had cooked turkey; with all the booze distracting everyone the food was almost a second thought at this point. I put some meat and potatoes on a paper plate and went to sit on the only free seat in the corner of the room. It’s a really bad space for a party: only one large sofa and a few swivel chairs had to accommodate thirty people with their dinner and drinks. From the moment I sat down I knew I wasn’t enjoying myself. Everyone separated off into their little cliques where they were bound to stay for the rest of the night. Melanie, who I might have felt comfortable chatting to, was busy serving up the food in the kitchen and didn’t look as if she would be mingling any time soon. I forced the food down my throat in three minutes and decided I’d had enough of the party. I had to leave. No one was really interested in socialising: it was all about getting pissed as quickly as possible. I had hoped that tonight would finally be my opportunity to meet the other people in the company, get to know some faces and names outside of the small, uncomfortable little team that I always work in. Alas, I didn’t stand a chance of making a single friend.

I wasn’t the first person to sneak out early tonight. One of the guys who trained with me three weeks ago was out of the door like a shot after forcing his food down in a similar way to me. At least I didn’t have to be the first to leave. Just five minutes of the event was more than enough for me. It’s not the fear of drinking that puts me off these kinds of things: it’s the fear of being around drunk people. I can’t handle it.

As soon as I left I was full of doubts once again about the future of my job. Someone was bound to notice my sudden departure. They could be thinking: what an ungrateful arse, staying only long enough to eat our food without bothering to talk to anyone! With the added pressure of the extra work that I am now being expected to do every day, I’m really fearful about the whole thing tonight. I went straight to the gay step 11 meeting from Notting Hill – I desperately needed to be in a safe place with safe people. There I managed to share about what had just happened, though it was an incredibly busy meeting and I don’t usually manage to jump in when there are so many others needing to speak. I’m glad I was able to go to the meeting tonight, and I’m really glad I was able to talk about all the things going through my mind. As a consequence I felt much better, for a while. People came up to share with me their experiences of dreaded office parties, how we all find it impossible to deal with so-called ‘normal’ people in the real world where getting drunk is the highest priority for most. The trouble with socialising in the ‘real’ world is that it’s all so meaningless. None of the conversation that I heard tonight was of any real interest to me; a few years ago it wouldn’t have mattered as I would have been too wasted to care. Today I can’t ignore the fact that most of what these people want to talk about is utter shit! I don’t want to be judgmental, it’s just the way British society works. As long as you can get really drunk, nothing else matters.

I didn’t sleep last night.  I didn’t feel well. I got up around 3am and puked then again and 5am.  I don’t have a fever but my stomach feels gross.  I also kept replaying what had happened in the last 24hrs.  Why did I even go out with that guy?  Why did I give Mr. Miserable my blog info? why? why? why?  I am looking forward to Thanksgiving but I am also highly embarrassed.  I rarely introduce my parent so whomever I’m dating.  I made the HUGE Mistake of telling them about MM and then went so far as to ask him to come home with me for Turkey day to meet the family.  Stupid stupid stupid!  It was too soon, shit, a year would’ve still be soon for me.  Then I had to call and tell them that he wasn’t coming.  “why?” asks my mom. Well, because he fucking left me, abandon me, broke up with me and did all the things he promised he wouldn’t do!  Um… it just wasn’t a good fit I reply.  Equally embarrassing was having to tell my friends that we are no longer together.   A lot of people still don’t know because I can only take so much in a day.  I had to change my FB status, I left it blank so it didn’t cause to much of a stir.  Thank God. I will never never never change my status again until AFTER I get married.  I was so excited by him/us I couldn’t wait to shout it from the rooftops, or the FB rooftops.   I am VERY thankful for my wonderful circle of close friends.  I realized how very luck I am to have so many people who love me, support me and only have my very best interest at heart.  This is what gets me through the day.   Now to get through Thanksgiving.

It is disheartening to see how families are coping up wihtout their loved ones. If some family lost bread winner then it is even beyond thoughts how they are surviving.
My heart cries to those who lost father/mother or beloved sibling.. My blood races and feel like killing everyone who was involved..
Including our politicians, parted police force, criminal networks who helped pakistani militants to survey and decide locations, civil servants who are helping militants to get passports and visas to india.
What happened in year after attacks.. nothing has moved..
Bastard Kasab is enjoying Biryani and full protection at taxpayers’ money. His dead fellow pigs are in morgue preserved for nothing. Postmartem reports for brave police like Karkare, salaskar are confusing and took almost year.
Idiot Pakistan and its rulers is still alleging that india gave no evidence.
After elections similar politicians arae in power. Spineless and shameless Vilasrao deshmukh was CM aspirant again. He is now putting blame on civil servants as well, which is probably only sensible truth he said.
So nothing has moved. Those who had to live are living.. somehow managing.. with thinking of the lost loved ones.. remembering them everyday.. With no hope of justice..
Where is our media who helped paki bastards in attacks by showing the locations and NSG tactics.. Why cant they surface these issues and create a movement against culprits.. Where is their enthusiasm..

I believe nothing will happen.. Kasab like a**hole will enjoy hospitality of indian govenment for years.. common people will continue to suffer.. politicians are any way reluctant to make any progress.. I hope this will not give confidence to terrorists that come to india, create havoc and then live rest of life enjoying indian hospitality..

Shame on indian politics, shame on indian judicial system and shame on red tape..

Well done.. We managed to create Lame India image in the world..

Last night was one of those bad sleeps that I have to endure every now and then, and as a consequence I didn’t feel too good this morning. It took me at least an hour to get out of bed. Almost before I knew it was time to go to work, and the old dread instantly filled me, and I desperately didn’t want to go in. I’ve been given new tasks at work to fill the extra hours that I’ve taken on this week, and yesterday could hardly be described as a success when it came to me learning how to perform my new tasks. I wasn’t looking forward to arriving today, to finding out that I’d be left to get on with the extra work alone as if I had already mastered it. I’m fast learning that my superiors don’t really want to be bothered at the moment, with it being the run up to Christmas and the mass of extra work that this necessarily entails for everyone. I felt time slow to a snail’s pace this morning as I waited desperately for the hours to pass just so I could get to work and get it over with. Time goes strange when I am under pressure – the way it always drags when I need it to pass the most is hateful. I know I’m making it drag by thinking about it so much. The anxiety makes me analyze the passing of time more than I would normally. I’m so anxious for it to be the weekend that I can’t just let the days pass without hindrance. I watch the clock constantly. I can’t help it.

When I finally got to work at noon I was unexpectedly told to go downstairs to man the helpdesk for a couple of hours, so I could get a feel for the kind of enquiries coming in over the phone at the moment. From now on part of my role will be to respond to e-mail enquiries from customers – the idea was to see if I could hack it on the phone first. Since I received the official helpdesk training when I started three weeks ago, I should have been able to handle it today without breaking a sweat. I have no idea if it looked like I was handling the job: inside I was panicking horribly the whole time. I have had a phone phobia all my life – I never use the phone if I can avoid it (and I really mean never) -  taking calls from angry customers wanting to know why their retail discounts aren’t working was just about the last way I wanted to spend today. I can understand why they thought it would be a good idea for me to do this. It would give me a more rounded feel for the business, a perspective on the bigger picture from the other side of things, the customers’ side, rather than the retailers’ side that I have been exclusively working from so far. Even though I did the helpdesk training three weeks ago I in no way felt prepared to answer the telephone today. Around me ten other operators took calls constantly, smoothly directing customers to the answers that they needed, while I sat there staring at the handset in front of me, praying for it not to ring. Some of the people who I trained with were in the room with me this afternoon. They’re lucky: they’ve had three weeks of helpline experience now. Since I started I haven’t answered a single phone call. I’ve got quite comfortable at my computer upstairs, where I can perform a multitude of tasks without ever having to speak to anyone.

I don’t know why I am so terrified of telephones. Is it the threat of hearing someone’s actual voice? The possibility that if I can’t answer a question I will have to deal with verbal abuse? In the world of retail the customer is always right, even if they’re hurling insults at you. At least on the computer I can take time to think about what I want to say, and the abuse, if there is any, doesn’t have the emotional punch that it does when you hear it coming from someone’s mouth.

Anyway, when my two hours of hell were up I was allowed to return to the slightly comforting familiarity of my usual home upstairs, after the person who had been semi-supervising me at the helpdesk told me I’d done well. I refused to believe him: for a start I’d only answered the phone once, after much persuasion and guidance and badly disguised looks of contempt from the other helpdesk operators who all had their hands full.

Upstairs, being allowed to get on with my normal job was something of a relief, just because I now find it very easy, if slightly boring at times. I remain haunted by the possibility that I may be asked to return to the helpdesk from time to time, when they are short of staff for instance. They seem to think that because I did the training I will be as good at it as everybody else. I don’t know, maybe I am good at it, I just happen to feel as if I’m being plunged into the deep end of a very deep pool every time I’m in that room.

Hopefully now that I’ve done the helpdesk once I will be able to answer the online enquiries that I am to be given in my extra hours from now on with some ease. It kind of seems like another string that I’m adding to the bow, another test to be passed. As long as I don’t have to answer the phone again for a long time, I’ll be fine. I’m learning little things in my job every day; I’ve survived two weeks of it now and when I’m doing what I’m good at, i.e. working at the computer, I would say I feel quite comfortable. There will probably never be a day when there isn’t at least one challenge to be faced. I already know what tomorrow’s challenge is going to be: a big after-work trip to the pub has been arranged and everyone is expected to go. Melanie, the American boss, is cooking turkey for everyone to celebrate thanksgiving and we are going to sit down in the pub together and eat it. Part of me is quite looking forward to the occasion. I don’t quite know what’s going to happen. Maybe it will be my long-awaited opportunity to meet the other people in the team, get to know them in a setting that isn’t entirely work-related. Since we’ll be in the pub it’s bound to emerge at some point that I don’t drink. I know the question will come up and I know what I’ll say: ‘I don’t like alcohol’. I certainly don’t owe anyone any more explanation than that. In my experience, 9 out of 10 people are perfectly happy with that answer. It’s the 1 in 10 who are the interesting ones.

An article in the Globe and Mail yesterday (23 November) by Lisan Jutras articulated some of my recent thoughts on privacy on the internet. I’m not talking about name, birthdate, address and credit card info, but simply about evidence of having a life of one’s own outside of work, and many people’s assumption that we must obliterate all traces of it on the internet. I had one former Facebook friend who would berate me for every cheeky, ironic joke or reference to R-rated activities, claiming that “people” would think bad things and that “someone” might find the comments and… I don’t know, publish it on the front page of the Globe? Not give me a job? It’s an insidious thought: that we should live our lives and censor our personal communications on the presumption of a tyrannical “They”-construct and reify the myth of a domineering public morality.

I don’t advocate going to the other extreme and being tactless with what one posts online, but I’m not going to worry about what They might think of what I do.

Read the article at Go on, let it all hang out online (retrieved 24 November 2009):

[T]he uncomfortable truth is that we have made technology so pervasive that we can’t get away with hiding parts of ourselves from it – and its millions of users – any more. And as we become more and more exposed, we have a choice: We can try to button up and sell the world on squeaky-clean online versions of ourselves, or we can start to let it all hang out.

I’m in favour of keeping it real… Frankly, I am saddened by the en-masse blandification that many so-called experts encourage. The fishbowl effect of Twitter or Facebook, where everything we do is potentially seen by hundreds of other people, is similar to that of the Panopticon – a craftily designed jail where prisoners never know if they are being watched or not, so they start acting as if they are being watched, even when they are not.

Hmm. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: People google the strangest things. The title for this post is actually one of the search terms which led people to my blog. I’m more perturbed again by those who enter “photos of small children” or “rob kearney naked for charity” but this particular term, hording its many exclamation marks, caught my eye. It made me think. It has been over a year now since I began this blog and just yesterday I passed the 4,000 view mark. Is THAT a shame on mankind – sorry, THE mankind? Have you nothing better to read? There are libraries out there chock-full of great works of literature, bookshops brimming with Booker Prize winners and Nobel Laureates, dammit, even the back of cereal boxes have quite well-worded sentences.

But you come here. And for that I am most grateful.

Anyway, I thought of what I could do to mark the passing of the 4,000 mark, and I decided that, rather than being conscientious and continuing my writings about Africa (WHICH WILL BE COMPLETED, HONEST!), I would cop out and do a list-based entry. One of the first posts I ever wrote was about beautiful moments, and it was a list of 15 or 20 things that make me smile. Naturally, a list of things that make me froth at the mouth and bulge at the temple with rage would be many times longer. So, inspired by the exclamatory shaming of mankind by whoever-you-are (I think we shall call you Leonard, just for fun), I will just list the 100 things for which I think mankind has most to answer (I initially said 50 before realising exactly how many stupid / irritating / shit things mankind has come up with). Thanks Leonard. Of the 4,000 people who’ve visited this blog, you are definitely my favourite. Or at least, you’re the one with the most punctuation.

MANKIND’S SHAMEFUL 100 (In no particular order, although Simon Cowell may well be number 1 in any ACTUAL order).

1. Simon Cowell
2. Marmite
3. Weightlifting
4. The Sun (newspaper, not celestial body)
5. Penis Enlargement Spam
6. People who do your accent back to you because they think you sound funny.
7. Juicy Couture
8. Cigarettes
9. Cigarette burns
10. Sarah Palin / George W. Bush (Same person, different sex)
11. Rap Music (I think it’s missing an E)
12. Legwarmers
13. Actually, the 80s in general
14. The Twilight Series (They all look like heroin addicts. Hot heroin addicts.)
15. LOL-ing
16. Designer stubble
17. Sweet Popcorn
18. Facebook Chat
19. Scientology
20. Tom Cruise (Hmm, wonder why HE came into my head…)
21. Ryanair
22. Tuna
23. Bad Drivers (Especially those who don’t indicate before turning or who beep as a substitute for shouting at you!)
24. Deadlines
25. The Cult Of Celebrity
26. Unsolicited Garnishes (Sprigs of cress or, the worst, coleslaw)
27. Eddie Murphy Films
28. Cocktails With Names Designed To Make Hen Parties Scream With Laughter (e.g.: Screaming Orgasm)
29. American Football
30. 2 Girls 1 Cup
31. Bryan Adams
32. Saying The Word “Like”, All The Time, Like. (And I was like “No way!”, and she was, like, SO angry.)
33. Urinals Above Standard Height
34. Idolising Wordsworth’s Poetry (Don’t like his stuff, hence thinking his name is rather misleading)
35. Ignoring Poetry (Except Wordsworth’s…)
36. Big Brother
37. Girls Who Wear Ugg Boots With Short Skirts And Call It Fashion
38. The Phrase “I’m Not Racist, But…”
39. FIFA
40. Hiding The Electric Car Where No One Can Find It
41. Postal Strikes
42. Air Strikes
43. GPS
44. People Who Comment On Youtube With Hateful Bile Or Too Many Exclamation Marks (You listening, Leonard?)
45. Surreptitious Mushrooms In Dishes Where No Mushrooms Are SPECIFICALLY Highlighted On The Menu
46. World Of Warcraft
47. The Hash (#) Symbol On Phones (I don’t know anyone who has # in their phone number)
48. Ant And Dec
49. ATMs Which Don’t Provide Tenners
50. The “Serving Suggestion” Notice On The Front Of Food Boxes / TV Ads For Food
51. Charity Muggers
52. TV Aerials / Dishes
53. 1st Generation iPods Which Died After About 3 Months
54. Incongruous Skyscrapers
55. Feng Shui (As practiced by middle-class Western mothers who saw something about it in a magazine once)
56. The Birdie Song
57. Aldi / Lidl
58. Day-Glo
59. Sandra Bullock’s Career
60. Drunk Karaoke
61. The Ringtone Industry
62. Lord Of The Rings Fans
63. Barbie
64. Killing The Dodo (They look like they’d have been SUCH fun birds to have around)
65. Milk Of Magnesia
66. Lycra
67. Pirates (The modern ones with guns and outboard motors, not the cool 18th century ones with cutlasses)
68. Starbucks
69. Duchamp’s Fountain (It’s a fucking urinal you found, it’s not art and your replicas simply capitalised on notoriety for financial gain)
70. Self-Help Books With The Number Of Steps In The Journey To Perfection In The Title
71. Clothes For Pets
72. Blow-Up Dolls
73. Christian Rock (That’s the music, not a person)
74. Sky / Fox News
75. Paisley (The modern use of the pattern, not the place nor the Reverand Doctor)
76. Line-dancing
77. Bestiality Porn
78. Tetra-pak Easy Pour Spouts (LIES!)
79. Bastardised Irish Names (Caitlin, Neve, Owen, Shawn, Ashleen, Kaden, ERIN!…)
80. Alcopops
81. Fish Knives
82. Dan Brown
83. Psychics / Mediums
84. Interior Design Programmes
85. Disneyland / World / Location
86. Novelty Doorbells
87. The Word “Bodacious”
88. Genital Piercings
89. People’s Names Tattooed In Eastern Alphabets They Don’t Understand
90. Most Customer Service Helplines (*cough…NTL…cough. Actually, fuck the coughing. NT-COCKING-L!)
91. Estuary English
92. Katie Price’s Tits / Existence
93. Bingo
94. Late Night Television Phone-In Quizzes
95. Formula 1 Motorsport
96. Deck Chair Rental
97. Pet Rocks
98. Muzak
99. Caravan Parks
100. Hitler

Thought I’d end on a light-hearted note. HAPPY MY 4,000th VIEW EVERYONE!

pit in my stomach? 

 racing thoughts? 

overwhelming feeling of sadness at someone else’s pain, real or imagined?  

dread that life holds such misery and that at any moment my life could be in upheaval?   

 desire to crawl inward, retreat?  

I’ve been here before, many times.  It’s just been awhile.  I have felt it building, slowly.  Slowly.  It’s here.  Ugh. 

Instead of feeling whatever anger, fear, or sadness is fueling this, I feel shame.  I feel myself grasping at my core.   At times I feel like shaking her.  Shouting.  “Where the fuck are you.  Don’t be such a coward.”  I view myself through the imagined lense everyone else holds.  

But I KNOW.  I know.  I need to be compassionate.    I need to tune in.   I was feeling so in touch for awhile.  I’ll get back there.  

"Roissy in DC" author: James C. Weidmann

Jimmy-The-Jew:  ”Roissy in DC”

Now, let me just say this.  I have never felt the need to dedicate a post to Roissy because we all know (in his many pathetic, repeated blog posts dedicated to me) that is exactly what he wants.  He wants to be the “dark villain” and the “dangerous man”.  Sadly, most women can see upon reading a few words of his that he is not a dangerous nor scary man.  He’s a sad, lonely, 40’s-something guy…..stuck in a big city…..where he just can’t keep up with the competition  (please refer to what he looks like and what he WEARS as a man his age to see what I am referring to).

*I am interested to see if Roissy “takes it like a man” or shrieks like a schoolgirl and demand it be removed.  ( I say this because Roissy has felt free to find and post photos of me, my family, my personal info, and anything else he can find to “call me out”).  I wonder if the “dishee” can also take it.*

Desperation drips from his false online persona like a broken rusty rain gutter that everyone gave up on fixing long ago……

If you are NOT familiar with blogger, “Roissy in DC“……I’d suggest you click and read a bit of his blog (you’re welcome, Roissy).

This is a man who claims to be a Master of Seduction, a Jesus-Like Savior of (wimpy) men, a Colossus of Gaming, and of course an all around “Ladies Man”.

He extols the virtues of dodging child support payments, physically intimidating your wives & girlfriends to “keep them in line”, and even encourages men to “raw-dog” it and have as much unprotected sex as you possibly can (gross….can you say STD’s and MORE babies in foster care???).

Unfortunately, the men he is preying upon don’t realize that he is NOT out to help them, NOT out “offer advice”, but out ONLY to reassure himself in his aging, middle-aged, desperation…..that ANYONE still wants to hear what he has to say.

You all know the expression “Well….if I’m going down….I’m taking everyone with me.”  THAT is exactly what Roissy’s “Game” advice to men is.  It’s like the crack under a recovering crack-heads nose…….the “miracle diet pill” to the lifetime Anorexic……and the walking, talking ENABLER of the further decline of modern men in today’s society.  He encourages men to go back to the “id”…..the caveman inside themselves…….and care about nothing but eating, sleeping, and fucking.

Every step that man has taken forward in the world, Roissy helps them to take a step back.  For every man who DOES have discipline and character (and self-control)……Roissy helps to enable 10 more NOT to be.

The chauvinism, arrogance, and cock-obsessed points aside……Roissy is a living breathing example of the stereotype that many men have been trying to not be a part of:  drooling, horny, pussy-obsessed, “cocks-on-wheels” with not a thought in their head except finding a warm-hole.  (Pardon the nasty expression, but that is the main thought process of men like these).

Anyway…..I received an email directly from a mysterious (and generous) Miss X.  This is evidently a woman who feels much the same way that I do and is tired of witnessing this sort of degradation in our society as whole.

*NOTE:  I will remove tidbits from the email that could/would give away the identity of “Miss X” and how she may be “familiar” with Roissy.  I will also mark my own comments with *asterisks* and Italics so there is no confusion.*

Dear Lady Raine,

I’ve been a longtime admirer of your contributions to the debate at Roissy’s. However, his recent smugness has exceeded even my tolerance, and I thought I might offer a little birthday present to you to offset the bile you’ve received from him:

I believe I know Roissy’s real name.

I know that you like investigation…. take a look at James (Jim) C. Wiedmann, employed by FINRA (a private finance regulatory body in D.C.). Also interviewed in the Mail and Globe article “When Players Turn Into Boyfriends.” See if this rings any bells:

The pickup artist’s message for wannabe players and boyfriends alike is essentially “don’t be a wuss,” says J. Wiedmann, a Washington-based white-collar-crime investigator. Mr. Wiedmann, who did not want his full name used, launched his “reality-based seduction” blog, “Roissy in DC: Where Pretty Lies Perish,” last year. Reviled and beloved, the blog is full of devilish relationship strategies.


“I’ve written about the importance of instilling dread in your girlfriend by turning off your phone twice a week, or calling her from a busy place where women are laughing in the background … despite her protestations to the contrary, a little bit of uncertainty goes a long way to keeping her aroused for you,” Mr. Wiedmann said in an interview.


Aside from the usual fawning and vitriolic responses to his posts, Mr. Wiedmann has been seeing more pleas for relationship advice in his inbox lately. “Most of my male readers ask for advice on how to win that ‘one girl’ over. They’re struggling to get out of the discount bin of the sexual market,” he says.

(http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/article714983.ece)

Roissy published a blog entry entitled “I Am In the Globe and Mail,” but has recently deleted it.
(http://roissy.wordpress.com/2008/12/19/i-am-in-the-globe-and-mail/).

He is 41. His birth day and month are the same as listed in this profile, but he lies about the year. This is what he looks like.
(http://www.puaconnect.com/roissy/)

If you’d like any further confirmation, try a Google search for “Roissy’s real name.”

He loves to brag about his exploits, but abuses women while hiding under a cloak of secrecy. And now he is making it a personal crusade to attack all the women on his blog who are still willing to stick around. Please be careful — some of the men at his site are very angry and seem a few minutes away from snapping.

From one woman to another,
Miss X

*I also received this in my comments section from another one of my readers*

You should send Roissy a nice thank you card:

Jim Wiedmann
1778 Lanier Pl NW #9C
Washington, DC 20009

 

*OH, JIM…….LOL…..what does one even say about this?  Other than the fact that a 41 year old “finance-nerd” who dresses like he’s a 21 year old emo-prep college-boy.  The fact that he constantly berates women and evidently LIES about his age even to his own readership is really rather funny.  I recall so many articles talking about how “young hot women just LOVE old, pasty gross men” and now I know why he’s so desperate to get other men to believe this kind of thing.

You would think that JUST the fact that he’s a middle-aged, pasty-white finance-Jew posing as a playboy would be reason enough for people to disregard his opinions and advice (like most people already do)…..but there are and always will be looking for their “own personal jesus” to tell them it’s okay to hate women, hate life, hate responsibility, hate morals, hate “hard work”, and hate ANYONE AND EVERYONE that you can possibly think of to blame for being  what they have become.

This falls into my “Why People Are Assholes” post.  Roissy may not be a big-name who is going to influence anyone who actually matters……but he’s certainly known enough to be influencing men who otherwise may have turned to look at THEMSELVES (yes I know introspection is a crazy concept for guys like him) for their failures/shortcomings in life.

It’s a dangerous world we live in when there is a “miracle pill”, a quick fix, and a (insert random group) to blame for everything a person DOESN’T do to be responsible for their own lives.

Our good friend Jimmy-The-Jew, here is just one of them.*

Yes, Gentlemen....THIS is the man you are asking for advice on picking up ladies.....(Note: The....errr..."artwork" done to this pic wasn't done by me. This is the way the photo was when I saved it, lol)

*Yes, Ladies I know…..it’s hard to control yourself in the presence of such an Adonis, but please try to remain calm for the sake of our female dignity.*

Update:  Much like I expected….some of Roissy’s shrieking henchman came here telling me I have “stepped over the line”.  For a bit on the “history”….this is the first time I have published a “post about Roissy” on my blog.  Roissy has published at least 6 or more posts specifically about me.  Containing personal photos of me AND MY son….which is “unsavory” in the first place.  But he then continued over the past 6 months to try to slander me, give out personal info (like mentioning the town I live in as often as he can) and worst of all posts porno videos and says that it is ME in the video (and isn’t.)  He has publicly posted lies on his blog accusing me of prostitution AND pornography and attached my photos to the (complete lies) he is telling.

I never really bothered posting about it here on my blog, because anyone who knows me in real life knows those things aren’t true and are ridiculous…..but that doesn’t change the fact that Roissy likes to go and play in people’s lives and slander innocent people for his own amusement and to up his blog stats without remorse and without even having  a good motive to do it.  Just because it gets him attention.

Well I think it’s high time someone finally fixed his little red wagon, and I’m certainly the woman for the job

*Update:  November 25*

Here is another address that is identical except for a different Apartment number…..ooops guess it WAS a residential address….silly old me with my tiny female brain…..

Wiedmann, James C

Age:40-44

1778 Lanier Pl NW, Apt 8B

Washington, DC 20009-2190

*This is dedicated RIGHT to Roissy for the post back in June where he posted my son’s name, age, and photo without my permission (and involving kids is the lowest you can go anyhow):*

Address History

• 2 in Washington, DC
• 1 in Chevy Chase, MD
• 1 in Somerville, NJ
• 1 in Ventnor City, NJ
• 1 in Atlantic City, NJ

Aliases

• James Wiedmann
• Jim Wiedmann
• James Charles Weidman

Relatives

• L Wiedmann
• Catherine R Wiedmann
• Lisa A Wiedmann

*Ouuuuuuuuuuuch, Jimmy*

Langston Hughes

(source)

Militant, by Langston Hughes

Let all who will
Eat quietly the bread of shame.
I cannot,
Without complaining loud and long.
Tasting its bitterness in my throat,
And feeling to my very soul
It’s wrong.
For honest work
You proffer me poor pay,
for honest dreams
Your spit is in my face,
And so my fist is clenched
Today-
To strike your face.

More on revolt. More Langston Hughes.

I’m thinking about doing a series on the underlying emotions that we have to heal from.  I wanted to share some raw stuff with you.  A blog series in the making.  Maybe this topic can be a help to you as I work on it further. 

 I have discovered a lot about “The Undercurrent” in my sexual recovery.  This is the stuff underneath that fuels my acting out.  It’s less about the behaviors, and more about what needs God’s healing inside of us.  The Undercurrent was a huge revelation for me.  I had tried for years to change my behaviors.  When I started looking at the stuff inside with my counselor and with my support groups, things changed. 

 Here are some emotional hurts I had to deal with:

 Anger – at my parents, my wife, my mentors, God

Loneliness – unmet needs for support, friendship, love

Sense of Rejection – old girlfriends, peers, people I trusted

Desire for Approval – wanting everyone to like me, being at peace with everyone, approval addict

Need to be Valued – loving the real me, appreciation for me as a person – flaws and all, dealing with derogatory words, low self-esteem

Feelings of Shame – feeling like I’m worthless, I’ve messed up, I can never be fixed, I am no good

Fear of Failure – the haunting worry that I will never meet the expectations of others, or my own

HURTS = WOUNDS
I am learning that when I feel hurt there is a wounding that has taken place.  It could be recent.  It could be from my childhood.  And many of them are multilayered.  I was a wounded boy.  A wounded adolescent.  And am in many ways a wounded man.  God wants to heal my wounds, and I am experiencing that. 

BEHIND EVERY WOUND IS A LIE
This is something my counselor has mentioned to me several times.  The jury is still out on this one.  But I think he’s right.  As I have explored my hurts, I have asked been coached to ask God, “What do I believe about this hurt?” and “What is Your truth about this situation?”  This type of praying and listening to God’s Spirit has been extremely helpful.

WHAT THOUGHTS DO YOU HAVE?
Q:  What emotions do you have to deal with in your recovery?

Q:  How are you finding healing?

Q:  What are you learning about healing from the deep stuff?

Anyone who wants proof, just mail me at raisethesnake@yahoo.com !!! I have proof of her lying, having a blog up that tries to discredit me, and more!
She even uses her husbands name as a “person” who has done work with me, just to trash me! The best revenge is character thus, email me for proof.
Also, she has a zillion “spanish” teaching sites, none of which SHE puts together (hence proof further if you read her guru alert page – um, she isn’t the brains behind her operations).. and she is not a homeschool parent but plays off that she is.
She interviewed and hired me because I AM! I also did work for her, bowed out gracefully because she was a pain after the work was done and refused more work at her ‘lesser” fee. Then she tried to fight me through Guru, who had the proof and AWARDED ME! (and her husband is allegedly a lawyer).
So – it’s up to you if you want to trust her but…I warn you to look at the proof I have and think about a woman with numerous sites to capitalize on homeschoolers, to try to take advantage of them.

A month ago, if you had told me I would be going to see my new home in the centre of London today, I wouldn’t have laughed at you. I would probably have burst into tears, collapsed to the floor and proceeded to have a fit of tragic hysterics. Today, against all previous expectations and beliefs, I saw my new home, and of course I fell in love with it. Not because it’s nice, or cosy – just because it’s going to be mine, in a month from now. It is in an amazing part of town, round the corner from the South Bank and Waterloo station, on the same road as the famous Old Vic theatre and a plethora of fancy shops and restaurants that I will undoubtedly be trying out with eagerness in the New Year. The price for the room is so reasonable, and the room itself is amazingly big, with a view that incorporates all that the South Bank of the River Thames is famous for, including the London Eye, the Imax cinema and the towering industrial chimney of the Tate Modern. I can’t believe I’m going to be living there by the end of this year. I’ve been saying ‘I can’t believe…’ a lot this weekend.

I also keep thinking how it’s all dependent on me continuing to do everything that I’m doing. For the first time since early recovery, I feel like I’ve been placed in the cockpit of a plane, and in order to survive I have to learn to steer the aircraft to safety. Two and a half years ago just having to live without alcohol was like flying a plane – today it’s growing up, taking responsibility, keeping a job that feels like the hardest flying lesson anyone ever took. If I keep doing what I’m doing, I won’t crash the plane. I’ll keep it in the air, I’ll get to dry land and everything will be OK. If for some reason something goes wrong – if I give into the feeling that I can’t go on, if I let go of the wheel and retreat to the familiar safety of my old life, then I won’t get to live in Waterloo. I’ll be a child forever.

It seems as if the past two and a half years have been bringing me to this point. This is what recovery is for. I didn’t stop drinking to be happy, make friends – I got sober to become an adult, find my place in the world. If I hadn’t got sober then I would never have spent all that time working on my sleeping patterns, daily routines, applied for all those jobs, picked myself up from all those rejections. It’s such a cliché, but I wouldn’t be here today if I were still drunk. Everything I’ve done in recovery has been about this moment: it’s made today possible. I keep repeating the fact that this is SO important because it really is. I can’t afford to fuck it up in even the slightest way.

Again, I wonder if it’s all happening too soon, if I’m jumping the gun when I should be waiting a while to save some money, pay off a few debts. If I’m supposed to be waiting, why did I get that phonecall from Ethan on Friday, asking if I was looking for a place to live? It’s well known that things happen in God’s time, is it not? Whether I’d waited a few weeks to move or a few years, I would have had to do it eventually. I’ve lived here for long enough. I need to go to Waterloo and start my new life properly.

What if I lose this job next year? What if my colleagues really hate me and don’t want me there any more? What if? What if? What if? Oh, the doubts are endless. I’m so used to them, I’m hardly listening to them. Behind that wall of fearful noise in my head I see a small child – the scared little boy I have recently started trying to get to know. He doesn’t want to leave home, he doesn’t want to go out in the world and be without mummy any more. It’s my job to become his parent. All of this stuff I’m doing, it’s all completely unknown territory to the child inside me. Last time I tried independence, my three year stint in Norwich failed spectacularly because I didn’t listen to the inner child. I drank my independence away trying to shut those childish, dark fears up. Now I have to ration my income, make budgets, pay bills, purchase my own provisions, clean my own clothes, make my own bed – and I can’t fail. I don’t want to fail. I came back to London from Norwich five years ago thinking it would only be a year or two before something came my way and I’d be able to skip off into the night again. Five and a half years later, a chance has finally come, after hardship and tears that less tough souls wouldn’t be able to weather. I have waited so long for today. Independence is here at the door when I least expected it. It’s the end of a monumental decade in my life; a decade in which I’ve been a practicing alcoholic, lived in East Anglia, studied for two full degrees, had a handful of disastrous relationships, made some incredible friends, got sober and found spirituality. Now I am sailing off into unknown and unknowable waters, for the first time or the millionth time. When I move to Waterloo next month the world won’t change; London will still be the same beautiful, crazy, scary city that it has always been. For me it might as well be destroyed and rebuilt, such is the significance of the changes about to take place in my life. These changes are necessary, I know they are – they had to happen some time, because I got sober and set God’s true plans for me in motion. I don’t know what’s in store for me. I don’t need to know – after all that’s happened, I can’t help believing that God isn’t about to let me down.

I’m going straight to the heart of danger now, looking for safety. I’m about to start, or I’m starting to live a life beyond my wildest dreams. The AA promises ARE coming true. Who’d have thought?

So the other day (I don’t know why) but my friend convinced me to tell her about my past MCAT practice exam scores. I really didn’t want to tell her, but I did. Instead of the typical consoling words, which wouldn’t have helped anyways, she goes “ooh that’s bad,” with her face scrunched up like a 2 week old funky sock. I feel like crap.

Alright I’m just going to say it. My practice scores have never been above a 19! Yes NINETEEN! There is no shame here. The only way I can get over it is just by embracing this joke of a score. But it ain’t no joke. No matter what I do, my scores on individual sections can change, but the freaking average always adds up to 19.

Why? Here are some theories…
1) I’m F***ing stupid. (I know that’s what you’re probably thinking, don’t lie…)
2) My mind shuts down from the stress.
3) I am not fully applying myself.
4) I’m not studying effectively.
5) I’m forgetting the material too fast.
6) I’m not actively applying my knowledge to the questions at hand.
7)zzzzz… I don’t know
All of these are plausibilities. They are also very true to some extent.

Physics is my worst subject and then it’s gen chem and ochem. Ochem is almost all memorizations, and my memory can suck really bad. With physics, I just can’t picture it in my head, same with gen chem.

I had to do physics today, just finished electrostatics. When I got to the part about conductors and insulators, I actually ripped a piece of paper into little pieces and then ran a comb through my hair for like 30 seconds, and showed my husband how I can magically lift the paper with the comb. That was fun and it made sense. When it comes to physics, my brain shuts down after doing like 30 problems. I always have to get up and take an hour brake before I can come back to the problems.

I think that’s my biggest weakness on the physical sciences section.

Yes I have shame over my scores so far. I really feel like an idiot. All those grueling science classes at Berkeley, it’s like nothing stuck to me. What was the point?