PostSecret Sunday

     Earlier this week I wrapped my hair up in a towel, and felt my eyebrows were being pulled back harder than ever before. I looked in the mirror, and sure enough! I looked exactly like Spock. I was waiting for it to happen, I knew it was too awesome for me to purposely try to make it happen. I'd post the picture, but it's much too embarrassing I think, haha.

     I love being single, but sometimes I really do wish I wasn't so lonely. I don't see couples together, there's no jealousy. It's very rare, but I do wish I had some kind of fairy tale love to describe as my own. I wish I knew what being in love felt like. I wish I could write something as beautiful as 'Eat Me, Drink Me' (the song, not the album) about someone and mean it. I wish I could feel confident in believing someone for me existed that viewed romanticism the same way I do. Most importantly though, I wish I could find someone even worth my time.

Eat Me, Drink Me by Marilyn Manson

In The Waste Land
On the way to the Red Queen...
It's no wonder our stage clothes have dreams to be famous.
The trees in the courtyard are painted in blood,
So I've heard.
She hangs the headless upside down to drain.

EAT ME, DRINK ME . . . EAT ME, DRINK ME
This is only a game, this is only a game.
I was invited to a beheading today.
I thought I was a butterfly next to your flame.
A rush of panic and the lock has been raped.
This is only a game, this is only a game...
So picking my skin and my scales.
I see my horror mirrored in your sundown of your blank stare.
I see my horror mirrored in your sundown of your blank stare.
EAT ME, DRINK ME . . . EAT ME, DRINK ME
This is only a game, this is only a game. 

But then our star rushes in, feeling like a child and looking like a woman...
She has been forecast with an attempt to kill herself,
But the ending didn't test well.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 4

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

7. Being Honest with My Parents

     While reluctantly listening in on a phone call, a light bulb flickered above my head. 

     Everyone's parents should know who their children really are. My parents know who I truly am, as far as they allow themselves to see. My life and emotions are an open book, there's nothing left to wonder. If there were an uncertainty, I would gladly answer any question asked with one hundred percent honestly. However, I know that they cherry-pick what I proclaim like Christians do the Bible, or Muslims do the Qur'an. At least, they have in the past.

     So to practice this new idea, I'm going to share two more things with you and my parents to air out the things that have recently been on my mind. I hope this can inspire you to be honest with your parents, and most importantly yourself about your most 'shameful' opinions of things. I have been ashamed and scared for a very long time to tell my parents things, some I am still nervous to utter. But I have forced the time to arrive for me to push through my web of fears. My words are like razor blades, but I'm not trying to cut anyone. I'm trying to cut myself open to show you my real head.

"I am so tangled in my sins that I cannot escape.
Pinch the head off, collapse me like a weed
Someone had to go this far."
- 'Man That You Fear' by Marilyn Manson

     I don't feel a pang of guilt or urge to help out around the house as much as I could go out of my way to anymore because I am sick of being the only one that does anything. My dad's girlfriend would rather rip her skin off with pliers - hmm, wonder how that feels! - instead of lift a finger over something besides a television remote, so I know if I leave something to be done my dad will be the one to do it.

     But wait, I have a brother, right? Indeed I do, and he is eleven years old. My brother has two chores that he carries through with complaints. His two chores are feeding the dogs and and doing a half-assed job of vacuuming the kitchen on a barely weekly basis. Activities such as cleaning his room or putting away clothes are very rarely done alone, and never done without a smart alec remark.

     Like I said before, I don't feel guilty anymore. I did for a long time, but not because my dad's shitty girlfriend sent me harrassing text messages telling me how lazy she thought I was for not doing every little thing around the house so my dad didn't have to. (Kettle, you could have gotten off your ass and helped him if you really wanted to. In fact, you still can! Maybe if you spent less time attempting to belittle everyone and feeling sorry for yourself, you'd find a lot of time suddenly freed up.)

     I know my dad works long days and comes home to deal with this undeniably fake household, and that sucks. I'll repeat it again - I know it sucks, really hard. But I realized that my situation isn't exactly beautiful either. His girlfriend might be under the impression that sitting at home alone all day is positively wonderful for me to experience, but I'd imagine she could only be deluded by that assumption because there are five televisions here that she'd love to be watching in the time I could be, but don't.

     I refuse to do more than I feel is necessary for me to do to avoid being classified as lazy on an unbiased scale. My brother's life is perfect compared to what my home life was at his age. I don't see the fairness in being orally raped equating to doing all of the chores my brother could be helping with, later on in life. There's not a single, plausible reason for him to not grow up. I'm not going to be another ingredient for him not to, not anymore. My only hope and point for not helping out my dad more, is that one day - my hope - he will get sick of doing all the things I don't offer to do and ask 'someone' else to do them - my point. It's nothing personal against him, but asking why my brother does nothing while I do everything has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

     This next one's shorter because it's very simple. I'm not making an effort to talk to my mom as much as I used to because I don't want to be around her. I never thought I'd arrive at a point in my life where I truly didn't want to spend time with her. Honestly, I don't want to breathe in her second hand smoke because I value my life more than she seemingly values hers. Spending large amounts of time with her isn't worth dying a premature death, and it never will be ever again for anyone. When Nietzche said we have to kill ourselves many times while still alive to become immortal, I doubt smoking our lungs out is what he meant. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why she thinks she's invincible. Truthfully I don't even care anymore because it's grown so old.

     I'm disappointed that my mom's respect for me isn't substantial enough to cause her to not smoke in my presence. I've always been told - by smokers, no less - that if I don't want to be around it, then don't be. I take carelessly tossed about comments very seriously. Sarcasm applied equals results, as a result  of not spending as much - really none at all - time with her, I'm not coughing and feeling sickly as much as I did before. Much less, absolutely disgusted by how little someone can care for themselves.

     What I've never understood though, is why infants are more important to most smokers than someone only a few years older. When did I become unimportant to my mom? What age did I turn for it to suddenly be acceptable for my mom, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc., to assist in collectively killing me? My honest nature would love to see the looks on their faces upon delivering them truthful news of having just discovered I have lung cancer and will likely die because of their lack of self control and my stupid decision to be around them.

-----

     I ask that no one thinks for a moment this is easy to share with the World Wide Web. It's not. I feel reluctance every time I post a blog describing how I feel about specific people or situations, angry or not. I know why I feel this way more than a normal person does. It should be pretty obvious that a victim of sexual abuse feels like everything should be kept inside to protect whatever is leftover of them. But I am no longer a shell! I refuse to be a decoratively painted hermit crab. My insides are beautiful, every last bit of them, and I will never be consciously ashamed to show you no matter how scared I am.

     I have learned by writing this and thinking it over that one of the biggest fears is something I was too scared to even admit to myself until this afternoon. Now I will admit it to you, but I'm sure it has been obvious for quite a time: I am scared to be honest with my parents about my feelings.

     Fortunately I know where the roots lie.

     So now I ask - do your parents know who you truly are?

‘Liberate Te Ex Infernis’

     Today I finally watched ‘Schindler's List’. It was extremely long, and even dull at times despite the horrific events the film portrayed, but some of the quotes were very striking.

     At one point, Oskar Schindler says the following:

That’s justice, not power. Power is having every justification to kill.. And we don’t.

     I can relate, especially now because of all the pent up anger and resentment towards people I have collected. I’m obviously dealing with a much smaller scale – and personal grudges – but I know it’s within my power to destroy lives, people’s lives. I’m not talking about physical murder, but social murder. I could do it, it’s within my grasp and yours. Only, perhaps it’s closer to my reach than others because I recognize it. The power, the self potential. I’m not sure if I should say unfortunately for everyone, but for some, realizing what humans are truly capable of can be a dangerous recipe for destruction. It can mean complete – or partial, as if either are pleasant – annihilation of classes, civilizations, countries... Specific people, in my case.

     Never have I ruined a person into oblivion, beyond being able to reconstruct themselves. I’ve had personal and outside justifications for doing so that are far from being outlandish or unfair. However, something in me has always begged for me not to, even the people that I know deserve it most.

     If a poll were constructed and votes were cast, I wouldn’t doubt that a majority of the votes would agree with me in believing that my ‘targets of hate’ don't deserve to exist as whatever is most important to them.Yet, somehow, in a mixture of conscious and subconscious, I remain free to say I haven’t ‘killed’ anyone.

      Why did I ever look for liberation elsewhere.


     (After writing this and further speculation, I cannot help but wonder if Marilyn Manson was referencing ‘Schindler's List’ in the lyrics of ‘Vodevil’...

VIP ADD TRD violent shiny hate crime
“Total Requested Dead” it's
Version point (less) downloadable suicide.
The only ones left standing are the ones not demanding...

     Even if not a direct reference to the movie, perhaps Manson recognized the principle of Schindler's quote without it being the enlightenment to hold as a driving force. I have reason to wonder, however,  that it is a reference to if not the film, Oskar Schindler himself. ‘Vodevil’ appears on the album ‘The Golden Age of Grotesque’. ‘The Golden Age of Grotesque’ was heavily influenced by Nazi Germany and the history of degenerate art, which was originally a result of – correct me if I'm wrong, I haven't studied WWII in-depth yet – the Holocaust. You can read about the already recognized references here and here on the Nachtkabarett. I recommend you do, they are not only a fascinating glimmer into Manson's mind, but educational.)

Thursday's Thoughts - Theme: Evolution

This Week's Theme: Evolution

“Promise yourself to live your life as a revolution and not just a process of evolution.” - Anthony J. D'Angelo

“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.” - Richard Dawkins

“I was taught that the human brain was the crowning glory of evolution so far, but I think it's a very poor scheme for survival.” - Kurt Vonnegut

Playing God

    Every time I am reminded what resides outside these walls, I want to cut. Not only myself, I want to cut the walls, I want to cut bodies that aren’t my own, I want to cut animals, I want to cut civilizations, I want to cut artistic expression in all forms. I want to cut my eyes out, I want to cut my mouth farther apart. I want to cut my ears off, I want to cut my hands. I want to cut respect, disrespect, responsibilities, hatred, love and I want to cut myself entirely out of this world’s picture. We’ll start small if we have to, why I’d love to.
    Cut me out of this family, sear me to pieces and reestablish me elsewhere, somewhere desired rather than desirable. Place me in respect, truth, justice. I don’t even need art or language, your dystopia is the equivalent of my utopia. I’d exist in silence forever if it meant I didn’t have to look at the faces or witness the events I do. Everything is physically threaded lies, people are lies, events are lies, emotions are lies, vacations are fucking lies. When you provide my long anticipated vacation, I won’t want to destroy yours.

    If I could, I would destroy everything with intricate detail so there wasn’t a fragment left to be reborn in this pile of shit, ashes, whatever. Were it possible to be grafted onto a time line, I’d destroy myself first. But unfortunately it’d have to end as me playing the hateful, resentful, providing eternal favor, God.

I am never going to be sorry for who I am.

    The fairness of the aspects my life owns are considerably uneven, and not leaning towards my favor as far as I can see. I could rant for novel-length spans of time, but for another day, and for an actual memoir those will be held in waiting.

    I have all the potential in the world, and my family rarely seems to give a shit about it. Since childhood, I feel I’ve always been viewed as potential of great things, but then dropped at that. Once a future was seen in me, why would my dad bother encouraging me with actions (rather than hollow words, ‘You’re definitely going to make something of yourself.’), why would he help me study for hours a night like he does with my brother, why help me with anything at all that benefits my intellect? I suppose this is what he meant in the previous quote, that I was going to be the one creating and constructing on the hollow shell known as me.
    No matter how many times I bring it up, it rings horror in my ears because of its tempting suicidal truth: my own biological mother wouldn’t even protect me from repeated molestation, why did I expect any more from anyone else? The woman that chose not to abort me – how I wish she would have, and keep your opinions to yourself – and yet, gave me life, let her daughter be mangled to shreds at the hands of many. Stripped of my dignity indefinitely, it’s a true wonder I have any bravery today to say this to whoever is listening… or not, it really doesn’t make a difference when it comes to what it requires for me to be dangerously honest.

    I’m sick of being trapped within my room’s four walls, the fifth being occupied by the door. I could derive symbolism from this, sure. Perhaps there’s always a fifth door to a metaphorical prison that we have to strain our eyes to see if we should truthfully seek it. But I have to ask the age old question – ‘Why me? Why do I have to try a little, and sometimes a lot, harder than everyone else I’ve witnessed living in my era?’ There is no god to establish reason for my life and that leaves me quite dissatisfied, I’ll admit unembarrassed. Often, it can be hard, even for an atheist to come to terms repeatedly with the fact that my life is events by chance, unorganized and without human-applied meaning.

    At this point, I don’t care what anyone sees or hears. Whatever is liable to fall apart will fall apart eventually, even if I never existed to survey the situations I hate. If I encourage its destruction without my purpose being to abolish it, I am simply existing and at no fault for its demise.
    No one can claim my right from me to exist and speak as I choose to do so however freely, uncaring of outside opinions because they truly make no difference in one’s life unless allowed to. Not everyone can be as fortunate as I to feel this way, or to behave this way should their place of geographical location halt them from speaking what’s really on their mind. I am determined to make a step every day braver than the day before, and right now my feet are shuffling towards an explanation of my passionately hated home life.
    I do not, and never have nor never will, deserve to harbor the secrets I thought I was forced to dock for so many years. I frequently share with people close to me, ‘Be careful what you tell me, because one day it will be exploited. This very conversation may be worldly known some day, given its level of importance to me. Anything and everything I know, witnessed, and endured will be exploited to help others survive.’

    In the end, helping someone living an identical life not only survive theirs, but thrive in them, is always going to be more important than anything my family or friends could ever provide me. Love, guidance, protection, respect, comfort… all the things that should have been, and should be given still to this day to the degree universally expected.

    I am never going to be sorry for who I am, and I will never apologize for telling the truth that someone else chooses to deny. I wasn’t destined to live this life, therefore much credibility will always fall into the hands of those that molded me from the start. It’s hard to not stay angry when you have so many things to be justifiably enraged with. I am angry, resentful, hateful, and an unexplainable combination of all of the above that makes me admittedly extremely dangerous to others and myself. If you don’t appreciate how I feel for what it is, then fuck you.

Monday's Excerpts - Ape and Essence by Aldous Huxley

     Not really any spoilers this week, just characters speaking that will mean absolutely nothing  in terms of spoiling the story unless you read it.

This Week's Book: Ape and Essence by Aldous Huxley

    “But I’ve had an absolutely stunning idea for an original,” Bob was saying with that optimistic enthusiasm which is the desperate man’s alternative to suicide. “My agent’s absolutely crazy about it— thinks I ought to be able to sell it for fifty or sixty thousand.” (Page 5)

—————

. . . Sleeping, we cease to live that we may be lived (how blessedly!) by some nameless Other who takes this opportunity to restore the mind to sanity and bring healing to the abused and self-tormented body.
    From breakfast to bedtime you may be doing everything in your power to outrage Nature and deny the fact of your Glassy Essence. But even the angriest ape at last grows weary of his tricks and has to sleep. And, while he sleeps, the indwelling Compassion preserved him, willy nilly, from the suicide which, in his waking hours, he has tried so frantically hard to commit. Then the sun rises again, and our ape wakes up once more to his own self and the freedom of his personal will—to yet another day of trick paying, or, if he chooses, to the beginnings of self-knowledge, to the first steps toward his liberation. (Pages 154-155)

—————

    “That’s where you’re wrong,” replies the Arch-Vicar. “There are no limits. Everybody’s capable of anything—but anything.” (Page 135)

Books read this past week...
★★☆☆☆ Nightlight: A Parody by Harvard Lampoon
★★★★☆ Ape and Essence by Aldous Huxley

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

I am in such a rotten mood.

     I am in such a rotten mood. I'm not happy, sad, mad, glad, grateful, or all of the above. I'm a little of all I suppose.

     I'm happy because there's something buzzing outside, a locust maybe? It reminds me of being close to water, with humidity. Usually that would bother me because I complain so frequently about Florida's weather which is extremely similar, but this sound reminds me of love for some reason. Maybe it's because it seems so Nicholas Sparks, or maybe it's because of the days I spent in Mississippi with Rob. Either thought or memory - respectively - reminds me of love before it has gone awry.

     I'm sad because I don't get any respect from certain people that should respect me. I've been trampled upon so many times by them, only after being kicked in the dirt by their very foot. I'm not sure why I'm seen as trash, worthless of even blowing in the breeze. Somehow it has come to me being judgmental, when it began just the opposite.

     I'm glad because those that don't respect me, are lower than me in every possible aspect of what makes a great human great. I am more intelligent, stronger, kinder, and productive. I am happier, well-liked, and mature. I wonder if all these things are recognized? Perhaps they are envious, another trait of their obvious immaturity. While I may not have the best grip on my reigns at all times, I have my hands wrapped around them for the most part on my life's ride. Although, I'm not riding my life out like they are, I'm steering, passing, speeding. I am doing more than defensive driving, by far.

     I'm grateful for my best friend. Without sense being barked at me sometimes, I'm not sure how rampant my life-driving would be. I'd be buckwild, and while that's great for many things, sometimes I need to be re-centered and brought back down to Earth. I need to be reminded I cannot always be the sun.

     I'm also grateful because I am getting new glasses in a week or two, and they're very nice. They're not cheap, my dad actually bought me better than what I envisioned. Money isn't everything by any means, but I was pleasantly surprised, and I am grateful for his generosity. More than anything, I am grateful my vision will be improved for faster, easier studying, and driving that's less stressful.

     I just realized I skipped mad.

     I'm happy, glad, and grateful I'm not mad anymore, but I am sad I felt I needed to be mad at all.

'Here is My Real Head' series Pt. 3

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

5. Worth of My Peers

     There are quite a few people in my life that I don’t think the world would mourn over if they were to die tomorrow. Also, there is a smaller number of people that I believe are better off dead. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever to society and are positively a waste of existence on this planet. Their consumerism is wasteful, especially if it’s constant without equal or nearly rivaling productivity. This scale loosely decides who I would annihilate or cripple tomorrow if I were playing the fictional character God’s hands.

6. Trust
     I grow irritated when people claim they have trust issues. Typically these are people that are unable to handle the aspect of a healthy relationship that involves trusting their partner enough to not constantly badger them about cheating or their whereabouts. These are weak people, and mainly self-assigned as such. They are therefore casting themselves even deeper into the well of weakness. These folks don’t usually have historical issues with trust, they’re just bitches, immature and irrational bitches.

     If you have a history of trusting relationships gone awry, you don’t have ‘trust issues’. You have a genuine problem that needs addressing, care, and attention by yourself and what may seem unfortunate, by others you have to learn to trust. I am one of these people. To have been groomed so well—and I am so well groomed I belong collared and leashed on a showroom floor—that I had to have trusted the people that brushed me to their liking. With the intense level I climaxed and plateaued at, I trusted them an awful lot.

     I don’t trust anyone entirely, but not in the typical way. I don’t have the problem of trusting people with secrets because I don’t have anything that is a secret, or won’t be a secret for long.
I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even my parents, brother, family, or closest friends with my life. It’s a wonderfully cute concept to think of your loved ones saving your life, especially in the place of theirs, but I wouldn’t trust anyone to save me from death’s grip, especially if they were in harm’s way themselves or were being forced to choose between their life or mine.
I don’t whole-heartedly believe that anyone would give their life for me when it came to the carnal reality of being faced with their own death. Like Winston in the unfortunate year of 1984, I would expect them to shout at the top of their desperate lungs, “Do it to Alexis! Do it to Julia! Not me! Alexis! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!” I wouldn’t blame them, I accept the reality of a human being not wanting to die and offering up everything imaginable to not have to prematurely.
Truthfully, I’d be flattered if someone that loved me, loved me deeply enough to think of me for last person they’d offer instead of themselves as their ultimate sacrifice. By being last, I would be the most loved and I’d be honored by their ultimate and complete betrayal.
     In that light, I wouldn’t give my life for anyone I presently know. If I had to pick someone I’d die for, I couldn’t name someone I am personally acquainted with. If I could choose to die for someone I don’t know on a personal level, it’d probably be for Marilyn Manson or Richard Dawkins because of all the things they’re still doing for the world to make it a better place for children to grow up in, and children are the most important class to me. Were they to have stopped yesterday with no intentions of restarting their revolutions, they’d be scratched off my list of possibilities without little resentment, if any at all.
     If need be, I would endure physical and mental pain and torture in place of someone’s life, heck, I might even offer a limb for someone I deeply cared for. But if it came to my untimely death as a choice against theirs, they’re the ones dying prematurely.
     I have two main reasons, the stronger of the two is that I am young and have a lot I’m going to do in my life with more time to do it than the majority of the people I care for. I don’t consciously think of the people I love as being lesser than me, but an appropriate example of how my perception of trust differs is that I do not trust anyone other than myself to create productive and positive change in the world. No one could ever convince me they would without a doubt, though if someone were able to, I would reconsider giving my life for theirs because I don’t consider myself as an entirely above the collection of people I love because I have no proof that I am or am not. I might not be the most beneficial or productive to society out of the group, but I am the only person I can trust one hundred percent.
     I have high self-worth despite my flawed learned personality traits. In any other case my proclamation of self-worth wouldn’t be frowned upon, so don’t you care hypocritically frown here.

Becoming the Übermensch

“This Übermensch would be an artist, scholar, lover, and philosopher. He would do what most people only dream of doing. He would test himself and his vision against the strength of the world.” – Eric Dontigney

    Having things be known is very important to me, even if someone doesn’t accept what I say as truth or an option of truth. I know my message has a high probability of remaining in the back of their head, waiting to rattle around again if brushed against in the future by similar speculation, thoughts, reminiscence, or physical situations. If allowed in their head by either warm or reluctant invite, I am like an extra conscience, or I am like a god that affects the thoughts of its believers and typically its skeptics too.

    Belief from opposite party means very little when I express to others my opinions of something, whether based on fact or speculation. Varying in topics from myself, them, relationships of our own or outside parties, politics, science, religion, morality, sexuality, etc. They don’t have to believe me when I proclaim that I’m going to go to college and create myself into a revolution of my cause. However, I will not allow them to step on me and bellow down to my place in the dirt that I won’t achieve greatness. When futile attempts to degrade me to a worm occur, I refuse to not be heard. They can shout in my face all the want with angry backlash, but I have risen from my premature grave that they’ve so wrongly dug me. The point is they’ll have to shout their disagreements at my face, their attempts at hanging me askew in mimic of a ‘degenerate’ piece of art to make their job a bit easier quickly be annihilated. If someone feels they must push me, they must feel I am stronger than they are. Why would anyone want less of a challenge if they saw equality or greatness in their opponent?

     If they do not fear me, they are so poorly mistaken at exactly what they are dealing with. I’m not some extraordinary being that was born an Übermensch. The difference between me and the majority of other people walking upon the same planet is that I recognize the power that is just begging to be unlocked from within. It shouts my name louder than any vocal cord every could, be it man’s or beast’s or a – presumably in this case – non-fictional god’s. It would be disgustingly wrong, crude, and a slew of other immoralities to myself to not grant its wishes for freedom. It simply desires liberation from its barred cell, I can sympathize. The truly magnificent thing is how intricately simple it is to break the lock.

     No matter who you are, it will never be easy to be the change you wish to see in the world, it will never be easy to become an idea as opposed to a simple human being, it will never be easy to sacrifice things, if not everything. Ease and simplicity are two entirely different spectrums, they require the respect they absolutely deserve to exist apart.

     My path will never be easy because I chose long ago to take the road of greatness. I want to stride alongside the beaten path of those I have allowed the honor of influencing me, and I dearly hope other precious people will allow me the highest human honor of being influential. They will re-humanize me, when I am nothing of the sorts! In that light, by their greatness, acceptance, trust, and love, I will finally become a Saint.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 2

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation 

Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships 

Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

3. Childhood Grooming

     I believe in childhood grooming, because it’s a reality. I do blame the impressionable family members present during my childhood for a lot of the false ideas cluttering my head that I cannot cease to always reel back in, no matter how far I’ve cast them out into sea. Unfortunately, some people’s installation of ideas differs little in that of a pedophile’s grooming of a desired future victim. There were some people that existed in my childhood that had a purposeful reason for convincing me of the things I still believe, or their negative actions towards me. These people are factually to blame, and they don’t just exist in my childhood, but in yours too.

     Blame doesn’t necessarily have to be negative all the time. You could blame your mother for raising you to be particularly kind to the elderly, but you could also blame your mother for raising you to believe you’re more worthless than the gum on the bottom of her shoe.

     I am not afraid to cast blame where blame is rightfully due. One thing that bothers me above most is when someone is to blame for something, but are allowed to carry on believing they aren’t. Blissfully ignorant to their harm, even worse if they vocalize their believed righteousness.

4. Sex and Relationships

     I don’t remember the night I lost my virginity, not even a fragment of the event. I wasn’t drunk or high, it’s likely I don’t remember because it was held with little importance, or possibly because my brain is cold-wired to throw out anything sexual because of its experiences with sexual events in the past that were obviously negative.

     Being unable to view sex as a normal human being is mainly the fault of every person that molested me and my biological mother, were she not sociopathically void of conscience, who didn’t stop them after she became aware of their doings. I am guilt-ridden whenever the topic of sex comes up without plausible reason. Sex is viewed so negatively in my mind that it tries to completely flush it away every time it’s made re-aware that sex still exists in the physical world I reside in.

     I think the reason I’ve ever been in love is because I was never presented with a positive example of what a relationship should be like, and still have not been to this day. I’ve never been in a relationship with someone I could fall in love with because I seek out difficulties and mutual abuse subconsciously. I don’t want to be in a relationship now and foresee no future desire to be in one because of these recent realizations. All the aspects of a relationship are positively worthless to me, dating, marriage, sex, sole companionship, children with a partner (as opposed to single adoption), etc.

     Upon first perception, my concepts of a relationship are extremely negative compared to societies norm. Physical/sexual abuse between partners or towards the children, destroying property with fists (‘Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth’, Marilyn Manson),  secret hatred or disgust of your partner, dishonesty and lying, cheating with and without consent, frequent screaming matches, lack of desire to resolve resentment, remaining with your partner only for financial benefits or another sort of personal gain, plus the various types of other torture all come to mind at first thought. I have to otherwise convince myself to believe for a second that other behaviors exist in relationships outside of fairytales, least long enough for them to come out of my mouth as my false perception of normal to please my listener.

     My perceptions of a normal relationship lead me to seek out the very things I listed and more. By not consenting to a relationship, I am protecting myself from what I don’t particularly want, although sickeningly, a part of me does find the aforementioned appealing. Nonetheless, I view them as relatively acceptable, meaning I am not often shocked by the darkness of relationships. Growing up in the society of the Western World has shown me that the types of relationship aspects that first come to my mind aren’t acceptable by the society I’m a part of, the one most influential to the world therefore subconsciously deemed as correct, but I remain well groomed.

Thursday's Thoughts - Theme: Forgiveness

This Week's Theme: Forgiveness

“Once a woman has forgiven her man, she must not reheat his sins for breakfast.” - Marlene Dietrich

“Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.” - Ausonius

“When you hold resentment toward another, you are bound to that person or condition by an emotional link that is stronger than steel. Forgiveness is the only way to dissolve that link and get free.” - Catherine Ponder

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 1

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

     One of the things I’ve deemed most important for me to do is to face things I’m afraid of. It strongly ties in with the quote I assigned the year 2010, ‘Find what you are afraid of, face it, and then you won’t be afraid of it anymore.’ [Marilyn Manson, 1998]  Not that I never did before 2010, but now more than ever I’ve recognized its importance, particularly its importance in my life.
     I’m afraid of a few physical things. Sharks, tornadoes, and getting water in my eyes, to name a few. However, the majority of my fears have always upheld residency in the psychological or sociological realm. I am so well groomed still to this very day that I am frequently terrified of speaking what’s really on my mind. If not terrified, the fear persists on an unnatural scale of appropriateness.
     As a child, I used to secretly draw pictures of my dad with another family because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that his actions led me to believe that he wanted to leave me and our ‘family’ (loosely used). Years later when he found one of the scrawlings, horrifyingly in my presence, I was deeply ashamed.

     Whenever I reflect back to those instances or ones similar, I shake my head at my childhood self. I wish I could lend her a helping hand, or some useful advice. I wish I could tell her to not fear being as brave as she really wanted to be, no matter what anyone tried to convince her with otherwise. I wish I could tell her how to escape the inevitable outside party conditioning after her own shampooing, but I don’t even have a substantial solution. I wish I could have saved myself for the child’s sake, for me then and for me now, but the lyric ‘there’s no one here to save ourselves’ [‘Man That You Fear’, Marilyn Manson] has never rung truer in my ears.

     Today I decided I wanted to list some things that are my completely honest opinions about the topic discussed. I am showing you my ‘real head’ without any reservations watering my beliefs. Fear-ladden, some. But today I am bravery stricken and bravery is self-contagious.

(This got to be nearly 2,700 words and seven pages long in Microsoft Word, so I am going to split it up into parts that have relative topics. I’ll post them in daily succession. Thank you for reading!)

1. Addiction

     I consider the title ‘addict’ the middle stepping stone of anything relating to the sorts of drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex, etc. The first stone is active participation, the second stone is claiming addiction as a state of being and existing, and the third stone is realizing you don’t necessarily have to be stuck in that mindset forever. It’s realizing NA, AA, SMA, etc. is all a form of brainwashing watered down by society into acceptability. Were these groups advocating something of a different topic, it would be a church or a cult which are equally despicable by various parties, and equally despicable by me personally.
     Not everyone can be strong enough to hop to the third stone, I am at terms with that and hold no resentment towards people that haven’t taken that leap, even if I feel they’re capable of landing safely. By no means, however, do I consider it a leap of faith. It is a reality to me, unless otherwise proved by something scientific.
     Your body is not eternally addicted to physically addictive drugs as far as I know, and you can change your mind to dispel whatever mental addiction subsides, at the least enough so that you won’t partake again. It’s a conscious choice we must make if we want to live happily without constantly being reminded of our faults and past, and I know with me personally it made me feel worse than better. Last time I checked, in any other form that’s considered dwelling, and frowned upon by the populations of major societies when it comes to any other subject like past relationships, or a poor childhood. No one wants to hear you whine or offer up the same excuses for everything, so why is it okay here? Well in my opinion it shouldn’t be, but because it keeps a majority of past ‘abusers’ under control, it’s a popular remedy.
     It’s important to remember that with the help of NA, AA, SMA, etc., you’re ultimately making the decision on whether or not to repeat your actions. The group may be offering something to your table of guilt, but are they really offering up respectable plates of reason? It’s important to come to terms with why you’re not still repeating your past behaviors. Do you genuinely not want to, or are you not because someone else is telling you to? Although the brainwashing can work, it doesn’t work forever, and it’s hardly different than the church convincing you their spiritual scriptures are what create your morals. Your genetics have and always will write your morality, as your mind will always inscribe what behaviors you do and do not participate in.

2. Self Mutilation 
     I don’t consider self mutilation in the form of cutting necessarily an addiction. I recognize that endorphins are released in the brain as a feeling of release when the act is carried through, and perhaps that does add a physical addictive attribute to the act. In my opinion, it doesn’t have as strong of a backing as drugs or alcohol. I believe that it’s favored by many, therefore allowing it the popular label of ‘addiction’ by society.

     I have experienced many mindsets when self mutilating, the most popular being dissociation without memory of the act, spur of the moment anger, rage, or sadness, and as a show of control over my physical behavior. I have upheld the last one listed within the past two weeks a single time, and I do not regret it. I wasn’t sad, and I am not sad now over the fact of my behavior. I am proud actually, proud of my control that it began and ended when and where it did, among other things.
     I don’t consider myself an addict any longer. I finally realize that I am above something that doesn’t even exist. Being an idea isn’t existence, otherwise all church or cult sermons—who can tell the difference anymore—would be true. I got caught up in believing something that wasn’t true, not all too uncommon of human beings, ha.

What are some cultivating books and movies?

     I can't keep my lists alive forever! I'm seeking suggestions for classic books and movies, things that will help me achieve my goal of being a cultured individual, at least more so than I am now. Remember though, it doesn't have to be old to be a classic. :)

     All the books I've read lately are listed on the left hand side under my Goodreads widget. As for movies, I can't really help you in the same easy way, but I can recall the one's I've seen lately either for the first time, or again after some time. The worst that could happen is that someone suggests a movie and I've already seen it. So to help you out, here are a few of the movies I have seen (this might also give you a better idea of what I'm looking for)—

Fellini's 8 1/2, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory ('71), Lolita ('97), Sybil ('77), Begotten ('91), 1884 ('84), Eraserhead ('77), The Nines ('07), Jesus Camp ('06", Super Size Me ('04), Alice ('88), Pee-Wee's Big Adventure ('85), A Clockwork Orange ('71). . .

     Thank you so much in advance, should anyone comment!

I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention

Power is a concept constantly flooding through the nerves and whatever else of my brain. Power stimulates my brain into the function of ‘mind’, which is then in a constant overdrive. Without exaggeration, when I’m sleep-deprived my waves are rapidly lapping at the shores with new concepts and ideas, and personally unexplainable, they are darker than the normal tidal crashes. Somehow, lack of sleep or actual sleeping beckons my most malicious demons to dance about my brain, but malicious isn't enough of a word. Masochistic seems much more appropriate for what all they do to me.

I've had nightmares for a very long time, as deep into my childhood as I can remember. I can still vividly recall childhood nightmares of the most insane, yet if sought, symbolic things. A common dream was of me climbing into the ‘family car’ at night in search of safety from the house’s activities, only to fall through the car and carport forever until I woke up in cold sweats. If you can't find symbolism in that, even if you know nothing of my personal history and detach the dream from me to do so, I don't believe you.

Another dream I had frequently involved me stepping out of my abandoned house via carport door and looking down to see fiery lava at my feet. I would look up to the same spot in the sky every time, past the trees across the road that shrouded a mysterious ditch that probably stretched for a mile, and see fire raining down (Envision the end of The Believers, that’s what it resembled). I had a hopeful feeling every time this dream occurred, I wished fervently for the fire of the volcano to engulf me whole and swallow me into its red-hot depths. Whether or not it would be painful or painless never crossed my dreaming mind, I knew outside of either speculation it would be painless because I loved volcanoes, and I knew whatever pain it caused me, it wasn't causing me. I was letting it hurt me, just like everything else in my non-dreaming life.

So, “I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention,” actually I have two I’m going to relay today. These have both been dreamt in the past two weeks but are not at all abnormal. For a while, I have wanted to post some of the dreams I’ve had so others can speculate, or just point at me like a roadside freak show dreamer. They are pretty interchangeable, after all.

I don't know the bloodcurdling degree of other people's dreams, and I haven't had the time to study sleep. Considering the frequency of my nightmares, I probably should make it a relative priority on my list of ‘me-search’.

After awakening from some of the scenarios in dream form my mind creates and plays for me on its own special film, I am often terrified. It’s not a rarity for me to wake up from some of the more severe nightmares I have and lie in bed completely still for minutes at a time, anxiety-ridden. Often, even from a relatively typical dream, I’ll be anxious the rest of the day. Neither are because the nightmarish visions I have to endure night after night are extraordinarily horrifying at this point, but simply because I don't know what caused my mind to construct them. To dream of death, torture, and what Christians would call the apocalypse* so frequently leaves me in wonder for days, weeks, months, and years. I suppose now, it has been so long I could even claim a decade for some dreams.

*Or what John would call a Brave New World.

(Warning: Some things detailed in these dreams may be disturbing to some readers.)

Dream One

            Albeit being slightly smaller, I am visually my current age of seventeen, but I feel a little younger. I’m not sure how much younger I feel. I’m not a child, but I know I’m not quite an adult either because I feel like someone should be watching me. In the midst of attempting to figure out my age, it crosses my dreaming mind that maybe I’m nothing definable, likely I’m all of me all at once, because that’s how I feel the most. I go with that, and it becomes truth. I am now an infinite being of my dreamland.

            I live in an odd complex of houses because all the households look exactly the same down to color and the cars parked outside them. I look through a hole in the tall white fence that blocks off sight of the next neighborhood. From my one eye gaze I see the neighboring complex is styled in the exact same way as the one I hold residency. Anyhow, I don’t see Kauvuo (my dog), and then I realize why I was looking through the hole in the fence in the first place. Kauvuo is gone, I’m not sure where he is. He’s gone. Ran away, stolen, hit by a car, I don’t know, I cannot recall and I’m disgusted with myself. Because I cannot remember, I am motivated further to find him and provide him safety once again.

            Suddenly I’m warped through dreamland and I am now at my childhood preschool, its original housing on a ranch-style property being upheld in my dream. I’m walking across the dirt that seemed to span forever as a child, so it does so as well in this trek. I pass the horses, the pool, and the faraway picnic tables before finally reaching the fence. Another hole, but this one is gaping, I can walk through this one with ease. I step through without a second thought.

            I’m in the identical neighborhood that is only distinguishable from my own because of the fence that divides them. I begin to walk down the deserted road, not a person in sight at all tending to lawns or playing with yard toys. It’s warm evening, it’s humid and very Floridian. Finally, I reach a house that looks different than the rest. This particular residency is run down, the wooden panels are falling from the structure and the grass is dead and brown. I take unexplainable note that there are no weeds cluttering the lawn, and later sarcastically think, ‘Not yet.’ I approach the door and enter uninvited.

            I am greeted in the house by someone of my past. I am faced with one of my molesters, instantly wishing I wasn’t in a position to be possessive of them. Kauvuo comes running from somewhere within the house towards me, instantly knowing I’ve arrived to rescue him. I call to him although he can see me, and my molester does nothing to stop me from trying to retrieve my beloved dog from his disgraceful residence. He smiles, but it’s not just a smile. It’s worse than a smirk, it is sadistic, he’s going to hurt me if I claim what’s rightfully mine by entrapping me after.

            Pulled out of the house by an invisible force, I kick and scream hysterically as I’m instantly warped back into my identical but well-kept home, and I realize it’s my dad that has rescued me. I argue, I complain, I reason. He didn’t rescue me, he left Kauvuo to die, or something worse. He tells me if I wait ten days, Kauvuo will return unharmed. Regardless of the promise, I am not comfortable with Kauvuo’s location. I proclaim I will retrieve him whether my dad likes it or not, the majority of me doesn’t believe he’ll jaunt back safely after ten days anyway. He tells me I won’t be doing that, instead of the expected advice that I shouldn’t. For the first time my dad is strictly telling me ‘no’, not ‘maybe not’. I feel surrounded by unfamiliar warmth beyond my body, is this what it feels like to be protected from the most horrible of things? I am realizing that although he is protecting me at the cost of another, I am appointed the most important being. This is something I don’t experience when I am awake.

            And then I awaken.

Dream Two

            I’m staying at a friend’s house, but I am not enjoying myself. Since I arrived earlier in the evening, I’ve had a lurking feeling that someone or something was watching me, just out of sight from my glance over my shoulder. It’s the feeling I used to get when I felt extreme anxiety to the point of near insanity from irrational thoughts. I keep my cool for show purposes only, and interestingly I don’t self-destruct in the privacy of the bathroom before bed. I drift into double-sleep with thoughts of pride at not letting my anxiety get the best of me.

            Snatched in my slumber from my friend’s bed, once woken I wonder how she didn’t feel the weight on the bed shift or the door creak open and closed, why her dog didn’t bark at my captor, or why her dad didn’t hear someone enter the house in the first place. ‘It seems like it’s always me’ I think in a juvenile fashion, without considering the array of possibilities of what could take place next. This isn’t unfamiliar territory, plus I know this is just a dream. Therefore, I know the inevitable is likely to occur, upping the likelihood of my abuse.

            And it does occur. My kidnapper (almost-adultnapper?) enters the dark room, and flicks on a light switch. Above me swings a sole lamp, it is so typical of a lamp that it could have been taken right out of Sybil’s childhood kitchen. Unsurprised, I discover that I am tied to a table by legs and arms. Maybe if I combusted, maybe if I set myself on fire with one quick jerk, I could escape. I don’t even try, but the metaphorical ideas cross my mind. He approaches, and begins his work.

It’s an interesting thing, after suffering the same thing time and time again for so long, you think you’re not dreading it until it hits you in whatever form it takes shape of. In this case, its shape is that of someone else cutting open my arms to an unexplored depth.

First working on the tops of my arms, he retracts layer after single layer of skin down to the fleshiest of flesh. In squared-off folds, he’s lifted it back and exposed my bloodless pink meat. I creatively ponder on the idea of ‘if a strong wind blew, it might blow them all back into place like pages of a book’. The force of nature on my body would be beautiful, and nothing else of a sad sort. But there is no wind in this basement, and I am not even graced with a half window that spends its life barely peeking over the grass.

            Now my abuser makes his way to my inner arms. The concept of not dreading this has fled from my mind completely, at least during this act of mutilation. He plucks out straight razors from somewhere underneath my mutilation platform, and begins once again. He works the razors effortlessly down my arms, and I writhe in intense agony that my mind tries to convince me is unbearable. I’m terrified, I want to wake up, I am screaming silently. I remember to cover my mouth with a towel that isn’t there, so I say nothing instead. I make no show of emotions, but I cannot control the tears that stream from my eyes. I assure my mutilator it’s not crying because I am not sobbing. Somehow he has missed all of my veins during this process, so he slashes them last. And yet, after the razor has plucked my guitar string veins for a single note, I live.

            I wake up shaken from the nightmare. This is one of the worst types of dreams my mind has created so far, naturally I hate reliving them when they grace my sleeping mind. Dreams of this nature have made increasingly more appearances. I wonder if this dream entails my deepest desires, defensibly I argue with myself, otherwise why would I concoct this situation in dream form? This dream possibly represents an extreme form of what I’d ‘love’ to do to myself in times of delusion, this is complete self-annihilation from another’s blamable hand. There is no pleasure in this abuse, only relief that I’m not carrying out my most secret desire.

After some speculation, I realize I am doing this to myself. In my dreams of the very same nature the person is always me, regardless of what mask shrouds them to give the illusion that my body’s mutilation isn’t my fault. This time, it happened to be my biological mother’s father.