Yes, it is hard when people around us are “lalalala everything is just fine” and “ppftth…that’s a conspiracy theory!” if you try to express your concern that the world is not quite as it may seem.

Then, of course, you show them the information and it’s as if they don’t even see what is so clearly in front of them. People have cognitive blocks to reality, which then makes them suspect that you may be losing your grip on good ol’ reality. It’s all some psych. construction of systems of profit and power…to keep us confused and sedated, not talking.

I don’t even talk to people about the drone stuff, the manufacturing of genetic material…I mean, that just makes my brain unspool a bit too much and does – in the context of illusory culture – sound absolutely bonkers.

The nice thing about these internet forums is that they are a nice reminder that we’re not the only one’s talking about this sort of thing. People all over the world are talking about it and that is a good thing. Unsettling to some, may cause some clinging to the safe illusions…but, all in all a good thing.

Yes, tinfoil hats are going to be all the rage @ Fashion Week 2012.

You do have to be careful about what you pick up on, what you cue in to…there is an enormous amount of manipulation and mindplay happening all over.

♥ here’s your heart for the day, by the way:)

This is possibly the longest facebook comment I have ever written…and I have written some really long facebook comments. Thanks, Mr. McDonald.

(Please note: I sometimes write with screwy pronouns…’We’ is ‘royal’, or inclusive of the group in context, ‘you’ is ‘you the reader’ rather than ‘you Mr.McDonald’ – “you statements” can be somewhat triggering to people in the US, part of our offense/defense communication scripts. Here’s how it goes: “You!” and then the other person, “No, You!” and it just gets real stupid. So I use ‘you’ in the gentle sense of perspective taking, albeit in a mirrored way, “This is what you would be thinking, feeling, etc. – if I were you. I am not you, but if I were you – this is what you’d be thinking because, well…I’d be you, and I know I’d be thinking, feeling, etc. – because I’m me. Believe it or not, that makes perfect sense. Sometimes people’s reading brains don’t work on facebook and they get stuck on one word or phrase or just fuck the whole thing up in some fit of hurrying to respond. Even I, as communication savvy as I strive to be, fall prey to these tendencies at times. Digi-reality processing issues, mediation to the nth degree. Anyway, I really had a fabulous time writing all of this ‘blather’ – as some would term it…ah, well – screw them.)

Nope, 2022. I figure by that time, my boy will be 20, my daughter 18, their father will not be able to say a thing, the dog and cats will be dead, I will have written something that is noticeable and that perhaps will afford me access into the lives of all sorts of quirky and reclusive genius characters (whom literally are likely my kin because, measurably, very few people have minds that work like mine, 2.6% of the tested population) whom I will be able to immediately understand and be understood by and they will be my friends when I am near them and we will all be briefly legendary in our seemingly banal passages of time – sitting on porches or walking down roads, laughing.

See, I was never told that my brain – my way of seeing and feeling the world – was anything other than trouble, an illness. I knew I was smart, but what did I care about the word “genius” when I heard the word uttered, once, at age twelve. A set of numbers, and a vague sort of *hmph* satisfaction thinking about how remarkably clever the story I’d told about the picture was…a hard lined sketch of a girl by the water, with trees in the back ground a field at right, somewhere seeming far, where the sun would be lighting the grass…and there would be a boat, and she was a little pensive, but she knew that there was always someone watching – in my 12 year old story, it was a young man…that’s how it goes with stories sometimes, with archetypes. I really loved telling stories, it was my favorite part of the testing, though the electrodes were interesting to me, the current conducive gel was cold, and how did I even fall asleep so easily? I wasn’t even tired. I was wide awake, but somehow I fell asleep fast and when I woke up they told me that I wasn’t an epileptic.

This is all ancient history. Trying to remember who I was before the conversation, the Report, changed and the talk shifted from my stories to my moods and what they indicated based on the diagnostic criteria set forth by the DSM, whatever version was in use 23 years ago.

Prior to the advent of Psychiatry, people with quirky (quarky?) intelligence and abstract modes of expression were thought to be interesting, even valued, within their communities. Perhaps for entertainment, perhaps for inspiration, for liveliness, for stories and ideas?

Since it was discovered, probably around the turn of the century, that these qualities led to such noisome business as art and revolution and raw shows of humanity – well, folks such as myself have been increasingly been defined as sick or dysfunctional or just weird and so have had to put up with quite a bit of traumatic distraction and undermining of our tendencies to take things apart and then put them back however we see fit.

Did you know that the atypical antipsychotics that are all the rage in America (and beyond) actually have the effect – nay, the goal – of blocking dopamine – the neurotransmitter that allows us to experience the feeling of being credibly alive. The anticonvulsants dull the electricity in our brains and make our hair fall out, we no longer even care to kiss, our bodies get fat and slow and strange, our hands shake so badly we cannot write our own names.

This, my friends, is “treatment”…

Add that sort of chemical bludgeoning to the failed educations because you hated the fucking lighting and the school smelled like puke and bleach, and it was filled with fools anyway, mean people who made you feel like you were a job…the impossible social trauma of a hundred failed friendships that you didn’t understand to begin with…the jobs that make you cut your damn wrists just so you don’t have to go, but you’re supposed to go and ‘suck it up, don’t be weak’ – and the horrific cleaving action of a ride in the police car, in the ambulance, how sometimes, again and again, you know you have been destroyed again…and always you somehow find some small salvation, some thin thread…and so you just keep going, the stories piled up on your back.

So, yes, by 2022 I will be thoroughly traveling. Because I so rarely feel at home with other people, I am learning how to find ease again, knowing that, with it, I will somehow find my friends.

So, yeah – Mr. McDonald – thanks for giving me an opportunity to write all of this. It was – as it turns out – very important for me to do so, as I feel really quite pleased that I was able – in spite of the years of psychiatric abuse – to remember that story that I told when I was 12, right before I got written all wrong.

Hope you have a great evening and thank you again for being the recipient of this conversational dialogue.

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