There is always some strange conciliation that occurs in the early morning on December 25th. The world is quiet. Slow and pearline.
At least, that is how it seems. I was sitting on the front porch while the kids were over at their father’s, doing the holiday. Both my kids received from me about 60 pencils, among other things. I am going to see how long it takes for them to disappear. There will be pencils all over the house for months. I wasn’t really thinking about that when I sat on the porch. I was noticing how, if I shifted focus away from the sound of the Interstate traffic, it was almost as if everyone in the world were still asleep.
*** from today:
Where doaaeaas onae aevaena baegin and of coursae myt phona iAs fucaked unlesasa I type asuper faaast but the automatic A aaisa distracting anad slows me down since I uasually proaofaraeada As I write anda aaso this slows me down and upsets me anda athean I athink that mayabaea it iasa somae traick atao laeaada maea afurathera aafarma aaaseconda gueasasinag amyaselafa asaomaea ameaanas tao agaeat ato automatic traanasisator afuanctiaon* I havea naoticed that awhaen I ashaifat in at aaaaa into asomeathinag akin ato flow thaea Aas comea a little aslaoawaaeara. Moastly it ias juast malfaunactiona.
I fucking hate electronics.
So obviaouaslay I am goinga to have to turn on thae aabiga acomputer anda a juast afigure it all out. I havaea ait all well figuraeada* aaa
It is just a matter of putting the pieces together.
I have my theories and because I have issues with the boundaries of belief …
They are all equally plausible.
Of course, there have been a million and a half words that lead from there to here. I have the words Be True tattooed across my left wrist. I will tell anyone the truth as I see it, anytime. The only issue is that I might end up weeping or becoming shy.
Tears sting my eyes all the time, but I hardly ever cry.
There is some great cathartic howl somewhere in here, but it always comes out as a slow sigh, a lopsided smile…a nap in the afternoon.
“You defend yourself a lot.” Someone made this observation about me the other day. It’s true. Except I don’t defend myself as much as I defend logic or alternate perspective. I don’t like debating. I think that sometimes I must come off as somewhat belligerent or imperious. It might just be the way my voice sounds. I am getting quieter and quieter. I am okay with that.
(In re-reading this, I realized that I was defending myself defending myself. I am so full of it.)
Nothing in particular happened, but I literally felt as if my soul had been torn out of me and I was cold like I might never be warm again. It was snowing and the stove belched smoke out of the vents. I took a pill to try to sleep and it made me want to die so badly that I willed my heart to slow, my breath to cease.
I think I must’ve howled on that day.
Here’s an email from that day, carved for confidentiality:
On Sun, Dec 26, 2010 at 5:36 PM, Faith Rhyne <email@example.com> wrote:
“Just so you know, I am aware that the tone of this letter is somewhat bitter. I am frustrated and saddened by the continuing circumstances.
Hello – I hope that your holidays were good. Everything was fine here. The kids and I enjoyed a nice visit on Christmas. early, saying that her to come back whenever she wanted, that it was her decision. Dr. Daniel Johnson is the psychiatrist that I have to see as part of my prescribed aftercare. I will sign a release with you so that you may speak to him. As far as just letting the family manage the visits, well – decided (for no discernible reason) won’t speak to my mother and does not support the kids time with me and so those facts are going to hold things up a bit. My apologies for the reality ... is controlling, manipulative, and clearly bound and determined to minimize and complicate the role I have in the lives of my kids. I am, as I have been, more than willing to work … I do not hold grudges … to stop bullying everybody. … custody suit is heard on the 6th of January, I appreciate the Department’s participation in that, as I understand your records will be subpoenaed. Speaking of records, have you received a copy of my discharge summary from the Partial Program yet? I may have some job interviews coming up and I start online courses on the 11th to try to enhance my resume.
…letters to professionals and strangers (professional strangers?) and poorly wrought songs and the inevitability of time and cigarettes to smoke.
This brief revisitation of the defining parameters of my life and worth a year ago today is a little disconcerting.
It is all in the archives…the misunderstanding that wrote me wrong for years. I’ll will write it coherently one day…piece by piece empty out my head, clear the warehouse of my heart in verb and noun.
Parts of this story exist outside of myself.
and thought about some truths.
It is awfully hard to be honest about some things.
I thought about whether or not I should follow up on my emails to Rome, to The Vatican and to St. Paul’s Outside-the-Wall.
(Current: You know, some of the photos on that video are really bad. Some, however, are not.)
This is one of the videos of some of the thousand of pictures of clouds that I have taken over the past several months. Please consider my circumstances with utmost seriousness. I respect the Church, I am disappointed that I have what is likely to be verifiable as proof of something much much bigger than we are. I am hesitant to claim that I have proof of God, because it seems that people don’t want proof of God.
Please forgive any language you may find offensive. It has been a very difficult…time. I am saddened by not only the lack of belief, but the lack of simple kindness and tolerance. Please, your blessings and prayers.
I need assistance in making sense of all this. I know what I am supposed to do…but, I don’t know how I can do it. I stand alone. Even to my family. I am not insane. I have proof. I have been trying to avoid claiming to be or know ANYTHING, but I think that I need to let you know that it seems I have been claimed by God. Please understand. The old stories were true…I don’t know what it all means. I am scared. Please read my story and look at my pictures and do the appropriate thing. PLEASE!
At least tell me that you are able to see the eyes, if not the Omega, if not the threes…for months! Everyday! Please. I feel that perhaps something has gone dreadfully wrong. I don’t know how to fix it. I just know I am supposed to help. Please.
In The Grace of The Almighty, with Humility –
Faith Rachel Rhyne
Basilica of St. Lawrence is the Church where I have gone to seek guidance from the vessels…I am very confused. I want only to be left alone, but God tells me that I must not turn away from my intended purpose. I am not scared by my purpose. I am scared that people will continue to pretend that God and I do not exist. Please.
I tried to use phrasing such as being “claimed by God” to impress upon them the weight of the situation (in my mind..:) – of course, I didn’t tell them that a big part of my proof was a totally deconstruction of the idea of God and a (re)formulation of old sense.
I thought about how much of this is still wreckage from when a hundred squashed evolutions exploded at once, bursting and bumbling against all the walls of what was.
Here are some writings I struggled through last year, when my mind was still a flood-wreck staunched into deep dopamine recession and extensive fumbling as a result of risperidone and emotional trauma.
I don’t really much care anymore.
That is the beauty of having pushed it so far beyond too far…this is really nothing
***Written from the Recovery From Madness Paradigm
It is perhaps foolish to imagine that if I do not somehow write a book I will inevitably consider my life to be a tragic failure. It is, I know, a cruel bargain to make with myself. Nonetheless, this is the thought that nags me throughout the day. “I have to write a book.” An unpleasant thought to have upon waking, a simple day’s beginning turned looming. “I have to write a book.” What sort of person thinks this first thing in the morning? Someone who apparently has to write a book.
My reasons for having to write a book are fairly clear in my mind. It would make sense, I tell myself. More precisely, it would make my life make sense. All of the false starts, quick retreats and dogged failed efforts would at last be worth something. All the awkwardness and gritty, pitiful me-ness would, if bound between two covers, seem so much less…well, pitiful. I want to be proud of myself. There. I said it. I want to be proud of myself.
Couldn’t I just be happy enough with the things I have already accomplished? I am employed, after all. Most people with a brain like mine have a hell of a time managing employment. Let’s face facts: I have a hell of a time managing employment. I should be proud of myself for having a job. I could have just thrown up my hands and filed for disability, succumbing to the ugly suspicion that I just can’t cut it nor am I cut out for it. For what? For this. All of this and that and the other, too. It’s just too damn hard to be human. There. I said that, too. Some people, lots of people, would likely sneer and spit at such a confession. Weakling. Whiner. Loser. I have heard it all before, folks. That is another reason why I have to write a book: I need to prove you wrong. I need to be more than what might be made of me on the basis of mental health history.
I am not a weakling. If I were, I wouldn’t be slowly tapping out these first cautious words. I might be a whiner. However, I try hard not to be. Loser is a relative term, but I have, in fact, lost a lot. Perhaps this is another reason: I need to reclaim a few things here and there…and recapture a bit of what’s gone missing, maybe re-live a thing or two.
In the meantime, the clock has moved forward today and this season, the worst winter of my life, is almost over. I am not sure exactly where to start. It’s a long story, but I wrote myself into this mess and now I need to start writing myself out of it. Don’t worry, I’ll explain. Explanations are something I am good at. I think it has something to do with my brain. You see, I am a bit of a genius when it comes to some things. Unfortunately, I am a raging idiot when it comes to others.
For example, I don’t know how to write a book. I don’t, as a matter of fact, have the slightest clue. Yet here I am, almost five hundred and fifty words into what will, eventually, become a book. It has to. I have no choice. Like I said, my life will be a tragic failure if I don’t write a book and so…I have to write a book.
I am going to start by writing a page a day. I am certain that some days will go more smoothly than others. That is always the way. My hope is that I can keep up and this plan of mine doesn’t backfire and become another stupid secret, another little dream that withers up and disappears into a file I won’t be able to bring myself to open. I will open this file. Please, let me open this file and let me keep writing. Who am I begging? I am begging myself. It is something I do a lot of. Please, be strong. Please, be calm. Please, just get through it. I will get through this.
See? I already got through one page.
March 13, 2011
Yesterday I noted that the air down by the stream was strangely sweet and it reminded me of the cool shade and damp rocks that edged another stream I have known. My great – aunt lived in these mountains, having come north from Florida after some murky-in-the-telling family disagreement. She lived in a house set low on a mountain, bordered by rhododendron and landscaped boxwoods, raspberries, and the stream. We only visited a few times when I was a child, but I still remember the sweetness of the air.
We would drive up from south Georgia and the Appalachians were the first mountains I ever saw, great swells of land that seemed to rise up from the lazy hills and which caused me to exclaim, “Mountains! Mountains!” as if I were a sailor finally in sight of solid land. I will never forget the first time I saw mountains.
The land I grew up on was flat as a shingle and the soil was thin and sandy, it clung to your skin like dust and when it rained the first drops seemed not to soak in, but simply pit the surface in a dusty thunk and then bead up, the water grabbing the finest silt as if by some strange magnetism. South Georgia was a hot and buzzing place, thick with the humid stink of paper mills, a smell that for years reminded me of home. Now my home is in the mountains, in those first mountains that I saw. When I smell the earth awakening at the edge of a stream, I remember why I moved here, for that cool shaded sweetness of water that flows up from the ground to wash rocks cold and smooth.
I am not sure why my father raised us, my brother and me, in south Georgia. We were always outsiders there, it seemed. Our house was in the woods, built from salvaged lumber on land my great-grandmother owned. I know why she moved there. She had to. Her husband was too “nervous” to live in the city anymore and so they took their fine antiques and built a big white house way back in the woods. They called the land “Shadowlawn” and, today, the subdivision that lays atop the land I grew up on claims the same name. I suspect that it was the open horizon of marsh and sky that eased my great-grandfather’s mind, the breezes promising an easy way out, an open door to the ocean. I don’t know for sure though, I never knew the man. I think I remember a quiet conversation in which it was said that his death was no accident, that he had taken to the breeze by his own will. It seems fitting, knowing what I now know about my own brain, what I have begun to piece together about my family in an effort to be honest, finally, about what exactly I am dealing with here.
I have two children and they have brains of their own. When they were young, I searched their little faces for some sign of the easy clean slate that I thought they may be blessed with. However, even as babies, their dark eyes seemed endless and, at times, solemn, as if they were already searching. I come from a long line of searchers. We seem to always be looking for shadows or wide open views, but I am not sure what any of us hope to find. Some peace of mind, I suppose. I know now that no child is a blank slate and that we all carry burdens that echo our ancestry. That fact does not give me any peace of mind. March 14. 2011
Stupid sleep. I came home from work today and decided that I needed to rest for a few minutes…which then turned into a few hours. Why is it that I woke up feeling so dysfunctional and indulgent?
I have been placing an enormous amount of pressure on myself lately. This whole “I have to write a book” thing isn’t helping. Still, I am committed to integrating creative expression into my daily life. Most people aren’t too worried about whether they write or draw or crochet. They don’t heap guilt and failure on themselves if they fall asleep before working on a series of miniature paintings or work on a hat. Why can’t I be more like them? More forgiving of myself and my need for sleep.
I take sleep very seriously. Too seriously. I am vigilant in protecting my sleeping hours and if I hadn’t taken such a long “nap” earlier this evening there is no way that I’d be up at 11:10 pm. I am very much like an old lady, falling asleep well before midnight and waking up in the still full dark to putter around the house, sweeping and clearing clutter, feeding cats. Why do I feel like such a loser about this?
Holy crap. I just realized that I feel like a loser about almost everything in my life. This is huge. Where do I go from here? How am I supposed to write a brilliant book when everything I do is tainted with loser-ness? It’s a bit of a conflict: I need to write so I don’t feel like a loser, but feeling like a loser impairs my ability to write. I don’t want to write a book about feeling like a loser. I want to write a shining narrative about memory and self, reality and the strange gift of mental illness. Why can’t I just believe in myself, believe in my best self and not just my loser self.
I think I might have self-esteem issues. It is possible that all the flack I receive from people, all the little looks and the million tiny failures, has finally gotten to me. Why do I care? I tell myself not to care, but it is difficult to really, truly not care and I question the value of such a goal. I don’t want to not care, but I want to be able to think about judgments in a way that doesn’t doom me quite so much. I judge myself too much and I take those judgments way too seriously.
Writing is hard tonight. I realize that it is unlikely that I will be able to generate a book from this. “No,” I am telling myself, “you have a book in you, you just have to write it out.”
“I am a foolish loser, a total loser, a hopeless and sleepy wreck.” Urgh. That is the barrier, the great wall, the gaping chasm. The loser in me says to just date this entry and shut it down, go make sure the cats are in and go back to bed. Dreaming will be a comfort, it always is. Tonight, this – the hesitating click-clack of keys and the stark strings of words on a screen – is making me feel naked. I am no good at being naked.
Let me start over, let me start with some facts. I am 34 years old. I have a verbal IQ of 147, but I can’t think of a thing to say most days. I have a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, but if I were more honest with my psychiatrist I could probably meet criteria for schizoaffective disorder. The word schizo scares me.
I have to write a book because, while I know I am not special, I know my brain is relatively rare and that I have been places that very few people ever even think about, much less live through. I am a good person. Those are good reasons to write a book…now, if only I knew how to start.
Wait a second, I think I just did. March 15, 2011
I remember once when I was driving cross-country, I stopped for the night in a small town in Utah. I don’t remember the name of the town or much about it at all. What I do remember is that it was the 4th of July and I sat in a field and watched the fireworks with some random guy. If this were a more interesting story, he’d have been a handsome Mormon farm boy and we’d have had some briefly steamy mid-summer tryst. We’d have fucked in that field. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. I was a buzz-cut punk rocker driving across the states in a 1984 Chevy van. I wore plaid pants and boots. He was just some man who had never been out of that town in his whole life. Really. He had never been out of that town. We watched the fireworks together and then I went back to my van and fell asleep wondering how in the hell someone could spend their whole life in one small town in Utah and not go completely insane.
Now that I am older, now that I have driven across the country a few more times, I see the value in staying put. In fact, I wish I’d never left my hometown. Perhaps if I had stayed in south Georgia, I would be blandly stable and shopping at Wal-Mart and never questioning anything. I would have a doughy husband and nobody would ever try to take my kids away from me. I would wear khaki shorts and tennis shoes. My back would not have so much black ink in it. Maybe at night I would wonder what it would be like to be…someone else.
Do we all question ourselves as we lay in the dark, waiting for those dreams in which we can be anything? I want to be someone else. I always have. I have never tried too hard to re-invent myself, because I believe strongly in being sincere. Still, I have wished that somehow a transformation might occur and that if I couldn’t be someone else, well, maybe people could just look at me differently.
Like most people, my concept of self is in part built on what I perceive others might believe about me. So far, this has just resulted in me being mightily confused, because I frankly am lousy at figuring out what people think about me. Who cares?
I don’t know.
I am tired and I am going to bed. Maybe this writing a page a day thing was a bad idea. I am too honest with myself and I am making myself want to ralph with all this neurotic bullshit. I can’t even make it through a page without devolving into pithy self-analytics. I have got to get past this. Much like going on a bear hunt, the only way to get past it is to get through it. Maybe I need to simply get this rubbish out of my system. My fear is that, as I write, I will simply become more neurotic and critical. Maybe I should try short fiction.
Here is a six-word story:
He said she was not crazy.
That, my friends,
is pure fiction. March 16th, 2011
I didn’t write last night. Instead, I tucked my anxiety in, nestled it toward the back of my mind, and I went to bed. “Fuck it,” I thought. I realized yesterday that I am a bit trapped by this devil I know. When I got home from work, I unlocked the door and the house was cool and musty smelling, as it usually is, and I was dimly aware of the sour doubt creeping in, coming home. What does one do when they begin to suspect that they are “triggered” by their own home? That the walls that once promised security now threaten to undo me, leave me bare and blistering?
I had spent the whole day talking about triggers. I was in a room full of peers, other people who have struggled with the tricks that their own minds play on them and the failures of their hearts. It was a training on “Crisis Planning” as required by the state to document that mental health providers are indeed providing in ways better than they may have provided in the past. The fact that I was sitting in a comfy, swiveling chair, in a board room, beside a man who repetitively tapped his fingertips against one another, a small and twitching dance of his hands, well, the scene itself was proof that they organization that employs me is trying, valiantly, to help people recover.
In the meantime, my own recovery is hit or miss these days. The concept of moving on, carrying myself forward, in some decisive move toward wellness is…well, it’s daunting. During my last crisis, endured without the benefit of a plan, I could picture myself catatonic, slipping into a diagnosis with poor prognosis, happily silent and forgotten, crocheting in a dayroom. Finally giving up. At work I see people who haven’t dodged internal death as deftly as I, at times, have. They are shadows of themselves and their eyes do not burn brightly. They’ve been beat. It would be so easy to fall apart, to just give up. I am tired.
It is a testament to my reluctant scrappiness that, during a time in which every day is a crossroads, I sit down and decide to write a book. Silly, I forget that I have, for all practical purposes, already written a book. I just don’t know what to do with it. I guess I could try to do something. See, during my last “episode” I was keeping a record, a very thorough record. Thus, there exists a document that details exactly what goes through one’s mind when it breaks apart. It is a very disorganized document, but that is to be expected. The scattered and staccato call for help is, if nothing else, authentic.
I woke up this morning almost queasy with dread. “What is going to happen to me?” More importantly, “What will happen to my children?” Yes, I have two children. They love me. I love them. I almost lost them in the wake of last September. It is for them that I do not give up. Sitting on the back step as dawn approached, listening to my little dog tiptoe through the tangle of last year’s kudzu vine, I imagined attending a high school graduation after years of having disappeared into my own little world. I’d be rail-thin and coughing from all the cigarettes I smoked on the porch of whatever group home I’d been living in. Perhaps my mother would have brushed my hair and braided it. The bleachers would be filled with plump and cheerful families and my child would look like an adult as they crossed the stage. “You did it!” I’d think to myself, “You did it without me!”
I don’t want them to have to go through this life without me. They need me. Because no child is born a blank slate, because their brains will likely play tricks on them, because their eyes are already searching…they need me. I will recover and I will cling to the small hopes that I have salvaged from this hopeless year.
I will write another page later, to make up for the one I didn’t write yesterday. March 18th, 2011
Well, the days have formed a bit of an ellipse and I haven’t written much more than a word or two. The time seems to slip, quick and scattered, rice on the floor and the day is gone. I am not sure how I keep up with anything…I don’t keep up with anything. I will just do the best I can. I keep making big plans, big pristine plans, but can’t really get it together to bring any of them to fruition.
I am a tree that just won’t fruit. Today my daughter plucked the un-opened buds off of the star magnolia and shredded the petals to see what was inside. How fitting.
I think that I should focus on quality, not quantity. It is springtime and the new agers say that there will be a shift in energy and that things will become new again, that we’d better brace ourselves for the flow, the invisible tsunami. I don’t know what that means. Writing is hard, I know that much. How can I be so filled with stories, but so empty of words. I am chasing shells being pulled back to the sea. They turn and roll and catch the sun, they are slippery and swift.
March 21, 2011
Here I am again…
Postby FaithRR » 24 Mar 2011 21:00
and now that song that reminds me of north Florida is stuck in my head. I think the last time I posted an introduction I was up to my ears in pre-manic rants and spun off wildly shortly thereafter and never followed up on the potential community I could’ve fostered here. I wish I had held more tightly to the thread. Kind people are often the difference between a simple flux in our state of being and a full-blown crisis. Unfortunately, I’ve had too few kind people involved in the writing of my story as a busted genius with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, tattooed palms, a job as a peer support specialist, and two little kids whom I see for only half of their lives. I am on the verge of getting involved with the local radical mental health collective and doing some amazing work. Really, I am.
Brief history…I have a long story, far too long for an introduction. I have written about a thousand pages in the past couple of years, as my disorder wreaked it’s strange brand of havoc on my life. I almost “lost” my children because of mental health stigma and I definitely lost faith in my family’s ability to see me clearly. I am, at age 34, scraping my life back together again. It is so tiring to deconstruct and reconstruct and deconstruct and reconstruct…again and again. I am hoping for more sustainability than I’ve managed in the past. After this last “episode” and my fifth fucking hospitalization, I find myself wondering if I can make through another psychotic break. Although the world was blown wide open with wondrous possibility and I could’ve sworn I was proving god, it still knocked me down hard…or maybe it was the experience of having my pants pulled down for a forced intramuscular injection that broke me so badly? The pain of mental illness is so compounded by people’s reactions to it.
This is getting long. Can I just say that I am really in need of some honest connection with some actual humans? I am not going to flake on the Icarus Project and all the possibilities it holds. I already tried sitting in my house alone and pounding out words to myself, playing experimental distorted banjo, trying to crochet a pink elephant like the one that seems to creep into the room whenever anyone accidentally says “crazy” and then looks at me like I might give a shit…
I need friends. If anyone wants to be my penpal, here’s my direct: firstname.lastname@example.org I’d like to write some real, live letters, with a stamp and everything. If the thought of letters is too bulky, I think a postcard volley would be a really great addition to my little life. I’d really like to get some good mail.
Thanks for being out there, whomever you are, wherever you are.
No child on this earth was ever meant to be ordinary – a. dillard
Re: My Father
I think that the paternalism of dads gets along really well with the paternalism of the medical model in regard to mental health. For those of us who had “challenges” from a relatively young age, we sort of get this notion that our families are a “safety net”…one which can be unfortunately entangling. Don’t people get that safety nets are used in anticipation of falls and how incredibly discouraging that is, to be expected to need a net?
Okay, moving on. My brain feels like it is full of gum, or foam, or clouds, or spiderwebs. Something damp and clinging that is swirling all my thoughts. I am really getting frustrated with the cognitive effects of madness, the shift between a deserted mind and thought collisions. Writing has been a particular challenge because it demonstrates to me just how much I am truly struggling. That sentence originally read “how truly struggling I am” – what the hell kind of sentence is that? Everything just feels so clunky between my ears, like old machinery, gasping and clanging. There, that wasn’t bad. See, if I just keep writing then perhaps I can regain my way with words.
I have always imagined my mind as a warehouse, modeled after the thin walled vaults that molder down by the river. After the big upset of 2010, it seems as if the warehouse has been cleared, hastily cleared.
The windows let in a dusty light, brown and swirling. On the concrete floor are scattered pages and as I walk across the space, my footsteps echoing, the pages lift themselves and spin a little, as if saying, “wait, you’ve forgotten us!” They are the remnants, the bits left behind in the wake of madness. They may seem forgotten, but they are all there is left.
There used to be tall and orderly stacks of files and I would roam through the corridors and delight at all there was. Now, there are only these few bits and pieces left behind. I pick them up and am dismayed by how little sense they make.
They don’t add up to anything, but they are all I seem to have and so I try to make a story out of them, because that’s what storytellers do.
We try to make sense of things.
March 26th, 2011
Hi – I hope this message finds you well. It has been snowing and snowing here. I imagine that it is cold in Serbia? I think of Serbia as a very chilly place, but I don’t know much about it. I would like to visit there someday. I would like to go everywhere someday. Yes, parents and older people do get caught in thinking about things in terms of home countries and established religions and tend to think of changes to those things as badbadbad – which does little to help anything progress toward a greater good for all. I suppose the problem is that so many people who have proposed changes ‘for good’ have actually not been for good at all – just interested in their own power and profit. I think satan worship is one of the most idiotic things on the face of this planet. Why would anybody worship something that stands for evil? It just makes no sense at all to me. I have no idea how a NWO got linked to satan worship – that is totally ridiculous. All anybody has to do is actually look at the information about NWO presented by the people who are working for it and it is clear that it is intended to help to uplift ALL people from the miseries imposed on them by backwards governments and greed-based economies. People don’t spend enough time making up their own minds about things, do they? I guess it is easier to just dismiss new ideas as rubbish than it is to actually work toward positive change…people get stuck in misery and just complain, complain, complain. Then, when people try to change what it is they are complaining about – well, they complain about that!
Perhaps people just like to complain;)
Ah, well – such is life. I am trying to learn what I can from the experience and have vowed to never compromise my intelligence and self-worth again. You clearly have potential as a vibrant and free-thinking person – do not let all the divisions keep you from your dreams. My parents, still, do not trust my judgment either.
People call the Illuminati ‘occult’ because its beliefs are about enlightenment, which sometimes goes against some of the Churches beliefs – not because it is evil to be enlightened, but because when people are enlightened they see things clearly and that is a threat to systems of power that keep people down. Sometimes Churches can be powerful tools in systems that care little for the welfare of actual people and so they call ideas that are about empowering people (to be smart and strong and to fight against unjust rule) evil so that nobody will listen. Churches could help the NWO a lot if they realized it wasn’t about satan or evil and that there is nothing bad about people wanting more for the world. Churches want people to just pray for change, knowing that guns and money are always going to be more powerful than prayer…which is sad and going against God, by any name. War is godless and yet very profitable for many people, as is keeping workers in misery. Why the Church wouldn’t want an Order that seeks peace and uplifting of people is confusing to me. Perhaps if people were not scared and miserable, they wouldn’t give as much money to the Church? (Don’t be offended!)
Anyway, thank you for writing. It is a nice little correspondence we have developed. I believe strongly in the NWO and that young people will be the way that the people will come to embrace it. I hope that, if it is cold in Serbia, you are warm and well. What does your family do? The pictures we receive of Serbia through the US media portray it as a bleak, grey place…everybody struggling and war torn. Is it like that? No worries about slow replies:) Just write when you are able and know that I appreciate it.
Your Friend in Hopes for a New World Order,
As always: MAD LOVE.