The Downer Day is Over

I should never have written the essay on porn that was published yesterday. The research really hurt me, especially when it came to Linda Lovelace (Boreman). Her horrendous abuse was something that agonized me.

She’s gone now, but my empathy is still making me suffer.

With every click, we encourage more porn. We create more demand. And more women suffer.

Men suffer too in that world. They force or manipulate their wives to do things that no loving husband, no kind of a real man, would do. A curse by God falls on them because they mock His laws and ruin the sanctity of marriage. And yes, I do still believe that marriage is a sacred bond.

Imagine what would happen if, all of a sudden, nobody watched porn anymore. The sponsors would leave the sites, and those sites would shut down.

We have to be real about it, though, because we all know that the demand has never in history been this high. Addiction has never been so easily fed.

I don’t want you to be as down as I am, but that piece needed to be written. And iOlANDEMELODY’s video had to be included because she handled the subject with eloquent patience and wisdom.

I also don’t want you to suffer worry about the End of Days prophecies because, if you are saved, you have no worry. You just have to keep your faith. If someone you love isn’t saved, I know how you feel. The great rebellion is gearing up, and there’s been a lot of people leaving churches everywhere. I’m very sorry to tell you that there’s little you can do about what others believe. Try to talk to them, being gentle and subtle. Think of how Jesus must have spoken. But in the end, it’s up to them. You plant the seed. If it raises a shoot, that’s wonderful. If not, then you tried. And that is all you can do.

But the Antichrist? Don’t be sitting around, scared so much that you can think of nothing else. You still have a life to live. Be cheerful and take each day and give thanks for it, then get on with the things that need to be done.

Don’t forget to be kind to others, but be good to yourselves as well; spend time with what you like to do. Maybe you’re raising a garden. Or reading a cracking good novel printed on paper. Read some scripture. Give someone your company and attention; there’s magic in listening to others. It helps them to feel valued, and that in turn makes you feel good, too. Most people seem to me to be good at heart, and listening to someone who’s feeling lonely or poorly can change their life.

Eat well, get lots of good sleep. Restrict fluids before bedtime so you won’t wake up needing to stumble into the latrine. Especially if you’re a man, because you are bound to miss. Your wife won’t thank you for that!

Give your spouse attention. Have date nights. Go for rides or walks. Hold hands. Give them a smooch along the way.

I’ll never again have lips to kiss or a hand to hold. Trust me: it’s a hard life. Mostly, in my case, it’s for the best. All I’ve ever brought to a relationship is pain. I understood a long time ago that it was going to end like this. That should not be the way for you. So long as you love and don’t cause pain, you’re worthy.

Remember prayer. A relationship with the Lord is the most important part of your life. God already knows your sins. He just wants to know you’re sorry for them. He knows what you need. He just wants you to ask. Most of all, just talk. Like He’s right in front of you. Because He is.

And don’t be hard on yourselves. Haven’t you already done enough of that? Put it away and give thanks for all that you have. The good and the bad, the dark and the light, the hard lessons and the easy ones.

***

Before posting yesterday’s blog, I went to the bank. I needed to use the ATM machine. I got to the checkout at the store, and my card was missing. I frantically traced my steps, but it was gone. I called and canceled out the card, which caused a lot of trouble. I had left the card in the machine, and the manager found it on her way to her car. I’ve never done a thing like that before. The porn blog had triggered me, more than I have been in a long time. I was somewhere else, not in my body, dissociation taking me to I don’t know where. I talked to my doctor today and told her that I believe my diagnosis is wrong; as I’ve said before, this ain’t PTSD. It’s CPTSD. I grow older. Further in time from my trauma, I keep getting worse. She offered an anti-psychotic. Thanks, but no thanks. The healthcare system is a stacked deck of cards, leaving less hope for the sufferers of trauma with each passing year.

You’re probably not like me. I hope that is the case. But I’m sure I’m going to pray for you.

Thank you for letting me be a small part of your day. I just want to help. You have my love.

Be well.

R.E.M. Was Ahead of Their Time

1987. Oh, I know that year. I began to serve the first of 3 presidents, my Commanders-in-Chief. I wasn’t all that political about it. I could not afford to be. There was no room.

My wife became pregnant with our son.

And I had just done the impossible: gone through basic training and combat medical school with a disabling, pre-existing condition. I couldn’t believe it. But the real problem remained and trouble was coming. Could I know the half of it? Of course not. It was always one day at a time for me. Besides, I was not much for the news back then.

Had I been able, I’d have seen what these guys did.

The song goes fast for post-punk, but in the 80s, a decade full of okay music with some great masterpieces mixed in, it is a true standout. It stuns you, it goes so fast. But now, I can make myself believe that these lyricists knew something. A lot of somethings, to be honest. Watch the lyrics on the screen as you listen. Back then, this was dreadfully cynical and pessimistic.

Today, the general idea or theme is not so obscure as it once seemed.

I’ve been writing about mental illness as affected by multiple levels of harm done that were beyond my control. I’ve noted that healthcare is harder than drug ads or even ads for doctors or insurance providers make it seem.

Before this, I’ve written about industrial pollution, global warming, elitism, the looming failure of the United States government because of the Trumpian Party, racism, bigotry, corruption and greed, and the unscrupulous politics of organized religion.

There’s one line in the song about reporters being “trumped” and it has accidentally taken on new meaning.

The general idea of the song is that we’re all going to sit here and let the downfall of society happen, and how it happens won’t make a difference.

I wish I could have a better feeling about the future, because we had the means to escape the climate crisis we face, and we had the choice not to elect a lunatic for a president, and we’ve had power as a species to change to a different path.

But we have failed. We have abandoned the righteous cause of women’s rights, we have resorted to giving voice to violent criminals who should have been outnumbered by law enforcement and righteous citizens on January 6th, 2020. We care nothing for the sick, the elderly and the poor, we don’t protect children, we have elected leaders who give their souls for money and power and have made dishonor seem normal, and we’re not stopping.

People don’t care. Sex crimes are ignored and victims scoffed, shamed and left to themselves. Guns are far more valuable than an owner’s own child. Public safety is a joke with whatever disgusting tagline you care to attach to it, and here we all sit. Not caring, not doing, not helping.

I know that the impeachment of Joe Biden sounds like a joke. That’s McCarthy and MTG sitting around and fingering each other. But while people with mental illness are dismissed as fakers or lost causes, those two are proof that there are dangerous nuts in our own government. Politicians are now vetted by zealots and fanatics who belong in fenced-in hospitals while treatment remains out of reach of people who need and beg for help yet go unheard and forgotten. I’m not one to sit by and watch injustice and the end of the world as we know it. I’ll keep looking for help for those in need. Because I don’t feel fine, damn it.

CPTSD: You Have Seen It Before

Selling wet wipes on a website is okay. I suppose.

But I’m not talking about Amazon or Walmart. Nah.

Selling wet wipes and claiming truly weird shit about them is another matter. It’s not merely stupid; false claims about a product is unethical, and almost everyehere, a crime. At the very least, it’s fraud. At the most, it’s outright theft.

So, Alex Jones, who can’t even drink his own protein shakes on camera and not be obviously ready to vomit, was selling wipes for one specific body part.

Just one.

You remember? “Perineal Wipes”. Oh, no, this is not a joke. For anyone not familiar with the perineal area, it’s what some refer to as your “t’aint”. That’s the old shorthand for it. A slang term used like so: “T’aint pussy and t’aint ass.” It’s the fleshy area between someone’s sex organs and their Anus.

That’s what Alex Jones was selling. And comedian John Oliver tore him a new ass for it. Oliver’s takedown of Jones was epic, hysterical and still one of the best episodes of HBO’s “Last Week Tonight”.

Forget “60 Minutes”, when John Oliver goes after you, it’s worse than an ambush by a reporter and camera crew.

Alex Jones also got sued for denying that the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre ever happened. This false claim cost him.

To this day, I fear that however young those students were at the time, they will live with the memories forever — and the damage the survivors carry with those memories. That’s why today, Sandy Hook Promise is still a valid non-profit organization.

But let’s all face it: what Alex Jones did just made everything worse. Especially for parents and the surviving families of the teachers.

It seems a forever ago, doesn’t it?

But it wasn’t. In December it will be only eleven years. It happened in Newtown Connecticut on 14 December of 2012. I wrote about how that year couldn’t end fast enough for me. My daughter had died in July.

In all of the mass shootings since then, I recall one that stands out the most to me: on 14 February 2018, the shooting in Parkland, Florida took place at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School.

It was also the day my son died.

There are things we always remember, right down to where we were when such horrible events happened and the news came to us.

Do you believe that the surviving family members, and the surviving victims, will ever be the same?

Well, they will not be. Ever.

But it wasn’t the first time something happened that caused anyone who lived to be afflicted with post-trauma syndrome. PTSD.

On 20 April of 1999, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold rucked up with guns, ammo and bombs and went to school dressed in black trench coats. Columbine is the name we first associated with mass shootings in schools. But even that wasn’t the first.

When the day was over, the body count stood at 15. Among them, both shooters. A further 21 were injured, including physical and permanent conditions.

Very little was ever mentioned of the aftermath.

In the following documentary, if you choose to watch it, be sure to watch the eyes of those being interviewed. A warning: it is very disturbing material and it will trigger almost anyone.

Their accounts are haunting. And I cannot ever get this one, iconic photograph out of my head. It’s a still taken from a security cam.

Columbine shooters in the cafeteria, 20 April, 1999.

Do you remember New Year’s Eve of 1999? I do. I was watching the Dick Clark celebration. The countdown to the year 2000, a new mileniam. Remember how panicked everyone was, how the media had aired constant reports of what might happen at midnight to clocks, computers and how there was the fear that everything would break or shut down? I do, but wasn’t worried. More curious than anything. But for some people that wretched year couldn’t end fast enough. The walking wounded had to live with different things to think about.

More mass shootings than any country in history. That’s a part of America’s legacy. Nothing can change or stop it from continuing.

There are any number of things that can happen that people are changed by, and trauma can follow car accidents, confrontations, bullying, mugging, rape, sexual assault, child abuse…and war. The worst part is, once so wounded psychologically, a staggering number of people are more easily further traumatized by an even bigger variety of incidents.

In the case of complex post traumatic stress disorder, here are some things I’ve encountered.

Dissociative personality disorder; that is, changing accents, vocabulary and even vocal tonation, and while I don’t completely identify as another person with another name, what I do show causes consternation in friends. I also have short-term memory loss. Missing time. Things I don’t realize until later.

Severe dissociation; causing what’s known as “the thousand-yard stare”, a state of detachment from your surroundings while reliving past events or even meandering and disconnected thoughts. You also won’t hear people talking to you, or if you do, their words won’t register. I’ve crossed the Francis Scott Key Bridge, paid the toll and made it home, then realized I didn’t remember getting there.

Eating disorders; binge eating or loss of appetite and weight, deliberately eating unhealthy foods and purging. These can also be part of OCD, which seems to occur with or without CPTSD.

Symptoms of bipolar disorder and personality disorders; although some evidence points toward these as conditioning, most are, in my opinion, habitual survival and coping behavior that cannot be easily spotted or treated.

Stockholm syndrome; behaving as if loyal or affectionate toward abusers and power figures as a means to avoid more violent abuse.

Nightmares and sleep disorders; these include “old hag attacks”, bed-wetting, insomnia, night terrors, and vile, unforgettable nightmares which, with age, may grow worse and more intense. These often see you trapped, in a maze, labyrinth or inescapable position, being chased, injured and even dying.

Substance abuse and other addiction; self-medicating with alcohol or drugs or both, compulsive addictions such as gambling, even when short of cash, smoking, using porn, shopping and buying things you have no real use for (buying means power).

Sexual disfunction and deviate behavior; by this I mean overdoing it with masturbation, public displays of sex or flashing, voyeuristic behavior that intrudes on another’s privacy, having attractions to or engaging in intercourse with animals, contact with children, committing rape, or using coercion when a partner isn’t receptive to sex, harm to one’s own sexual organs including cutting, burning and other methods of causing pain.

Over-or-under socializing; to mean dominating relationships or withdrawal from them. Not knowing how you’ll look and being either too frightened of being hurt or too arrogant and turning others away.

Lack of emotional control; many traumatized people are subject to angry outbursts which seem irrational and dangerous. Taken further, it may be taken out on others. From the time I was young and still in the midst of abuse I often became vengeful and yet didn’t dare hurt others. I had no true desire to cause harm. I always hurt myself by breaking toys and later things like watches and some of my favorite record albums. I regret it now, wishing I had kept everything, and still believe old vinyl LPs have better sound than digital recordings. And they were irreplaceable. I can never get one thing back. Today that anger is gone for the most part but if triggered, I withdraw from people or situations and focus on something else. That’s one small victory, but I’ll take it.

Death-seeking; whereas PTSD causes many to engage in daredevil acts, with CPTSD it’s intensified. Reckless behavior is more often likely to end in death. It is extreme, but hardly rare.

Unreasonable expectations or dreams; most damaged people can be let down by playing powerball and not winning. It takes time to recover reason and to allow oneself to dream, a counselor is best to open up to about your frustration and unrealistic dreams. Starting slow and having patience with yourself and others is difficult and everyone is different. If the person isn’t receptive to treatment, this symptom becomes a chain of frustration and disappointments that can have dangerous results.

For years I’ve often hated myself. This is misplaced and a terrible thing to do to yourself. When things happen that aren’t your fault, you have no right bearing the guilt for it.

There’s so much more. I knew a man whose neighbor was a holocaust survivor. The man regularly had to replace his mailbox; he often got flyers with swastikas on them and he would lose it and take a bat to the mailbox. That’s CPTSD. That’s never being able to live with the memories of what he and so many others, a lot of whom didn’t make it out, had endured.

My life can’t go on. The damage is too extensive and our healthcare system cannot and will not help. It’s okay; I’ve waited for that day for longer than I can say. What you need is to never forget, this is nothing new. It is a condition we’ve seen before. With the help of a doctor and a therapist you can make progress. I know that you can. You will never know a day when a trigger can’t get you, but there can be good days, dreams can still come true, and one more thing:

Never forget that just by surviving this long, you are a rockstar.

Keep the faith!

CPTSD: How I Got Here

By 1964 I was already terrified of my father. No child should be scared of his father, much less terrified of him. But I was.

And until I was aware that he had died, I remained so. That’s at least 43 years.

But if I was that afraid of him before I testified against him in an Annapolis courtroom, then seeing him get walked off to prison in leg irons and a belly chain didn’t help, and in fact made it worse. I knew he’d killed before. Now I feared his revenge from behind bars, and in fact often convinced myself that he would escape and come for me.

Unreasonable, you might say, but across this country and around the world, people of all kinds suffer the same fear. And it doesn’t matter what age or gender you are; that kind of fear is hardly unreasonable at all. People die that way.

Let me make it simple.

For at least ten years I was sexually abused (including rape) by both parents. It had nothing to do with “teaching” me, which is what they both called it. Rape and abuse are always motivated by control. The need to dominate and control every second of a child’s life in order to gain the feeling of satisfaction through power is it. Period.

The sole driving force in many violent crimes and all sex crimes is a feeling of having no or little power, and filling the burning need for it.

Beyond that, no one can possibly explain why it happens. Children may be attractive sexually to any perp, but no sex crime is ever about attraction. And even if that becomes part of the pedophile’s psyche, it’s a defined sexual deviance, but always it remains the nature of the crime and the targeted victim: weak, unable to fight, the lack of adult physical features and the high from hurting an innocent.

Over an extended period, the trauma of the very first attack is compounded exponentially. The damage becomes far worse than any human is capable of recovering from. The victim has learned crude coping behavior that is never sufficient but which can get him or her through the worst of it. These mechanisms go on to become behavioral problems because they get used to get through all crisis events. There is no known damage to the perpetrator except that, over time, rationalization and the ease of continuing to abuse is made him unable to use restraint. The sociopath becomes even more immune to guilt; never even considering the harm they have caused. In the case of abusive parents, they go on to expect their victims to display academic excellence and other unrealistic accomplishments. When the child fails to live up to these demands, the child is typically tortured. Physical beatings, revocation of privileges and withholding meals may be involved, among other things. The trauma is reinforced and added to.

One coping method children can display is the obvious attempt on many levels to please their parents, and to adopt their social, religious and political views. The child learns to conform. It’s basically risk reduction, and this is purely survival at its most pitiful and desperate level.

Since the views the parents have are themselves either ethically wrong, biased ot hateful based on their self-image of inadequacy, the behavior of the child leads to serious problems in school, social circles and more. It becomes dangerous.

If the parents are bigots or racists, the child invariably reflects that in inappropriate settings with words or actions.

Into adulthood, the child has learned and will be unable to break his or her dependent behavior and not sever ties to parents. Holidays become occasions where victims are belittled and treated lovingly at the same time. It is a no-win situation and it causes more trauma. For instance, visiting for Christmas with a frowned-upon spouse (they always are) is a tense running of the gauntlet that both the original victim and his or her spouse is actually traumatized by. These are not happy, festive gatherings; it is just more of an opportunity to abuse, mostly verbally or through the giving of trivial, demeaning gifts. More damage for the parents to inflict. And they love every second of it, every hurt look on the victims’ faces. More power.

In my case, all off this actually happened.

The sexual abuse, including sodomy and rape continued unimpeded until I was 16-years-old. The mental abuse, which included verbal abuse of the harshest kind, continued until I filed charges with the police at the age of 28. After the trial and sentencing, I never saw them again. They’ve both since passed away, leaving various levels of damage behind in their children. Yes, they got us all.

The nagging question for me has been, why do some of my siblings prosper, while I have been the most hurt and severely crippled?

The short answer is, there’s no way to know.

All I can say is that I was a very sensitive, imaginative and very kind kid at one time. What they didn’t take away from me, they damaged. But CPTSD did far worse.

The descriptions I’ve read so far indicate that it is exactly what I have.

I’m not just mistrstful of others; I’ve actually believed that they would stab me in the back. There was no reason for such a belief so I thought that I was paranoid. It’s not paranoia. It’s a symptom of CPTSD that I now deem incurable. It used to be called running, what I did. Draw a line, you get this close, no closer. Every time I dared cross the line, it ended badly, with hurt feelings and confusion that I had caused. But coming to the conclusion that I was meant to die alone took 50 years. Still, I was socially and extremely sexually dysfunctional. Even a casual relationship was impossible for me to handle. Everything was scary, dangerous and caused my fight/flight response to kick in, which was aberrant. There was no danger. No one to fight. So I just fled. Self protection at its worst.

Other problems continue. The nightmares grow worse and worse despite an increase in prazosin dosage. As I wonder how much more I can take, I am constantly triggered, and flashbacks happen every single day, more than once in a day. Triggers are everywhere because the abuse took place during my formative years when I was experiencing new things, learning new things, becoming more aware. Even pictures of the past that remind me of things I liked trigger me. Things I liked I spent so little time with, and those times were always interrupted by harrowing beatings and sexual abuse. Of all the times I had sex during my marriage and with girlfriends before that, I believe my mother still has the record for most times a woman copulated me. It’s disgusting and I’ve had a hard time accepting that probability. Yet it’s valid.

That is a hell of a thing to have to write.

Tomorrow I will conclude this three-part study. For now, I’ve had enough.

A Short Talk With Father Time About Aging, PTSD And The Golden Years

Last night was the last straw.

For the first time in my life, I’ve bought my own bed, and now my first-ever bed set with comforter and a pillow sham. To be fair, I wanted the full set with sheets, pillow shams and comforter and a dust ruffle, but clicked the wrong thing. It’s okay, because I love what I bought, but there’s still a catch.

Because of course.

There’s always a catch.

Because I am old, beat all to hell, and have CPTSD to boot.

So I was pretty pissed after a night of hard, on-and-off sleep with slimy, scary, Twilight Zone, bullshit nightmares.

Not fever nightmares, because my condition makes those worse, and if you know fever dreams, then imagine them on Crack and LSD.

Well the nightmares of last night and this morning weren’t that shit. Just your average PTSD nightmares where being trapped and experiencing loss are normal themes. And Lord have mercy, whatever you do, don’t drink any liquids before bed if you’re over 60. They say two hours before? Well I say two weeks before. Because, fuck that.

***

I was working my old Airgas job, at an old plant in Lansdowne, and there’s this older woman, she’s driving a forklift and she’s decorated it for Christmastime with two plastic candles, you know, the yard size, and has them each attached to the sides. Everyone says she’s retiring, and I’m not feeling either way about it because in the unreal construct of dreams, what’s ever complete anyway? And I hear, but don’t see, the people describing her as humorous, cheerful and witty, because of course she is, she’s gotta be, because who the hell puts lawn decorations on forklifts, right?

Humorous, witty, cheerful people.

Because of course they do.

In PTSD nightmares.

And because this is a PTSD nightmare, it’s just getting started. The torture hasn’t even started yet.

It just so happens that my eldest sister has moved to the southern east coast and sends me the money for a visit. A bus ticket, a short flight, then something else. Doesn’t make sense, but in the dream, I merely found it confusing and a source for anxiety, never really expecting logic. But at the bus station, I meet the woman who just retired. She’s moving south to set up a summer home and then to live mostly on a yacht in the Caribbean. You know, island-hopping, drinks with doll’s umbrellas. That shit. Stuff normal people do. Golden Years shit.

And in the bus station I get to talking with her. As if I’m just getting to know her. But we hit it off, and by the time we part, she’s given me her address and phone number, and before she has to leave, she pulls me close, holding my hand, and kisses me. Vulnerable, she bravely whispers, “I love you,” and then she’s going to the exit. Did I say I loved her too, or was I the coward, as usual, and keep silent? I don’t remember, but I believe that I did say it.

Of course, I missed my bus. I chased it but when it stopped I had to pee, so I ran back into the station. By the time I got back, it was gone and I didn’t know it. This bus began to leave but I realized my mistake. I somehow got back to the station, saw the managers, and was told it would take 3 million dollars to just get back to Baltimore. I was constantly going to men’s rooms, couldn’t stay out of them. It turned into a true nightmare then, because the dispatcher was going to cover the cost of the ticket (now I was traveling to see my surgeon?). Yet it wouldn’t get me all the way to my destination. I’d still be marooned. And I still had to pee, constantly. Constantly.

At some point around 10:00, I awoke, too sore, too tired and far too sleepy to make it to the latrine. So I lay there, feeling almost drunk, halfway paralyzed by sleep, and a while later, fell beck to sleep and back into the nightmare.

I awoke after 14:00, tried to shake off the effects of both sleep and nightmare, and finally realized why urinals had dominated my dream: I really needed to go, and any further delay would have ended exactly as has happened before.

And sometimes that even happens before I wake up.

A grown man, pissing the bed. It’s humiliating beyond my ability to cope with. New bed, new bed set, finally, Amazon Emerald-Hunter green, just what I wanted. But I don’t use it. No.

I spread an old blanket on top of it and sleep in my clothes. And that’s the last straw I was talking about. So, it was a given that I had to appeal to, or curse, old Father Time, who never vanishes on New Year’s Eve at midnight to let some newborn baby take his job. Nope. that’s bullshit.

“Why have you called me out,” he asked.

“That nightmare, old man. What was that all about? I never made it anywhere. I was stuck.”

“What, you’re blaming me?“

I said, “Not for everything, no. But some of it. You could cut me some slack you know.”

“And you believe I have such power, do you? Now why would you think that about me? My sole purpose is to watch people from birth to death. To see that everyone follows, but is not victimized by, time. Simple.”

“Then why am I tormented so by things that happened ages ago?”

He stroked his long beard and said sternly, “Let me get this straight. You’re blaming me for nightmares, incontinence and things I had nothing to do with and have no control over? That’s what I run into so often. Men blame everyone else for their problems while refusing to claim any responsibility for themselves or to pin it on those who have hurt them in the past. Your problem is, your entire life, you had to focus on survival. That’s not your fault, son. It twisted everything: your potential for success, productivity, peace, happiness, stability and love. That’s very sad. I should know; I had to watch it. The word “romance” was created for everyone but you. Your trust was destroyed by too much evil. I have watched you since you were born and I had a most difficult time doing so. I have hurt for you, grieved for you. But I’m very pleased that I can offer advice. If you choose to hear it, that is.”

Wonderful. I couldn’t wait. Asshole.

“For once, while there’s yet a little time, instead of fighting for survival, let go. Live what’s left of your life. Go ahead and sleep between clean sheets. Order some leak proof adult diapers on Amazon. No one will ever know. Also, take more walks. You’ll sleep better. More physical fatigue can minimize some of those dreams. And let go of the things you no longer need. The emotional baggage you have kept all these years. Getting a bit heavy by now, I should imagine. You can’t live like that. The fight is over. It’s time to be over.”

“You’re full of shit, old man. You dodged my question and blamed me. But I never asked for what happened to me, it was just done. And I can’t get that shit out of my head. There’s no ‘off’ switch.”

I left him after that. He said behind me, “But do try the diapers!”

“I guess I’ll try them. The Golden Years? Myth. Nothing but shitty and humiliating.”

“Yes, my son. A myth. Just try living.“

“Nice talk, Father Time, fuck you very much.”

An American Asshole

I may be a decent person. I’m not sure. I think I’m just an asshole.

I may be a decent writer. I’m not sure of that, either. I don’t get very widely read, so I doubt it. More likely is the possibility that a few posts are interesting to a few readers, and that’s fine. Mostly, though, people don’t care about what assholes say.

I’ve had to revert to the original title of this site, Memoirs of an American Asshole because the American Observer seemed a bit pretentious to me. And no matter what one other person (just one) says, I am an asshole. I can’t change that by obeying one person’s protests.

But there’s a lot to this claim that I’m an asshole, mostly, I believe, things which are not my fault, but which made me what I am. I cannot lie about what I am. And I have no idea who I am.

Memory lapses, notable ones, indicate more than simple PTSD by itself. And that condition is every bit the hell I’ve been trying to describe, but there’s a worse kind.

Sometimes called by the clinical name complex post traumatic stress disorder, there is a whole different list of symptoms of the illness. The usual victims are children. The causes are “imprisonment”; or being in a situation of danger which is prevalent and from which there is no escape; being subjected to slavery; sexual abuse for an extended period of time; being in a solitary confinement situation; being denied healthcare; proper parenting and guidance, constructive growth reinforcement and encouragement, replaced by strict reinforcement of fear conditioning to prevent certain behaviors outside of the home base environment.

There’s more to it. I’ve been, along with my siblings, compared by a professional on the Donahue Show (1992) to a concentration camp survivor. I never felt that was a fair comparison since real survivors of the Holocaust went through a literal hell on earth. Who was I to claim what they had endured?

By 1992, I was, for all intents and purposes, already gravitating to the liberal view of politics and social and societal ideology and dynamics, respectively. I held interest in studying war and the horrors it never failed to create, so Europe in World War Two was an area of study I found as fascinating as I did disgusting.

In the winters the prisoners in forced labor camps froze solid. Before that, toes fell off. Fingers turned black, wooden in sensation, then disarticulated the same way toes did.

Lice, human fleas, worms and disease were constant. Lashes with whips and beatings with every object possible; there was rape, child abuse both sexual and other kinds, and the slaughter was staggering. Anyone who survived was going to be forever scarred. Who had any right but they in claiming they had experienced a literal hell while still alive?

But as I approach another birthday, I realize that there have been scores of people from every civilization in human history who have experienced hell.

I seek not to compare myself nor my pain with any other, but I know in my heart that victims are victims, no matter where they come from, no matter what’s been done to them. The end results are always the same: broken people who have known evil and savagery. Fucked-up people.

And so, I’ve grown old despite the odds. The price for this is too high. Never-ending pain, loneliness, longing, and mental illness that drugs can moderate but never cure. A gently shifting personality that seems to cause memory problems and even accent and writing-style changes. Mood changes that must be mysterious to others, but never to me. Sleeping and eating disorders, compulsive behavior, long periods of depression and consequent inaction. Memories I can’t get out of my head.

I remember better times. I really do. But the horrible things always come creeping back, and I can’t stop them.

Friends have told me, “Don’t think about it!” but they haven’t been through what I have. Or what you have. We can’t say a prayer or wave a magic wand and stop anything. And we were made this way for a reason, and we evolved this way for a reason.

Only God knows the whole picture, but in the years when I believed in God but thought he had turned his head away, I had to keep from wondering how much of a reason he really had. For anything.

God was so far away then. And I was so very alone.

I looked for him. I begged for help and I cried. But the pain went on, the torture went on.

I became mean, bitter. It took years, decades. I became an asshole. I did things nobody will ever know about. Things so shameful they’ve never made it to a post on this site, and they never will. Things I must take with me to the grave until the time comes to account for myself to God.

I fear that day.

I fear very little here on this earth. What can be done to me that has not already been done? Not much.

My family does not understand, but they do try, and I love them all the more for it.

My lady friend knows more about me than anyone else has ever known. She is the one who hates this blog title. But I can’t believe that she knows everything I’ve told her and thinks I’m any better than what I say.

I need to talk to my doctor about my diagnosis. Because things just get worse, and I would normally say at this point, it’s not fair, but of course it isn’t, and everyone who shares my experiences knows that. But God gave us the ability, if we’re willing to use it, to sustain grievous damage, learn from the pain, and adapt, learn and search for more clues that, in the end, might help another in our position. I believe that is why we’re here, able to communicate, reach out, and grab that hand reaching down to pull us up.

Because one day, we’ll be the ones reaching down to pull someone else up. We may never know it if that happens. Sometimes people in trouble don’t have anyone to talk to. Sometimes they come across a blog while looking for something to grab onto. It could be yours. Could be mine.

They may never leave a comment, but perhaps in your words, they’ve gained the strength to get through one more night of loneliness, one more day of pain. Maybe, just maybe, God speaks through you once in a while. Didn’t you ever write something, come back later and not remember writing it, yet you find the words to be moving? Who knows what that’s about?

Sometimes, God might whisper in your ear so that you can help someone. Maybe he even whispers to an asshole like me. I’d like to believe that. Such a thing would make my hell a bit less unbearable. Would make the pain and the memories mean something.

Share what you know. Tell people what you have endured, only to live to tell the tale. You might save a life. That’s why we’re here. Not to kill, make war, or work every day like a robot. I believe that. I believe it in my heart.