Take “Positive Thinking” and Shove It

CAUTION: this post deals with sexual abuse and suicide. If you are feeling suicidal just scroll down for information about help. Some readers will find this post disturbing.

All my life, I’ve heard — no — had — Norman Vincent Peale thrown at me. In case you don’t know who he was, he was a religious hack who wrote a book about how to change your life with “The Power of Positive Thinking”. He probably got a lot of people killed.

I’m not going to give a boring recap or critique of the book. I am not in the habit of regurgitating pseudopsychological bullshit.

Nobody throws that positive thinking doctrine at me and gets away with it. I’ll throw curse words at you that you’re never gonna forget. Please don’t make me do that. I really don’t want to.

“Dr. Peale” made a name for himself. He wrote more bullshit in his life than anyone else besides Billy Graham. At least the latter had the honesty to solicit your cash after his crusades. I’d rather someone be a thief and be up front with it; at least they aren’t guilt-tripping you like Pat Robertson or selling plastic buckets as life preservers the way Jim Bakker does. And at least he wasn’t overtly antisemitic like John Hagee (my auto spell doesn’t have your name, Pastor Hagee, jeez. I wonder why? You should sue!)

Pseudochristian writing is as old as the first Easter. And with it comes all the bullshit you know and love: Medieval demonology, the execution of witches, the thievery of the Templars.

Then the bloodshed of the Crusades stained the roads from Europe to fallen Israel, then we just had to let them get into our heads with writings that led to the 20th century and beget idiots like Peale. Not so much an idiot about making money; but definitely a man out of his league with psychology. And why, you ask, all this animosity, and why my claim that he took lives?

Because he, like so many other straight, white conservatives was a preacher who “reformed” his church, thus perverting the doctrine of Christ, who taught that true evil is real and that in our lives, we would suffer. He never promised an easy path, but instead warned against false teachers and fake messiahs. Peale had an answer for that: Think positive.

His first book was absolutely torn apart by critics in the mental health field. In fact some were outraged.

My mother bought me a copy. Fucking ironic, isn’t it? I mean, she and my dad would come into my room on Saturday nights (Saturday was always my night) and take me into the den so she could mount me on the sofa while my father watched TV or read the newspaper, or joined in. Perverts.

My father berated me every single chance he got. He called me a retard, threatened to send me to two different mental hospitals (Crownsville State or Spring Grove, whichever was on the tip of his tongue). He called me stupid. Then, so many names I can’t remember them all, he criticized everything I did, tore it apart, made me feel like I couldn’t do anything at all because I was such a retard. He damaged with his words whatever his whippings, that left me bloody, or the sexual abuse hadn’t fucked up yet. In the end he turned me into a scared shitless little kid who hated himself. The days I could venture out to ride bikes or play football became more rare. I’d lie by my window and listen to my friends, way down the street, playing at dusk, and cry myself to sleep. No child should go through that, okay? Not one.

This verbal abuse combined with trauma from being flogged until I was bleeding or tortured in ways none of my siblings ever knew because of all his kids, he hated me the most. After he could no longer control my older brothers and sister, he took out his rage and need for control on me.

He did a fucking number on my head. Years of this went on. I sit here now, and can barely believe that one man can live who survived all that. And when I began to show signs of having been through too much, my mother thought I might benefit from good old N.V. Peale.

It was such crap that I couldn’t read it. The world, I knew, didn’t work that way. But I started to feel guilty. The people he wrote about, they were so much stronger than me. There was something wrong with me.

Because my world worked the opposite way. I didn’t take him for the crank he was until I learned more about mental illness.

I remember when the trial of the State of Maryland vs. Ralph and Betty Smith (my parents) was over. How people said, “Now you can move on” but never told me how to. I was angrier every time I heard it but knew that if I told them what a mess I really was I’d get a lot of flak. I held my tongue when I just wanted to scream, “What do you know? Fuck you! Walk a mile in my shoes and you’ll scream to be let out.”

And that’s the problem. Some things cannot be magically forgotten, no matter how positive I think.

It’s not over. Never will be, not for me. There’s too much damage and too much pain. Trauma isn’t a skinned knee that you put some Neosporin on, then bandage and go skipping merrily on your way.

Since then I worked years in a union job. I was good, but still very sick. Focus isn’t easy with trauma and the dissociation that goes with it. I had accidents and injuries and sent out product that couldn’t even be used. After that I wound up in a dollar store, three hours a night, four nights a week. I had come full circle. A total loser like my father had predicted, because I had trouble getting through those three hours. I was growing worse and didn’t understand why. Because I knew by then about PTSD. I thought that I knew everything about it. How was it getting worse? How could the Universe be that cruel to one man? I began to drink, cognac, whiskey, rum, vodka, you name it. Just make sure it’s the whole bottle; I wasn’t a bar fixture. I drank while walking home or in private. Because, fuck everyone else.

When I tried for the third time to kill myself I came damn close. I was given the chance to have a bed at Springfield Hospital (which was one my father never mentioned; one last joke on that piece of shit). I was told it used cutting edge trauma therapy. I grabbed that bed up.

Nobody there told me to think “positive”. They didn’t call me lazy or a failure and not once did I hear the word “retard”.

First, the doctors and my therapist allowed me to be sick. They didn’t tell me I had to move on. In the Men’s Trauma Group there were no comparisons; we were all encouraged to tell our stories and we were given treatment. Gently, one step at a time, each of us being on different levels of capacity for effort. One day one of the two women who ran the group saw me outside and said I could be the “poster boy” for PTSD. And so I could be.

I loved my time there. Being treated as who and what I was, I felt somehow liberated.

Since then, in ongoing treatment and assisted living, I’ve made a serious mistake. I tried to be more than what I am, and someone I’m not. The old thinking I was programmed for has never left; I feel like a freak and a failure even though my monstrous parents are long since dead and buried. That’s not fair, but it just doesn’t wear off. I feel that more intensive treatment is called for, but physically I’m running out the clock. So I say “What’s the use?” The tendency to give up is so pervasive that I may never again seek that kind of help.

***

I used to be able to draw and paint. I walked away from it; nothing I ever did was good enough and none of my work was spared the bins. I don’t think I can do either anymore what with my left hand shaking all the time.

In my mind I know it could be caused by lots of things but I go straight to Parkinson’s disease, one of the worst case scenarios. Negative thoughts not from pessimism. From trauma and learned behavior.

Personality disorders are learned behavior and thinking. They are most difficult to treat, and positive thinking isn’t part of that treatment.

In the hospital I was taught cognitive behavioral therapy. It challenges one to not think positive, but to stop and think about what they are doing and saying. Since having covid, my memory has trouble with the list. It consists of various types of actions, responses and spoken words that indicate one is acting on learned behavior that is flawed. If I say “I’m going to fail” for example, cognitive behavioral rules tell me that I’m engaging in fortune telling, which of course I cannot really do. I’ll post a link below for the list.

Another part of cognitive therapy is being “mindful” and I like this part. One day in one on one therapy, my doc unwrapped one of the biggest, deepest red strawberries I’d ever seen. It was organic, he said, and I had never heard of that. He instructed me to take a bite (it was too big to eat otherwise). I was to slowly chew, paying attention to the taste, the texture, and to clear my mind of all but the strawberry. He explained that people often gulp down a burger for lunch, talking to a friend or coworker, never really tasting, fully, the food. And we carry that behavior into every facet of life, and it’s not merely flawed, it’s sad.

I’ve never enjoyed a strawberry more.

Cognitive therapy works. I have to get back to it and do as much on my own as I can. You’re not thinking positively or negatively; just concentrating on the moment. What you’re doing and saying. Particularly what you’re thinking.

One cannot undo a lifetime spent living with mental conditioning that has hobbled oneself and kept them reinforcing every bit of said conditioning (I would do things to sabotage my relationships or jobs because I was convinced deep down that I’d fail anyway).

But one can learn to live each second more aware of what that conditioning has wrought, and once there, changes start to happen. But that is far from easy. It is a tall fucking order.

One problem is that extensive damage can never be cured. Recovery is not complete. That’s not possible. I know this, know my limits and obstacles. But I can at least accept some of them.

***

The problem with positive thinking is that whoever attempts it will invariably fail.

It’s superficial and does nothing to address what lies beneath. The core behavior and thought patterns taught them from an early age when they were helpless and defenseless.

When the failure comes, and it always does, the first thing a person does is to get angry with themselves. They see weakness where a simple task, being positive, is too much for them. Some act out, angrily lashing out. Others, determined to get it right, keep trying…and falling short.

It is enough for me to know that suicides lay in the wake of Peale’s egregious con. You tell someone that simply thinking positively will get them a coveted job. They don’t get the job but they won’t blame you, they’ll think you’re full of shit, but they still blame themselves. With a string of failures already behind them because they need professional help, what do you think will happen?

You hear that his wife has left him.

Next thing you know you’re attending his funeral.

No one knew him well enough to give the eulogy. You surely didn’t. His wife, filled with guilt, stands to one side, sobbing.

The pastor does the eulogy. It’s generic and wooden. None of it needed to happen. But that’s lost on you because you believe you gave him everything he needed to succeed. “Think positive, Hank.”

You’re lying to yourself. You gave him a phantom tool, one that got him to commit suicide.

The human race is not made up of failures and successes. It’s not made up of dark, negative people and those who live charmed lives. Everyone has the same potential at birth. Sure, some have different talents and gifts, but it’s still potential for great things. When natural development is interrupted by evil acts and resultant trauma, the future has been changed. Not just for that person. The world suffers. A man or woman deprived of love and proper care as a child now has less to offer. They’re damaged. They need help. They rarely get it in a system that still neglects and minimizes them. Society still stigmatizes them. They suffer from attendant physical illnesses and it all falls apart. Born with incredible potential, they linger in a health system that isn’t staffed or funded to help.

We see a mass shooting. Suddenly we want mental illness treated, like yesterday. But it doesn’t happen. There’s no budget. Conservatives think mentally ill people are faking to get benefits. That’s when they use “pull yourself up by your own bootstraps” and “they’re draining our budget” when both are lies and the worst of insults.

America eats its own. Men like Norman Vincent Peale only ever made money for lying and getting people killed. Self help books are a huge industry. Almost all of it is total bullshit. Don’t give charlatans your money. Seek help. Ask for references. Don’t give up.

If you’re stuck to your sofa and need a shower, but can’t make yourself do it, you’re not lazy. You need help. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you that you fail because you are too negative. They don’t know you. Tell them I said to fuck off. This is your life we’re talking about. You can be in real danger and not know it yet.

If someone tells you to “move on,” you tell them I said to go to hell. There are too many armchair and shithouse psychologists out there. Piss on them. Most of all be wary of church and “spiritual leaders” who all have agendas, and you’re not on it; your cash is.

Finally, don’t forget what I said. Seek out help from professionals with good creds. I don’t want you to suffer, and it breaks my heart that you do. There may not be a cure, but there is help. You just have to want it.

If you are feeling like a failure, not measuring up to the expectations of anyone else, and you are thinking of calling it quits, believe me, I know how you feel. But the best panacea I’ve ever found is in the act of helping someone else. The ways to do that are infinite; you don’t even need money. Just observe and the door will open. Knowing that you have made a difference, however small you may think it is, is one of the most magnificent feelings anyone can ever have. It cheers you, warms you in your heart and tells you that no, you are not worthless. You’re a decent person. But first, before all else, you need help. And there is nothing wrong with that.

IF YOU ARE FEELING SUICIDAL

For help if you are feeling suicidal, call 911. You need to be seen in a safe place by people who want you to live.

If you don’t want to go that route, call the (US) National Suicide Hotline at

1-800-273-8255 or click Here.

Thinking about suicide is a deadly sign. I can’t bear to think of the world without you in it.

For more information on cognitive behavioral therapy, click here.

Sources: Wikipedia, Google Search

Author’s Note to you, the reader:

I didn’t care until recently whether I had followers or not. Or whether I got “likes” or not. You’ve changed that. With over 60 followers, the other day I received 8 likes in one day. To most bloggers, a thousand is a disappointment. But for me, 8 broke my previous record. I found myself grateful and humbled and I want to say, thank you. To my new followers, I hope you have the chance to read all of my posts. Part of my goal here is for everyone who visits to get to know me. To hopefully find something you can use, learn or at least enjoy. Let me know in the comments section if you can’t access something and I’ll fix it. Feel free to leave comments and tell me what you’re thinking. I’d love to know.

I want to help others like me, to let them see that they are not alone. The only way I can do that is by telling my life’s story and being honest, not holding anything back. To show my damage in all of its ugliness as well as the decent part of me who empathizes, loves and cares about people I’ll never meet. I hope also that still others will gain something to simply think about. I’m not an authority on anything; I offer only a raw look at my feelings and my thoughts. A long life gives one many stories to tell, and I hope you’ll browse and read and continue to keep me company. I’ve realized that I need you, I appreciate you, and I love you. Until tomorrow, be well. Many thanks.

This is Depression. This is Trauma. And I Still Can’t Describe It.

Let me take you back half a century to a home I knew for two decades.

Hell. I’d rather not. I live there still, in my mind. I described it many times over the past two years here on these pages. Scroll far enough, you’ll see “The House of Pain” and other posts. I’d like for you to read everything if you can stand it. From abuse to the supernatural to a neighborhood flasher who brandished an impossible weenie to frolicking in cat shit without knowing it, my life is here, laid bare for anyone to read. I’ve held nothing back. My mission was to show what becomes of the abused. How a bright, beautiful little boy grew up to be a wounded, sick asshole. There’s some funny stuff. Some scary stuff. There’s the bizarre, the tragic and the heartbreak of a victim. A true victim, not what idiot right wingers call “career victims who need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps”.

I didn’t want it to be like this. Nobody does. The victims of the world come in all colors and shapes and sizes. Religion cannot stop the harm being done to them. The law cannot make a predator think twice before acting. God in Heaven himself won’t step in front of them and protect them. That’s the worst part.

People who didn’t know my background asked many times, “If there’s really a God, why do such bad things happen to good people?”

I used to try to answer. I’d say, God doesn’t make people suffer, people do.”

But that is a half answer, and I don’t know the rest. I know that hardship makes us learn and grow stronger. But I don’t know what happens when one gets overloaded. Like me. Pious dicks have told me. “God will never give you more to carry than you can handle.”

Well, that’s not true. And I know, because I’m overwhelmed. Overloaded. Tired, worn out, fed up.

And I don’t believe that God piles us up with too many, or any burdens. Shit just happens, that’s fucking it. There’s nothing Godly about children being raped, beaten bloody and terrorized. God wouldn’t do that. I won’t blame him no matter what those morons think.

I know evil. I know it all too well, and I’m here to tell you, it’s for real. You can deny it if you like, but I’ve survived it.

I’m not really a survivor, though. I exist. I want it over because every day, I go back there, to my own home, I relive things I can’t describe in detail, and yet, part of me, when I think about it, might not really want to die. Because what the hell was all this shit about, anyway? I seek answers if I can’t have peace. I just want to know why.

Part of PTSD is severe depression. It’s a motherfucker, too. It kills people. It causes physical illnesses and debilitating pain. And the lack of will or the strength to do anything at all for days, weeks on end. Left untreated, it kills. Treatment by drug and talk therapy isn’t even a guarantee of survival. It can help, sure. But serious cases–like mine–may be resistant to everything available.

Trauma therapy is required. Before you can see improvement you first have to be allowed to be sick. Unfortunately, many doctors who administer drugs aren’t psychiatrists. Just regular doctors who maybe did two semesters of psych. I had one tell me not to come in and tell her anything negative ever again. I hated her from that second on.

Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway?

Look. After all this time, I still can’t describe what it’s like. I have tried. I don’t believe I’ve done a good job of it. How to describe not being able to take a shower? It has to come out as ridiculous. It’s okay; that’s not your fault. And I may not say it often enough, but I am very grateful for all who come here and read. Double for all who leave a “like” and even more for my followers. You make me fight just a little harder. I’m glad you’re here with me in spirit. I need you and you make a difference.

Yesterday morning, not having slept since posting at 03:00, I remained awake. I forced myself to shower and do two tubs of laundry. I went to market for some food. It’s a painful walk with my back, carrying groceries. By the time I made it to my building I was so bad that I was swaying despite my cane.

I ate a salad topped with albacore tuna and Old Bay, trying to fight chronic dehydration and vitamin D deficiency. I had to fight like hell to do all that, and wound up hurting. The pain is remarkable. I can’t describe it in a remark, though.

No more than I can describe depression and flashbacks. Or heartache. Loneliness. Darkness.

I just can’t.

But, just so you know, this morning I made my own miracle and did some things that had to be done. Perhaps God answered my prayer, too. I asked for a bit of help. Just a little bit. Maybe I was granted what I made a plea for.

But I’m not out of the woods yet. This is a dangerous time and I see that now. Often, people who have attempted suicide in the past end up finishing it. And since it is often a spontaneous act, I’m in trouble. But I’m going to hang. I think I’ve got another fight or two left in me. Those of you who pray, I wonder if you would be so kind as to mention me tonight when you are at prayer. In the meantime, this is the closest I can get to telling you what this is like.

Thank you for being here. You’re loved. Don’t forget that, okay?

I Hate Myself And Want To Die

Warning: This Post Deals With Suicide. If You or Someone You Know Is Suicidal, click here . Help Is Available 24 Hours A Day.

Another day, wasted. I did nothing. I could not cook. Couldn’t take a shower. Don’t remember the last time I was out. Had to ask a friend for cigarettes. It’s bad, really bad.

This is in fact worse than I felt the last time I overdosed in the effort to leave this shitty world behind.

It is 03:15 on the East coast. I slept maybe two hours.

I’ve had a couple of Marlboros but they didn’t help. I’m just starting on a cup of Colombian coffee but it is denying me the rush of brief euphoria from caffeine.

My left hand trembles, making it difficult to type. It does that a lot lately. More all the time. This time I seem able to work with it but usually it renders my left hand useless.

My back has a slipped or herniated disc. It fucking hurts and I’ve yet to get the X-rays. Worse, 43 years of lighting up has caught up with me. I’m out of breath after doing simple tasks. How stupid am I. A true asshole.

Everything done to me haunts me. If you can’t get that, good for you, you’re blessed. Be thankful.

I can’t get anything from the past outta my fucking head. It’s all there, every day. In my dreams I’m tormented. There is no comfort in anything these days. Shit like cigarettes and coffee are all that sustain me on some days. I can’t do jack shit.

Sometimes I’m amazed that I’ve managed to get up and piss in the proper place.

My heart is broken, has broken so many times that I wonder how much one man can take.

I miss my children so much. I would give anything just to have been able to say goodbye. If they had to go, why couldn’t I have just had a minute or two to tell them how much I loved them, how empty I’d feel when they left, and how sorry I truly was to have failed them so many times?

Because that’s not fair.

I take no comfort in my belief in God. I can’t pray. I can’t do anything but cry, write about my miserable life and smoke the cigarettes that nearly killed me over a decade ago and will finish the job soon enough. What the hell have I become?

Cry, you loser, you asshole. Every good thing you have had you fucked up. Every job you had, you failed. Go ahead. Cry like a baby, loser. You’ve been cursed by God or the Devil and you never had a destiny that was better than this. You were born to suffer. Go ahead, end it, you chickenshit. You aren’t like a real man. They all laugh at you. Everyone does. You’re a joke to them. Do it. Kill yourself and be done with it.

I hear myself say these words on nights like this. And I’m tempted. No one will find the body. I’ll be reported missing. Nobody will care. They’ll forget. I’m not worth remembering. I left Facebook. I’ll bet money everyone’s already forgotten me. I was never anything to them anyway.

I miss talking to my friend. We used to talk a lot on the phone. It got to where I was too sick to do it. Always so fucking miserable. I could barely hear her in the end. My mind was too broken. I was all pain. I would have brought her down at a time when she needed to be strong for her kids.

If this post is bringing you down, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt myself. God cursed me with a hidden will to survive. Besides, I can’t avoid whatsoever is coming to me. I feel it creeping toward me.

Fear not; there are still stories to tell, and like the Ancient Mariner, I’m doomed to tell them. The bad…and the good, when I can remember good. Tonight, I can’t remember good.

I long for peace. For rest. God promised to wipe away my tears. I have to believe that; if I didn’t I would not still be here.

God, are you seeing this? I believe you. If suffering is your will for me, I’ve had enough. But I guess I can hang a little longer. You know my pain. Can’t you help me just a little?

Today Is Not A Good Day

Today is not a good day.
Today I am in more pain than yesterday. I feel like being mean to others because I am hurt and I am angry.

I am angry because I hurt. I see no reason to hurt. I feel I don’t deserve to hurt. I think that maybe I have had too much pain in my life. Too much hurt.

It’s okay if I feel that way. People can take a lot of pain but in truth, there’s times when it gets worse than I can bear.

I don’t think it makes me weak. I don’t think it means I’m a bad person. I think it means that I’m human, and nothing more, and nothing less.

I think it’s okay for me to be angry at Donald Trump for making Congress and the Senate limit the stimulus money to so little money for individuals. I think people aren’t sure who to blame for it when it really is Trump who wouldn’t sign the bill if it was different.

I think people are angry because they’re scared. They don’t have enough money, and they’re out of work, and they get worried that they will not be able to stay in their homes and apartments, and it’s okay to be scared. And it’s okay to feel angry.

But sometimes we need to do something with that anger so it doesn’t make us sick because too much anger inside is a very bad thing.

You can go into the woods and scream at the sky. You can take a walk and end up running even if you’re not dressed for running.

I don’t think it’s okay to be mean to others just because they believe in things you don’t. That already causes enough trouble. It’s always made all of our problems worse.

So you can see why I’m angry too. I’m in pain and I’m very angry. I’m also very sad. It’s a lot to try to control all at once. And that’s how life works.

But why am I angry? I don’t know. Maybe because of the pain. Maybe from my memories. Maybe from something else too.

And why am I sad? I know some of the reasons. One is that my children are not alive now. Unnatural death of a loved one hurts and shocks us and we never get to say the things to them that we meant to say. Things like “I love you”, or “I’m sorry I didn’t do better”. They leave us with no feeling that we can put it behind us and deal with our sadness that they’re gone. A lot of people talk about something called “closure” and I don’t know what they mean by that.

Because after someone we love is gone from our lives, we feel the same way no matter what. Sad and angry and very hurt. And I think they need to see that it’s okay. No one ever leaves our lives without taking part of us with them and leaving questions that we ask unanswered. It’s a part of life.

But that’s okay.

And what we do with our anger and our sadness can change the whole world. Sometimes that happens. A person who feels sad all the time can be famous. Like Abraham Lincoln. He had a lot of sadness and anxiety. He had trouble sleeping because of it. Yet today the United States exist because of what he did with his sadness and his anger.

Some people wrote beautiful poems and concertos because they were so sad. And we never stopped loving them because we still read those poems and listen to music when we feel sad. The right words and the right notes can make us cry, and that can help heal pain and sadness.

I think doing nothing at all is okay too. Some people just need to rest and sleep. That’s a big part of life.

Later on, those who rest will do things that might even change the world. That’s a blessing. Out of pain and anger we can all be healed. The things that hurt us the most are the things that make us what we are and who we are.

We all need to heal as Christmas is upon us, and I think it’s okay to play the songs we love and put up lights and give a gift, even if it is not much to you. To someone else it will mean a lot.

It’s also okay to dream. Good dreams about what we will do when we feel just a little bit better. It’s okay to dream about Santa Claus and flying reindeer and it’s okay to believe in unicorns and fairies and magical things.

It’s okay if you have pain. It is a part of life. Even death is a part of life. It is okay to be angry. So angry that you feel like hurting yourself or someone else.

What matters is what you do with that pain and anger. That’s up to you.

It always will be.

I feel angry today. I’m in a lot of pain, way too much. I don’t like it.

But I think it’s okay anyway. Tomorrow I might be able to handle it better. I might not even have this much hurt.

The Silver Linings Playbook

I slept on and off. It’s rare to go more than three hours at a time sleeping these days. But yesterday it lasted all day. Then the full moon arose. And whatever anyone else says, whether scientific or statistical, empirical, anecdotal or pure horseshit, the full moon does affect certain people adversely. Scholars can go shit in their hats, too. Too many people with letters behind their names have already been caught making flawed, even false conclusions, and usually it’s for a buck. They need funding for their college-based group, they’re publishing a book or paper, and who knows what.

There’s science, then there’s the unknown. Sometimes there are unknowns which science refuses to even consider possible. For example there’s the Full Moon Effect. No, I’m not talking about werewolves. And crime statistics do not support the claim that a full moon means an increase in crime.

However, there’s beat cops and emergency responders who will tell you something more. They’ll say that it’s a night when the weird shit happens.

The weird shit? Well, yeah, but not weird like funny, humorous. Sick and tragic stuff. Freak accidents at home. Suicide attempts that are unusual in nature.

I know one thing for sure. Being mentally ill and suffering through the most symptomatic days, those are horrible. I’m in a depression right now. I don’t even want to write this shit. I don’t want to be doing anything.

Depression may not be sitting and crying and sobbing. It’s usually a really big deal. I got no energy. No desire to do anything. I hate to move or breathe. I don’t know what triggers a fibromyalgia flare up, but it was here. I hurt from head to toe and Tylenol won’t touch it. I was on a popular medication for a while and it helped but I was always falling, fainting and losing my memory.

And then there’s anxiety and panic attacks. A few hours ago I started trembling. My whole body shook violently and I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought the world was ending. I wanted to lie down and let it happen so it would all be over. A Klonopin helped, but I’d rather be free of that shit.

No one who doesn’t suffer from severe symptoms of bipolar and PTSD can know what it’s like to have all of the symptoms show themselves at once. And maybe I’m not ready to blame the moon phase, but when I looked up and saw it, I hated that fucker with everything I had. Getting flashbacks, terror attacks, have pain pounding through every cell, that shit sucks. And I got nothing to say that you can call positive. The lights I put up last week now make me feel like stomping them under my boot. Christmas is a vile time for me. How could I have imagined otherwise? It was once my favorite time of year. Now, just a reminder of death and loss and how alone I am.

I owe money on copays from years back, and can’t see a therapist. And no one understands me. Some claim to, and I appreciate that sentiment, but no, they don’t understand my crazy. I thought I could tell one friend anything. But for a while now, I’ve been getting told to stop, and they’re impatient, sometimes claiming an incoming call, sometimes when I can tell I’ve gone too far and they just don’t want to hear any more.

That’s okay. I understand that; it’s the way it’s always been, all my life.

Then, even though it was never a movie I’d pick, I watched “The Silver Linings Playbook” with Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence.

I related to them. Having a mental illness and being misunderstood, being ashamed of having to take meds, I’ve been there. I knew the drugs they mentioned. I’m even on, or have been on, a few of them.

It struck me when he was out running and Tiffany would catch up to Pat, and doggedly try to get his attention. They shared an attraction, but he wouldn’t admit it. I think it’s her best role, but it left me confused. I wish I could have met someone like her.

If you see any of yourself in me I have some advice.

Life ain’t no movie. You ain’t gonna be kissing Jennifer Lawrence. You’re not gonna have the energy to dance. You won’t like crowds and you’ll never ever perform in front of them. And no one will ever understand you as much as you wish they could. They’ll make fun of you. They’ll tell you to change the subject or they’ll make excuses to get away from you or hang up. They’ll tell you they love you, but never in front of anyone else. Don’t be bitter. It’s just how they are. They ain’t like us. Be happy for them. Because there are already too many of us.

It’s good to think positive. Have goals. But I don’t know about a silver linings playbook. It’s just a fucking movie.

But I like it anyway.

Yes, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Does Work.

CAUTION: CONTAINS TRIGGERS AND ADULT CONTENT! Read slowly and back out if you need to.

In 2005, I was in group therapy with an excellent doctor at Springfield Hospital in Maryland. He used the sessions to give us a look at several approaches to recovery. One of them was cognitive therapy. It worked. He gave us a single sheet of paper with a bullet list naming types of self-destructive and defeating thinking and the reasons people tend to use them.

I was resistant to most therapy because I was a victim of things people did that, at the time, were unspeakable. Newscasters wouldn’t get this shit on a written script. It was a taboo subject; incest, child sex abuse. Newspapers could do a bit more but never outside the lines.

When Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon, I was already wounded. Had been for as long as I could remember. I was fascinated with the Apollo 11 broadcasts, I remember when he stepped off that ladder, and yet…most of me, lying on a rug in front of the TV, was somewhere else, having things done to me that can never be forgotten.

It was in the same room that my mother and father “taught” me about sex. And would continue to do so until 1976 when I was actually asked if I wanted to stop. I had to summon courage to say “yes” because it seemed like another typical Ralph Smith goddamn trick. He would lay manipulative traps like that. Ask a question and if he didn’t like the answer, give out a rage-powered beating.

I had already, though I didn’t know it then, displayed behaviour and symptoms of trauma. The severe kind. Everyone’s different, that’s true, so I can’t speak for my siblings, who seem to be more functional than I. Oh, they all got the same shit as me, but I guess something in me made me especially susceptible to damage and an inability to cope with it.

Ruminations are wandering, smothering trains of thought triggered by various things. If I see the sun reflect through a tail light on a parked car, for example, I’ll likely be taken back in time to a memory or emotion from the abusive “teaching” years. Back when I noticed the world around me. Back when I could drink grape soda or have a grape Tootsie Pop without getting violently sick. The both of them are now forever linked to a particularly bad stretch of time I survived, though I was surely dead inside, and died many times.

Ruminations can be synonymous with brooding, but the word has a broader meaning. Ruminating can be positive. Nostalgia for a simpler time. Or dread and anger associated with oppression and terror because there was never really a simpler time. You had to grow up early because life picked you for shitty things. Ultimately, though, ruminating is not going to do you well if you can’t control it.

There’s hope, though. You can get control over these thoughts which cause everything from dissociative thinking to depression and suicidal thoughts.

Look it up. Read about cognitive behavioral therapy and ask a therapist about it. Find one who knows it and believes it’s effective; it’s a current fad that is being used deceptively, even though it has been around a while and there is no reason to listen to those who hawk it as snake oil. “Lifestyle coaches” are worse frauds than California Psychics, who continue to run TV ads despite repeated reports to the BBB. If you don’t have sufficient insurance for therapy, work out payment agreements. Severe PTSD and the ruminations it causes are no joke.

Self-defeating thoughts such as “I’ll never win” are viewed in cognitive terms as “fortune telling”, something you shouldn’t be doing to yourself; you have no business being that hard on yourself when you don’t know any more what’s going to happen ten minutes from now than you do ten years from now.

A trick I learned from the doc was more mindful eating. You know, you go out for a burger and you wolf it down, barely tasting it. Now, go get a nice juicy organic strawberry and close your eyes. Clear your mind and concentrate on the strawberry. Feel the texture and the juice, let the flavor and the bite of fruit linger on your tongue. Chew slowly, never letting your thoughts stray from what you’re doing. Take this challenge with anything you like. Think of it like this: a kid eating cereal, staring vacantly at the back of the box. Or… A wine taster, sipping delicately, swishing the sip around in the mouth, over the tongue, concentration and pleasure plain to see on the face. That is the difference, simplified, between rumination and mindfulness.

Another neat challenge, if you’re in a safe place or you have a companion, is to take a walk. Doesn’t have to be far. Along the way, turn off the phone. Notice the smell of the air. Where I live, it’s full of honeysuckle and wild flowers and tree blooms. Look at the yards you pass. What’s in them? I used to walk past one that had a very old grindstone, complete with seat, on the front lawn. That’s cool, but driving past, you’d never see it. Challenge yourself to spot one thing that strikes your fancy as unusual. When you return home, you’ll be in a better mood, maybe not a great one considering what you’re dealing with in life, but you’ll still be better.

The article below is correct if extremely general. If you’ve read my stuff, then you know how much more I should be doing with the concept. But with severe, crippling or disabling damage like mine, there’s a roadblock. It’s a direct counterpart to cognitive living. It’s learned behaviour, often diagnosed as “personality disorder” or disorders. Due to repeated events and conditioning you can’t seem to fight back. Learned behaviours are comparable to what happened to dogs in a shuttle box experiment some years ago. Dogs were placed in the boxes. The box consisted of two compartments, the sides of which they could not spring over. Each compartment was connected to the other but could be closed off, keeping the subject restricted to one side. This was done. The compartment they were trapped in had a grid on the floor. The subjects received electric shocks from the grids, which they could not step off of because the compartment that wasn’t equipped with a grid was closed off. After a set number of these non-lethal shocks were administered, the barriers to the other side of the shuttle boxes were removed. The shocks resumed, but the dogs made no movement at all. Even when shown that moving to the other side stopped the shocks, when placed back in the grid boxes, they took the shocks.

This is learned behaviour at its most basic; in this case the behaviour was called “learned helplessness”.

It’s what prisoners who are institutionalized have to fight. Ten years or more and sometimes less is all it takes to teach helplessness. A life restricted to a place and a never-changing routine, with no ability to make any decisions whatsoever, and what results is someone who can’t live once they are paroled. Many break conditions of parole or commit felonies and plead guilty just to get back inside. Some commit suicide. They’ve done their time, but they’re hardly free.

With the case of the shuttle box dogs, eventually they were able to make it to the other side, but the process of teaching them to do it was arduous for their handlers. Learned behaviours and personality disorders are difficult to treat; so much so that the “bible” of psychiatric diagnosis was expected to have this entire section edited out.

Cognitive therapy is a real thing. It is a long road to travel. No one recovers from trauma disorders. But with guidance and hard work, with early intervention, living with it is possible. My case is hampered because I went misdiagnosed for so long, and because I cannot afford therapy on Medicare. Not even once a month. You don’t have to end up like me. I have no fight left.

I’ll tell you this, though. And I mean every word. You are reading this for a reason. No one reads my posts. I have a free plan and whatever I post gets buried fast, especially on Reader but also on search engines. I’m sure you’ll recognize that you are here for a reason. And that if I tell you that you are special, that the world needs kindness and empathy and that you can get to a higher level and make a difference, you have a choice. You face a decision. Choose wisely. Time is running short for us all.

https://www.psypost.org/2019/06/mindfulness-appears-to-diminishes-depressive-symptoms-by-reducing-rumination-53885