All Messed Up: A disturbing discovery

I don’t remember what day it happened. I was walking in the dark. Right before dawn. I should have waited.

I lost my bearings. Veered from the footpath. Couldn’t see. I walked right off the edge of a 4 foot high retaining wall. For my feet, no big deal. You’d think.

I remember the fall, but not thinking anything except for “shit!”

I don’t know how long I was out. A man was standing over me, asking if I was alright. I couldn’t get up. Pain was everywhere. Broken bones were involved. Blood was everywhere. I couldn’t use my left arm. I very hazily reached up with my right and asked for a handle. He pulled me up and walked me, holding me up, to my door. I was sick with the quickly building pain. I knew my thumb was broken but something else was wrong. It didn’t look right. It hurt beyond my ability to comprehend.

My leg was bleeding. My right foot was just weird. The worst was the right side ribs.

I spent all day in the ER. Y’all know how much fun that is.

But ever since conglomerate Johns Hopkins took Howard County General in, the ER has been a hostile place. They don’t give a damn how hurt, how much pain, how severe. You’re there for the duration. One nurse gave me a Tylenol for pain. Or maybe it was aspirin. I was there for her entire shift.

I saw her twice. She’d said “I’m your nurse…” When I arrived by ambulance.

I saw other nurses who gave me a urinal. Near nightfall, a nurse came in with IV bags. I’d been pissing all day and sipped a drop when taking that token pill. Obviously I’m beginning kidney failure. I was filling urinals while taking in no water.

Meanwhile the pain got worse. That 1 to 10 scale? Fuck that. They think you’re lying. That you want dope.

This was a month ago I guess. By the time the imaging was done and I was told my thumb was broken and dislocated, this old man was pissed. A nurse quipped, “What do you expect, it’s an ER.” What does that mean?

But all day they hadn’t released a single patient and it was silent in there except for lasciviously weird conversations. How calloused we have become when inappropriate talk is freely done where patients can hear!

I’m not fond of knocking nurses. I’d prefer not to need to. But after one surgery in 2006, I heard one black nurse leave my room, go to the nurses’ station and talk total shit about me. I seethed. Seems she hated white people.

I’ve been in too many hospitals. Met too many professional and courteous nurses. I’m not ever going to take that shit again. I don’t have to and I’m not going to.

The pain didn’t, to me, fit between 1 to 10. I’d never, since my last heart attack, felt such severe pain. One to ten? That’s a joke.

Late in the day an orthopedic doctor came in. He just had to touch the thumb. He popped it back in place then put a half cast splint on it. I left with a few 5 mg of Percocet. That will not touch bone pain. I later saw my PCP and he gave me 30×10 mg Percocet. That got me through the worst days, but about a month later I’m still in agony. And nobody cares.

I had also, before the fall, thrown a different EKG (it was already abnormal) and had to see my cardiologist.

A receptionist dogged me going into the exam room and coming out with a ream of papers bearing my balance.

Before my follow up for an echocardiogram, I got an email stating that I had to bring $800.00 with me, or pay it before, I’d be seen. I called the office. Despite such a rude ultimatum, I was willing to set a payment plan. But I got voicemail. I boiled!

“Hey, I got your nasty message so ya don’t even answer your phone? Well here’s a message for you: fuck off, I don’t need you.”

And despite the doctor being excellent, I can’t go back. And his bloody bills can go to the bottom of my incredible stack of bills.

And this is our healthcare system before the shutdown and whatever deals Democrats are making with the Devil.

I don’t walk right. Maybe I never will. It’s funny, the right one drags a bit. My ribs on the lower right posterior hurt like nobody’s business, I lie in a heating pad most of the time, I need dope and if I ask for more, I will be flagged as an addict. Look, I don’t like the shit. I merely need it.

All this time, I’m feeling like a big pussy. But then it struck me, and hard: you know you’re old, you know injuries hurt, you know they’re slow to heal, so shut up already.

Now, I am not schizophrenic. And I don’t hear voices. I’m not delusional. But that inner voice scolding me, what’s that?

I’ve “heard” it before. I talk to it. It answers or whatever. It’s me.

After all this time. So many years, decades, of things I didn’t understand, wasn’t even aware of at times, now it came to me.

I was ashamed. I hated myself again. I didn’t want to talk about it but I had to, and I trust my friends.

Dissociative Identity Disorder

This is not multiple or split personalities but I accept that you might want to call it that.

I never believed in it and the one case I was presented with in a friend, well, I got sick of her. A faker who pretended when it was convenient.

Well I don’t know about her, we parted under less than friendly circumstances.

But I knew there was more. For two years I’ve had an almost steady deep southern accent. It wasn’t quite…right but, I couldn’t help it. After the fall, I returned to my light southern accent. “The Cowboy” was gone. I realized that he was me, but a different version, one who protects. I had him start up during a conversation on the phone after I figured out what was going on. I was able to control and stop him.

He’s really not a bad version of me, there’s no difference except the accent which sounds tougher and less vulnerable than me.

But there’s more. During any particular traumatic event in my childhood, my brain did this thing. I don’t fully understand it, but it goes something like this.

I’m being striped with my father’s belt. He doesn’t stop until he’s exhausted. His rage is uncontrollable. I’m bleeding across my forearms where I tried to protect my back. That didn’t work.

I scream and cry, but he’s not spent yet. That’s when, either that moment or not long after, a different identity is formed to come in and protect me. How it works in the brain, I don’t know, but hate, anger and guilt contribute. Anger because this just isn’t right, and I know it, hatred because of course a kid hates his life being nothing more than a sex slave and whipping boy to sick parents who don’t love him.

And finally, guilt, because brainwashed kids of trauma ceaselessly love and obey their abusive parents. Want to guess how many kids wind up dead that way?

The guilt gets carried by another identity, and so on, every time it’s necessary. Now the sexual abuse. This is something I really never knew happened. Yet another identity formed to handle that. That version was pure evil. An asshole. Sneaky and vindictive at first, it never even occurred to me that it was a sliver of me driven to exact revenge on enemies or innocents alike. Broken windows, slashed tires, cursing out a poor guy trying to make a living in an ice cream truck. Didn’t matter.

It seems like he vanished at some point. He didn’t. I just got better at holding back his trigger, which is deep anger. Rage.

That’s when, around 2010, I looked back and for the first time noticed a pattern of destructive behavior that went way back to the late 1960s. I was a runner, a sabateur of friendships, not only mine, but others’ relationships. When triggered, this runner would burn bridges, run away or insult friends into leaving me alone. I was so hurt that I didn’t want to risk rejection of any kind, so no friends, no hurt. By the summer of 1972 I was forbidden to play with any neighborhood kids. I’d done it. I’d left my mark.

This sliver of my soul would seem to be controlled but it never was. I became the Running Man. If someone left the place I worked for greener pastures and they had a get-together, I didn’t go. Especially if it was a friend. It hurt too much.

I spent a lot of time working just to stay away from my wife. Fuck her. She did everything she could to humiliate me. And she was good at it. Finally I sabotaged my marriage. I was tired of her screaming at me. I’d check on the kids and sure enough they’d be in their beds, wide awake. I loved them too much to let it go on. I just jammed the gears and stopped them from moving. I was on my own.

The DESTROYER

This guy somehow got out of my control. Perhaps because I put it down to behavior, before I knew about PTSD affecting not just veterans of combat but victims of rape, child abuse, and all manner of violence. Maybe not knowing let him loose; I’d say that’s a good guess. Anyway, it happened. I noticed aberrant behavior especially on social media. Triggered by anger or hurt over insults, whether real or misunderstood, he would block friends, talk horribly about them and they have been gone from my life since.

But I did it to people I knew in person too. And the worrisome part is that I don’t remember most of it.

I find out later when approached, or they ask a mutual friend what the hell is going on. The Destroyer wrecks shit up. But there’s a bright side to this. I can’t undo what wrongs I’ve committed. But now I know. And I’m in control.

It’s really a matter of holding on and pushing them away. I don’t need protection anymore. I don’t need to hide or run away. So if I feel angry I can pray. That always works. He may not heal me; that doesn’t always happen. But He does, with faith, help. Jesus is real. His life, death and resurrection happened. Even the insight into DID was a miracle; I could easily have died not knowing. And my behavior wouldn’t have changed.

I am in pain. My brain has trauma damage. Those things are true. And this is a thing I find bizarre and embarrassing to write about. But I have shared my life on this site. Nothing was off limits unless it would have been unproductive. My mission remains: tell others what I’ve been through. If they see me in themselves, I hope to be an example, an inspiration to get help. You can live with things that hold you down. A bit of faith, and lots of hope and courage are all you need. And you can accomplish the impossible.

The Porn Paradox

Foreword

The following essay was written with great difficulty. It required that I include things that I did not want to write; to research things that I did not want to read and force open the door to let you see what I would rather not show you.

I did not undertake this mission lightly. On the contrary; you are about to read disturbing material, which you should take seriously and which you should avoid if you find yourself distressed by. I’ve taken days to do the work, and the price has been high: nightmares, severe dissociation to the point where I dropped my ATM card, and lost it. I was certain that in my hurry to get home and cancel it, I would die. I collapsed and was down for some time. No, nobody who walked by asked if I was okay. They said nothing.

What a world, eh?

My therapist knows. About what I’m working on, I mean. She cautioned me to ground myself and to take breaks. And none of that or anything else helps me. But you need to see what I have written. I hope that you will find it enlightening no matter how dark it is. So, in regards to internet porn and all other forms of pornography, let’s get our hands dirty.

ANYTHING ANYWHERE ALL AT ONCE

The problem with internet porn and other pornography is that it is everywhere. Here is one very sober YouTuber that may surprise you. I know that I certainly found her talk refreshing.

What parents and others may not know is…

There’s a paradox here. Conservatives want to pretty much legislate porn out of existence.

But they can’t. And every time they try, it doesn’t work. Although they initially failed to criminalize fake or simulated child porn, they finally got that part right. And if you want to get real about it, priests, pastors, politicians, and everyone else who says they’re against porn watches it. They even sext. Yeah, I know! It’s not so, you you say. But it is. A web resource for pastors once printed an article about how many clergy were surfing and downloading porn in their pastor’s offices at church! I’d share a link, but that’s not new. You shouldn’t be sitting there mortified like that. We’re all just human.

And anyone, anywhere, can…

Yes! You can still buy big-name porn movies. Yes, you can still buy dirty magazines. The soft-core ones seem to have given up the ghost.

There are still peep shows, and the places are often refuges for people looking to hook up with strangers. And they do.

Since 1996, Congress and the Supreme Court have wrestled with legislation to control the content and accountability of internet porn. Let’s just say… it still rages as a battle of First Amendment rights versus morality.

There are people who don’t understand what porn really is and have never seen it. Yet they fight against it. They’ve heard about it, much more than what they wanted to as far as details, and without knowing anything else, they’ll fight it like Carrie Nation chased bartenders with an axe.

Then there are those who’ve seen porn and could take it or leave it, but cast a vote anyway that could affect millions. Even children. Yup. Children can easily access porn. Don’t believe otherwise.

Then we have extreme cases. These fight any and all censorship no matter what. Perhaps, too, we have the fence-sitters who refuse to engage the battle on either side. These abstain or are absent during voting on a bill.

No matter how any case turns out, it’s challenging to prosecute anything except proof of hardcore blatant child porn. And I’m staking a bet that what is still hidden except to users is the bulk of what’s out there. You and I and an army can’t change that. And the nine pussycats of the Potomac can’t, either. Meow.

Nobody knows what’s next. Another Supreme Court case? Even with the benches stacked with Trump-appointed justices, good luck. And the United States isn’t even close to being alone.

You can research for yourself the incredible numbers of porn sites and how many pictures and videos are on them. Don’t go to any porn sites; you don’t need to do that. I’ll tell you what the score is. But I’ll warn you before I do. Just a little bit down the page of results for “internet porn,” you’ll see results from sources like the government and others. It’s an eye-opener for sure.

And you’re bound to run into a groundbreaking case where someone uploaded “revenge porn” nudes of an ex-girlfriend, and she saw it. She sued the website and won. I doubt that she intended for her picture to end up there, but it happens when you send nude selfies to your boyfriend who you don’t know is so vindictive. Most underage girls (and this came from a woman I chatted with who worked with former porn actresses who were down and out) send nude selfies without caring who, or how many people might see them. It got so bad that a few minors were threatened with the distribution of child pornography! There’s another wrinkle in the paradox. It’s really twisted.

Addiction is Real

The first thing that a user will notice when first they explore porn sites is an incredible rush. There’s a sexual arousal, and naturally, the user masturbates.

It is only the beginning of what gives the term “vicious cycle” a new meaning. The user begins downloading, and that alone, surfing, and downloading more and more, releases dopamine, a hormonal neurotransmitter. It does exactly what the name implies. After too much, it can actually help you sleep, although I can’t endorse it as a sleep aid.

I can remember falling fast asleep doing this. One time, I must have touched the screen in the wrong place. I also must have been snoring. A woman’s voice, with a sweet Asian accent, was laughing and saying, “Time to wake up,” but I couldn’t. I fell asleep just after she cut the live feed off. Man, was that embarrassing! Not only that, but I made her laugh, except what if I also hurt her feelings? And I never went to live feeds either. I hardly believed that they were open mic. But it happened.

And that’s opening another subject entirely. What does porn do to the people on the other side of the lens? The answers are many, and none of them are good.

First, there are models. They pose in the nude for pay, and there’s a big problem with that. While some are bringing in money for sites like Met Art, FTV Girls, and others, many show up in archives only once or twice. Which means the number of photo shoots they did. Those either quit or are trafficked, bought as sex slaves, or they die. Drugs and alcohol are a staple of the porn industry, and overdoses, accidental and suicidal, are common. Then you have traffic accidents. Models, from Playboy centerfolds to hardcore actresses, seem to die in highway accidents quite often.

One wonders why this is, but it doesn’t matter when they’re dead. Being a longtime sufferer of PTSD, I can tell you that before I gave up driving and let my license expire, I’d racked up 35 traffic accidents in 28 years. I never had a serious PI or death-related casualty, and before I did, I figured I’d quit. I had read an article in The Baltimore Sun about how University Hospital’s Shock-Trauma unit had compiled a history of patients from serious traffic accidents. Patients with a history of being victims of domestic abuse were more likely to become patients there from auto accidents. It was disproportionate. That’s because of the dissociative component of PTSD. The mind wanders. Reaction time can be slow to too late.

Looking back on what I have learned, I find that hardcore and softcore porn actresses are commonly raped after filming a scene or posing. It could be a lighting tech, a cameraman, or the director.

Also, actresses tend to have their own history of child sexual abuse and feel guilty, and have low self-esteem. But can anyone match the horror story of Linda Lovelace? Because that’s hard to top.

1969 is the year she first shows up in film “credits.”

Because really, it was not a film most people knew about. She was forced at gunpoint to do a bestiality film. Later, the demonic guy who did this forced her to marry him. She went on to do another forced film, the name of which I can’t mention anymore than the first one. 1972 brought “Deep Throat” to theaters. Not your neighborhood cinema, either. Everyone knows those were for Disney movies. No, it was in adult theaters. And still caused a furor and an obscenity case.

Linda Boreman died in April 2002 after suffering severe trauma in an auto accident in Colorado. Since then, I’ve learned that I feel deep pity for her and the pain she went through at the hands of men. She told everyone and wrote in her autobiography that “Deep Throat” was nothing more than her being filmed while being raped.

It truly is a tragic thing adult actresses go through. It always has been. I do hope Linda, a Christian in her later years, is at peace and with God. I am still brokenhearted for her.

Look up the Playboy models who have passed on. Some weren’t old enough to be dead yet. Especially when I think of an 18-year-old centerfold who posed when I was 35.

Why does this happen?

One more thing about softcore models. After a time, you’ll see a tattoo that wasn’t there before. I’m not talking about being inked, as many are. What you see is a very small picture. Or a letter. It could be a tiny monochrome dragon. A Chinese or Korean letter. These small marks are signs of ownership; they’re a brand without a burn mark, although I’ve seen a few of those, too.

Categories: Here’s your content warning!

The very worst are the amateur films. There are married women. Married men. All kinds of immorality the mind can imagine. There are spy videos that are exactly what they sound like. A pervert with a telephoto lens filming naked women in apartments across the street. They post the trash online, and everyone knows it’s evil. But it continues.

These include “genres” such as:

Fellatio, the proper term for oral sex performed on a penis. Usually it ends with an ejaculation in the mouth or on the face of the actress.

Creampie, or intercourse with the actor ejaculating inside the actress.

Amateur and variations, which can be anything, but with amateurs, and not mainstream, actors. The different subcategories are swingers, old and young, incest, masturbation for men, and fingering for women. Also lesbians and gays, bisexuals, peeping, spying, in the shower, cheating, wife swapping, and glory holes, which involve men putting their penis through a hole in a wall and being fellated by a stranger. It gets worse. There’s ATM, which has nothing to do with banking machines. And this is where I stop. There’s more. Category lists take up pages in alphabetical order. There are tons of porn to drown in for days on end.

ADDICTION TAKES OVER

As the user goes deeper, because that dopamine charge and sexual arousal get more elusive, trouble begins. More and more time is spent getting deeper and deeper and much, much darker. This is close to the basement of addiction.

That happens to go hand in hand with desensitized feelings and an overall lack of responsiveness to real sexual situations. Marriages shatter because of this. Jobs are lost because exhausted men and women spend all night chasing images and masturbating.

In the end, the cycle wears you down so much that your self-respect has vanished. Your attention span has gone with it. You think of nothing else.

How do you live that way?

The user is not living. It’s no way to live. And if you think God is all-loving and forgiving, think again. The user covered in sexual sin who doesn’t repent is doomed to Hell. Repentance doesn’t mean apologizing to God after every “session,” because it doesn’t work like that. True repentance is when you finally look at yourself honestly and hate what you see. When you feel ashamed and finally turn away. You hate it so much that you could smash your Apple Mac. Only then can you begin to heal, and it’s a process. It involves God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and professional help. Confess your sins to God and tell a trusted therapist all you can and let them help you.

I know all of this because I have been that user, sinking in the mire of porn for decades. Now I am free, but the temptation is always there. It’s a battle, and that’s why I recommend all the help you can get, starting with the Lord. You need not go to a priest. This is a serious problem and he can’t help you. What difference would it make if you get punished by saying even a thousand Hail Marys? None. She can’t hear you. Sin is a personal matter between you and God, because it is sin that separates you from God. Go to Him and pour your heart out. The Lamb forgives. He’s already made your atonement; all you need to do is take his gift after you confess. To God, not a priest.

I don’t know what happened to me. It was sudden. I had been asking for so long for help. God answers prayers. It may take a while, but He knows the time, and when it’s right, and you’re ready, you’ll get what He knows you need.

How many times have I, by His hand, been spared? How many times was I saved by what I can only call miracles?

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.

Was blind,

But now I see.

I wasted so much time. I covered myself in filth. Nothing shocked me anymore. Nothing was ever truly out of bounds. I would still be doing it, but a miracle happened.

Remember that no matter what you’re watching, the women involved are probably under coercion, and you can see it in their eyes: out of focus because of drugs or alcohol, or from dissociation because of trauma. You’re running the risk of watching a rape.

Masturbation

It really is an awkward question. I’ll let you go with one last video on the subject of porn and masturbation. This professor clears things up nicely and, no, it is not mentioned in the Bible.

Afterword:

That took a lot out of me. This mess has to change, but for now, all I can do is to beg you not to look at porn. It’s destructive, and it can and has ruined and ended lives. It produces victims more than any other “industry” except for trafficking of children. Whatever you decide, that’s up to you. God gave all mankind the freedom to choose. May you choose wisely, and may God bless.