I saw a car downtown with a confusing collection of stickers

From left to right we have an Obama campaign sticker, a Bicentennial US Flag, THE STARS AND BARS (The Confederate National Flag), and a Union Jack.

I'm guessing the sticker next to the Honda emblem means they have two kids, a baby, a cat, and one child they use as a hackysack. But that's not important.

They voted for Obama. Okay. They're patriotic as well. They have a British relative, or active anglophilia. Okay.

But they're flying the Sesesh Flag, the "We Don't Need You, Yankee" flag, the banner of the House Divided. 

I'm unable to reconcile this.

Rule of Wrist 4-19-2011

There are two common motivations for studying psychology/becoming a shrink:
Trying to figure out what's wrong with one's self

or

Trying to figure out what's wrong with others.

The latter presumes that one's self needs no figuring out, meaning there's no chance of identification with most patients.

Rule of Wrist 4-17-2011

People too often say "He's my friend" about someone who is, if the facts are analyzed, not even vaguely their friend.

Friendship is a two way street. Someone who is your friend does things for you for which you are grateful. And it has to be something more than entertaining you.

If all someone does is make you laugh on occasion, but costs you money, and time, and stress without any reciprocation then perhaps they are not your friend; you are theirs. They are just someone you care about.

Rule of Wrist 4-15-2011

Your own experience is NOT a complete understanding of anything, particularly politics, society, or economics.

A Frightening Thought For Those Sane Enough To Appreciate It

What if your happiness was merely a symptom of insanity?

Walters' Rules of Wrist 04-06-2011

Expecting yourself to accomplish things that you are incapable of is not just foolish, but cruel.

************************************************

Unfair expectations of self lead to equally unfair expectations of others.

************************************************

Religion creates unfair expectations in supposing that we are divinely created and choose to act like apes, leading to great disappointment.

Science says we are apes. Therefore when we choose to act divinely it should come as a nice surprise.

I like science.

************************************************

(For 90% of humans) You are nowhere near as awesome, nor as awful as you think you are. If you were either you would be much further in life. Perhaps not in a direction you want, but further.

************************************************

Being willing to die for something, whether it be love, family, principles or patriotism is NOT a grand measure of devotion. It's impressive, don't get me wrong.

HOWEVER, what lives dies. Including you. You can't get out of that. It takes no special effort, or decision on your part; wait around and it happens.

A greater measure of devotion is a willingness to kill. Killing alters a person permanently, and for the rest of their days they will have to live with that act. Some do so well, others not. But it can't possibly leave you the same.

Dying's easy. Killing takes will.

An Unassailably Perfect Week.

Last week was perfect. Except that it didn't last quite 7 days. But it was so excellent that it couldn't even be derailed by...

Well, that can wait.

The week started on Tuesday with my birthday. My birthday used to be my favorite holiday. Christmas, Halloween, New Years all as meaningless as Arbor Day.

That is until 2006. Four straight birthdays were ruined, one by accidental physical illness, 3 by untreated mental illness, not my own.

I had actually given up on my birthday. I wasn't only not going to celebrate them, but wasn't going to acknowledge them, they'd been so poisoned.

No longer keeping company with the one who ruined the day I decided to let it happen. I was flooded with birthday wishes. I was warmed, and cheered, and felt loved.

I had only 2 wishes for the day itself: 1) that the day be as stressfree as possible; 2) that I spend the evening with my lady, Andrea.

Scored on both.

I'd some small fear that someone with a knack for ruining my good mood would try and inflict themselves upon the day, but that didn't happen.

What did happen was I had exactly the time with Andrea that I wanted. No, there will be no details. But it was wonderful. And...vigorous.

It was such a perfect time that I no longer had any of the fear of feeling I'd been experiencing for months. No longer was I afraid of deep emotion or knowing that I felt such. It was like waking up healed. I had a heart, and it was so full...

Those who've known me a long time can imagine my surprise in finding that I'd been shielding myself from emotions, but after the events of last fall I shouldn't have been surprised at all.

These months I've had this wonderful woman, and I finally could feel about her how she deserves.

(As of this writing I've still been nervous/shy/cryptic/(too)subtle about actually saying a certain phrase to her, but baby steps.)

The whole week went this way, with creativity, and exercise, and her, and her ridiculous dogs.

There were conversations with friends, and good times in general.

Then Saturday and the Supermoon. Andrea and I went to the beach to see it, and she got some awesome shots of it. It was a rare occasion for me in that I didn't experience a moon-triggered manic; I felt serene, and happy.

That week I spent every minute I was with Andrea looking at her, and feeling utterly full of love, grateful to be with her, wanting to touch, be touched, wrap around. It was rather awesome.

I haven't had such a run of days in a long time, and never have they come with a certainty of their rightness. I've always had nagging doubts, about whomever I was with, or myself, or someone else.

Now, nonesuch.

So. Sunday night. We are in the middle of...A Moment. My phone goes off. It's The Thing I Used To Be Married To. She with her psychic ability to call at just the wrong time. For no good reason. Not going into every Inspector Clouseau detail of my handling of the ringing; suffice it to say the Moment was ruined.

But not the week. A few minutes of anger, and annoyance, and once I'd burned it off it was done.

I went to bed and tried not to cuddle too much, as Andrea had work in the morning. But laying there next to her, I slept soundly, and without nightmares. Another welcome change.

M-O-O-N that spells lycanthropy

I've long had a mythology about the moon and my life. The fact that I can start of saying it's mythology says something about the passage of time, and that I am not the eye-liner-sporting, Bauhaus-shirt-wearing, drawing-witch-symbols-on-my-leather-jacket ball of self-congratulatory nonsense that I once was.

The whole myth I have about my relation to the moon is wrapped up in some odd facts about my family, specifically my mother and her line:

1. We are allergic to silver. She told me this many times, but I had to prove it to myself because when you're 17 no one knows anything but you, especially not your parents. I got my ear pierced multiple times at once. I started with a pair of gold studs just in case she was right, and finished with 3 silver ones a few days later after being made fun of for the gold. Within a week my ear was infected to horror movie standards in spite of meticulous hygiene, and my immune system had been erased leaving me with pneumonia that kept me out of school for a month. "I told you we were allergic to silver". I told you so. Thanks mom. 

Since then I've limited my contact with that metal, but found that the allergy is quite real, if uncommon. In the US, anyway.

2. We are extremely carnivorous. We eat red meat in amounts that make other people cringe, with definitions of "fully cooked" that cause arguments with other people. When I was a teenager I developed a craving. This was beyond the munchies of the pot I'd just smoked in the living room; this was a full on, belly-rumbling, must-have-it need: meat. Now. There was only a package of raw hamburger. I started to drool a little, probably because I was stoned. I tore a small hole in the plastic wrap that could be closed leaving no evidence, and got myself a small ball of ground moo-cow. 

It. Was. Heavenly. I took one more chunk, this time salting a it little, and closed up the package. 

For years I would snack so, ground beef, steaks, what have you, only taking moo-cow raw, having enough sense to avoid pig and poultry. But I kept this secret from people. I knew it was a little...off.

Until I came down stairs late one night and found my mother eating raw hamburger straight from the package. I was miffed because that's what I was coming for. She startled as though caught in a terrible act. Attempting to steal back some dignity she looked at me and said in a perfectly normal manner "Christopher. Would you like some?"

I continued the eating of raw moo-cow until about 30 when I could no longer put down the fear of pathogens. That's not to say the craving isn't there, but rare will suffice, rather than raw.

3. We, being bi-polar can become beasts. While both of my parents have a frightening temper it's only my mother's that ever made me fear for my safety. Apparently my temper is quite the same, though my standards for reaching that level are much different. 

I've even noticed that different phases of the moon produce different moods for me, or that different moods coincide with the phases. However you need to read it.

My conclusion when I was young: we were werewolves, of a bloodline diluted by mixing with humans for so long. Now I tend to think of the perfectly reasonable medical explanations for these facts, and am content with them.

I mention my personal mythology to emphasize that lunar activity has long held a significant place in my understanding of my life. Now:

Super Full Moon on Saturday.

This has some major fascination for me. The last Super Full Moon was a week before I turned 21. That was the beginning of some serious awfulness, as the legal sanctioning of my alcoholism mounted my depressive tendencies to sire a Monstrous Depressive Episode that lasted years. Even after the initial depression lifted the self-destructive self-medication continued until I was 30.

From 21 to 30 was a period of my life marred by moments of extraordinary darkness. I won't detail any of them right now; I'm just amazed I never succumbed to them. There is still some major rubble marking my path in those years.

What has this to do with the moon? Rationally, nothing. In my magical-thinking, hypersensitive-to-certain-patterns mind quite a lot. Whenever an event similar to one that began a period of time occurs I see it as the possible closing of a circle. Even if that event didn't cause the time period, even if it was mere coincidence, I can't help but ascribing it magical significance.

Regardless of the presence, or lack of magic, such thinking makes me reflect on my life, and really take stock of it. I look back now on some of the things I did in the aforementioned time of my life and can honestly say that I know better, that I would not do these things, that I would make better decisions, that I would not be so childish, or beastly.

I was a frightened, selfish boy in man size. This moon signals that I have transformed from that, and that the time for blind, needless destruction is well over. The darkness has lifted, as signaled by the rise of this moon.

When Compassion Deflates A Good, And Righteous Rage

(This is NOT about my ex.)

Part The First-a detailing of the conditions that led to Righteous Rage:

In August, when the woman I married, yet never really knew ended us I had to find a new place quickly. Being of very limited means limits choices, thus I had 2. Move in to a boarding house by Navy Yard Gate One that used to be known as a Heroin Hotel, or move in with WW, a guy I'd been acquainted with for years, but didn't know too deeply. Each had their drawbacks.

The former Heroin Hotel, while cleaned up, and no longer a center of crime, did not even include kitchen facilities. I was told by the manager that I could get a microwave, and live well on microwaved food. Cable, and thus internet were not included, and since I still owed the cable company, having not received the promised help from my ex in paying off our bills, I couldn't get cable hooked up.

It seemed a depressing situation to be in, and I was not enthused.

The other choice was WW's. It was more expensive than I was initially able to afford, but I was told it included everything.

Everything.

To me everything means Electric, Water, Sewer, Trash Collection, Cable, Internet, Heat, Hot Water, Privacy, and Safety. I was to find out there are different definitions of "Everything".

No Trash Pick Up

WW only took the trash to the dump once while I was there. I had to suggest it. Having no vehicle of my own I was reliant on his to get that job done. He generously lent me his car whenever I needed it, but in having to take the trash to the dump myself, and the high rent being paid, it seems like I was paying for the privilege of taking the trash of 2-4 men to the dump.

Add to that the fact that said vehicle didn't seem to be inspected, or inspectable, and things start getting stupid.

In October I met Andrea, and we spent much of our time together at her place after that, meaning most evenings and weekends. The trash situation was much out of mind, therefore.

Except when I went in the back yard. Where the growing pile was. And still is. Mind you it has been growing since September. Sanitary, that.

Little to No Heat

WW had told me in October that we wouldn't be getting a gas delivery until December. He texted me one evening to ask that I make a fire in the woodstove. I did. It was warm, and cheery, and I was pleased.

However, there was no cordwood to burn. Rather, it was a collection of scrap would in the basement, from rotting clapboards left over from remodelling, to broken furniture. It was a large pile, but none of it burned evenly.

At the end of October WW got us a cord of wood, and put down the rule that only one log be burned per fire, except at night.

This rule only applied to those of us not afflicted with being him. He always made fires with 2-5 logs.

Also he had a bizarre notion of how to circulate air to get heat throughout the house. He seemed to believe that pointing a fan directly down on the woodstove did something besides cool it off.

He borrowed a fan from one of the other guys there and put it at the top of the stairs where it blew against the bottom of the attic stairs creating a curtain of cool air that cooled the warm air trying to rise up the stairway. (When describing WW's fan placement ideas to a man versed in thermodynamics I was asked "Is he impaired in some way?")

The result was that T and I were cold in our rooms when WW had things set up his way. The temperature was sometimes in the 50s.

Doing it my way the entire 2nd floor was up to 70 degrees in about 90 minutes.

Having proven I was right I offered T $20 for the fan he lent WW. He just gave it to me.

This made WW angry. You may ask "He was angry about being warm?" No. He was angry about being disobeyed. Things had to be his way, even if it was proven that his didn't work. The more conclusive the proof that he was wrong the more bullshit he would spout, the less rational he would get, and the stupider he would sound.

It never seemed to be about the subject discussed, just that someone else was in some way superior to him.

He also never tried to communicate in a meaningful, or adult way rather, he just seethed until he exploded. Through Facebook.

It was sadly funny that he opened with the only accurate statement of the whole conversation, that he is too immature to face me.

Think, though, how safe I felt living with someone who felt like burning the house down. Of course it went on:
(For organization I have cut-and-paste shuffled the two longest messages in the thread together in a Statement-Response format; they were originally a list and a counter-list. He ignored any statement that he was wrong, especially statements mentioning proof thereof.)

Notice that he starts by claiming superior knowledge. His superior knowledge ignored the simple fact that, with his room directly above the stove, he would get most of the heat. Notice also that I was too annoyed to proof read properly.

 

 He ignores the "needlessly cold" through the entire exchange.

I had stack VHS tapes under part of the upstairs fan to tilt it downward to see if the fan could be used in any way. 

And who the hell thinks VHS tapes are somehow valuable, and in need of preservation?

And, as I mention, in one of WW's random, infrequent cleaning sprees he used my toothbrush to clean. He never acknowledges that.

 Again, with the ignoring plain and logical facts.

 He seems to believe that he has authority over people, but no responsibility to them.

No fuel assistance until March? So the place doesn't include heat. Got it.

I was combing Craigslist for free wood for quite a while, but WW was always having naps, because he would play video games all night long. With no assistance in getting the wood I could do nothing.

 

Because he had been taking psychology at Great Bay he felt qualified to diagnose everyone with something that justified his treatment of them. (Interesting coincidence: around the time he and his 18 (19?) year old (non) girlfriend broke up he stopped to going college. She was proof reading his papers. Not saying the two facts are related, but it's interesting.)

 

My keyboard developed aphasia while I typed. It should have read "no need of more fires", and "where you put it".

Regardless, he ignored what I was saying about the temperature again.

 He never got the thermometers, nor addressed my experiment.

Not only was his math wrong, but he wanted me to change how I'm paid to account for his lack of organization. At one point he had asked me (after I moved in) to pay weekly because "Too much money at once confuses" him. I told him 'no' then, too.

He feels guilty about my having to do more, but not about making my doing more necessary.

In my reply the stove mentioned is the gas range in the kitchen. From the time I moved in until December the oven didn't work. I figured out the problem, and ordered the part. WW was just leaving it, having no oven. (Pete is the landlord's assistant.)

So No Trash Pick Up, Insufficient Heat, and No Oven. And No Logic, or Adult Communication. For $700 a month. At least we had all the cable channels except the porn.

He presumes that only someone not him could be wrong. Also that I care if he likes me. He always goes on the presumption that people think as highly of him as he does, and thus crave his approval.

Considering I was angry enough to not feel pain, I think I kept reasonably calm.

Notice he doesn't examine any of his own behavior. When he mentions my attitude being "threatening and unappreciated" understand that we had not been in the same room for hours. He was only going by my words, which, in my opinion merely refuted his statements. Sometimes with proof.

So he finds being shown that he's wrong threatening, and doesn't appreciate it? This should have given me the clue for later, but I was a little stressed and unable to see it.

He says here that the "obviousness" of my "bristling nature is palpable", yet he started the whole thing off with "since i am to immature to face you and discuss this" to justify sending a Facebook message. BTW after hitting send he literally ran to his car.

"deal with the cold better"? Not at $700 a month. Fuck that.

Again, he only accuses, never looks at his own actions.

Again my keyboard developed aphasia and skipped words. They should be obvious.

Because he was not going to get his way he relented about the money.

But notice again he doesn't respond to direct questions about his behavior, or statements that he has caused others problems.

This is the end of the conversation. He eventually texted me the number, but it took my harping on it. WW did not seem to want someone else in contact with Pete for some reason.

Drunken Teenage Parties

WW is sober. He just passed 5 years. However, from the time I moved in until the (non) girlfriend stopped coming around there were drunk teenagers in living room, dining room, and kitchen most weekends. He would buy them beer.

Some of the teenagers were Calvin, and his friends, and they didn't bother so much. Calvin was the Young Punk Who Lived in the Attic. Nice guy. Had the consideration to knock and ask if I minded him drumming.

Regardless, the sober guy was buying them beer. A 38-39 year old man providing alcohol to teenagers, primarily girls is not sketchy by what rules? Factor in that, unlike certain friends of mine who've dated much younger, WW stated he could get women his own age.

Considering, also, that he did not lock the front door (I never received a key to the place) it never felt safe there.

Dubious Circumstances Under Which Others Moved Out, And Keeping Their Stuff

Soon after I moved in, one day before going to work WW said to me, that a previous tenant may stop by and try to get his stuff. I was to prevent him. "Kick his ass" WW said laughingly. Knowing that not even the owner of the house had the right to keep someone from their stuff without due process I said "No thank you." The attic and basement are chock full of stuff that I began to wonder the origin of.

Tim, whom I've mentioned before, lost his job in December. He had to go away for a week in January, and, rather than return straight away, he sent a mass text to all his friends that he was staying with friends near Manchester so he could to the VA and try to get benefits, so he could pay his delinquent rent.

WW asked me the next day if I'd talked to Tim. Feeling that it was worth it to split the hair and not-exactly lie, I said "No, I haven't talked to him". He didn't ask about other means of communicating with him. WW told me that T had moved in with a girl he was in love, and her boyfriend, that he'd found god, and was going to church, and wouldn't be back.

He actually seems to believe this.

After about a week WW removed all of T's stuff from his room, except the bed. He moved a table downstairs, and put most of the rest in the attic. It's fair to mention at this point that WW had lost his own job in December due to a chronic pain condition. The condition seemed to clear up in time to remove T's stuff.

And then rented the room (including T's bed) to a young guy new to sobriety.

This was the end of my trust. WW had made up something about someone else, and punished them for it. While I kept my room padlocked I knew it would only take a crowbar to break in to my room, and pilfer my stuff. Obviously I didn't (and don't) believe B&E beyond WW.

I was always on edge because of him, and I hated him, monster that he is. I felt sick, and poisoned, and afraid, never knowing when his behavior would get worse, matching the scary stories people who've known him have told me.

It had gotten to the point where I was actually hoping that WW would lose his shit and attack me. At least then we could achieve some finality.

Moving

I had been looking for a place since early December. There had been offers: a boarding house halfway to York (no car, no thanks), an cozy apartment with 2 recently divorced women of similar age ('cause that's not a recipe for stupidity, really), a very lonely woman who offered to create a suite out of her basement if I'd help (I imagine her played by Cathy Bates), and a place 100 yards from my ex (NOT EVEN FOR FREE).

Finally I found "Boarding House. Kittery. $90 a week. Includes everything. Must be clean and sober." I emailed saying "I'm clean and sober; what do you need from me to move in? -Chris"

Reply: "Is this the Chris who lived here a few years ago? Chris Walters?"

It was the boarding house that I had moved into 10 years ago, where the landlords abide by their word, and it really does include everything. I was the second respondent. Usually they are flooded when they put an ad in Craigslist. They were happy to have me back. Luck was with me, finally.

I gave no notice, and don't feel bad. WW had gotten a job, and wouldn't even be there when I moved. I had a crew of people I trusted implicitly, capable, honest people, who would be useful in the event of a crisis. With no WW we had my stuff out in less than an hour, and into my new/old place in less than a second one.

Immediately I began to feel relief, and relax.

Part The Second-after the cessation of the stress, a reassessment, and a glimmer of sharp compassion.

A few hours after moving I was talking to various people who know WW. We shared some laughs at his expense, told stories, commiserated.

As I said I'd given no notice; I felt any advance warning would have prompted the man to break into to my room.

I received a text around 6:30 saying "Apparently your moving? Ummmmmm... you intend to pay rent I assume??"

I replied "Oh yeah. I knew there was something I forgot. I have moved. As to rent as I see it I owe you nothing. You'll interpret it differently, but there we are."

Then someone mentioned that WW's brother had stated that WW was once diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Asperger's, being a high functioning form of Autism, is not unknown to me; Alex, my former stepson is on the Autism Spectrum, but closer to normal than Asperger's. I know too many of the symptoms, and couldn't make Asperger's fit. (I also didn't want to. I want WW's behavior to be his choice, for him to be a shitty human being, rather than a sick one.)

However, my opinion changed over the course of the night, and next day. WW sent me over 70 total text messages from approximately 6:00PM until about 9:30. At one point there texts coming so fast that I could not type out a word without being interrupted by the New Message notification.

WW wanted an explanation how he could deserve such treatment. After all his struggles how could I hurt him so coldly. He asked if he was a bad person that I tell him how. He asked me to help him understand.

So I told him. In great, exacting detail. I explained every action that I had witnessed that was objectionable, immoral, or illegal. I told him that this was a widely held opinion, not just my own.

I kept to cold, factual statements based on observations. I didn't use any insulting terms, or try to attack; clinical assessment was more than adequate.

I did this by text. And I don't have a smart phone with a full keyboard.

Of course WW couldn't see that his actions were destructive. And he blamed everyone else for not telling him to stop (though various people had, prompting worse behavior).

In a sadly pathological take on "I'm rubber and you're glue" he would then accuse me of all the things he had done.

Bottom line: he was unable to see himself as having done wrong in any capacity. He would ignore any proof, and cite his intentions, and then rant, trying to smother the uncomfortable accusations in words.

And he reminded me of Alex. When Alex is stressed out he can't accept being wrong. The more he's confronted with his own error, or guilt the less rational he becomes, sometimes leading to flagrant psychosis.

Meds did so much for Alex...

But Gods Damn It! WW had drawn a comparison to my kid! The creature I refer to as The Weasel shares some major pathology with Alex.

I WAS PISSED!

There went all my fantasies of ruining his life and laughing at him, of seeing him fail and celebrating.

He was actually pardoned from my Revenge List. Said list in not long, but some people have been on it over 30 years.

WW is the first to removed from it.

I still don't think he has Asperger's; I think the tests he would have taken would now be outdated. But I am certain he is on the Autism Spectrum. Certain of it.

And as soon as I allowed this thought to gel it actually crystallized.

Very smart in certain subjects, but noticeably impaired understanding their own impact on those around them? Check.

Obsessive collector of useless crap? Check.

Unable to take criticism? Check.

Good lord, I thought. 39 years untreated. His life is perpetually a shambles, and he can't grasp why. He really doesn't know that anyone who has left his life has likely been provoked by him. How awful.

This isn't like a personality disorder, where the wrong thinking has been learned, sometimes self-imposed and reinforced: he can't be blamed at all for what's wrong with him. It's wiring.

And there are very effective treatments.

I used to joke with T about putting some of Alex's emergency pills in WW's food. Little did I understand they may have been exactly the thing needed.

He's a monster, but he doesn't have to be.

Sadly, I've talked to paranoid schizophrenics who could have much more lucid conversations about themselves, even under heavy meds, or with voices speaking loudly to them.

So The Weasel's been pardoned. And now, if given a real chance, I would help him.

48 hours ago I was musing over the most secure way to weight his body for a little sailing trip I wanted to take him on.

What a ride.

Pathology

I'm having a night of intense pathology, being confronted with some of the most severe attitudes I possess. Ended up deep in conversation with my friend Angry Mike, who is, in addition to being chronically angry, very adept at understanding certain aspects of human psychology.

And hating, with equal ferocity, some of the same personality types/disorders that I do. We got talking about a well known pathological liar of our mutual acquaintance. It's well know that this man CAN NOT TELL THE TRUTH. Yet people still call him a "friend", and a "good guy".

Talking to Mike, after a week of being confronted with useless bullshit and madness from other quarters, stoked up the fire of hatred toward the mutual ex-friend. Then towards the people we know who don't hate him. I was left with a self-righteous indignation: how can people not know the man is WORTHLESS? Why aren't they able to see the truth of him like I can? (Funny that talking to a guy called "Angry" left me in a state of rage. Usually it doesn't.)

(Calming down I had to ask: How does my ego get so engorged, and inflamed?)

I was left to wonder why this was bothering me so much. I realized it's because my mom's been hospitalized for the second time in a week for mental health issues. Our relationship is such that I'm not worried at all for her; I'm grateful she's in the care of people who can do something for once.

No. My second biggest emotion here is that I resent the fact that it's taken nearly 39 years of my life for her to lose control enough for someone in authority to see what I had to deal with for so long: Manic Episodes, Paranoia, Behavior she couldn't explain. This time she scared people enough to be involuntarily committed TWICE in 7 days.

That resentment is slightly eclipsed by vindication: I wasn't lying all those years, not even exaggerating. All the times my friends said "Your mom is an angel", not understanding that she was only that way when "outsiders" were around...

Following on the heels of the vindication is a slightly more complex form of relief, one that Mike actually put the words to: much of your self image comes from your parents, so if you learned to hate yourself, or in any way dislike yourself because of a parent, and that parent proves to not be sane or stable then that is a whole way of thinking of yourself that can be discarded. The implications of that will be years in presenting themselves...

Since this has begun Lady Voldemort, She Who Must Not Be Named, my ex-wife has been saying to a mutual friend that she would like to go see my mom. And to call me to see how I'm doing. She fails to understand that talking to her would render me unwell. I have asked it to be passed on that I want no calls, and that visiting my mom would probably not be good for her.

Because of these recent interactions I have come to understand an aspect of my character that started as a juvenile attempt at psychological self-defense:
when someone displays clear and irrefutable disregard for others, whether or not from obvious mental illness, making them to regularly disrupt the lives of, if not outright harm others,
AND they
don't see it as a problem,
or see it as a problem with others not themselves,
or see it as abnormal yet refuse to get treatment

then I lose all regard and affection for that person. Any caring I had for them is inaccessible to me, and may just as well be totally gone. In some cases I don't even have basic respect for them.
A number of people fall in this category. 'My ex-wife. Most certainly the Ex-Friend, the pathological liar.
I think this total cutting-off of people comes from an inability to meter my trust, and a terror of having that trust violated again. In all cases I've been burned, and forgiven, and been burned again. No further forgiveness is available. These people are written off.

It may sound harsh to...hmm...humans, but apologies are just words, especially when someone does exactly the same thing for which they apologized, with no self-examination, no attempt to change. Apologies are trite, and meaningless from someone who will hurt you again. In case anyone has any doubts I am not a Buddhist, nor a Christian: Forgiveness MUST be earned, not purchased with a currency totally devoid of value.

These people all possess conditions that make it impossible for them to ever truly understand how they've hurt someone else; these conditions make them believe that whatever reasons they have for doing a thing must be universally sound, and right. They are incapable of viewing themselves from outside. If that changed, if somehow each of them could enumerate the ways they've hurt me or others, in unflinching truth, then I might have something more for them. But that will not happen.

This cutting-off is sometimes viewed as a symptom of one of a few personality disorders, as I am not the only person who does this. Oh well. Any mental disorder that is not neurologically based likely comes from one's environment. What else would mine have taught me?

Rule of Wrist 01-19-11

There is little in life as destructive as a person who believes everything they do is good, right, moral, and helpful. Such people never notice that the debris littering their pasts (and there always is) has only one common factor: they themselves. Such people invariably cling to "I Didn't Mean To" with the same desperation as a preschooler with clippers standing over a bald cat, fully believing the magic words will absolve them of blame. Even years later they will remember the incident as if they had been helpful.

These people also tend only to do things for others if there is some immediate benefit for themselves, and when asked to do something purely for another they act as if they're being robbed. They also do not have real consciences.

Because the moralistic violence that chimps use to make their groups more harmonious by editing their populations is illegal among we higher primates, such people tend to live long, inconvenient lives blaming everyone else for their suffering. They are almost objects of pity, these people we can't euthanize, as they go through life firmly convinced that they have the bad luck to be always surrounded contrary people, and if everyone else would just grow up & obey all would be so much happier. Such pervasive delusions must consume massive amounts of energy, the effort to reinforce them in spite of all evidence being tremendous.

The best thing to do is to notice them quickly, know them for what they are, and avoid them. Much fun could be had introducing them to a 1%er Motorcycle Club and watching the fallout, but the MC would certainly take umbrage at the inconvenience foisted on them, and most of them have rules about repaying such things in uncomfortable ways.

Such people can lead one to fantasize about creative use of fine wood-working tools to create a state of paralysis from the nose down, then, under guise being helpful (see the poetry?) drop the person down short flights of stairs, or posing them as a decorative end table on the premise that one was sure they wanted to participate in the fun and one was merely playing to their strengths.

There are many thoughts that will race through the head when confronted regularly by such mental illness, low grade, and pathetic though it might be, whether at home, or at work. Just remember if you give in to your urges, understandable as those may be, and drive a railroad spike into any part of the object of your ire, then the law is on their side. Keep your temper, and careful notes, and the law might one day be on yours.

Divorce papers

My divorce papers came.

I had decided not to go to the hearing, just to let it all be done.

There were promises broken, in addition to the divorce happening in the first place. Foolish me; I'd hoped someone incapable would become capable.

I want to have no more feeling about this. She can flip a switch and feel she wants. She says. I don't believe her. She believes her. I'm jealous of her capacity to self-delude.

My karma is no longer legally bound to someone who lives by a whim, who can't keep to a budget, bargain, timetable, promise, or vow.

I'm mainly relieved. I'm still angry.

All those years with someone who can't see their own part in anything, who thinks their blame extends no further than starting a thing that failed, with no clue in what action of hers caused the failure.

I have no charity left for her. I was thrown away like trash by someone acting like trash, acting just like the mother she hated.

My curse, until she changes herself: That she see herself as she is rather than how she wishes, and feel appropriately at the sight of herself.

Rules of Wrist 12-1-10

Rules of Wrist 12-1-10

• Being unable to say something to someone’s face loses you moral high-ground.* Being unwilling to subject your views to scrutiny, or criticism, thereby talking down to someone else loses even more. Being unable to say something to someone’s face, AND talking down to someone because you’re unwilling to subject your views to scrutiny, or criticism, AND turning out to be wrong makes you worse than you thought they were in the first place.
  
  *Exception: When dealing with a narcissist or psychopath who will not see themselves as wrong despite evidence, and may do you harm in confrontation.

• It is statistically impossible for it to always have been them.

• Being “eternally young” is NOT the same as being “perpetually immature”. When you have only the same problem-solving skills you had 20 years ago, with no new ones, you are not “childlike”; you are “childish”. At some point immaturity becomes insanity.

Axes

I retrieved my axes from her house. I found how to write their names (yes they have names) in Russian, and engraved the blades using my Dremel. The black one is "ярость (Rage)", and the silver one "Долг (Duty)". (To hear them pronounced cut and paste on this page.)

It's been so long. 

"Rage" was bought when we lived in Michigan, and the fat meth addict burglarized us. I was so angry, and so frightened, and needed to reclaim some power over my life. He broke in while we were at the doctor for my kidney stones. 

I wanted that bastard to come back so badly. He's serving life in prison, and I have my guitar back, but the damage he did us was permanent.

"Duty" was purchased when we went to my mom's, and I had to clear an impassable ice sheet from her driveway because the landlord refused to.

These tools remind me of my responsibility to my family, and how, sometimes, that family is out of reach, even unsafe to be around.

These tools remind me of my decision to reclaim my shape from the ravaging it took in Michigan, with poor diet, and bad water. 

These tools remind me that, though willing to commit drastic action to affect a change, a drastic action is not always available.

The tools remind me that, though eager to do a job, I may not have the right tools to do it. 

These tools remind me that some people are too toxic to be around, and should be cut from my life.

These tools remind me that someone who is incapable of perceiving truth is incapable of telling truth.

These tools remind me that insanity is infectious, but sanity takes decision and work.

These tools remind me that I am a dad, which is more than a donor of genes.

These tools remind me that, when I entered his life that boy was often a beast, and, by my influence, he is now often human (as far as a 12 year old can be).

These tools remind me that anyone can change anything that goes on in their head if they'll just try.

These tools remind me that failure is a risk of being human, but to not try for fear of failure is cowardice in the extreme.

These tools remind me of the extremes of my nature, and that in the distance between those poles is a whole man, who deserves much more than suffering, and punishment.

These tools remind me that some people are too sick to do right. These tools remind me that I have decided not to be them.

Rule of Wrist 11-9-10

"Living in the now" doesn't mean pretending the past never happened.