How abuse and neglect in childhood shape our physiological and hormonal responses as adults. As seen on YouTube.

Karened: Church people are unique

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Dreams and Nightmares in Patients With Obstructive Sleep Apnea: A Review
— Read on www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6817494/

www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC6817494/pdf/fneur-10-01127.pdf

https://www.psycom.net/paranoid-schizophrenia

https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/schizophrenia

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This is an symbolic depiction of what actually happened over 30 years ago, and I think about it everyday. Up until today, people in his present church as well as the small house church we used to go to still think “Lilac” brought him back to the fold because he insists his girlfriend at the time had, making it look like it was Lilac’s doing. Thanks, N. I hope you have a great life with a bad conscience and as unhappy a future as the past 30 years have granted me. Fuck you.

I spent a lifetime chasing beauty

All this time, Beauty eluded me.

I thought I could capture her in a phrase,

Or in a cantabile dolce of one of Mozart’s finest

Beauty remained an an enigma

I would daydream of catching her and holding on

Fascinated with what lay beneath the layers of the golden orb

That I could unravel time, distance, secrets of worlds lost,

And all the mysteries of this life and beyond

Only I found, as I gently peeled back leaf after gilded leaf

That the centre was leaden, hollowed-out ebony,

And within it laid this mortal coil.

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It’s not like I wasn’t trying.

It’s just that if by the age of two

You only knew the clashing voices of loved ones

And the bleakness of unavailable

Hearts,

You settle for the

most ridiculous of

childhood

Pretend games.

So bleakness curled its tail around me

Until, one day

My father brought home

A record.

It wasn’t any old record

It was a gift for me

That he had scoured the city to find

On the recommendation of a friend.

My father, the tone-deaf, utilitarian workaholic

Bought me a music record Of a pianist

But all I heard was the piano

And of it being as exquisite as a father’s intention

For his daughter

I was simply unaware

Of the trap I was falling into

For at the tender age of three

Beauty entered my life

And I knew her by name.

Since then, I have been seeking beauty in all things

And whenever I’ve had to shun it

I become bitter and cynical

Wishing ill upon the many enemies accrued

And wishing that I could just die

But after each drought

I would learn that Beauty never left me

In a way, I always knew she was there

Patiently waiting, alluringly

Like a monument who never ages

But who dares you to look again

Upon her perfect, fascinating face

That needs no jewel to crown

But beckons you to hope anew.

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Thought I’d dredge my poetry collection for some of my faves. Enjoy.

In the beginning

I had all the time in the world

But didn’t want it.

Time is not all that

It’s added up to be.

By the age of seven,

I faced suicide. Time marked me.

At twelve, I realized I could never

Be a good mother,

So Time grabbed me by the womb

And stood still.

At twenty, I fell in love.

For the first time,

Time didn’t matter.

At twenty-one, my lover

Left me to chase his old flame,

Once too spiritual for him,

But, you see, I had brought him

Back

Into the fold,

So, now, he thought he had a better chance.

Time turned black and white, green, and red.

Ten years of waiting and being taunted.

Psychotic church leaders

Who meted out their dole of destruction.

Time was a cheat.

But the worst was the lie from someone

Whom you love

Who once was supposed to have

Loved you back,

Replying when asked,

What helps?

“Time heals.”

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Anger is a miserable houseguest. When it wants to pull you in to participate, it does not take much for it to convince. When it won’t leave you alone, it clings like an annoying rival who has used you for its stores of energy and display, leaving you depleted, self-loathing, and frustrated.

Of all of these, the worst feeling is frustration. You have tried to placate it. You have jumped through all the hoops until you were depleted. You have self-sacrificed like a good martyr hoping to win it over while risking your own health. Ultimately, she is a troll. A snake. A crocodile that cries.

In the end, they get under your skin. And like any decent human being, you try meditating. It is pure rubbish. Talk to a Buddhist, and he will wish a vengeful karma on someone he feels has shafted him. Talk to a Christian, and they’ll invariably get fed up with your problems. Talk to a 14-year-old, and she makes Anger look like a sissy. Such are the conditions we humans find ourselves confined to.

Is there any respite? I cannot find it. I have been alive now, not enjoying any moment of it, for half a century. I have a lot of negative self-talk. I have become spiteful, petty, and deeply vengeful. I have become that ball of Anger–that wretched, infiltrating house-pest. I have lived with it for so long, I’m ready to strangle the people now long gone while they turn in their graves.

These are dark thoughts. I am sorry I exposed this side of myself and yet how can I not? If I do not write these things, even should nobody else read them, I am bottling up hate for another season and it will become a poisonous brew. I would rather you normaloids hate what I write and have it strike a chord with 0.0001% of the population than that I never, in my twisted but sensible irony, let Anger go.

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