From: dnelson@icaen.uiowa.edu (David Nelson)
Subject: ***SPOILER*** Bad Brain Day
Organization: Iowa Computer Aided Engineering Network, University of Iowa
Date: Tue, 5 Jan 1993 15:29:26 GMT


                    *** SPOILER WARNING ***

Please pay no attention to this post as it is just an expression
of one of those moods I get in.  I'm not really like this.
Really.  Well, maybe sometimes.

This post contains intense expressions of self-loathing and
excessive pain.  Please don't read it if you're not in a strong
psychological space.













Psycho Spew #68

                Shame-screams Inside My Head

Jesus is Satan.  I think I finally got it figured out.  After all
these years.  Look, Mom was a Christian, or at least she *said*
she was.  And Satan is the source of all evil.  So if Mom was a
sort of New Age channeler for Evil, then it must have been Jesus.
I saw her wearing mistletoe on her belt one Christmas, and that
*wasn't* Santa doing the kissing.  ("That was just a dream.
That was just a dream.  That's me in the corner.  That's me
in the spotlight, losing my religion.")

You know how some people have a bad hair day?  Well, I'm having a 
Bad Brain Day.

Shame screams inside my head - harrying and harrowing me,
impelling me down the path of the glistening blade, pock-marked
whoreson that I am.  I *deserve* it!  I *deserve* to bleed.  
It's become a Necessity - to let the pain out and the punishment
in.  ARGH!!!  Will it ever end?

  Little child, I can feel your pain, 
  I have heard your tortured cries
  Crawling like a wounded beast 
  to some ancient holy light
 
  In the darkest midnights I've
  awakened to your call
  And stumbled down your jungle paths
  my back against the wall...

Damnit, if only I could *cry*!  
[insert loud-volume expressions of rage, anguish, and sanity-angst]

But I have so many voices inside my head that sometimes I think
I'm multiple.  Either that or there really *is* demonic
possession and I have opened a Holiday Inn for wayward spirits
inside my brain.   You make the call.  You connect the dots. You
pick the nose, etc.  Et Cetera.

And it hurts.  Almost all of the time.  It's why I can't stand to
be around normal people because I start talking to myself out
loud and lots of times I forget that my voice is actually working
and I didn't just *think* that though, but I said it out loud.

Oh Jesus!  It's so bleeding *embarrassing*!  <wail>  Why can't I
just be normal?

Boring, boring. This is boring!  Can't you *ever* get anything
right?  What is the *matter* with you?

It's all a fake.  You're just *pretending* to be crazy just so
you can get pity from people, you controlling, manipulative
little shitfuck.

Ever notice how accusations have 'you' in them so much?

<mocking> "Ever notice how accusations have 'you' in them so
much?"

Remember, this is coming from a man who walks the streets of Iowa
City at 5AM growling out loud and muttering "shitfuckhelldamn,
rotten bastard, cocksucker, fudgepacker, butt-lubing mutant."

Incidentally,  a few weeks ago I actually ran into one of these
people who talk to themselves in public and as I passed him he
yelled at me, "I want to suck some cock!"  So I smiled at him and
said, "good luck.  Have a nice day."  It sort of made my skin
crawl that he, like, actually, *talked* to me.  I mean, I was
probably safe since I'm approximately the size of a 1951 Buick,
but still...

He scared me.  *I* scare me.  I talk to myself.  Out loud.  With
my larynx. The pains stab my brain, brain-pains shame-pains so
that I sometimes moan out loud or say "fuck you" to the voices in
my head.  I tried to tell a friend of mine that if my own mother
didn't want me, then what right do I have to live?  And she said,
"fuck you!"  Chalk *that* one up to my (once again) opening up to
a nonsupportive person. Silly me, I thought because she was a
cult deprogrammer that she might understand the feelings of a sex
abuse survivor.

Sometimes I think I am in dire need of professioanl psychiatric
assistance.  Which, I, of course, have but in the meantime...

I WANT MORPHINE!!!   Just a little something to tide me over
(for about 40 years!)  until therapy can finish up this
psychological enema that I so evidently need.  Like Gibson said,
"it's not like I'm an addict, it's just that my body's developed
this incredible drug deficiency."  Medication is for sissies.  No
it's not.  Yes it is.  No it's not.  Fuck you.  No, fuck *you*!

And the damnedable hell of it is that I *know* so many things
about recovery.  I'm a walking encyclopedia of psychobabble.  Is
it functional or organic?  Is it live or Memorex?  At times, this
*really* makes me want to reach out and change the channel.

Can we say 'heart-head split'?  I knew we could!  Talk about 
dissociation.  Talk about an unintegrated personality.  Talk about
existential vacuum.  I used to think thatthis deep pit of lonliness
inside me was me missing the rest of my me's.  I don't know.  Maybe
it's simply an endorphin deficiency.  Maybe it's the blackened, 
oozing pus-pit where I have collected all the sins of the family -
I mean talk about lacking boundaries.  We could sum this up in
a few illogical statements such as: "I am what I do.  I am only
justified by others' opinions of me.  I deserve whatever bad
things happen to me."  Talk about 'this way lies madness.'

If I obsess about the Rescure Triangle, it's because I have that
particular cycle running through my brain not unlike hamsters on
speed trying to wear out their exercise wheel.

So I quit one of my jobs.  It was the potting soil that did it. I
could tolerate them giving staplers and paper clips to small
children, leaving lovely little metal objects stuck in the carpet
and making it impossible to vacuum without jamming the vacuum
cleaner.  And I could even tolerate the split peas, dried corn
kernels, and black beans all over the floor - even though the
vacuum cleaner won't pick them up.  And I could tolerate the
modeling clay being smeared all over the linoleum.  Hell, I even
could put up with being required to wax the no-wax floors.  But
the final straw that awoke the Sleeping Mutant Within was the
potting soil.  They bought this little sandbox on wheels and
filled it with rich, black loam and then gave the kiddies
trowels, flower pots, and unlimited access to fling dirt directly
on the floor.  I didn't mind sweeping up the dirt, sand, leaves,
and assorted debris that the kids tracked into the building, but
I finally snapped when they started bringing in truckloads of
real, live DIRT to throw around on the floors that I had just
spent 10 hours deep scrubbing and shampooing.  It was at that
exact moment that I realized that not only *is* there a God, but
He is regularly being buggered by Satan _sans_ KY -- and the
result is that these teachers lay awake nights thinking of
creative substances to give the kiddies so as to *express* their
budding little creativity organs.  You realize, of course, that
God created children for the sole purpose of maintaining entropy
in the universe.

It's not like I take it *personally* or anything, is it?  I used
to clean the bathrooms in the Otis Elevator factory - and the
biologicals there were *intense*. I mean we're talking everything
from mucus to feces being smeared on the walls.  The only bodily
secretion that I didn't explicitly identify was semen - and some
of those snot-spots looked pretty suspicious to me.

So I fucked up.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I couldn't take that
job anymore.  This is along with realizing that I'm a Love Addict
this week.  I mean, I *suspected* it but then I read the SLAA 
literature and now I *know*.  Christ! Will it never end?  *Must*
there be an endless list of things that are wrong with me?

I am so *SICK* of "recovery".  I could power-vom an entire gallon
of pea soup at the wall.  I would like that - really I would.  I'd
like to make my head rotate through 360 degrees and yell "fuck me,
Jesus!" and then levitate.  I mean, the shock value would amuse the
hell out of me to say nothing of watching people pee their pants
over the deal.

To steal a phrase from an ex-SO, I sometimes think that I am
approximately as useful as a stainless steel tampon.

Father Sky, Mother Earth, Brother Sun, Sister Moon:
But what if even *they* have a dysfunctional family?
<tears out hair>

*My* (belated) Christmas Wish List:
1. A New Brain
2. A Personality Transplant
3. Large quantities of recreational chemicals

But I won't.  I'm stuck with Reality and doing it The Hard Way.  <sigh>

  >Gee, Dave, thanks for sharing, glad you came.<

  >I didn't come, I didn't even breathe hard.<