This morning a present came in from Amazon, for my older brother. He’s working through a lot of issues that the Psychiatric Ward he’s been in and out of since he was sixteen, who have failed to help him.
Since having been given a little iPod with a collection of energy changing music, meditations and an excerpt from an interview with Kanye West – apparently he’s engaging with “groups” and doing all sorts of things to get through. I am so proud of him.
To be honest I disagree with most of the methods that the NHS uses to “help” people – the fact that people can torture the vulnerable and not even know that they’re doing it, the fact that they mostly lack any kind of basic empathy terrifies me. But my brother is tough – so, so so tough. If he has to do that for now, then I guess thats his path to walk, a life he chose before coming into a body.
The system will change because of he and I – and I know that – because it has to be acknowledged that the system didn’t help either of us one bit, it did more damage than any kind of good at all.
The system is moulded around the belief that people who are mentally ill are supposed to come back (the pharmaceutical companies really need that – they don’t want to make people better, they want to make money.)…
I had a funny memory actually – of being in a kitchen, in a psych ward – being assessed for whether I could cook.
The medication I was on had affected my memory so badly that I struggled to cut chicken and cook it – and that carried through to reports made about my housing.
On the one hand I really pity how misinformed and yet deeply pompous people working in that industry are – how incredulously unknowledgeable they can be while working with vulnerable people. There were genuinely “nice” people who genuinely had no idea that they were torturing myself and the other patients in the ward. If you experience the hierarchy of a psychiatric ward, it’s comparable to the >>Stanford Prison Experiment.<<
And it’s not just that – psychiatric medications thought to “help” people actually render them more vulnerable – by far – than they already were before having those medications administered.
Further to that – I ended up being placed in a halfway house, in a box room on a single bed with two deeply unstable men occupying the rooms on either side of me.
One – a manipulative pervert who kept asking for massages for his bad leg – a war wound from an abusive relationship he said – and the other… a suicidal guy who couldn’t cope with people texting me while we were in the living room watching Lost. Literally attempted suicide because of that nonsense. And I didn’t think much of that – I’ve been completely alone. Actually I can’t be sure what I thought of it, the psychiatric drugs I was taking that only gave me lee-way to be awake for enough hours to go to University lectures (Going to University while you’re residing in a half-way house is an achievement I was never acknowledged for, by anyone. No “Well fucking done” or anything like that. Which is fine, I don’t need that – but it’s important to say, important to get people to empathise with what they put me through.)
When I lived with that manipulative pervert massage enthusiast, I felt it was because people had heard about my relationship with a guy. I’ve said before – we had moments of aggression towards each other. Minor but loud/dramatic domestic altercations. Ironically the only one that ever had bruise marks to show for it was ME.
I grew up around people who, my spiritual teacher described as being “Addicted to arguing” – that is, intense arguments. There are years of my infancy I spent speaking – only – to – argue.
People who have experienced some kind of trauma argue like that – it’s found in people with borderline personality disorder. And it’s weird because the only people that seem to talk about people with borderline personality disorder is people who have dated people with borderline personality disorder – and actually, most people my age with borderline personality disorder have simply been RAISED by someone with borderline personality disorder.
Old “friends” will tell you that when he play fought with me he would hit me repeatedly and so hard it would leave big bruises – big yellow/purple things that were sensitive to the touch.
The thing was that firstly – I don’t do the victim mentality. If I have a play fight with a guy – I am probably “going easy” on him (sorry, no offence, but it’s true) and if he hits me back the absolute last thing I’ll do is say “ow” or “cry”. It wasn’t a big deal to me.
When I was little I was taught that when you study martial arts you must never use it to hurt someone unless it’s in self defence. If I wanted to cause someone damage – if I felt I was in real danger – I could hurt someone far worse than they could hurt me. Not because I studied martial arts – I only ever really learned how to dance. I’d prefer a kick from a “martial artist” to a “dancer” any day. Trust.
So when he would hit me repeatedly in play fights, I would LAUGH. Because it was a game. And when we fought in arguments – on one occasion I pushed him into the bedroom of the hobbitdwarf in the room next door to me, that he was fucking when I wasn’t around. People heard and came to all sorts of conclusions about me – but really the worst I ever did was throw his shoes out of the window. When I did that he pushed me onto the floor.
THAT was when he called the Police. Because I threw his shoes out of the window.
When the Police came, they asked if either of us did drugs. I said no. The cheating, scummy retard said yes. The thing about telling Police you’ve been doing drugs – is that when they come over for some stupid domestic argument – is that it is no longer about the domestic argument. It suddenly draws in a whole lot of people who are completely unrelated to the issue. You, your home and it’s occupants are then observed for drug interactions – and those dealers you make friends with are put in danger too.
You’d think that, after you and your friends being chased by police and then beaten up by the police for KICKING A BIN you’d know better but the issue with you is that you just don’t learn.
The majority of kids selling non-addictive drugs like weed is that if they get caught, they get a criminal record. Unlike you – most of these kids don’t WANT to work in retail after university. Do you know how criminal records affect people’s lives? They can’t TRAVEL, They can’t get JOBS. Just because you are a lazy piece of shit who only ever thinks about the next orifice he can stick his not-entirely-functional dick into, who can’t cope with the consequences of a person who does everything to keep him happy getting offended when you fuck her friends – does not mean you have the right to selfishly invite the police to ruin people’s lives. Mine included.
I used to think it was right to call the Police to sort things out – when you had things stolen from you, when your life was in danger etc. Well that was mistaken thinking to put it mildly. Well, after being beaten up as a teenager in a very public place in pure daylight (SURROUNDED by people) by about twenty or so girls – and simply being given a rape alarm by the police, I really should’ve known better. (Especially as years later they laughed about me being raped and sexually molested me.)
Someone stole my camera at a party – a camera I had had for years. I had two items I cared about more than anything in the World. My Imac and my camera. Most people like to go out and have fun – thats how they spend their cash. I DON’T like to go out. So I spend my money on my home, fun stuff to do inside and personal interests.
That guy let himself and his friends into my room at a house party, and took the camera I had hidden (but was polite enough to leave the CF card, thanks dude) – some time later that guys house was stormed and all of his amazing & expensive stuff was stolen.
After that, a drug dealer threatened a guy and a girl I knew. I didn’t like either of them that much but I was compelled to care about them. He broke into the guys room, trashed his stuff and scratched her records. That girl and her stuff had nothing to do with it.
That guy was beaten the shit out of.
Don’t be convinced that the police can make a difference. Don’t let them make you believe it either. Here’s something to accept – when someone fucks you over – there are consequences. When someone steals from you, there are consequences. Karma is a universal law.
The police asked all sorts of questions and I didn’t divulge anything at all – however I jokingly said “he pushed me onto the floor” and they DIDN’T CARE. I can’t stress this enough – the Police did not care about the domestic violence.
But gossip travels because people talk – and that was why they put me with a guy who had been “abused” by a partner. They believed I was abusive to men. They ignored that I simply wasn’t responsive to abuse FROM men.
I recall Judge Judy once saying that if she had caught a partner cheating on her she would have poured bleach on his clothes and left them in bin bags. Looking back, I guess I should’ve done that to his shoes. If he had taken me to court I could’ve explained that his iMac (he returned that but at the time it was his) was a gift from me, most of the food he was eating was a gift from me, most of our rent had been covered by me. And I’d never have said it – but I was paying for a drug habit – and he stole A LOT of my weed. Don’t trust people from Kent. It’s not the best motto I could come up with but it’s turned out to be the most truthful yet.
Throwing shoes out of a window isn’t an especially responsible a thing to do. But that is what experience is about – acknowledging mistakes, learning from the mistakes. Apologising, even. Farnham I am V sorry about throwing my cheating ex boyfriends shoes out into the streets. Are you sorry for everything you & your residents did to me??? Your doctors not helping me? Your police fucking me over and sexually molesting me??
I talk about my experiences because I know that there are people who need to learn to talk, I know that there are people that heard a lot but never really thought to question what they were hearing or even seeing. I know that there are people like me – who keep to themselves. When you keep to yourself people notice you, and discuss you. And if the people around you are jealous of you (jealous enough to abuse your generosity, jealous enough to steal from you, jealous enough to make you feel insecure… if people are making you feel insecure – it’s not necessarily cos you’re “ugly”. It’s occasionally the opposite in fact. For example – in my case, calling a girl who stole my friends, lied about me and generally put all of her efforts into trying to ruin my life – a HOBBIT MIDGET – perhaps they’re (I’m) telling the truth because you hurt them (me.))
Oh – one time I blocked the toilet and hobbitdwarf told like, fucking everyone. She was the kind of person who sported dreadlocks… and liked to call black people “niggers”. Friends she had made of her own accord – people I wasn’t drawn to – were amongst some of the most repulsive human beings I have ever shared a breathing space with.
Bitch, don’t lie about tanning your skin and go around pretending to be rlly rlly brown, cos you’re “from Africa baby” – no – you’re just Portuguese. Actually have you heard about whats going on in South Africa? Maybe you really should go hang out there, but leave your son with your Lil Kim Queen ma, ok?
Don’t talk about other girls using the toilet when you take like five hundred liquishits a day and waft beo scent that no shower could help you with – and at least I don’t have temper tantrums because my male friends won’t do things for me, at least I don’t have to PAY for friends (I’d legit prefer not to have any). (Friends are basically just useful for y’know, not getting raped when you go out.)
To be honest that isn’t even the worst – the worst is that when a person takes your “personality quirks” apart – they realise that most of that makes you remotely interesting (your personal interests, for example) is stuff you stole from me. Cartoons/animated film? Me. Tarot cards? Me. Numerology? Me. Teaching people about energy? Me.
Who the fuck just stands in a door way nonchalantly watching someone trying not to cry – and talks about all the boys she’s fucking after that person says “oh I think I just had a miscarriage” – as they literally wipe blood off a blanket?
(Every guy that was friends with me somehow became your friend and stopped being mine. Ultimately though – I’m grateful for your service – bucket cunt pygmy – I didn’t need friends like that around anyway and at the worst moments I can just recall that guy you had living in my flat illustrating to that ex and I what it looks like to fuck someone that stands at your hip level.)
The ONE psychic you should’ve listened to was me, hobbitdwarf.
I kept telling you to stay with David – turns out he’s like, the best you could ever do.
In your whole life – no one will ever treat you that well again. And if they do it’s because you’ve got something that they want. Take a hint from me.. if someone is with you because of something they want, your inner being is going to know that and will manifest a way to get them out of your life. At least you have a little boy now. I have no idea what you think you could do to help raise a little boy that could contribute anything to society, as someone that used to make jokes about turning men into “slaves” to “worship” you because you’re apparently a Goddess. Just show him all the stuff I taught you to like. K? Please, please don’t teach him how to juggle bottles or whatever it is that hippies like to do to impress boys.
Dave was a prick about me too – which is a shame for him – because I was probably the best friend he could’ve ever had. I was certainly the only one sticking up for him when you were fucking other guys at the same time as dating him.
Not one of those piece of shit friends I’d have personally done anything for has apologised for not being there for me, and it’s not even an apology I expect or am waiting for. I know that they will all manifest an experience where they really learn what they put me through. And I wonder, when they desperately need help – who’ll be the first person to pop into their heads.
There are a few morals to this story – I could say “art” teaches people to understand “archetypes” … but I think it’s more important to say
Watch out for who the fuck you’re abusing.
Laundry aired – cos that’s how we roll –
The book was authored by Abraham and Esther Hicks and inside of it were so many little synchronicities – leaves, a three legged cat called Tripod, a flagpole with the flag missing (see my previous post..) and all sorts of things about owls and cats… I’ll update the post when I’ve taken photos of the book I flipped through.
I am so grateful for my life. Today I’m meant to finish my animation and my idea of procrastinating was trying to teach myself how to dance by mirroring my new favourite Kabuki dancer.
My window is open and I can hear birds singing quite happily and I’m not usually so observant of that. My mother is outside and she’s gardening, she has low energy levels and illnesses so I’m grateful she has the energy to be doing that, too.
I’m going to focus on my animation now. I have forty assets to replace – and by that I mean really, really improve upon and I’d like to have the animation ready by tomorrow – my goal for that channel was one animation a month and there are a load of other projects I should be working on… I’ve got a phonecall with a relative scheduled so I can arrange to have my fashion designs sent over. I need those for my shop!