50 Shades of Grey

So here’s a funny story. My mother’s name is Ana right – and ages ago she was working for a psychiatrist called Chris. People have confused her and I with this, ironically. My first name is A- DOUBLE N-A and my middle name and the only name I acknowledge as mine – is Karina. Sooo if your “Ana Steele” character and your “Christian Grey” character had a kid, it me. A Christian Grey fragment with an understanding of both archetypes, ideally from a non-sexual perspective although I guess when you have two characters that associate love with sex (THEY HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH ONE ANOTHER. AND WHEN THEY DO – AND WHEN THE WOMAN ORGASMS – BABIES ARE MADE. A STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME – BUT YOUR CHILD BELONGS TO WHOEVER THE PERSON YOU LOVE HAS FEELINGS OF LOVE TOWARDS AND WAS PROBABLY FANTASISING ABOUT DURING THE SEX, WHATEVER THE CHILD MIGHT LOOK LIKE.) you’d struggle to truly know how their child might turn out. (As humanity evolves, so too must science, so too must spirituality and “religion”.)

It’s funny to me – knowing personally the kind of fucked up script people who are into Shades of Grey use to pursue women (I’ve neither read nor watched, don’t intend to. And I’d imagine anyone who conceived a child as a product of that kind of romantic-script would feel the same kind of revulsion that I do. Also: I value the time I spend watching stuff – I’m particular about the kind of narratives I’ll engage with in lieu of doing “other stuff”. I take film/narratives/stories of any kind very, very seriously.)

I’ve been called lazy all my life – when that laziness was actually the kind of ~sad story that goes back to a seven year old spending up to three weeks or more literally in bed, in a dark room – being too physically tired to do ANYTHING in spite of an embarrassingly early bedtime.
I’d pretend to have migraines (although I did have them sometimes) to get out of going to school, and often otherwise pretend that I was in pain, when I wasn’t aware of being in any pain at all. I was just tired and I needed sleep.
It meant a lot of trips to the doctor, and I developed a kind of weird resistance to pain killers too – pill popping stuff like codydramol/codeine etc as a little kid will do that to you. And later when I really needed those painkillers to work – they didn’t. (Morphine – something I joked about wanting to have, as I was about to have a surgery to remove a lipoma on my side – and it didn’t work. TEN doses of morphine – didn’t work.)

(Weed would’ve worked. Legalise it. Weed gives people spiritual awakenings, helps them learn personal truths. It does not give people psychosis – but their response to their personal truth may appear as psychosis to you. In any case, people have a right to not feel physical pain.)

Although I look back on my childhood now, especially after a chat with a spiritual teacher I found on YouTube – and realise that I was always in pretty fucking terrible pain that I thought was a normal part of life.
I was suffering with like, chronic constipation, and constantly waiting for the death sentence that taking a shit is to a little kid who eats a LOT and hasn’t taken a crap in three weeks. (Basically I can take pain physically and non physically – and I think people who think “playing” with pain as a means of expressing their sexuality are sick. Really fucking sick. And for the most part that isn’t my business – what you sickos do with your own time is your business.)

The thing about 50 Shades of Grey that I’m aware of, is that for the most part – some guy adopts a cowardly anonymity and uses his more-money-than-sense to essentially target and stalk a woman who is just trying to live her fucking life. Maybe/probably targets lots of women, I don’t know.

My mother would never admit it – but she had a huge crush on this psychiatrist Chris.
She, at the time, was walking with a cane. She broke her leg on the day that I had that surgery, I woke up from a dream where I watched my then-boyfriend and a friend of ours fucking, and I woke up in pure pain. I kept asking for more morphine which the nurse begrudgingly administered and eventually my then-boyfriend would show up. I was pissed off with him for being late and he didn’t want to give me a hug, for some reason. I was wheel-chaired out of that and into a taxi to head for my mothers, absolutely depressed and catatonic I lowered myself into the car and out of nowhere my mother’s leg just snapped in two. The doctors said it was osteoporosis. I think she’s healing from that now though.

She’s had a tough life and people who’ve had tough lives don’t really look how they might’ve before their lives got “tough”. I assure you that when she was younger she’d have destroyed any girl’s life –  by merely being in the same room. Look at her.

ma

Whenever someone is mean about my tough ma, I think… Imagine meeting her then, she’d have ruined your life.

Then you think – how does a mediocre dude get someone like her? Well. It’s a process, isn’t it. I’ll run it down for you.

First – I guess you make sure she’s too poor to maintain herself – y’know, too poor to do her hair/nails/get waxed etc. Too poor to buy nice clothes. Get her to look as bad as you can. If that doesn’t work – y’know, if she looks good in ANYTHING – encourage her to get fat. It’s easy to make fat people feel bad about themselves. (And then later you can create a list of foods that you’ll let her eat.) Fat people have a harder time looking good in clothes, too.

Then – you make her think she’s bad at everything she’s actually better at than you are. You kind of eat into her sense of self – anything that gives her self esteem – take that away from her.

Then – you work out her “hard time”. What was difficult for her? Did she have daddy issues? Did she have brother issues? Did she not-get anything she wanted as a child? Don’t bother getting to know her as a person because, iunno, thats one of the potentially nice aspects of life – enjoying another person’s company. Because really you don’t care about her personality – you just want someone who is “perfect” for you. And ideally if you do this right – it doesn’t matter that you’re completely wrong for them. Who cares what SHE needs, it’s all about ME. Right???

Does she have money? Where does it come from? We’ll be having none of that!!! Make her broke.

Does she have friends? Close family members? Lets create some issues there. She doesn’t need friends.

Okay – now lets put her in a situation and create a false sense of trust by providing to an unacceptably minimal extent what she needs. That’ll make her like mediocre me. (FYI – this works for a few years – max. And you’ll both come out of all of that looking terrible.)

This man invited my mother – at the time a completely broken person – to an event, knowing she fancied him. She was doing volunteer work for him – organising a fucking horrendous, embarrassingly poorly organised system (her sense of self comes from taking control over things and making them better. She doesn’t know it but I do.).
It terrifies me the way that people’s personal information is kept and dealt with by “government funded” (tax payer funded) organisations/entities (like we pay for the police to work and think it’s normal that they get a sense of power from essentially making us feel deeply uncomfortable) (does a policeman ever watch a person buying something in a shop and think “wow, that person is paying my wages”?), it infuriates me that there are systems that have my personal details in.
You probably think that the NHS offers you “free health care” but I assure you that information is extremely valuable – you are offering yourself and if you have children – your children – as test subjects when you engage with the NHS. But when you’re broke.. you have no choice. Actually I find that the NHS makes lab rats of us all. But I don’t think someone in a country with some kind of debilitating illness who can’t afford “healthcare” would necessarily be bothered by the fact. That too is an aspect of the medical profession I find appalling – I think that if you are a doctor it is your absolute fucking responsibility to offer healthcare for free. My spiritual teacher is a healer – and if someone can’t afford to pay her for the energy she expends, she does it for free. You might think that sounds like hippie nonsense – but it’s not. After a healing session she’ll take a bath and the water she sits in will turn BLACK. After some healing sessions she’ll be struck with the kind of liquishits that someone might get after eating raw chicken. That is negative energy – she is obsessive about hygiene, tidiness and cleanliness. She takes the pain for herself.

So – my mother asked me to come to this event, and I brought along a friend of mine. He and I are no longer friends but we both share some qualities – a heightened state of empathy that comes as a result of experiencing real suffering in varying degrees. Pain has many forms – embarrassment (I don’t feel it so much – I can sincerely laugh it off), guilt (I’ve only recently learned to stop feeling this, especially important to my personal development because I’m the kind of person who can feel guilt for something I’ve not even done. Being “guiltless” – a great quality for a hitman/woman etc – is only really admirable when you’ve learned the absolute importance of it, in my personal opinion), physical pain (which is also an important aspect of life – as a child you often learn not to do stupid things because you associate doing those stupid things with pain.) and I imagine many more kinds. So this “friend” – he’s the kind of person that can watch something like “The Office” and really feel embarrassment for the characters on the screen. I’m the kind of person who can watch someone doing something that physically hurts them and somehow feel the pain as if it were happening to me. (I do however, enjoy watching people injecting themselves.)

Iunno – its not a competition but I promise you that if it were – I could sit with anyone and describe in detail how much more fucked up I am, than they are. And I get that 50 Shades of Grey teaches men that being “fucked up” gives them masculinity points of some kind – well if you’ve read enough of my blog you’d know that four year old me has ALL the masculinity points.

This sad little psychiatrist donned some snake skin cowboy boots and played the most fucking embarrassing instruments – some kind of horn bagpipe – truly this event was mortifying beyond all belief. Bagpipes meets salsa.
I initially thought it was admirable that he was hosting something for the disabled people he took care of quite selflessly – but even “good” people are capable of being complete fucking assholes.
It is not often my inner asshole comes out – but when that bitch does, I really do ruin people’s lives. Like I said, when I was little I sat on a bench with a girl far younger than me, and she was studying martial arts. She had a little book that said it was wrong to hurt people unless it was in self defence.

The thing about my mother is that technically, she might’ve been doing volunteer work for the disabled and unfortunate but she had also quite successfully caused this psychiatrist to forget that she was both of those things.

His first mistake, was having me watch him parade his blonde haired wife around my mother. She was wearing heels and some boring outfit, the two of them playing some saintly game. Oh look at us – we’re helping all of these unfortunate disabled people. They wouldn’t get to go out if it wasn’t for us – etc. You know. I’m such a good person vibes. Mortifying to observe, to say the least.
Well I guess my inner asshole unleashed herself. Some kind of quiet competition with this man. I saw the entire event as a terrible “David Lynchian” farce, awful music, boring as fuck performers (my friend and I excused ourselves to smoke weed by the staircase outside and stare into space, and I took a moment to explain that I was pissed off that it was entirely obvious – what this man was doing to my mother. Trying to make her feel jealous.)

So I took a video recording of some of the disabled people enjoying his festivities. The David Lynch in me couldn’t not have done so.
Actually no different to what the psychiatrist was doing to my mother, who was quietly sitting on a barstool by herself. Observing her watching people dancing and him parading his boring as fuck poncho-donning wife, playing some kind of Christ like figure and her, his Mary Magdalene. Making all these disabled people so happy.
I’m not my mother’s baby sitter and I’m not interested in watching this man perform his bizarre talent-fantasies. She thought he was amazing, she even thought his wife was amazing (although I imagine her younger self – the kind of woman who spent a minimum of six hours a day training as a ballerina, having eaten nothing more than a bowl of alpen and perhaps an apple would’ve probably found her incredibly dull.)
(My mother was once rejected from a position in a film, because she was “too sexy” to play the virgin Mary, isn’t it ironic that that was a past life of hers?)

He wanted to watch my mother suffer. That is the sad and unevolved aspect of the Christian Grey archetype as I’ve observed time and time again. That unexplored motivation behind enjoying watching people trying and trying and suffering in some form, in their doing so.

The only saving grace of that terrible moment in time, was a black girl reading a piece she had written about her experience of being black. I wanted to be her friend but I actually didn’t feel cool enough. My friend and I excused ourselves after the piece and thought about how amazing it was to hear such a sincere reading that obviously came from a really vulnerable place and I think we joked about how talentless we are compared to her.

So back to me.
When I was younger I was obsessed with a guy in Cold Mountain – a psychotic blonde guy with messy hair who was quite dainty on a block of wood. It was a really brief part in the film but I think it was amongst my favourite performances in the whole thing. It’s a really good film. I think it’s underrated. So yeah, he does some nifty footwork on a wooden fence, in boots. And then he one shots, I think. If you watch you’ll know who I mean without a moments doubt.

I guess that brief cinematic moment must’ve been quite significant to me because I have a scar on my leg – from a moment in childhood where I had placed a block of wood across a pond – it had a nail sticking out of it. I used to do gymnastics and acrobatics lessons (I went to about five lessons, so I say ‘used to’, I mean I did literally about five lessons) and I was trying to walk across it like a beam. You step/balance and your other foot goes across the otherside of the beam and you dip/bend and place the other in front. Well the wood wasn’t stable and I ended up with a pretty deep scar on my leg (fortunately I am into scars.) from that nail, that was sticking out. Also my leg went into the pond… and that grosses me out to think about because I knew there were all sorts of tiny worms and insects in that pond that might’ve gotten into my cut. But it’s irrelevant. I fancied this psycho guy who was all ~dainty jumping on a piece of wood and he was pretty good with a gun.

I’ve always been into psychos. My first boyfriend was a total psycho and was probably the only guy aside from my brother that actually got to know me. The kind of teenager to get stabbed, and tell his girlfriend about it only really to point out that he was shitting both blood and shit and didn’t bother to go to the doctors to get it seen to. We both laughed and of course I said “you should’ve gone to the doctors!” I imagine he didn’t because his mother would’ve thrown a wok at his head for being so retarded. (She was the kind of woman that wouldn’t indulge victimisation – if he got stabbed it was absolutely his fault.)

The thing about psychos is that they can’t trust anybody and they are really good at identifying genuine and sincere people. I get that there are some predatory people who are also like that, and that many of them can be called psychos too. I get that I am portraying “being a psycho” as something attractive – it’s actually not, really.
That ex and I watched Hannibal together and it was nice to do so – we observed that Hannibal was only ever dangerous to people who mistreated him. Who were impolite. (He apparently found someone ruining a perfect orchestral performance to be quite impolite. And I suppose to an extent that would’ve been accurate for their co-performers – and also it is a movie.)

So. Psychos. The kind I’ve known. They know too much about the darker side of human nature. Predator verses prey. They make the best kind of friends, we make the best kind of friends. We’re protective and we generally value everything we believe is ours – even if it doesn’t appear that way.
When a real ‘psycho’ actually values a person, (not a person pretending to be a psycho to compensate for their at-some-point undermined masculinity) they actually have no desire to watch them suffer. My brother is different – he bonked himself on the head. He’s like, by all accounts, technically a damaged person. My ex has just experienced a kind of vulnerability that really affected him, but more importantly had learned to laugh at himself.

Interestingly… he shared a namesake with the Arabian Prince my mother cheated on with my Father. That Prince is dead, now. He died flying a plane I think.

When a psycho can sense a person who deserves their trust, they don’t want to watch them suffer. They probably don’t want any kind of responsibility over them either. My ex, as an infant, watched his father beating the shit out of his mother, and probably doing a load of other stuff too. That is where he learned how it feels to be ‘powerless’, I understand that Christian Grey was abused by a woman, with whom he was in a BDSM Sub/Domme relationship. It makes no sense to me that he’d go on and do that shit to someone else.
It terrifies me that he was authored as MARRYING the poor, inexcusably stupid woman as some kind of reward. (Does she stab him/slit his throat on their honeymoon?)

Do they go on to have a kid like me, who has a terrible time growing up with people who think human relationships are supposed to be some kind of strange power struggle and grows up to find them both tremendously stupid and/or horrendously embarrassing? Some beerbelly Christian Grey in an ironed shirt with a dungeon of sex toy mementos…? ……? *stands beside some bizarre contraption* “Ah, is this where you X, Y Z’d my mother????”

But yeah – It was really funny to my boyfriend at the time, that I fancied the psycho blonde in Cold Mountain – because on first appearances I’m actually a ridiculously nice person who can’t tolerate unnecessary violence.
Abuse upsets me. I have in the past, often let people do unacceptable things to me and done nothing to “even” it out. I watched a girl who so reminded me of my mother (not as pretty/talented/interesting though) berate me for not wanting to smack my dog for going to the toilet inside – in spite of the fact that I had grown up being threatened with physical abuse for inane shit. Ironically I had never been toilet trained as a child – so perhaps it made some sense that I had no idea how to toilet train a chihuahua. (Actually anyone who has ever owned a chihuahua will tell you that they are nigh on fucking impossible to “toilet train”.)

I think about it now, how her friends once picked up my dog and blew smoke in his face (some two weeks later or so he came back from a skiing trip with a dislocated shoulder) – and also how she might’ve felt if I had hit her for fucking my boyfriend. Of course I would never do that, I’d probably break her fragile little bones and it wouldn’t make me feel better. I prefer knowing that what she did to me will be done to her – but worse.

But most of all – because I am a spiritually minded person, I have the utmost belief in the fact that what comes around, goes around. Sometimes abuse is unintentional – sometimes we don’t know that we’re hurting someone. Or we think that if they don’t know what hurtful thing we’re doing, that it won’t come back so hard. Actually I did know, and I got called all sorts of names for it. Paranoid. Insane. So I kept quiet and bore the anxiety instead. And sometime after my mothers legs snapped in two – I saw that this girl was walking around with crutches, something had happened to her legs too.

I truly believe that the nature of life in the Universe – is that the Universe senses it’s own awareness of the truth from every possible perspective that no human mind is capable of – and with that, being carried in your vibration, you attract experiences that teach you your lessons. I’ve paid more than what is acceptable for every terrible thing I’ve done. So I say this quite confidently.

I think there’s something weird in hindsight, being the kind of fifteen year old that could walk into a boy’s room in some East London council house that slept with knives beneath his pillow, and gasmasks hanging from his bed posts, and things like that. Nothing like that was out of the ordinary or frightening to me even then – but I was realllyyyyy nice. I am really nice. My mother told me that once, a boyfriend of hers showed her a gun in a box and that she found it frightening. Embarrassing displays of “masculinity” like that, with the intention of controlling a person… make me feel sad. “Your fathers gun? Impressive.”
My mother has a friend – a woman I call auntie. She has feet like mine. She is sweet and adorable, and extremely polite, very feminine. Her own father, he was an actual president, and he held a gun to her head with the intention of shooting her. And he’d have gotten away with it if he had chosen to, I assure you. “Nice girls” like me are fucked up.

For some reason I cannot comprehend – this woman is single. She’s beautiful, she’s well dressed, she’s a domestic Goddess. She’s a dream mother in her own right. I don’t know the details of her love life but I can only imagine the kind of men that would’ve been interested in her and feel further sadness towards an entire gender that I find pitiful.

The aforementioned psychotic blonde guy from Cold Mountain – it turns out – plays Christian Grey. I never really realised til sometime earlier this year – and it sucks he doesn’t look the way he did in Cold Mountain. It sucks he doesn’t look like me (I’m joking, he’s obviously a great looking guy, or the movies would never have been such hits)

Back to my mother. My mother is – without even the remotest awareness on her part, or doubt on my part – so into BDSM and “needing” people to control her. She was that mother that says things like “Wait til your father comes home!” as a threat or punishment (one I’d eventually learn to laugh at hysterically) – and actually my father never really “came home” until years later and I think he’s slowly learning the aftermath of being a coward. Stepping into someone’s life twenty eight or so years too late and really thinking that it’s right for them to call you “dad”. He recently said to me sadly “IT’S TOO LATE FOR ME!” and broke yet another financial agreement he had made with me – failing once again to establish any trust between he and myself. And once again, it’s something I laugh at. (Funnier yet – is guys still thought I had daddy issues – so they’d do the same thing he did – thinking that would make me love them unconditionally. There is no man on this Planet I have publicly humiliated more than my own father. Apart from maybe Russell Brand, with that ‘chode’ picture. Scroll down if you’ve not seen it.)

But yes, I’d have liked it if he did sometimes show up, only because we’d be in shops and I’d want to buy something and she’d also say “When your father comes to London”. Although I had some quiet knowing in me that fathers weren’t there to be buying you gifts etc – I was taught that is all that men are useful for. No male friends ever really did anything substantial for me, especially not if I NEEDED them to – unless they were getting something in return (someone to rape in their sleep, etc).

So – yes – I grew up basically, for the most part, NEVER getting anything I wanted. My sister was bought designer clothes, I was sometimes given them as hand me downs. I hated shopping and only ever got to do so around my sister because my parents had decided she had taste and I didn’t (I couldn’t disagree more) andddd I had a direction problem which meant it was quite easy for me to get lost. Shops never had the clothes I saw myself wearing, in my head, either.
And it’s easy to resent my sister or even feel jealous, but the reality is doing so makes no difference and also she had a hard time too – growing up was really hard for her. You’d never know because of how she carries herself and thats probably because she went to schools like Queens Gate, that taught you the kind of femininity that people don’t really go for anymore, that I guess involves being very quiet about unpleasant stuff like a difficult childhood you’d rather forget. (I did not go to schools like Queens Gate. And if I had I couldn’t of coped with the kind of often – obnoxious and disingenuous – people that do. But there has to be room for every kind of person on this Planet, I believe that wholeheartedly. I am grateful for every kind of personality, especially terrible ones that have some new lesson to teach me about the kind of humans not to associate with. Haha.)
My sister once told me about how my brother, as a little boy, once dipped her head under a swimming pool and kept it there. She thought she was going to die. Gotta hand it to her, theres a really tough survivor in there – the kind who could wake up in a hotel surrounded by used condoms, knowing she’d been gang raped and get up and walk right out. Rape is worse than death.
Every time I see that people are watching football, or talking about football, or in any way indulging that culture – particularly people that know me, who know in detail my feelings regarding what has been done to my poor excuse for a family (a bunch of people possibly related by genes but definitely related by a correlated series of life experiences) – I think “you don’t give a fuck that they’re rapists? that they abuse women? that they’re protected for abusing women?” – and the truth is, they don’t care. No one gives a fuck. My own family know what was done to my sister and they continue to watch football. I wasn’t the one that woke up in a hotel, knowing she’d been gangraped – but I know how knowing that happened to someone affects me.
When I was younger, if someone hurt one of my friends I would go out of my way to destroy them for having done so. Never for myself – always for the people I care about. That shocking audacity.
The artists I follow online – who know I’m a fan or something – and who talk about football or encourage people to watch or even publicly admit that they’re watching – who pretend not to know who I am or who my family are and then talk about football make me sick. But that all created shit like “50 Shades of Grey”. Paved the way. I think it’s at a point where people know that football/footballers upset me, and they enjoy my response. They enjoy showing me something that upsets me, they enjoy embracing that culture.

So it’s important to me to be the kind of person that writes such personal shit on the internet. I’m telling the truth. And I know that at the very least there will be some child belonging to a footballer, who will come across what I’ve written or hear about it – and if I’m lucky she’ll look her father in the eyes and ask if they knew about the gang rape and what they had personally done to state it was unacceptable.

Cos y’know, what you do to the mothers of your sons/daughters will probably be done to them. (And if you pursue the spiritual education that I personally have – and I recommend whole heartedly that you DO – you’ll know women carry their children around with them before they’re even born. So if you’ve ever raped your wife, or observed strange changes to her character – it’s very possible you were interacting with a the spirit of a child hovering around her and occupying her.)

The School of Economic Science – a spiritual school in the UK – teaches people not to have sex (including married couples.) unless they’re specifically trying to get pregnant – for this very reason.
So imagine that… that you might’ve been abusing the not only the people you’ve abused – but their kids too.

Karma is generational. It is a spiritual truth, it’s a truth apparent to any psychologist or counsellor.

Our family arguments were so terrifying that they’re the kind of arguments that leave a person with PTSD. That’s what happens to people like my mother – people with abandonment issues. So when you go looking for someone with abandonment issues and think “I’m gonna teach you to be alone” – no offence but you’re fucking up a lot more people than just her. A lot of people did that to me – thought “I’m going to teach you how to be alone!” … I’ve spent more time alone than anyone. All they did was teach me to be alone and fucking like it. And now I can probably never really be in any kind of functional relationship – I’m all “functional” now, the kind of person who could probably attract some kind of healthy relationship with a person who actually wants to be around me and I’m not fucking interested in sharing my space with anybody. I do not want friends, I do not want a relationship, I do not want a family.

It is not your fucking job to teach anyone anything @men. Think of all the people that I really could’ve probably loved – who really needed to be loved – and they will never experience that.

Anyway. So, my brother. Well my spiritual teacher Lisa once said to me “Your brother hit his head as a little boy, at a party.” – I knew nothing of that, but I’d later talk to my mother and she’d confirm it as being true. I wasn’t at that party because I probably hadn’t been born yet. But for one reason or another – my sister and I grew up with the coolest/absolutely fucking scariest older brother that you can imagine. An intense mother with abandonment issues who created an argument any time I wanted to go out, a scary brother who only had to look at you to make you want to run for cover, a father who uh, “worked” a lot and a really pretty sister who people fell in love with on first sight. So hanging out with me, you’ve got a person who can out argue you (I once joked that arguing is an art), a person who only really needs to look at you to make you feel like an absolute fucking tool, a person who very seldom experiences jealousy over other women (and who quite happily acknowledges when they’re prettier than her) and a person who kind of resents cheap/cowardly men who knock women up and then run off and think they’re doing them some kind of favour by paying for their kids clothes, etc.

My brother though – like, if you pissed him off he’d give you a look – and you’d run for your life. It was like, this kinda gun shot instinct. He went to a lot of military schools – got bullied at military schools – he couldn’t cope with normal schools because of his being inclined to misbehave. The hospital he lives in says that there’s damage to the part of his brain that helps him connect his actions to consequence – they say it’s the drugs he did that caused that, my spiritual teacher would disagree. (I don’t personally think people who aren’t incredibly psychic should be looking after people like my brother – who is a spiritual master of his own.)

So. My ma. Not the best ma but managed to raise three complete psychos within their own right. People who have had everything, but had a lot more of nothing and whether other people admit it or not – are all the kind of people in their better moments who can piss a whole room of people off by simply being in it.

My mother has diabetes but she’ll eat piles of chocolate cake – sugar makes her sick. Some people in this life – other people find – function better when they are being in some way controlled by others. And to an extent I think my mother feels loved when people notice she’s not eating properly, or somehow not taking care of herself properly. She’s kind of BDSM loser bait.
When I think about what I’d do if I met my mother and wanted to be with her – I’d really just give her everything she wanted/let her pursue everything she wanted.
I’d probably give her as much of the thing that was hurting her as she wanted.
I’d do nothing but try and make her laugh. Happy, laughing people are awesome.
I wouldn’t want to ditch a person who was happy and laughing, and made me laugh all the time. I’d pay her the attention she needed, to the things she did.

Anyway so – the story is – condensed – if you want the real Christian Grey to “teach” you something, it’s not to find happiness in anything other than thoughts because there are under-evolved people who will find a way to steal that happiness from you.
Basically my ‘Ana’ is my ex twinflame. He had me come to a performance (I even paid), I laughed at a few of his jokes, watched him insult the fuck out of his wife’s post-baby vagina and felt nothing but pity for her, joke about the fact that his infant probably isn’t actually his at all, let him make me feel insecure blah-blah and didn’t react at all. I think he’s great and I love him a bunch – that’s the unconditional love he must’ve really, really wanted – but I have zero desire to control him or be in his life or ever even really see him again.

My mother was so happy to be useful to people, so happy to be in the company of a person who offered her great conversation, so happy to have a reason to dress up and go out. And that psychiatrist literally took a big fucking shit on all of that good he had done in her life by parading his mediocre blonde wife/girlfriend? around like some kind of bizarre trophy – and pretending not to know exactly what he was doing. Did he think she was going to compete with that woman? How would she have done that exactly? Re-develop anorexia? (actually she’s done that, but you couldn’t tell – she’s overweight and has a slow metabolism and has a fucking hard time eating because she’s picky about food – oh and she can’t actually exercise because that’s kind of tough for a person whose legs are damaged)

Did he, as a psychiatrist, think he was doing a good thing? Did he not think that he was a huge fucking freak for it? He thought it was just AWFUL of me to video record all the disabled people dancing to bagpipe salsa but I was really just mirroring his behaviour. I imagine he must’ve thought oh she’s bringing one of her daughters – her daughters dad was absent – “Oh she’ll meet me and think “THAT COULD BE MY NEXT DAD” EHEHE I’m SO DEVIOUS!!! TWO DADDY ISSUE GIRLS!!

Actually little man donning dem cowboy boots… you better trash that oxbridge degree. My dad can confirm this: I ruin “daddy”ieses lives. My fathers absence didn’t leave any holes in my life that I desperately wanted someone to fix – at best I searched for men worthy of respect and that had fuck all to do with wanting a father figure. (There are about two men I feel any kind of respect towards, my brother and Levi – my male self.)

Was that some kind of passionate play? Psycho code: Don’t look for people who have suffered more than you, and make them suffer some more – to validate yourself. Someone will do it to you, and it’ll be worse.

You can’t control other people as a means of helping them – I have tried by the way, it doesn’t work. I know men like to feed women weird things… do you know how I do that?
I make it for MYSELF. I learned somewhere along the line that people want the things I want. I once sat opposite a girl a bit younger than me – who loathed seafood and had suffered with serious anorexia. I served myself a plate of Salmon (that I couldn’t really afford) and some samphire (that I couldn’t really afford) and drowned it in lemon and salt. She tried some and liked it and I was so flattered someone enjoyed something that I enjoyed that I let her eat the whole thing. So here’s a little sex tip along that vein – don’t ask someone to do something you couldn’t have done to you. I wasn’t trying to get her to eat either – her eating habits were/are none of my fucking business.
More about this girl – she saw me doing some martial arts thing when I was channelling – she ended up going to study – I think – Kung Fu for a bit.

More about me and girls – girls learned I could carry really heavy stuff. Back story: I worked for a bar for a bit – they’d give me really tough jobs that people usually give to men. I think they wanted to make my life hard/humiliate me. I ended up doing all that stuff without once asking for help – I walked through Farnham with some huge iron pipe thing I thought would make a great piece of furniture. My then-boyfriend walked my little chihuahua while I carried the thing. I wasn’t trying to emasculate him, but it all came pretty effortlessly.

And intentions matter – if you love someone, you have zero desire to control them or their lives. The only way you can fix someone elses life is by living your own.

Men are stupid. And words don’t teach, but here they are. I like writing in any case.

Don’t steal the blue print from “love stories” to construct your own. Chances are the author and you have the characters all wrong. Thats the thing about “acting” – you have to really understand how the character you’re playing happens to be good at it. I guess that in my life of being attracted to good actors/thespians it must’ve come out of a place of believing that people could understand me without my having to explain my life for them. The problem with actors, I guess, is that it gets them a lot of fame (often not for being a “good actor” but simply because they’re really, really, really good looking)

As far as spirituality goes though – and this is of the utmost importance to me – Ana Steele or whatever would probably have a little Christian Grey child and do to that child everything that was done to her, and think that was love. And how could Christian Grey tell her to do otherwise? It’s his fault

Think about it like this – when you look at baby mush food and think “this is fucking disgusting” and then shovel it into your child’s mouth expecting them to eat it when you’ve just poured out all that awful thought-energy into the food.. you’re already setting them up to be fucked for life.

So this is Buddhism/BDSM lesson one sort of – the “golden rule” – don’t EVER do something to someone that you wouldn’t want done to you. Or at the very least – don’t do something you wouldn’t want done to some child version of you.


This came into my thoughts – my ex and I went to this “Reality TV” show thing about Surrey. All the people that were going to be used for it had already been picked. Ridiculously wealthy kids who wanted to copy the blueprint of their show from other Reality TV shows.

So bop along me and my ex. Living a side of Surrey in Farnham that was a much more important truth about Surrey. At the time – Farnham was known as being the easiest place to source drugs in the UK. We were smoking at least an eighth a day, all our friends were either drug dealers and were technically drug addicts. Do you want to know something?

Being open about doing drugs, y’know, even making doing them look good – being honest about it, basically doing as people like me have done – working towards making it all socially acceptable – actually means that “addicts” feel quite comfortable being honest about their problems. I’d rather people got addicted to weed than getting addicted to drugs like heroin, and I’m pretty sure my lecturers at University at the time – who had friends at University DIE from heroin addictions would’ve agreed.

Aren’t I sort of dressed like a fancy buddhist nun here?

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I had my own story planned out in my head – I’d get to talk about drugs, the impact drug addiction had on my life (my brother), I’d get to talk about all of my clothes, I’d get to talk about my weird life, I’d have gotten my lips done on the first episode, I’d get a cute revenge on my cheating boyfriend who stole lots of my weed but did a great job babysitting my chihuahua – who is literally more gangster than any gangster you have ever met – and I’d have probably ended up with a cute wellspoken toyboy drugdealer who actually went to UCA so he could meet me. I’d probably have ended up doing the nudey-suicidegirls thing and talked about webcamming and how that gets so many women through their educations.

(How funny would it have been to have a TV moment of him coming back from his job at Hobby Craft and me smelling his fingers and saying “YOUR HAND LITERALLY SMELLS OF VAGINA!!!”)

I’d have probably eventually explained that technically I’m the closest Israel has to Royalty, in spite of the fact that I was pretty fucking broke. (But y’know, hard to tell when you’ve been raised by a diplomats daughter and a family of generation after generation of criminal lawyers and a Grandmother who went to finishing school. Something I can’t imagine any of the selected cast could’ve boasted, for all their money.)

Also for the most part, the parties in Farnham that I attended would’ve made excellent TV.

What I saw of this day was really a chance to trigger a lot of people with huge egos for entertainments sake. And I guess to some extent that is also what people THINK BDSM is. IT’S NOT.
We were told we were “VIP” when we were asked to wait in a *GASP* queue – which we were fine with. The fancy alcohol set on the table was just a prop.

Someone asked that boyfriend if we’d get on a yacht? with them but apparently he said we’d be going to good ole home instead. Haha.

Anyway – that show never got made. What those people did to all the people that wanted to be on their show was done to them. That’s karma.

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