Thursday, 28 February 2019
• "Big Phoney" is a rather absurdist character I once scrawled on a napkin at a restaurant in order to make a friend snicker. He later became a recurring character in comics at the Toronto Comic Jam. He's basically an anthropomorphic rotary phone, oxidized yellow with age, with a stuffy British accent and a propensity for tall tales. We have been coming up with a series of phone characters, including Uncle Brick (the Gen Xer cellphone who is perpetually trapped in the 80s, addicted to cocaine, drives a DeLorean... that sort of thing), Lips the 1-900 hotline call girl phone, prostitute payphones lined up on the street, and Smart Aleck the smart mouthed smartphone... but there have been many others. I think the theme of this series, when thinking back to writing class, should be ageism as presented through technology. Being a relatively young adult, I don't truly grasp the social impact of what growing older can be like yet, but it's an interesting idea to combine rapidly changing technology with ageism as a subject. Almost like a Pixar movie in some ways, only more adult.
• Another idea that I haven't really expanded upon yet is based on an interesting dream I had, sort of like "The Chronicles of Narnia" meets "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator" - a girl enters her building's elevator and accidentally goes past her floor, but the elevator keeps rising, going beyond the top floor and she gets launched into a surrealist journey to get back home, using the elevator, which takes her to hidden realms. It would also make a great video game, but I don't think I will make another one of those.
• Yet another idea I have would be to just make a rather autobiographical comic about what happened to me with the demon. After what I have been through, I would want it to be a comedy - it's not worth dwelling on the misery aspects, I think it should be funny, even when the details are painful, because a lot of it was funny, and it's looking to be a case that the outcome is positive in my life anyway.
BTW, gonna name drop for a minute here - Ty Templeton's Comic Book Bootcamp classes are both relatively affordable to most, and worth every penny, and Ty is The Man when it comes to comic instruction. I have taken his penciling, writing for comics 1 & 2, and inking classes, and he is a guru as both a real deal professional in the big leagues, and as a teacher. Really helpful, great advice, excellent for critiques, and a helluva guy all around, as well as a friend. If you live in the Toronto area and want to get into making comics, take his classes! I went from zero to hero with his writing classes, if I do say so myself, at least when compared to where I was.
I will most likely be on another comic hiatus once "Asylum Squad" is completed, so I can figure out my next move. I am pretty sure there is more of something in me, but I don't know what that is yet. My Dad's death shook me quite badly for a while, temporarily destroying my drive to create, and my confidence in what I was making. It's still a bit hard to crank it out like I once did since he passed. But I've also been heavily involved in soul work, so much that it's at the forefront of my life, so there's that factor as well.
Tuesday, 26 February 2019
It was the fall of 2001 - I was 19 years old, fresh out of high school, waiting for commencement. The Sept 11th disaster had recently happened, and between that and some other issues, I was feeling out of sorts, and verging on suicide. I had put my trust in an educator at my high school, whom I thought was a friend, as someone I could confide in with the issues in my mind. Seeing as I wasn't a student there anymore, wasn't ever his student, and was, at 19, an adult, I didn't see a problem in asking him for help, or (and here was where I made my huge mistake) admitting I had some feelings for him. These feelings were completely asexual - I loved him as a friend. However, for some reason, he decided to rat me out to the principal, and she in turn must have interpreted my two emails as coquettish and attention seeking in nature, thus preventing him from conversing with me, and leaving me to attempt suicide. When I later, in hospital, conversed with this totalitarian nanny cunt of a principal on the phone, she said he had no desire to talk to me because he had a wife and children, and wasn't going to visit me in CAMH either, not that I ever expected that to happen, nor had I requested it, but I guess she assumed that's what I was looking for. No, what I wanted was the understanding that he wasn't offended by my emails, and to clear the air. Apparently, saying that I had BPD in those emails (which actually was bullshit, BTW - I never had BPD) made her assume things of my character - perhaps he assumed things about me as well. Ableist much? Thus began my journey through the abuses that would follow me for many years in this immensely flawed system we live in.
I had to really change for psychiatrists to stop considering me borderline, which took the death of a young woman in a suicide survivor's group I was in, to shake me out of trying to off myself because of the traumas I was living with. This was in St. Mike's Hospital, one of the worst for mental health in the city, and I will get to more on that later. Her death was my wakeup call... something grew in me from it, and I no longer wanted to fade away, but to live. But I guess my permanent record has some shit on it that ultimately means nothing now, except that it's a binder of lies that has power over my rights, because when I tried to get closure from this educator, I got nothing from it but further punishment - perhaps the ban between us is permanent, or perhaps he just really can't stand me (but judging from that telephone conversation with the principal, and based on what other systemites have suggested, I'd say it's the latter). I learned the hard way that I had to stop contacting him for closure so I could move on with my life... I had to learn to just live with the trauma, be my own hero, no one could save me but me.
Now, let's get to St. Mike's and why that hospital should be demolished and replaced with something better: I have discussed this incident on my previous blog, but I will bring it up again here. In 2012, I tried coming down from my antipsychotic medication too soon, and suddenly my demon was affecting me very badly again, controlling my sleep patterns to the point where as I would begin to drift off, it would pop open my eyes automatically and force me up in bed, causing me some Guantanamo Bay level sleep deprivation shit. It was after not one, not two, but three hospitalizations later, (if not four - I don't remember), in an ambulance, because of a desperate suicide attempt from several weeks of insomnia, that St. Mike's decided they would finally hold onto me as an inpatient long enough to stabilize me again with meds so I could sleep, and when they did, they tried to force a CTO on me, even though I was perfectly willing and capable of taking the medication - abuse, that's all that was. Pure abuse. It was my stepdad who put his foot down at the idea, pulling an Italian and demanding that they back off, before they canned the suggestion. I will never go back to St. Mike's again for anything - they are the worst for many things medical in this city. They even let my Dad down as he was dying of brain cancer. Despicable.
(I won't even bother repeating other abuses I have experienced in the system... if you follow my blog, you have already heard about them... the ones I am willing to reveal, anyway.)
Yes, I found good services eventually - I consider my analyst a hero of mine in some ways, he is a marvelous man, a joy to work with, and will even talk to me on the phone outside of his office in a pinch if I'm having a bad day, and my psychiatrist is so wonderful, I feel blessed to have her as well. But I found these services on my own, hunting - no one did that but me. The system is broken so badly that one can't expect to get far in it without doing most of the work themselves. It's a sad reality, and it should not be this way, but the system does not care about compassion or doing the right thing... only efficiency and protecting itself.
So no, I don't believe in asking for help anymore... and I certainly don't believe in relying on any man to save me.
EDIT: I recently came out as someone who invented my diagnosis of BPD - it was discussed on and off in psychiatry when I brought it up, but it was never a formal label I was given. I did not admit this for a very long time because I had shame in confessing it, but it's the truth, and the truth must be known. Not judging others diagnosed with it, but my diagnosis was a flat out lie.
I realize that the only reason I feel I can cope with this amount of alone time is probably because of the strong presence of Spirit in my life. As a channel, I never feel lonely - even when darkness spoke to me, there was always, after a certain amount of invocation, also a sense of goodness coming through as well. If the dark channel was getting the better of my emotions, the good would often come to my aid before I began to panic and get self destructive. It comes through as automatic speech, through my hands and body, by drawing symbols, things like that. It's always there and I can engage it at any time and in any place - I have learned to mask it very quietly when I am in public, by whispering it without moving my lips, rather like a ventriloquist. And of course, when I have a pen and paper, or a keyboard in front of me, it will communicate with me that way as well.
Sometimes I still crave human affection and touch, but love has disappointed me so badly in the past that I just don't have crushes anymore, and I might even be able to train myself to the point someday where I can cease to crave any kind of close human companionship altogether. No one is interesting to me - my heart doesn't trust anyone, and I doubt most of humanity would ever "get" me. Besides, sex looks about as erotic as taking a pool cue to the eyeball, and I know most guys would expect me to become some kind of fuckdoll after a certain point... to hell with that. I have the same reaction to semen getting on me that I would have to sulphuric acid - panic. Who needs a stupid horny man grunting and rubbing up against you when one can have feelings of ecstasy with the presence of the Spirit? Infinitely superior. Romantic feelings made me act stupid in the past anyway, and I'm certainly done with that time in my life. That obsessive, Hallmark card kind of love is beneath me now... it's a distraction.
I guess I have more "feudal" (?) desires for partnership now - a travel companion, a person I could own property with, someone to help me with a higher standard of living... not a lover per se, but a best friend to laugh with. I don't want to produce any children, so there's no need to worry about the biological clock ticking away. Knowing that I'm going to be okay financially in these uncertain times would be nice... I wish I could have that guarantee through someone else with no strange sexual strings attached, but we live in a horndog eat horndog world, and I know I probably must fend for myself.
Oh well... at least I'm never lonely!
Monday, 25 February 2019
Though I have concluded that I am cisgendered, there is still some part of me, perhaps it's my animus, that feels more masculine. I feel almost like my soul is more male than female, but my gender is female, if that makes sense. I often will say that I have a "strong animus", and many people have assumed I am gay or at least bisexual... certainly, this may be the reason I have sought more effeminate men, when it comes to dating, and why I can easily be "one of the guys" with my more masculine male friends. My Dad used to call me his "son" when I was a kid, because of the interests I had that were considered more tomboyish (except that I sucked at all sports and hated gym class). While my sister used to get her Barbie and Ken dolls to have sex with one another, my scenarios usually involved Skipper controlling the dolls under a totalitarian regime, sacrificing all the Barbies to my dinosaur collection.
Or perhaps I am confusing my inner strength, which I have found through my suffering, for masculinity. I am not sure yet. I am kind of somewhere between soft butch and femme on the spectrum - I will mostly dress feminine, but am not high maintenance about it. (I haven't had a haircut in 2 years!) I don't expect to be the beauty that my Mom is at her age - at 75, she looks like she might just be pushing 60, she's basically a GILF who looks a bit like a petite Jane Fonda, but she takes such great care of herself and primps so much that it makes sense. Me, I expect to be a toothless wonder, sitting on a cushion and dispensing advice by that age.
So yeah... I'm cisgendered, but I have a very strong inner male presence, one I am still trying to understand completely. Maybe someday it will all make sense.
Thursday, 21 February 2019
Mom used to work in propmaking, as did I, so she often found clever ways of making things work on a budget. (The legs could have been a bit longer on this, I look a bit like one of the Time Bandits here, but it's still a brilliant design.) She took an old laundry basket, cut a hole in it, attached suspenders, so I could wear it around me as the frame of the piece. Then a skirt was draped over it, and the horse head came from an old handmade hobby horse. The rest was simply decoration, and some toy plastic armour from a Hallowe'en costume store.
I'm thinking I might go as a saint again sometime for Hallowe'en, but I'm not sure which one yet. Maybe the Virgin Mary, Our Lady of Fatima edition... maybe even St. Jude, drag edition. (St. Jude's feast day is close to Hallowe'en, so I could get multiple wearings out of it.)
Wednesday, 20 February 2019
I'm hoping there's a way to use EMDR to repair any damages to my psyche from this thing - something to discuss with my analyst. Now I know pot is verboten. I seem to crave sleep a lot, suggesting to me that rest will be one of the greatest healers. I have to take it easy, perhaps like someone who has been through any kind of battle. I know my channeling does not always yield the finest results, and I'm sure trauma plays a factor in this. It's like my subconscious is very strange, but at least I get a sense that the Self is a major factor in comforting me, so I am not living in fear, but things just seem tired and strange now. My attitude is of happiness, I have little sorrow, but I just can't cope without some degree of medication right now, I assume, because the mind is trying to heal from the constant abuse of the past 12 and a half years of fighting. On a deeper level, the soul is saying all is fine, you're free, but the mind is strange in some ways, it's rather hard to describe.
I wish I had a better understanding of psychological structures to understand what's going on in my mind right now - I often utter prayers to Metatron to work on archetypcal parts of my psyche, based on (mostly) Jungian psychology. I have noticed results from some of these prayers, especially in relation to the ego. There is a degree of stillness since starting work with this angel, one that was not there before.
I guess right now I just feel very tender, like a soldier coming home from war. I don't want to push my mind in any way right now... perhaps that's another reason I crave simplicity.
UPDATE: My analyst suggested I should not label myself with PTSD, saying it won't help me. He doesn't believe I have serious trauma issues after all... just mild ones stemming from humiliation from the system. Hopefully EMDR work can take care of that, with time.
Monday, 18 February 2019
Some are more obvious than others... most are religious in nature. They keep coming through, even if I am just lying in bed and contemplating. Others just seem like friendly reminders that all is well (the smiley face, for example). One thing that was interesting was that before I even knew that the three triangle symbol was an ancient symbol for the Godhead, I started getting it, on and off. My finger also seems to know how to instinctually trace the Tree of Life very well automatically - a daunting task without a diagram to follow!
Two are sigils that I designed back when my journey began - one is the Medicine Wheel with the two circles emanating from it, just to the right of the kite symbol - this represents empowering the Earth, the circles forming an 8 on its side, 8 being the number of Power. The other, right next to it, is the Lemniscate with a dot in each loop - this was a kind of Yin Yang/cosmic egg fertility symbol of the balance between the Sacred Masculine and Feminine, but it also represented God. I created these while experimenting with sigils and committing myself to seeking God.
I am not entirely sure how to interpret the overall message of these, other than God is here and waving hello. (I might post further pages like this as more symbols begin to come through.)
The first is that parts of my mind that could only learn through experience now know that marijuana is a major no-no for me, and I will not likely crave this stuff ever again. When I was spiritually impacted by the demon in a heavy way and weed was a bad experience for me, a part of me assumed I could enjoy it again one day. But I guess the mind just doesn't like altered states after a certain developmental stage, so it wasn't just the presence of evil making it ugly. Not sure how CBD would affect me if I ever needed it for pain, but I guess I will cross that bridge when I get to it.
The second lesson is that this trip, although unpleasant, had nothing remotely dark or demonic about it - it was pure THC induced strangeness... I did not feel the sense I was being attacked or haunted by anything awful and otherworldly in consuming it. So now, at long last, I feel that there is nothing left of the demon, it's gone, and what remains that might feel like a kind of spiritual residue that confuses the channel sometimes is mental trauma that I must recover from. I am also still developing as a channel, so I am often off when information comes through, which is one major reason why I don't leap into the world of professional readings just yet. So because of that component, I stay on Latuda while the mind heals. (I am so glad I was on Latuda when I smoked that weed yesterday, BTW!)
I am also kind of glad this didn't turn into a rebirth of my pot habit... pot is pricey after a while if you get too hooked on it, and I sure loved it a lot in the past. I hope my analyst doesn't smack me for doing this, but when I explain how it unfolded, he will probably be fine with it, especially considering the end result was that I decided it was time to put it down for good. My Mom was proud when I told her how I handled the bad trip. Both of them knew I was curious to try it again, I just had to find the right day to do so.
One of the worst parts of it was the feeling of losing mental control - it was in a passive sense, but it was not fun. I now have such stillness and control of my thoughts, that to lose this felt strange and upsetting. I value sanity way too much to muck around with this stuff anymore. I guess most people who smoke it use it as an escape from their lives... now that I am past the point where I feel like I want to escape my life, it doesn't make sense to do this. When sobriety in the mind is more interesting than a drug high, why bother with a drug high?
So I guess I am back to being a "get off my lawn" type about potheads running amok now that weed is legal. Oh well, let the kids have their fun, I guess.
Sunday, 17 February 2019
First off, I want to state that I get the impression that Spirit was advising me to try it out because it was a lesson I needed to learn the hard way - through a bad trip. There were still lingering cravings for the stuff on and off, missing how music sounded on it for example, the creative highs... all of that. So I guess a final bad encounter with Sweet Lady Mary Jane was the final nail in the coffin for my time with weed. Thanks, Justin Trudeau. <_<
Ok - so knowing that dispensaries come and go in this city like an ongoing game of Whack-A-Mole, I headed to one, after buying some Zig Zags at a Circle K. Then I bought $20 worth of moderate level THC weed, something called "Blueberry Mist"... a modest amount, to test the waters. I excitedly brought it home, my first legal (?) weed purchase ever, and the first time I was to smoke it in a very long time.
I rolled a joint after lining the crack of my door with a towel and lighting some incense. Then, as I smoked it, I gradually felt a change in consciousness, until I got about halfway up the joint and decided I had had enough. There were subtle uncomfortable sensations and psychic noise that overwhelmed the senses, and though I didn't freak out, I became nervous I might develop some deep neurological reaction, due to anxiety. When I did try to channel, the messages made little to no sense, until the "high" wore off. In the past, I used to be the life of the party when smoking marijuana... now it felt like I was becoming a reject from an Eastern European performance art troupe.
There were different stages throughout my life for smoking grass. I used to be one of those goofballs who would do silly shit like force willing house cats to dance to the Gremlins theme while on it, and laugh at how absurd that was. Then, I became an abstract conversationalist who got really funny, but kind of out there. Then, the visions started... then, they got really weird. I guess it just got to a point where I have gone beyond the possibility of enjoying it anymore - the mind rejects it, preferring stillness and complete control of itself, seeking "super sanity" over altered states. Spirit basically had to relax and guide me out of my bad trip by speaking through me with the same gentle tone as Bob Ross the PBS painter. No wonder Buddhists can't stand the idea of smoking this stuff.
So I met with a friend and gave him the remainder of the weed, to pass onto someone else, to get it out of my apartment. (The weed was sold in a store... I doubt it's bad quality, I just can't handle THC now at my level). As I came out of the bad trip, I was able to discern that having opened various centres (the psychic and heart centres, in particular) trips will never be the same anymore... they will be strange and unpleasant. I am also probably still recovering from the psychological trauma of having been spiritually assaulted for so many years, and so this would have been odd for the mind. Thankfully, nothing seemed demonic about it, indicating that anything of that nature is actually gone. It was just weird and unpleasant, like sticking your finger too deep into your navel kind of weird, only in the mind and with weird psychic input.
Also, I just don't like how abstract it makes things feel now, bad trip aside - it feels like a synthetic kind of high, compared to some of the rapturous highs I have had from mysticism that felt ecstatic and beautiful. I guess I have grown out of enjoying it in that sense as well. It is a cheap kind of buzz, compared to religious highs, which feel pure and grand.
So that's it, Mary Jane... I'm breaking up with you now, once and for all. Oh well, I can still enjoy a couple of drinks when I go out. But I can't even get drunk now either (not that I was ever really a fan of being drunk)... I can keep drinking and drinking, but nothing happens. I'll still get the hangover, but not the buzz. Also, my body sends me a headache after two pints of beer, so I usually quit after that. #IrishCatholic
And now, for some Supertramp, to solidify the end of my ties to weed:
Saturday, 16 February 2019
Anyone who knows what I do for work might think it's kinda sad that I stay there, at least for now... it sounds like one of the most tedious, boring jobs in the world. There's not much to it, it's not a job that takes any tremendous skill, other than patience with the public, balancing finances, showing up on time, and remembering certain protocol. But when I was not doing so well and I needed a job in a pinch, this one fell into my lap, and has served me well as to support me financially while I do other things. The money is better than other jobs like it - it's actually several dollars higher than minimum wage, it was once unionized by Teamsters (I still find it funny that I was a Teamster) but we let the union go in recent times when we found we didn't need it anymore. It's a perfect job for a seeker, a creative type, or a contemplator, all of which describe me quite well, and I have written several graphic novels while working it, during downtime.
Not being one who experiences boredom much anymore, at least not at all when confronted with empty time (sometimes I get bored if I'm subjected to an annoying film or video game or something I don't like, for example), it enables me to continue my ongoing contemplative state, which is my base state throughout the day, without causing mistakes at work, due to how simple the tasks involved are. Contemplation isn't the same as overanalyzing, at least not at the level I am working with right now - it's healthy, and has lead to epiphanies, not neurosis. (I joke that if I were to become a real nun I would probably make a good Carmelite, for they are known as an order about contemplation.)
Every time I have sought better employment, I have come up empty handed and stressed, but when I leave things alone, opportunities seem to fall into my lap. I have come to learn not to disturb things as they are when life is stable, and I see no reason to jump the gun and change anything, especially since I am not craving a change. This is a time of rapid change for me in my psyche, and to take on more complicated employment could upset this process, and cause me great stress. A formal higher education would also upset this, and every student I know personally is extremely stressed with their situation. Not me... life is rather relaxing for me.
And now, a rant about school: I may have mentioned this before, but I so detest school that if someone came to me and said that I have a choice between university and prison, I would say "pick one". Heh, at least in prison I could just sit in my cell and contemplate. School is an expensive, stressful financial risk that does not guarantee a future anymore (at least not for people of my class), but it certainly guarantees being saddled with debt, especially since the fucking Doug Ford government decided to scrap the new OSAP grants (which I saw coming ages ago, BTW... and I didn't even read the Akashic Records to see that). Maybe if I came from another era school would make sense, but it just doesn't at all to me now. It's kind of a scam - you pay thousands of dollars for textbooks that end up on the curb in a cardboard box one day anyway, you have to take all these namby pamby "Hamburger Helper" side courses that mean nothing just to get the meat and potatoes classes (and of course you pay for those side dish courses as well), and in the end you get a piece of paper and then you're trying to find work, along with thousands of others, in a world where there aren't enough jobs to support everyone, in a shitty economy. How is that wise to pursue, especially when there is no drive to do so, and no nest egg to fall back on, when I already have a job and no debt? Some could argue that getting the knowledge is worth it, but unless the school is prestigious, and the mind is willing to learn in that kind of way, it hardly seems worth it. I hate frosh week hijinks, I hate sorority bullshit, I hate academia, I hate the idea of starting on this now at 36 and being surrounded by screechy 19 year olds... I want no part of any of it. If I die a wise old blue collar broad that's fine by me... I am happier doing this kind of thing over tearing my hair out just to satisfy some fake lifestyle I am trying to support because I have bought into the idea that "stuff" is going to make me happy. Also, I don't want to pop out any kids so there's no need to worry about trying to get to a certain financial level to support having children either. (I am among the least maternal women I know. Children make me very nervous and I don't really care to hear what most of them have to say, as cold as that sounds. This anxiety about children likely stems from years of being bullied by other kids as a child.)
Sure, there's a side of me that would still love to have a bigger living space, like an artist's loft or something (a house might be too much - I don't like gardening, and I don't want to have to worry about the roof or foundation). But if that never comes my way... so be it. I want to work on riches of the soul, so that when I'm on my death bed, I have no regrets about my development. Plenty of people have had regrets about not taking time for themselves when they are about to die and know that they can't take what they have accumulated with them. There's something rather eerie about the idea of the ailing billionaire being stripped of his kingdom as he crosses over... no wonder Westerners are so afraid of dying. Even if I'm wrong and there's nothing after death, I still hope to prepare myself for the passing itself, so I can be at peace with it as I approach it.
Basically, I try to live as simple a life as possible - I do make plans and put money away, but I also kind of go with the flow. If I suddenly crave something, I pay attention to it as a sign a change must be made, but if there is no craving for change, or no need for it, and if things are in balance, I don't attempt to sabotage the homeostasis. I seek inner guidance on how to proceed from the Self, not that pesky Superego. My life isn't bad at all... it's punk.
Anyway, I'll end this one now with a great quote from this spiritual badass:
Thursday, 14 February 2019
When I first began to grow spiritually, I had a kind of White Buffalo Woman complex, because of an obsession with Medicine Wheel spirituality. I only have a bit of native blood (possibly Cree, it's not confirmed, but it's on my Mom's side), mostly I'm Irish, some German and French Canadian, among other cultures. When this demon came into my life, it seemed to fuel this delusion, exploiting it, convincing me it was true. I'm just glad that this did not happen during the post 2015 cultural appropriation crackdown on the web... if I had broadcast this online at the time, the heckling would have been intense.
This White Buffalo Woman obsession morphed into a Kalki complex after a voice whispered to me, while I was staying in a rented room: "You are the most ridiculous Vishnu!" Having little to no knowledge of Hindu deities at the time, I was confused, and blurted out "What the fuck is a Vishnu?" because that honestly was not a name I had ever heard before. I later cracked a book on Eastern religions, and turned to a page on Vishnu and his 10 avatars, and noticed that there was one who had yet to appear named Kalki. The description went on to say that Kalki appears towards the end of the age of Kali Yuga, to slay the demon Kali (not the goddess Kali, who isn't demonic) and jumpstart Satya Yuga - the age to follow, and the beginning of a new cycle of the four Yugas.
What soon followed were those visions I had of Ganesha and other Hindu gods, some I had seen before, others I had to look up in a book to read about, once I found articles with pictures that matched the visions. Having something calling itself "The Devil" in my life did not help my strange complexes, so I honestly began to believe I was Kalki. But even so, I still mostly took this with a grain of salt, and barely discussed it, except for when I was in CAMH's unit 2-3 for a year, and I opened up about it to a guy with a Krishna complex, also white, on the ward with me, who actually fuelled the belief that it was true. Oh dear. (Our Indian ward psychiatrist must have shaken her head at these honkey lunatics and their delusions.)
I have so little knowledge about this stuff that I don't even know for certain if Kali the demon and Satan are different names for the same thing, but whatever. I am also not going to run with the idea that I did anything significant to Satan other than perhaps kill a minion of his or something, because I really don't need to be locked up again for anything related to this. I don't want my ego to go weird either, and besides - who would accept a white female Kalki anyway? I am simply reiterating the details of what I experienced, and telling the story, a very rich one that might lead to some interesting work in the future.
God, what a bizarre life I lead. In the words of Sailor Moon: why can't I have a normal life just like other girls?
Things started off with this rather awkwardly - I was completely confused as to what was going on, and was strung along by the "devil", it getting me to put cigarettes out on myself, make a public fool of myself, throwing out items of importance to me, and basically just making a royal mess of everything in my life that was stable. It felt like I was in a movie somehow, so I went with it, but after a while, the movie really started to suck balls... so the next thing I did was try to fight back with spellcraft.
The spellcraft did nothing except perhaps backfire, because this demon used everything I put out there against me, to muck me up further. After St. Jude was invoked, it was evident that Divinity was a presence there too, but not cluing in at first that I had to keep praying, I didn't do so consistently enough. I would dabble in smudge, which seemed to get a reaction, but never did I seem to free myself with it alone. When I did talk to spiritual types about this, they did not seem to comprehend the gravity of my situation, and would give flakey advice about "staying positive", which I could have just as easily found on an inspirational kitten poster.
Many years later, I invoked Jesus only after considering the St. Jude connection again, and that he might help me invoke the Saviour. Once Jesus was invoked, I could feel changes that felt almost physical, yet the demon remained a presence. At least I figured out I needed to pray more.
There were specific prayers to Jesus I had to figure out, that I didn't until later, but within the next couple of years, in working with Jesus, I was able to invoke one of the mightiest aids in all of this, the Metatron. This angel has been the strongest angelic influence of those I am sure have worked with me. Those I know who claim to work with Metatron all seem to have an intellectual quality to their demeanour, they are interesting people with a unique look in their eyes, and have much to say. Metatron certainly helped my mind to develop, I know he made me smarter, and more able to consider how to proceed, he healed me, he strengthened me in many ways. Panic I lived with in my mind, under Metatron, began to fade, and it was to be with this angel that I would get the demon's king in check.
Confidence in me, however, was still low, until the Virgin Mary seemed to be a factor as well - then, that and other emotional components became a strong part of me. 2018 was off to a slightly rough start, I having been hospitalized again in CAMH for 2 and a half weeks, missing Christmas and New Year's Eve to bad food and lockdown. But when I got out, I decided to dedicate my year to finishing the battle off.
I started regularly attending the cathedral I like to head to, praying the rosary, trying to invoke as much aid as possible, and trying as many kinds of prayers as possible, devoting a substantial amount of time to this every day as the months rolled along. A higher dose of medication ensured my psychic safety. Working with Metatron, I was eventually able to make it impossible for the demon to affect my mind much more than just speak to me, so it began to display a fear of me. When I demanded it just leave me then, it said it could not, it was to die in me.
Another thing I ingeniously devised with the Metatron was to trap the demon in a Catch 22 scenario, making it so that whenever this thing attacked me in any way, it would in turn affect itself as well, attacking itself, or at least causing itself pain, so in the end, it no longer wished to attack. It could still confuse the channel, but it could not hurt the soul. The demon had become my bitch, I had it by the testicular nutsack, so as a joke, I bought that silly latex nun habit online to wear as a way to humiliate it as I killed it.
It was, as stated on this blog beforehand, a matter of building up the soul, and then using smudge and prayer together, that seemed to enable me to finish it off. Playing around with my "atomic bomb" smudge, that may have affected it, but it wasn't going to kill it. Seraphim had to. Metatron was one influence who did, along with two possible other seraphim, whom I seemed to invoke through other sources, while smudging with sweetgrass. I am certain this factor was real, as a beautiful blissful sensation enveloped me as I felt these powers enter my soul, the demon also suddenly seemed less annoying. Then that Eye of God imagery flooded my psyche, taking my breath away, and within the weeks to come, an announcement came to me that it was dead.
Now what remains is a fading presence which is less like a consciousness than it is simple something that makes channeling slightly murky. With the Goddess invoked through the Virgin Mary, my fear of this completely left. Encouraging messages tell me it won't be terribly long before this is completely gone as an influence.
What was this thing? I don't know for sure. I am not going to go around gloating that I killed anything important, but whatever it was, it was of Hell, I believe. And it was VERY powerful. It's going to be interesting to see how my spirituality evolves with this completely gone, considering how far I have come as a person with it as a factor.
I look forward to seeing how my future unfolds.
Tuesday, 12 February 2019
As I have mentioned before, the demon caused me more worry than fear... I was not afraid of it, I was concerned about what my life would amount to because of it. When it was haunting me, before it got inside of me, it would whisper to me in the dark, as I bedded down for the night: "I'm the white horse... I'm going to kill you..." and I would tell it to fuck off and go throw some dishes in the kitchen, because it was a boring excuse for a poltergeist. Wise?
Once it seemed to get more within my energy field, it began to feed me disturbing imagery and messages, and I had strange nightmares of sickening, disgusting stuff. There was a gritty tone to these nightmares, as though through some awful film filter that made everything look incredibly bleak. It tortured in controlling, psychologically manipulative ways, too - like having me cause problems for others, making social faux pas with friends and acquaintances, and convincing me to run away from everything, hiding in the shelter system. I desperately tried to hang myself in a shelter one time, using a housecoat sash in a shower stall - after feeling a sharp pain in my chest, I let it go and slumped to the floor, ending up in CAMH once I told the staff what I had done.
In CAMH, at one point I felt like my arms were rotting with maggots chewing them up, I felt like I was being sliced into by invisible blades, my genitals being cut into... at one point it felt like I was having a heart attack, after I consumed some turkey. There was a slight degree of comedy to the torment, as though some positive source was trying to filter the evil by at least making it whimsical, but this made it very strange in many ways. Sometimes I would laugh and cry at the same time.
When I was renting a room, around the time the ceremonial tobacco mishaps were going on, I felt lost in a kind of film playing out in my mind, not realizing it did not translate so well to the world around me. I was trying to fend this thing off by "casting spells", but those "spells" just seemed to fuel more and more of the horror. It got extremely dark after I cast some spells with a Star of David and a Catholic rosary, as though taking on a whole new level of unholiness. I wish I head learned to pray sooner.
Once inside me, the demon began to torture me in strange, sexual ways that I do not wish to describe because they're simply too gross to get into, and they do not deserve a voice. I would try to keep my sense of humour throughout this, often telling myself that my life and psyche had taken on a David Lynch-esque quality (and hey, David Lynch movies are cool). I would play vapid fluffy pop shit like Ace of Base and Haddaway's "What Is Love (Baby Don't Hurt Me)" to try and make light of the shit show my life had become... unfortunately, I now have a bit of a Pavlovian reaction to the song "Wheel of Fortune" where I just can't listen to it anymore, rather like how easy listening takes me back to getting my braces tightened (although easy listening has a special place in hell anyway). The demon detested my campy musical tastes, so it would amp up the torture whenever this happened. I could get away with playing Gustav Holst's "The Planets" because neoclassical was ok in its opinion, but even Jean Michel Jarre's "Oxygene" was offensive to it, and the response was that it felt like my brain was being destroyed.
Sometimes I had the unfortunate reaction of hurting myself mildly to try and counteract irritation, but that got me nowhere... this is why I considered the restraints angle. Nothing truly bad came of my body, nothing permanent anyway, except for some scars from that time I attempted suicide in 2012 because of a failure on St Michael's Hospital's part to help stabilize me when I had crippling insomnia from all of this. That was basically the final warning to wait to come off of medication, because it just wasn't time yet. Since then, only 3 or 4 short hospitalizations have occurred, and they were pretty tame experiences.
Other ways of coping with mental torment have included the use of a weighted blanket, clutching a designated plush toy, rocking, and talking to myself... also, I have come to channel the Spirit as a kind of caring support figure that helps me deal with the more stressful times.
I will have to make a post soon about playing chess with this thing, it's interesting how it all came together. My mind is the only part of me that still has anxiety about this... being very much aware of the soul as I am now, there is a great calm and confidence from that part of me, so I am sure at least on that level that things are fine. But I am still going to give things time before I attempt reducing medication again, at least when it comes to going below 60 mg.
Marijuana seemed to be the thing that jumpstarted the basic mechanism of channeling, but in the beginning, it was just grunts, some words, and it was kind of under the breath. Also at this time was when I began to get channeled writing and drawings, when my hand gestured to grab a pen.
Things really got strong after smoking ceremonial tobacco - one shouldn't be doing this with inhale, but y'know... honkey see, honkey do! I inhaled and had some trippy visions, including an eagle that appeared every time I smoked it, and strange sensations in my mind. (It was only much later that I found out that tobacco is affiliated with Eagle in Medicine Wheel spirituality, so that's interesting.) The second or third time I smoked it, I began to channel very easily, as if second nature, but the information was random absurdity. The expression on the eagle's face was one that looked rather jaded and unamused, so I kind of snickered at that.
Smoking that much ceremonial tobacco really fucked me up ultimately, but because of voices and strange phenomena encouraging me to keep smoking it, I didn't figure this out until I was basically bedridden with the train of thought of an iguana. My tongue felt fat, limp, and as if made of lead. Meanwhile, the demon was having its way with me psychically. Channeled messages were getting very gross, and I found it hard to keep from blurting them out ... my soul was getting very sick. I was afraid I had serious brain damage, because visions looked like shit and it was getting hard to speak without sounding like someone with a crippling intellectual disability. Humanity got very mean with me because I guess I sounded annoying. So yeah, I should have listened to that native idea that smoking this stuff is bad news. Thank god I later quit all tobacco completely!
After the St. Jude invocation, the channel went from coprolalia to some encouraging messages of hope, but they were still short messages, and with little to no advice or detail. This was something that took many years of prayer and practise to get to a level where I now channel full passages. I am not always convinced that the information is perfectly accurate, but it's at least loving now, and it grows richer with time.
I might still be recovering from ceremonial tobacco poisoning, but it's night and day from what it was. Metatron really helped heal my mind, for one... Jesus, other parts of me.
It seems that I channel Spirit itself, not some random ascended being. The demon sure came through too, but with it "dead" and only there as a fading field of influence now, it's barely affecting things. Opening to the Akashic Records really helped me to conquer a lot, and to gain better insight. Right now, it seems like a time of rest, growth, and recovery from the brutality of the past 12 and a half years. The channel encourages me to take it easy, it says that now the fight is over.
Monday, 11 February 2019
Kundalites will frequently get mudras and yoga postures when in meditation... often I get them when channeling, or contemplating. A hand will lurch up and take on various gestures. I think the individual meanings of these gestures are more culturally bound, while the overall message is that they are a sign God is waking up in a person. From what I understand, hatha yoga, and other forms that involve stretches and postures, were generated as a result of observing the poses kundalites naturally go into when kundalini is active, to try and stimulate its opening potential. But when the kundalini naturally flows, these kinds of things happen spontaneously.
Another thing I get repeatedly is the gesture of the cross in the air, as though a priest giving a blessing. I also sometimes automatically draw a cross over my forehead, lips, chest, and make the Catholic sign of the cross over my head and torso. So if I were to analyze all this, I would say I have the Christian equivalent of what kundalites are going through. It basically amounts to the same thing, but my path takes on specific qualities.
My index finger also likes to draw certain symbols as gestures, which I can understand easily in my mind's eye, but am not always sure as to what they mean. It's kind of a guessing game. I'm not even sure if I should be paying so much attention to these, attaching this much meaning... the Buddha warned about that kind of thing, one must practice non-attachment to phenomena.
But there is some sort of saying I have heard, in Islam I think... something along the lines of "When God awakens, the hands will speak". Certainly my hands have been the most expressive body part involved when my vocal channel would fail me at times due to torment and blockage. The hands would express a message of compassion in the simplest of ways, often with a facial caress. Sometimes that was all I needed to keep going, and not feel alone.
Sunday, 10 February 2019
Oddly enough, being handcuffed was not the issue - I actually felt a degree of calm and relief when I was handcuffed, being as out of sorts as I was, afraid of harming myself or others, and not knowing how to control my body at all times. So no, that was not the trauma. What the trauma stems from was having to report to court all the time, where a bunch of old white assholes would come down hard on me, systematically monitoring me, criticizing me, taking away my rights. Court was very upsetting... when I was a child, nothing scared me more than having to go to court (except perhaps going to the dentist).
In hospital, restraints were used several times on me. Most times, I wish to mention, they were not even used abusively - in fact, they were usually used at my request, when I felt the presence of evil get the better of my mind, as though I would cause myself deep harm, so it was a preventative measure. So now, as I think about it, I am actually not completely against restraints in these places, but I feel there should be far more regulation, far more patient consent... certainly I don't know how I would have prevented a serious injury to myself without them sometimes, since sedatives can take time to kick in. However, the time I describe restraint happening to me in the back notes of "The Psychosis Diaries" was an example of profound abuse. At that time it was forced on me for a very long period of time because I ticked someone off by putting a mattress against the door window of a cell for privacy's sake, my wrists and ankles were black and blue the next day from it, it was awful and completely unnecessary. I suppose they did it because they saw me as a troublemaker due to legal reasons, and wanted to scare me ... it did not scare me so much as enrage me. I don't frighten easily, I am more prone to irritation, something the demon knew well about me when it would irritate me into grinding my teeth and getting aggressive with myself.
It's interesting how the tone of how staff treated me improved slightly after they drew my blood and saw I had no drugs in my system. Seclusion stays became less frequent after that, I guess I had graduated from potential "worthless crack whore" in their minds to "poor crazy woman". Unit 3-5 was particularly rough, and if you slept through the announcements for meals, you would miss your chance at eating at all. One could easily starve.
CAMH's 1001 Queen St West, where all this hell happened, is currently undergoing massive structural changes. I am hoping the new buildings going up, which are going to be nicer looking at least, will inspire change in the staff treatment of clients. The old buildings are sad and dark and very oppressive looking inside... they were like some strange cross between an old folk's home and a prison. I wonder if aesthetically it just made staff lazy about cleaning up and being more attentive? Though I am also aware understaffing is an issue, too.
I really hope I never look back at these places ever again, but honestly, I'm confident that I have recently turned a corner in a major way. Thank god for both my analyst and my psychiatrist, who are rare gems as people go, brilliant, and who very much care about the clients they treat.
I had gone to the rental store to get some nunsploitation flicks (I figured two would be enough), and said to the guy to direct me to his finest smut. "I want lesbianism... I want flagellation... I want the devil... I want it all!" He had several movies, so I settled on "Convent of Sinners" and another one called "Behind Convent Walls".
The first one we watched was "Convent of Sinners", which was amazingly trashy. It starts off with a shocking incestuous rape scene... how classy! Not too much longer into the film, the protagonist is standing naked in a room full of nuns while they ceremonially tie her little nun thong on her and clothe her in a habit. There's an insane amount of sexual tension in here between the characters, lots of gratuitous flagellation scenes, exorcism scenes... the works. One friend who couldn't make it really missed out missing this one. I joked that if we sit down to watch it again with him, I'll be sure to pop over to Bed Bath and Beyond first and pick up a plastic sheet before letting him sit down on my couch.
"Behind Convent Walls" was a bit of a letdown after the first movie. I was warned that this one was more arthouse... well, it certainly was more hipster. I couldn't really follow the plot, but then again I was getting bored and distracted in conversation - someone plays a violin here and there (because of course they do - this is an erotic art flick, it's either gonna be a violin or an oboe), there's lots of sex but it's all about as hot as a life drawing class, the camera is jerky, it's in Italian (I think it was Italian?) with English subtitles... meh. It just wasn't as interesting to gawk at after "Convent of Sinners".
(After those two films, we stumbled across some German latex nun porn online, and had a good laugh over that. Wholesome!)
All in all it was a fun evening, and an interesting intro to the genre! We're planning on doing it again sometime.
Friday, 8 February 2019
I would have to confirm this with my analyst, but I suppose active imagination plays a part in clairvoyance, as far as visualization goes. Medication does nothing to remove this phenomena, it only tones everything down in me, so it's quieter. This can be both a relief, but also a bummer if I want to explore the mind when I have time. Currently, my dose of Latuda is 80 mg, which is a moderate dose I take because I would rather feel safe than be overwhelmed. I think I may consider asking my psychiatrist to lower my dose down to 60 mg for a while, to see how I cope with that. Having what remains of the dark one in me, some kind of field that does nothing to attack or perturb me too much, but still affects things, means I want to play it safe, but 60 mg might be doable now.
Being a cartoonist, maybe my "clairvoyance" simply presents ideas in a comical, playful way, while a more serious person would have a different tone to it. Right now, visions are flawed looking, sort of like bad VHS static in a way, so I can tell something is not quite right with my system. This too is why I stay on medication for now. It's simply too soon to take it all away.
The format is amusing and fascinating, as I have discussed before. Kind of like a snapshot of a person I'm thinking of, with scrolling computer text uttering in third person something about them. It's a shame I am not in film or animation, as some of this would make great little shorts, it's pretty hilarious how it plays out, and it's hard not to keel over with laughter when I have witnessed it.
I get EMDR treatments at my analyst's sometimes, to help heal trauma. EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, is a completely benign means of repatterning neuropathic traumas in the brain by utilizing equipment (in this case, a light bar on a tripod, headphones, and vibrating hand pods) to resynch the pattern on the brain by following the light on the tripod with one's eyes as it goes back and forth, while focusing on the trauma, which somehow miraculously changes the effect of it in the brain, so it feels less painful. (The theory is that traumas tend to polarize on one hemisphere or the other, so when one uses EMDR, this repatterns it onto both hemispheres, making it less difficult to live with.) Yesterday, I had EMDR for the first time in a while, and suddenly, I was getting clairaudient messages explaining my traumas to me, and how they came to be. It's great to have an analyst who actually listens to this kind of feedback, not seeing it as a mere hallucination, but instead as a relevant insight that could have a deeper meaning. I would imagine EMDR is more interesting in my brain than in other brains, because of the phenomena I get. (My psychiatrist also practises EMDR - she believes it can help with all sorts of problems, not just trauma.)
Some visions have warned me of events to come. Before I was arrested, I saw police sirens. Before I was hospitalized at the end of 2017, I saw ambulance sirens. I have also seen beautifully rendered animations of my webcomic, as though done by one of the finest animation houses out there... not sure if that is just the mind at play with it, or a real premonition... but oh, how I would love my own cartoon series someday, though!
(BTW, I don't buy that New Age hooey about fluoride in the tap water ruining this ability for humanity, like it's some mighty Illuminati conspiracy... I drink tap water like a motherfucker AND take antipsychotics and I STILL get this stuff. My enamel is so awful thanks to bad dental genes from both parents that I need fluoride, so I will still get that shit done at the dentist, and I will still consume water that contains it... I like having teeth, that's all I'm saying.)
It's kind of a shot in the dark, trying to figure out everything at this point, but information is more compassionate now, more grounded, and more articulate, so hopefully it's also getting more accurate. I feel it's only a matter of time before things are really pieced together.
Wednesday, 6 February 2019
Unfortunately, being on antipsychotics does something to my dreams where they are not nearly as interesting. Sure, my mind is a ludicrous place, so they're still pretty funny - last night I dreamt that I ended up peeing on a giant gnat while shouting: "How do you like THAT, Spartacus?!" ... another dream one time involved me saving the life of a mastiff by running with it over my shoulders, while singing a Cyndi Lauper inspired song called "Girls Just Wanna Save Dogs", so in that respect they're not boring at all. But now they're just unconscious creativity noise... there isn't any message to be found. It's disappointing in that respect, considering the way some have been in the past. Yet, dealing with the demon, I had to take these drugs, because nightmares got particularly disturbing sometimes.
On antipsychotics, with this going on, I can avoid nightmares completely. I actually start lucid dreaming in time before a normal dream gets scary to be able to wake myself up and avoid being terrified, so I have not actually had a nightmare in many years, believe it or not.
During harder times, I would also sometimes get visions just before falling asleep - if they were funny or weird, they could wake me up because I'd start snickering. One of the more absurdist ones was a vision of a dragonfly knitted out of yarn in a bird's nest with a voiceover saying: "This is a toy that doesn't exist. This is the end of your life, but only if you believe it is. This is not the end of your life. Please try to get some sleep."
My strange spiritual initiation began with a haunting warning kind of dream, that caused me to beg the Divine for help in my life. Not long after, the demon attacked, and it went from there. Sometimes I get the sense there may be some mild psychic content coming though, but again, with Latuda in my system, this is stifled. Not just my dreams, but my waking conscious seems in mono somehow, compared to how it could be, but Latuda is not nearly as crippling to neurology as some of those other drugs I have been on. The really sedating ones are the worst. And Abilify had the opposite effect, where I was wired all the time, and required a sleep aid to get any sleep at all. Thank god Latuda doesn't seem to give me any side effects.
I look forward to the day I come off of Latuda (slowly and safely, of course) ... I am curious to see how my dreams will be once the mind is in a more comfortable place, with the interesting phenomena I get during the day.
Certainly, I try to fight and avoid needless suffering... anything that I can do to curb suffering that is unnecessary and can be avoided, I fight to rid that from my life. I live a simpler life due to the fact that, because of my struggles of the past 12 and a half years, I have had to take it easy to recuperate, so I don't take on too many challenges, like obtaining more sophisticated employment, as an example. I am also as dedicated to my spiritual growth at this point as a monk on a mountain, except I live a more urban, social equivalent. That eats into the time I would need to spend working on my life in other ways. It is not a chore, it is as natural as eating and breathing, it is a craving. Often when a quiet moment comes over me, my brain just naturally slips into meditation, as if I'm having a glass of water, if time allows it. I would suspect that, after a while, this would become the norm for a mind along most paths of development.
But if suffering comes my way, in a way that is beyond my power at the time, I have come to learn that the best approach, for me, is to simply surrender to it, and find any humour or even beauty I can therein. When CAMH was abusing me as an inpatient, there was no escape from this, because of my legal issues, the fact I had no home to return to, the system having taken that away from me, having slashed my benefits to restrict me in society. So, while working to reduce the amount of abuse I would experience by curbing behaviours that could lead to it, I would find pleasures in making my comics, going out to the garden area to appreciate nature, trying to see peace in having a more simple way of living enforced upon me. I'm not even sure if the abuse they inflict on people with mechanical and chemical restraints and all that is designed to get patients to "smarten up" by scaring the living crap out of them, or if they honestly see it as in a person's best interest, but it did lead to an inner maturity in me, that I could then work to avoid it when possible. I made comics and blog articles to point out how atrocious this treatment is, to generate attention to the hypocrisy of CAMH and their "Transforming Lives" slogan by addressing their abuse issues... my way of doing anything I could to reclaim my power, and to perhaps change this policy in some way. I don't think my mild attempt at activism did too much in that respect, but at least it got noticed in the press.
As I have discussed in my article on "toughening up", there comes a point after much suffering comes to a person where one simply adapts to it, and can suddenly handle it, should they seek an inner strength I feel we all have, as humans. In my case, I had to find it by reaching out to the Divine, and I had to realize I had to keep praying for more strength, and in different ways to different sources, to really get somewhere with it. On my own, without Divinity, I was no match for what I was confronting, but with the Divine, I could handle unimaginable levels of pain. This leads me to find stories of saints, mystics, and martyrs fascinating to read, considering some of the suffering these historical figures have had to endure. St. Joan of Arc, another one of my faves, certainly suffered a dreadful martyrdom, as did poor St. Lucy, who had her eyes plucked out. Where do these martyrs find their strength? I believe most of us have it in us, it can just be hard to find sometimes.
Also, relating to the theme of seeking beauty where there is none, this is not to say I romanticize extreme suffering, only that it is a means of coping with it while it's present. I suppose that also makes me quite Catholic in the way I go about things? Now that this suffering is pretty much over, at least in this form, as I reflect, I see great humour in much of it.
They say time heals all wounds, there are some in me I have yet to fully heal from, but I suspect that overtime the pain will fade completely.
Nunsploitation cinema is something I have, oddly enough, never experienced, so I think it's about time, considering my current station in life. Certainly, I would say the whole Catholic / nun fetish is quickly surpassing pony play as my favourite kink that I don't actually have... there's so much hilarity out there. A local niche cult video store that a friend of mine is affiliated with as a volunteer certainly has a large stock of these kinds of movies, so I'm going there today to find out their best (worst?) blasphemy pic. (I have seen nazi exploitation shit before too... sadly, it wasn't "Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS", but some Italian shitfest called "Caligula Reincarnated As Hitler". I have yet to witness nunsploitation... this should be good.)
Probably this time we'll consume red wine and rice crackers, which look a bit like communion waters, as food. I'll wear the polyester habit, because the latex one is a bit chilly for this season, even indoors. So I'll be updating later with a review of the flick after we have this movie night - "Convent of Sinners" might be the film, but we'll see what the video store has.
It's amazing how many insufferable subdivisions of humanity exist now, thanks to the internet. Certainly, I would love to lead a nazi furry to the vet on a leash and have them put down, but also bizarre to me are vegan Satanists. So let me get this straight... you worship the god of hate, but you won't eat meat, or even wear leather... that's a special kind of oxymoron. I wish it was legal for Santeros to sacrifice Satanic vegans to the Orishas... Santeros would eat these guys for breakfast. Honestly, if some Satanic vegan guy started getting preachy with me about eating chicken while simultaneously shouting "Hail Satan!", I would smile, nod, and tell them how sad I am for them that they were never able to outgrow diapers. Satanism is the stupidest thing... but vegan Satanism is just being hipster about it.
The weather is shitty out there again, so it will not be much fun trekking out in this to the video store... ugh. And it was so nice just a couple days ago! Damn this winter all to hell.
Sunday, 3 February 2019
If I were to sum up what I have read so far in this book (I am about halfway through it... I have been reading it incrementally while juggling a few other books at the same time), I would say - if the goth kids from South Park had a bible they followed, this would be it.
I first learned of "Goth Craft" years ago when I was in a BMV with a friend of mine, and picked it up, snickering at the idea that someone made a manual on how to be not just a witch, but a GOTH witch. One would think that if one wanted to go goth, they would just go goth... just buy some black eyeliner, a Siouxsie and the Banshees album, dress appropriately, and go from there. But now there's a manual on how to do this, which one can follow while also dabbling in the occult. Though I can understand why one would wish to consult a manual on how to get into the occult, I really don't understand why there has to be a step-by-step guide on how to become a goth while you're at it. It seems rather absurd. To quote those goth kids from South Park, it's "so conformist".
I was a rivethead, personally, back in my clubbing days, which is basically an industrial cousin to goth - more stompy and angry rather than mopey, more militant than lacy, that kind of stuff. I later retired from that scene... I still like the music, but have traded my 20 hole Docs in for more cute and feminine stuff. (Most dress down days have me dressing rather conservatively, my hair in a "ma'am bun" for my day job, but I will still wear alternative fashion, often enough.)
I find this book silly in a way that I don't think most people will, and I say this, having been raped by a demon calling itself "Satan", after a few innocent rounds with a oujia board. Though the tone here is well meaning, and it certainly is not an un-entertaining read (though, for me, perhaps for all the wrong reasons), I don't get the sense the author truly grasps the cultural significance of much of what he describes of tribal societal ritual, as an example, stuff that might truly muck someone up, if they engage in it and don't know how to control it, or shut it down. This concerns me, knowing how curious young adults (and yes, teenagers too, of course) can and will be with the occult. There is nothing wrong with Paganism if it is done safely, nothing wrong with alternative culture, but I get the sense that this is not the kind of book one should follow as a guide, if one truly does not have a solid understanding of the nature of the occult, or of the practises therein. If Digitalis can't even nail down the facts about the history of gothic lolita fashion, how can he be a source on ritual such as bloodletting? It's a mild concern.
I also may be completely out of touch at this point with my former subculture, but this book keeps going on and on about "the darkness" and how goths worship "the darkness" and I am still rather lost as to what exactly this metaphor of darkness represents. Hopefully not demons, which, as I have said elsewhere, seem like a fucking stupid thing to play around with, and not a true source of power or benevolence. For any real power, in my experience, one must befriend Divinity, and that can take a lot of work and dedication, depending on your path. Some sadhus will stand with their arms in the air for many years to invoke Shiva for siddhis... this stuff can take a lot of discipline, more than just carving a pentagram into one's ankle for Baphomet. The cultural appropriation here doesn't offend me too much... it's kind of an eye roller, though. What offends me is the potential for harm, if in the wrong hands.
But I am still enjoying this book... can't say it's not fun to read. It was a bit of a challenge to track down a used copy. I saw it at BMV again, then after telling the Anglican Druid about it, who really wanted to see it, we went back to buy it, and it was gone! Turns out it was only shifted around in the store inventory... we later got the copy after it was found. He consumed it... I am still making my way through it.
I will have to give my final thoughts later, as I complete this strange read. But for now, I will say that the rise in "Satan is kawaii" pop cultural edgelord shit disturbs me a bit, and I worry that psych wards will be flooded with neo-Satanic teens who have invoked nasty entities, thus further backing up the revolving door mental health system. This shit is not to be toyed with, and much of the world does not seem to get that. Yes, I know I sound like someone's superstitious Catholic grandma, but I never want to relive what I went through for 12 and a half years, and I don't wish it upon anyone else either. It's horrible, and not worth the goth scene points.
(BTW, something funny to mention - I have heard it's become a thing in Pagan girl circles to seek out nice Christian boys to date, because so many Pagan guys are such insufferable, neck-bearded, dagger collecting, dragon-tattooed-dick, basement dwellers that Pagan ladies want a boy that seems clean cut and trustworthy. Obviously, this depends on the church... Baptists might not be great, but Lutherans, United churchgoers and Anglicans seem ok. Also, two lady friends of mine have, on separate occasions, told me they have a sexual fantasy of seducing a Mormon boy at the door in lingerie, and neither had ever met the other, so I guess that too is a thing.)
One of my frustrations with the kind of trends I see all over the web these days is the prevailing attitude that it suddenly seems empowering to disempower oneself. Not to sound like someone who victim blames here, because I certainly am not one to do that, but we have made a culture out of self-victimization. Having been a victim of systematic abuse, stalking, and rape (among other things), I understand the vulnerability of having been victimized myself, and the necessity for reflection and compassion from others, but all of a sudden, in a way, it seems trendy to want to play victim, even for absurdly everyday occurrences, in a collective whine fest that forgets the value of growing a good strong callus and strengthening oneself, moving on, learning from, and adapting to one's pain.
Honestly, if I had let myself stay in my old mindset, I would surely have killed myself a very long time ago. Psychiatry was convinced for a time that my self injury was a sign of Borderline Personality Disorder (something I never had, BTW - I actually was dealing with a great amount of stress at home, and also probably this occult influence did not help), but I doubt there's a psychiatrist alive who would call me that nowadays. (They would call me many things, but definitely not a person with BPD.) I think it was the shock and fear when a co-patient committed suicide in a group I was in that snapped me out of chronic suicidal ideation... it was later arrest that snapped me out of projecting my issues onto others and not being more responsible. No one was going to save me but me... this is often forgotten by people, or it is presented in condescending attitudes that come across as heartless, or at least trite sounding.
I am super frustrated with the direction that Mental Health Awareness and even Mad Pride are taking... this kind of almost "romanticization of mental illness" crap I have seen creeping into things. I really feel it is the wrong approach, I wish wisdom, strength, and compassion were qualities that were nurtured online more than self-pity, fear, and anger are. We live in an age with politicians and world events that are as tasteless and offensive as watching "Schindler's List" in 4DX. It's a very strange time where it seems normal to be "crazy" and articles are put out there to suggest that if you are not depressed and anxious about the status quo, you aren't a sensible, well meaning human being... you are in fact a sociopath. I absolutely refuse to believe it has to be that way. There's got to be a higher road.
For many years, life seemed to repeatedly pummel me in the face. At one point, I went missing on the streets of Toronto, a runaway, I was scared and my family thought I had died, until my sister saw me one day and found out what was going on. I had a strange guy following me around whom I was afraid of, I had this demon attacking me, I was sexually assaulted by another strange man, and no one seemed to get what I was going though, for it was too otherworldly and I had not the means to articulate my pain, nor was I living in a city spiritually open minded enough to really believe in it. As I have said before, the only thing that kept me from suicide was both the desire to live, but moreover, the fear of the karmic impact suicide would have on me, or the fear that I may have to confront what was attacking me on another plane, without the defence of having a body.
So in a weird way, when I was finally arrested, it was a kind of relief, that at least there was no way of destroying myself or anyone else anymore. It was humiliating and shameful, but also probably necessary to some extent to really not let things get any worse. The strange man could not get into my life anymore, for the hospital would protect me from him, and although CAMH was also abusive, they weren't going to let me die.
So I grew up, because I had no other choice. Suicide was no option for me, nor was being whom I was before. Kind of a sink or swim scenario, probably the kind of thing where I could only learn what I did from things getting this hard. It saddens me that so many I see ranting online don't get the strength they likely have beneath the surface, because they haven't been forced to find it within them like I have. We don't seem to generate a society that nurtures this strength... not suggesting we boot camp the shit out of people, but we certainly don't make an effort to empower the masses in any way that might be enriching, from childhood onward, like, say, other cultures have been known to do. It all seems about efficiency and productivity, which generates burnout in many, thus creating neurosis. Also, the western world is pretty spiritually impoverished in many places, which I'm certain does not help, especially in times when the soul is in pain.
I might sound like a tough old cow, but I think I know what I'm talking about when it comes to personal betterment. When psychiatrists wanted me to accept a bleak future, I told them how pessimistic they all were, and ultimately, have come to prove them wrong in many ways. I wish this stupid anti-intellectualism, poor me shit would end soon... it's fucking ludicrous, and it does no one any good.
Tide Pod Challenge indeed. <_<
EDIT: I recently confessed I never had a formal diagnosis of BPD. I thought I was Borderline because of self injury and a lack of a sense of who I was, plus I was one of those teens who liked to self-diagnose. Psychiatry knew I thought I was BPD, and I did take DBT for a time as a therapy option, but it was never formally what I was considered. Just needed to drop this confession here.