Hello tea-mates,
Its Friday morning; Im working the day shift. Which
is quite all-right. Settling in, having tea, brushing
the teeth (bring yr toothbrushes with to work; gives
you an extra 3 minutes of sleep), reading the Sinister
posts & the regular excited email from mum telling me
what new icon she bought to prettify her home with
Catholic sanctity, these bring me almost to noon. The
rest of day speeds on. You wouldnt believe how many
people stop in when they somehow or other discover Im
vegetarian. Most of these people were reared on farms;
or in Chicago, the Hog Butcher of the World. They
begin similarly:
You dont eat any meat? What _do_ you eat?
(I could never do that; not enough discipline)
See, I grew up on a farm. Ive no problem with going
out back, selecting a pig, & leading it into the shed
for slaughter. If that doesnt offend me, why should
eating their flesh?
They lick their cheeks like you would the morning
after smoking a cigar. They want to argue the issue. I
dont care to. But I see depair, confusion, in their
faces; an inscrutable sadness that I approximate with
words like despair and confusion. I think its because
a way they learned to live in childhood, a behaviour
that was _right_ and proper as a child, was being
contradicted. Give me a second, this has a relevant
point (I think). The way we find to cope as children
becomes the right way to act.
And, we think it's courageous to keep the act up. I
say all this vague rubbish because of Rachel
Fruitloop's appreciated message. When I was 16 I tore
my hair out. Bit any piece of skin I could reach. Held
my head and crushed (Id hoped) everything inside,
spinning spinning, until falling on the ground,
breathless and pathetic. I hated being alone. But when
I saw my parents, or older sister, or classmates, this
supernatural shame gave me the energy to behave
normally, if quiet; smiling, if for slightly no
reason. being in company was a respite, but I despised
myself for acting, so I hated being in company too.
There was absolutely no place to go.
I remember a friend of mine's mother worked in a
pharmacy. I begged her for Prozac for my birthday. I
wanted to believe there was a good place to go to. She
turned up on the doorstep with my gift -- a bottle of
Prozac. She smiled willfully, proud of herself, & I
brightened. Now I think I was happy just to admit
(however symbolically) to someone that things didnt
feel right. She left, I rushed into my room, shut the
door, and opened the bottle. The usage instructions
were curled and stuft under the cap. I poured the
pieces into my hand -- and looked at a palmful of
rainbow Skittle candies. I couldnt see the humour in
it; it was an impish joke, and well-meant Im sure, but
it dismissed my symbolic admittance.
I then found sleeping pills. These are the chemical
numbing cheap Sominex kind, legal for a 12 year old to
buy in the States; not at all safe like the herbal
over-the-counter types in Europe. I still enjoy
ingesting them. Back then, I had so much rage that my
parents couldnt see how badly my insides were
corroding. They were remarried, to each other, after
11 yrs of divorce. They had their own problems, I
know. Plus, they came from a working-class ethic that
my father summed up perfectly when he thought any
complexity was being brought into emotions or
psychology: 'psycho-babble'. He didnt have time, nor
the capacity for the immaterial crises. He learnt to
cope, & had no imagination left to sympathise.
Im sorry, this email has suffered from a glandular
problem & expanded well beyond its compass. I just
wanted to say 'Well done' to Rachel Fruitloop for not
being ashamed, or accepting of any alienated status,
because of medication. I dont know if I would have
been (would be) better off with medicine. Maybe. The
most detrimental leftover from those years is shame in
talking abt things 'slightly mental,' in admitting
them & not feeling like a freak . The feelings remain;
the coping still seems to work too. But to realise
that silent screaming, nightly drugged sleeps, & a
normalcy that is so absurd it's a caricature are not
enough to draw attention to pain, when striaghtforward
confessing is taboo, this dilemma crushes the spirit.
So cheers to all the unmental, slighty mental,
moderately mental, & extraordinarily mental
sinisterines today. I get to go to Chicago tonight to
see my sister, & have massive fun scouring faces for
lunacy! Ill bring back souvenirs.
500mg & 500 smiles,
Toy Stephen.
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