Riverside Arrest

    God knows I do not remember how I came to wake in the field by the river. It had been many days journey from the estate in Western Virginia, down the Blue Ridge mountains and into the foothills of Greenville District. What I do remember is that the moment I woke was one of the last moments of peace I would know for quite some time. I did not yet know that the Southern way of life as we knew it was ending. What I knew was that the sun was still shining down upon the fields of South Carolina, and the river still flowed down in the gully beside me, restless in its pursuit of the ocean. A certain restlessness haunted me as well, a desire to find the life of that American Dream, one might think? No, I had something to prove. What it was that I was yearning to prove was not yet clear to me. 

    What I did know is that I had labored hard at my studies, yet I found the success I gained to be unrewarding at best. There was something gnawing at me… a frustration that I could not quite define. The fact was is that I was unexceptional. I was tired of trading on other people’s names. 

    I was long an adult and yet I felt like a child, still questioning the way things were, still trying to find my way. I felt far too old for my life, and tired of chasing what seemed like petty goals. Where was the real action? How did a man come to do things of true consequence?

    White beards kept gathering in the halls and the churches, going on about such high minded notions as states’ rights and the threat of sectionalism. Back home the Tidewater whites were up in arms about the question of Negro Rights and the survival of the Southern way of life, while folk further into the mountains were concerned about the costs of helping rich slaveholders line their pockets. Since the election, South Carolina had already voted to succeed but as of yet no other state had chosen to follow. 

    Meanwhile, the mild mannered Buchanan had already declared that the Federal government lacked authority to prevent a state from succeeding. As President, he had made clear that he would not use force against states who attempted to succeed. He sought to negotiate. When the State of South Carolina declared its withdrawal, some thought it was decided… some thought that the union had ended.

    What could Lincoln do other then sneak into the Capital and hide? No one was going to take up arms against Columbia. Why would they? The Northern cities had no appetite for a war over that which was called the Peculiar Institution! 

    I had only been in the town but a few days, having traveled to the aid of my father, who had gotten in a spot over his unpopular opinions. He had managed to cross so many people over the years it was no small wonder he was still alive and though they said that I took after my mother I suspected I had merely learned to better hide my opinions after years of observing my father express his. 

    I came down from Middlebourne of Tyler County, Virginia, doing so only with great hesitation and anxiety of the calamity around me and the danger into which I was descending, for my fellow Virginians were mighty torn about the question of succession. There was very little appetite for leaving the union, especially in the western part of the state away from the tidewaters. My father had always been a trader, and took great pride in his reputation as a merchant, while at the same time abhorring the peculiar institution on many accounts. 

    In February, the succeeded states met in Alabama to form a new country. By the time Lincoln entered office, the Confederate States of America had seized all major federal forts and property within its boundaries excluding fort Pickens in fl and Sumter in Charleston Harbor. 

    The sun was shining brightly and nearby a mill wheel turned in the water. In the distance I could hear faint signs of life, and the wind rustled the trees gently. The river was quiet, but fairly shallow beneath the banks. The trees and bushes were green around a dirt road that cut towards the mill. A sign hung by the road, reading in large letters “Parkins Mill”.

    My father had summoned me from the small house he called a plantation, though it had not hands nor slaves to work the ground, and the ground itself, like much of the western part of Virginia, was not particularly hospitable to seed. For a time before he had turned all of his productive energy to trading (A livelihood that barely kept the bill collectors satisfied), He had styled the place as a ranch. He even hired a couple of riders for a short time, though they never had more then four cattle to tend to. I’m not quite sure why he returned to calling it a plantation, other then some misplaced sense of Southern pride. 

    My father was a strange man indeed, and there were more then a few who would assert that his only son was even stranger still. Yet, he had seen to it that I was educated, and though I had not always taken to the pursuit with the enthusiasm of my peers, I had recently finished said education having learned a great deal of literature, but particularly the study of contracts and numbers. I was eager to make something of it, and less then thrilled at being called so suddenly down South, especially with all the excitement stirred up in government. It did not seem wise to attract too much attention at a time such as this, but such concerns were never high on my father’s list.

    Yet he had summoned, and therefore I had locked up the estate and left it under the watchful eye of the neighbor, his onetime partner and periodically his friend, though they feuded from time to time. I only wished I knew the reasons we were sticking our necks out this time. Yet His letter was uncharacteristically formal and cryptic. 

Joseph,

    Events have transpired to force my hand. I regret our recent quarrels, but you must come and extricate your sister from this place. Come to Greenville Courthouse and seek out the men of faith, then the men of letters. Not the one before the other. Take every precaution that I cannot.

Father

    The fact that he neglected to even mention my brother at all, the youngest of the family, was perhaps the strangest detail.

    Somewhere nearby a horse whinnied, and my heart quickened as I realized I wasn’t alone. Before I could move, rough hands grabbed my arms and hauled me up and over the bank. I flailed at the air as I fell several feet and landed in the river below. Hoots and Hollers rang out as I thrashed in the water. I had not had much occasion to practice my swimming, though the water couldn’t have been more then a slow moving five feet. The water was dark with mud and lined with stalks of reed. Not more then 30 feet up the river from me stood the mill. 

    The water had the most peculiar smell, and flowed in a gully no less then 5 feet tall. In later years so many factories and mills spouted along that river that they started calling it various names like the Rainbow River due to the chemicals that were dumped or the River of Death due to the amount of raw sewage that flowed from the sewers. Yet it was named for the reeds I found myself becoming acquainted with. 

    As I paddled towards the bank I saw two men standing by the river, a tall thin one with a long face and a beard and a shorter, stouter fellow with a mustache. The thin fellow was grinning and made a comment to the other, who guffawed and slapped his knee. 

    I finally reached the muddy bank and pulled myself up the bank from amongst the reeds. I had barely time to catch my breath when a gunshot rang out, freezing me in my tracks. 

    “Now old on there, feller.” Said the thin fellow, his arm holding a long barreled revolver in the air. 

    Reluctantly, I drew my hand away from my side arm, suddenly noticing the metal stars pinned to their chests. It made no difference how fast I moved. My pistol was dripping wet, and the powder had likely flooded. Anyhow, the pistol shot was attracting eyes, eyes that bore me no kindness. 

    The stout man stepped towards me, picking up my hat from the grass and brushing it off, extending it forward with a gentle smile.

    The thin man wasn’t smiling. “There’s some people that have taken an interest in you, seeing how you’s not from around these parts. You’re coming with us, friend.”

The Dangers of Persistence (Part 1)

    Persistence can be a troublesome thing. Sometimes people don't see the dangers of persistence. 

    What is it does it look like when you persist beyond all evidence to the contrary? What is it called when you persist TOO far?

______ (adj): 

    having or showing dogged determination not to change one's attitude or position on something, especially in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so.

"a ______ refusal to learn from experience"

    One thing that I was taught growing up, that has been repeatedly reinforced, to a fault, is persistence. Yet, persistence carried too far starts to look remarkably like ... being stubborn. Being stubborn is a problem for sure. Sometimes, flexibility is required. Take iron, for example. Pure iron is not very flexible. It's hard, but it will break. Sometimes a soul has to be forged in a fire to become strong, just like iron has to be forged in fire to become stronger. The Samurai had a method of forging swords to make them very strong. It involved repeatedly bending the metal back on itself and hammering it together over and over again. This made the blade hard but with some give and not as brittle. It gave the blade strength, sharpness, but also some flexibility. 

    So too a soul must be. Sometimes a person must bend with the wind in order to survive the wind. To be willing to bend is to adapt and to learn. Change will always come. Challenges will always come. You can't always be prepared for everything. The willingness to make changes or adjust on the fly is not indecisiveness if properly thought out. The willingness to adapt is not weakness or lack of courage if it is necessary. 

    There have been many moments in battles which a leader had to make a choice whether to adapt or stay the course and chose to stay the course to disastrous results. Sometimes persistence is not courage or strength... sometimes it is stubbornness, foolishness, and weakness. 

    

Dancing in the Moonlight

Careful

    I'm trying to be careful. Focusing on the basics allows less room for error. I'm keeping my timeliness and accuracy as high as I can, maintaining records, and keeping my head clear. I've got to keep moving forward. I can't move backwards. I try to make time to fill in bits of my writing as well, but sometimes maintaining my work and my health take all of my time. 

    It's very strange how social relationships work. I cannot figure them out for the life of me. People are unpredictable. Sometimes they are are nice as pie, sometimes there is such strong hostility, and sometimes they are simply so fake that conversation becomes an exercise in absurdity. Some of the strangest experiences are conversations that actually leave you with far more questions then answers. 

    Then there are the smaller contradictions. You get paid to verify orders, but some suppliers make it virtually impossible to verify the order. They don't label or they seal the order. Then I'm supposed to guess whether they did their job right and confirm. If I guess right then it's ok but if I guess wrong then it's on me. Never mind that they make the job impossible in the first place. 

    Anyways, when I'm not absorbed by the nitty gritty, I'm trying to let people see my positive sides. That's not always easy and sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes impatience or frustration get the better of me. Other times, there's not a lot of room to maneuver. I try to avoid highly rigid situations for just that reason. I'm tired of getting boxed into situations. Yet I do have positive sides. People have to choose to see them. There is an us vs them mentality out there. It's unfortunate. Life is better when people work together. Yet people make choices. Sometimes they choose the path of most resistance. 

    I'm finding it helps to divide my time between work and reflection. It helps me to clarify the changes that I need. Life cannot simply be repetition. Life requires growth. Life requires beginnings and endings. A life with too much certainty is not sustainable. I'm trying to streamline so that I can prioritize necessary change in my life. 

    I feel like I have taken my eye off the ball. Relied on the wrong assumptions. I cannot allow myself to stray again. I need to be more careful. I'm getting older and there is only so much time. It's not just that I don't want to buy into false narratives, there's not enough time and energy for it. Repeating the same fights, regurgitating the same grievances, worrying about the same people and events again and again, makes no sense. 

    Sometimes I miss Robo-Rob. I get caught up in the details of how I got from there to here. Then I get tired of thinking about it. I try to go out and do stuff. It doesn't go great. That's what brings me back to the how's of getting here and being here. 

    The thing about being numbed out is that in a way it feels good but it doesn't lead anywhere. Clozaril is a permanent dead end. A one way trip to nowhere. Yet People want to believe in it so badly, that they'll destroy almost anything, do almost anything to maintain the lie. Zero recognition of the harm done in the process. Arguing with someone who is convinced that they are right is worse then arguing with a wall, because a wall doesn't attack you for simply disagreeing. The wall just maintains its position. 

    I heard something that really resonated. It was "you can't change someone's behavior, you can only change how you react to it." This is very true. 

Psychology Article

Undercurrents

    I'm definitely still having trouble with subtext. That's where walls and space sometimes help. I particularly struggle with when I think a situation is going well and suddenly someone becomes hostile, seemingly without warning. 

    I want to rely on what I am good at. If I am consistently doing what I do well to the best of my ability, then I am adding value to the world. I don't want to focus on things that I cannot control. I really did used to think that I was a good communicator. I was definitely wrong. I'm far too out of touch. A narrow focus helps my clarity and calm. Focusing on the most pressing tasks. 

    I'm continuing to focus on working with the two contractors and waiting for a response on volunteering. Today I hope to spend some time finding something interesting to write. 

    Interpersonal communication is so strange to me. It's so very hit or miss. Two different people can take the same words and go in completely different directions with what they hear. It's not just that people are complicated, they're rather unpredictable. 

    I let down my guard and then something happens. Usually nothing big, just large enough to be noticeable. Something that serves as a reminder to be careful. Something that reminds me that bad things can and do happen. 

    I feel like I walk a very careful path, but people don't notice that. Sometimes I struggle to understand what people do see when they look at me. I'm not one who spends too much time reading signs or looking for symbols. It's enough to keep up with more explicit communication. These seem like very troubled times, though. Solutions seem more complex and less easily grasped. So often there seems to be unspoken tension in the air. 

    I'm trying to find something funny to write in my stories. I'm hoping to diffuse some of the tension that I sense. I feel like I need to reflect to find that humor. People need to laugh. 

     I've begun delivering with another contractor. It's an adjustment, but it's going well. Doing the deliveries leaves less time for writing and brainstorming. Yet it keeps the bills paid. 

Change

    My work continues to go decently. I'm trying to focus on what I can do positively in my own life. I don't feel like I have the endurance or the energy that I used to have. I enjoy writing when I can focus. So I'm trying to save my energy for that. Preserve my mental presence for work and my writing. Though I'm hoping to start volunteering at an animal shelter soon. 

    There's always far more to do then I have the energy, focus, and presence for. I keep trying to do more but I get spacey quickly sometimes, or without warning. Sometimes conversations seem circular. I alternate between untethered optimism that ignores inconvenient truths and a biting pessimism. Sometimes I feel so lost in my head that the world seems distant and I get that floating feeling. Sometimes it feels like a play or movie, only the guy who's supposed to prompt me for my lines is either out sick or drunk.

    I keep running into the same problems. Like this thing with the utilities where they are not billing me right. I even went and verified everything online and there's still some problem. And God forbid I should try to call them on the phone. Last time I tried to talk to a company on the phone, Spectrum's employee fraudulently charged me for services I wasn't receiving instead of terminating the services. I called them back and complained, yet still had to pay for the services. Some things are criminal. They didn't seem to recognize that they did anything wrong. I'm not doing business with them again, I should have learned my lesson with that company. They've always had shit customer service. Of course they still have my phone service, but they jacked it up, so there's another issue to deal with. They even jacked it up more then they said they would. Which only proves how dishonest they truly are. 

    I'm trying to live out the saying "Less is more". I'm trying to be more deliberate in my actions. To go more slowly. Events have just gone so quickly in the past several years. A lot of change. I think I'm still catching up. 

The Hauntless

 

   Vlad had the most marvelous experience the other day. He flew into a corpse named Bob, from just down the street. He was on my way to Home Freako again - yes, he goes most every week - and the girls were playing Marco Polo. As usual Jess was winning. Sarah was only playing to humor her. 

    Bob was a businessghoul, first and foremost. He was in the middle of haggling a price for his patent pending formula for Necrolyte chewing slime and his Ryse of the Dead energy drink. When Vlad first hit him, he was quite flappy, almost besides himself. Then Bob gave him some free samples. He could see the potential immediately and wanted to buy in on the spot, so Bob invited him over for some Ryse and finger food. 

    Bob was set up in an abandoned bungalow four houses down. A charming place, really, he had such a knack for decor. Turns out he shopped at Home Freako as well. 

    When it came time to get down to guts and jolts, Bob engaged Vlad with a somber voice as he served up a pinky and a forefinger. 

    "You see, good sir, haunting is such a noble vocation, but some poor ghouls, well, they simply have no one to haunt! It's sad, really. They work their whole afterlives, honing and refining their haunting skills, practicing until the whee hours of the day."

    "I've heard of these creatures. A shame. Everyone should have someone to haunt! There must be hope for these poor souls??"

    "Well, yes, I've started a placement agency, to place these ghouls - we call them the Hauntless - with hauntable souls... for a nominal fee, you see."

    Vlad brightened at the prospect. "How many have you placed?"

    "Well, none as of yet, but that's where you come in. A sharp fellow like yourself can help with the logistics. There's many souls to place with the living, and they need somewhere to gather and meet like minded hauntless. What do you say?"

    Vlad could not say no.

The Escape to The Blood Connection

    It was just anudder Saturday morning, and Spidey was hard at werk, rigging the old wadder heeder dat di owners ob Spidey's Attick had left behind in their hurry to bacate into a jacuzzi for critters. 

Suddenly the stereo began blasting, and Spidey could hear Vlad's voice singing along to Another Saturday Night.

Another Saturday night and I ain't got no bodies

I've got some Spiders cuz I lost my RAID

Now, how I wish I had some blood to drink, too

I've fled the light of day.

I got in town a century ago

I've seen a lot of donors since then

If I could bleed 'em I could feast 'em

But as yet I haven't bled 'em

That's how I'm in the state I'm in

Another fella told me

He had a ghoul who looked just fine

Instead of bein' my dinner

She tasted like David Schwimmer

The platelets were not appealing.

It's hard on a bloodsucker

When he's not below the ground

If I don't find me a vein

That I can most promptly drain

I'm gonna have to blow this town

    From somewhere near the window Jess sighed. We all knew what this meant. Vlad had fallen opp di waggin' agenn. We dropped ebbyting and rushed to his coffin, but all we found was an open window.

     One thing I regret is that I haven't had as much opportunity to appreciate people recently. My mind has been so absorbed. There was this one nice lady downtown today and granted, I was busy, but it would have been nice to have an excuse to stop and chat. I'm working on a story idea today.

 

 

Singing in di wadder heater, just singing in di heater! What glowious steam!

Robo-Rob

    Anyways, When I was on Clozaril, I was robotic. Numbed. Now that I'm off Clozaril, Life is much different. My sleep is more flexible. I don't have to worry everyday about whether I'll be able to get up, be able to function, or whether I will be too groggy to function. 

    I spend a lot more time and energy on processing and making decisions, which leaves less time and energy for everything else. I'm more patient then I used to be, more cautious. When you're not numbed out you're not as resilient. Stress hits you harder. I've been putting a lot of work into maintaining boundaries and space, managing finances, maintaining my health, and working. 

    When people don't work at cross purposes, life runs so much more smoothly. That's why I maintain space and boundaries. I avoid unnecessary conversation with people that I don't have good relationships with. 

    The boundaries and space is like oil in an engine. It keeps the parts from grinding against each other. Sometimes parts are stubborn. They keeping grinding the same ways in the same situations. The space and boundaries smooths the contacts. Less grinding. No fighting the same fights over and over, no rehashing the same resentments over and over. Suddenly you can breathe again. 

Dis Dress Tolerance

    A liddle more off di train... Spidey werk berry hard on Dis Dress Tolerance. Ebby day. Wuddent a fan ob it originally. Dat Molly teach Spidey a pew tings. Now Spidey werks hard at it. One ting Spidey learned was di importance of bacation. Not the kind of bacation that involves plane tickets or gas money... The kind they talk about in mental health circles... A mental bacation. 

    Faborite ting to do is go to the beach. When ebber life gets too be too dutch. Spidey just has vlad fly us down to the coast... Spidey needs to go again... enjoy di wabes... pick out a nice shell... go for a crawl...

    

 

I've been working a lot. In a way that's good because it distracts me from the medical. Gets me out in the city around people. I worry about my mind though. I cant keep up with the pace. Then its like flying blind. Too many people trying to grab the controls, both internally and externally. I dont worry as much about an accident or physical danger. I worry about losing control. I worry about the autopilot. The dissociation. It's like sleepwalking. I'm worried I'll wake up to a problem.

The Psychiatrist's Burden

    Back in the days of the slave trade, there was a frame of mind at work called The White Man's Burden. Of course, revisionists love to deny the history of slavery, especially these days. Unfortunately, the evidence of the harm slavery caused is overwhelming.

    Earlier I posted an article on the UK mental health system: Fragile Minds

    In a sense, there is almost a Psychiatrist's Burden in certain circles... a belief that persons who have acquired one of these labels is unable to make decisions for themselves and should not be treated as an independent adult. 

Rewind

    My life is like a weird B rated movie. My father did have a valid question: where is this going? Acceptance. It's going towards acceptance. To illustrate, let me rewind and slow the playback so those with MDs can follow.

    The original problem was not as well understood in the 90s, but Artstick was smart to send me to Springbrook. They specialize in Autism. It took me a while to accept and process the truth, especially with my family sabotaging me. In the 90s we didn't know as much about Autism. MIP dx'd it as Aspergers, buried it under the bipolar label that made more sense to them. My parents were very pleased with this. They didn't like autism (I could tell from the uncomfortable looks on their faces as I talked about it). They didn't understand it. Neither did MIP, apparently. Nor Prichards. The emotional dysregulation and the trauma that developed as a result of not getting the care that autism needs was misdiagnosed as Bipolar, which only made things worse. 

    But Artstick sent me to Springbrook because I have autism. That's why she changed me to the PA when I asked to go to MIP. Maybe she began to doubt that she understood my disorder right or she doubted I was in acceptance. But wanting to stay at the same hospital is in itself a symptom of autism: not doing well with change. MIP was only too happy to go along with my father in changing my diagnosis from DID back to Bipolar because it allowed them to be right about me and it covered up the effects of them being wrong about me all at the same time. That doesn't change the fact that they were indeed wrong. They even tried to discourage me from talking about autism to doubly cover their tracks and reinforce Bipolar, completing the cover up. And any objection by me was paranoia and psychosis, just reinforcing their diagnonsense. 

    So, everyone would have won but me. Unfortunately, I don't give up easily and neither does my counselor. She learned it from her father and I learned it from mine. These kind of wars are a waste of healthcare resources, and I'm not sure what was the most immediate reason that got me into MIP in the first place, but I suspect it was either my confused state or my family's backstabbing... the Spravato had sent me into a dissociative state. But when I signed that information release, my father got the chance he was waiting for to bury me and my counselor and reestablish Prichards and Bipolar.

    Anyways, we cleaned up my parents' little coverup. Changed the DX's back again, clarified that they are not to be changed again, clarified that my parents are not to be involved in my health care decisions, and fixed the meds. I have a different medication for dystonia now in case the abilify stimulates the dystonia again. I'm on a dosage indicated for AUTISM, not BIPOLAR, which I do not have. 

    All's well that ends well? I don't know. I don't know because I don't know if my parents have reached acceptance or ever will. I've still not learned how to navigate these complex family schemes around my health. The autism is clearer now that I'm not on Clozaril, at least to me. I still have some anger and resentment at all I've been put through in this malpractice of Bipolar and the cover ups. If my father hadn't been a doctor it would have been harder for him to play the hospitals against me like that. But that was a key part of their whole plan: to use my brother's and my father's standing as doctors to reinforce bipolar and erase the rest. I don't know if they are capable of recognizing the fact that they have been wrong about me and in their obstinance and pridefulness they have caused me tremendous harm. 

 

Ebbybody lubs Spider!

Ebben ip he is a biter!

     I prefer to be nice to people. After all, the world is what we make it. It's not always easy though. Sometimes, things go wrong in life. It's not necessarily anyone's fault, though there is a natural tendency to look for reasons and assign blame. Sometimes, when two people reach an impasse, blame can pass back and forth rather rapidly like machine gun fire. Other times, it comes in waves, like coordinated offensives.

    I had a good meeting with the PA. He's going to research autism a little and he's in the process of linking up with the counseling office. We're going to try abilify one more time with a different anti-dystonia intervention. I'm trying the NAC supplements for mood support. 

Noise

 

    There is a great deal of noise in the world. some of it is generated out of hatred or ignorance. I hesitate to involve myself in anything that is not directly my business because unless I know the full story, I feel unable to act wisely, and life is not simple. It's always more complicated then we want it to be. 

    I've sensed a lot of negativity in my life lately. It's been a little overwhelming. Things are looking up though. Maybe I can afford to worry less. Today I'm going to be working some, and I'm going to work on my stories and poems. 

 

     Focusing on what I'm good at, what I enjoy, and on what I have in common with others. That is where the dawn is. Not in repeating the past. Not in litigating differences.