The Alter Ego Speaks

Ok, first things first, just so you don't get hopelessly confused: Love is Pain. And yes, I love, so I have pain. I'm sure it's the same for you. You're probably reading this message because I Pain you.

I saw a video the other day done by an amazingly brave BBC reporter; showing how the big (Israel / U.S. sponsored) armored vehicles (think DUCKS, but, bigger, armored, and with cannons) were shooting up women and children in Palestine. Terrorists all, I'm sure. God, I hope nobody loved them.

In a world gone mad, I'm Mad as Hell. So sue me.

Back when I used to pay taxes (well, I still do, unfortunately - I can't stop them from taking it, but I'll be DAMNED if I'm going to put my name on it anymore - check it out, I can get 3 squares a day, a cot, a toilet, and probably a regular rear-end tryst with a huge dude with tattoos covering his whole body - and all on YOUR dime!); there was a point here, but somehow I think I made it without actually making it.

I drink to kill the intellect. I don't want it anymore. It knows too much. It looks into peoples' eyes and it figures out exactly what's going on in there. STOP. I don't want to know. Knowing means I have to LEAVE and be RESPONSIBLE at the same time. Let's face it. If you KNOW a thing, where is your morality if you just get up and walk away? Ethanol is a moral anaesthetic. It works wonders. You can also run your car on it. Such a deal!

Did you know that we're about to RUN OUT of corn for human/animal consumption? Even the GM stuff. Why? Because it's getting DIVERTED to FUEL ETHANOL production! It's the future of the SUV!!! Love it while you can. At least we'll solve the obesity problem in the U.S.! BTW, dreams die hard, but you can't drink the fuel C2H6O - it's "denatured" by mixing it with none other than our good friend petrol. Now THAT'S a cocktail!

Ok, that was a bit of a side-slide, I admit - but strangely related, in a singularly American way, no?

I may have written about this somewhere else before, and if so, forgive me being repetitive - it comes to me again as I'm actually PLANNING on a fun experience in what most rational people would call a nuthouse. I'll be sharing the dorm with addicts to who knows what, "cutters" (they cut themselves - one of the purest addictions - let's face it, I have to envy them their lack of need for chemistry), and then, well at least last time, there's the person (and I say "person", because I STILL don't know, to this day) who's not 3, not 4, but about 6 fries short of a Happy Meal. And as I KNOW I've told you elsewhere (my blog, probably), I am, by definition, this person's BEST FRIEND (whether I want to be or not). I can hardly wait.

Actually, I don't regret meeting the last of "those" - I got one of my deepest realizations of truth from watching this person, and then what happened (or didn't) to them.

We go through life with a "world view" - it's the collection of theories we have about the world, and especially about people. At the time, I knew I was in pretty deep need of help, and I was counting on these folks to help me - and they came through, no question. But I had a world-view shattered in the process; you see, when I went in, I thought I was going to a "first tier" thing. Certainly everyone going there needed significant help. Certainly the staff would do their best to help. And "certainly", if they couldn't help, and the person just couldn't stay there (due to behavior problems, etc.), they'd send that person off to the REAL nuthouse. You know where this is going.

"Girlfriend" (and I use the term advisedly) had a natural fit one day right before the "lunch march". The reaction of the staff present convinced me of one thing that really stuck with me since then. When it comes to my personal well-being and safety, there's nobody who will be responsible for it except me.

Plexiglas is amazing stuff, and the staff used it well - all cowering in the little central Plexiglas office cube. Then came the "orderlies" (in pubs, they're referred to as "bouncers"). It took 4 of them to subdue dear heart (she's not fat, but she's BIG).

None of this (yet) represents my deepest revelation. Those of us who were allowed to march off to lunch did so - Ghetto Fabulous stayed behind, of course. We get back, and there (she) is, in THE ROOM, strapped down, and apparently "appropriately" medicated. Here was my thought: "Oh, (she) won't be staying here anymore - they're going to ship her out to..." Uh, yeah, to...

Next day, GF was at breakfast, just as if nothing had occurred.

I realized, in that moment: The facility I think they might ship (her) to - THIS IS IT. I'm in it. You can't imagine how (mental) health-promoting that revelation can be. I was feeling so much better, so fast. By the next day, I was the picture of mental health, and sent home.

Ok, so I'm the alter ego. I have a role to play in this thing called Paul. Except you already know: I'm not perfectly real.

I'm not any more or less real than any other aspect of that person that maybe you love, but might never fully understand. It turns out, I'm the same guy who'll drop $500 on the SWC Silent Auction, (and God help me, I honestly can't remember the 50/50 outcome - I'll trust the consensus on that one). But go back to the top and read again.

I believe that folks who get a MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder) diagnosis don't actually have any more personalities than you or I do. They just have amnesia. So maybe somebody won the 50/50 and actually got it. If so, it probably made for a pleasant trip home (yes, I remember that, and I know I had cash; and well, I just had cash).

And see, the cash isn't the point. Money only gets its power through movement. If it's not moving, it might as well be so much dust and scattered leaves. I'm not spouting platitudes here. I truly believe and live that. No, it hasn't always been so. Get nothing to lose. Repeat for emphasis. GET NOTHING TO LOSE. Then you'll understand the value and the purpose of money. I'd rather give it to SWC and the kids with cancer and the researchers for breast cancer and the Center for Skeptical Inquiry (yes, Virgina, this Alter Ego is a skeptic) - all of those and more, than to King George's War.

And so it is.

Rounding it up, finally, to the top thought: I'd like to say to you that the love is worth the pain. And I guess it really is. Since none of us get out of it alive, it might as well be. So love. Be in pain. And live, as best you know how. That's what I'll be doing. It's all we can do.


Peace.

Paul S (AKA: LifeWrecked)