Defecaloesiophobia affects thousands of people. Tragically, this is a real fear people suffer from yet there is not a dedicated recovery group. Most cases will go untreated due to the individuals embarrassment to talk about suffering from it. Defecaloesiophobia is the fear of painful bowels movements. Hey, no fucking laughing, this is serious!
I think everyone can at one point in life relate to a painful poop. Let's face it, we all have had something so large excreted from our ass that if felt as if our pelvis was going to crack. One would think those who suffer with Defecaloesiophobia, would also have a fear of plugging the toilet. Something that large isn't going to get flushed down without the help of a fucking plunger.
What's more interesting is people never talk about their bowel movements. Even when a doctor asks during a physical most find the topic uncomfortable. I suppose I am a freak because I always look at my shit before I wipe. Seeing what comes out of my ass has some unknown importance to me. Thankfully, my shits are rarely large enough to clog a toilet. However, I do know people who regularly have excessively large bowel movements.
I'm surprised my older brother doesn't suffer from Defecaloesiophobia. It's very possible he may but is like the thousands of others who have no support so he keeps his illness hidden. As children, I recall him always plugging the toilet because his shits were so large. Out of frustration, my parents made him call them to the bathroom before he flushed the toilet. They would use a coat hanger to break up his turds prior to flushing. One would think this would cause great embarrassment for a developing child and result in their not wanting to poop. I don't think my brother ever found any thing odd or uncomfortable about his parents having to break up his shit with a wire hanger. He would always spend what I thought was a long and odd amount of time taking a crap. This could be one of the symptoms of Defecaloesiophobia. Much like child birth, maybe a shit that large requires contractions and hard pushing to finally expel. To this day I can still here him yelling, “Dad I'm done, I think you need the coat hanger”.
This might be a phobia we can find humor in because we don't suffer from it. However, think for a moment what living hell a person with a phobia may be experiencing on a daily basis. I know my personal phobias and anxieties restrict many facets in my daily life. What if an individual with Defecaloesiophobia is visiting a friends home and suddenly has to release? I've been to many homes where people do not keep plungers in their bathrooms. A bathroom without a plunger for the person suffering with Defecaloesiophobia could trigger a major panic attack. Panic attacks generally begin with irrational thoughts of the “what if's”. “What if I take a shit so large it plugs the toilet?” “What if I have to open the bathroom door and ask my host for a plunger?” “What if they see how large my shit is?” You can see the hell of this spiraling thought process.
Since there really is no formal support or recover group for Defecaloesiophobia, I call on you, my readers, to make an attempt to comfort those who suffer from it. You first have to be aware of key behaviors that may indicate a friend may suffer with Defecaloesiophobia. They can be any combination of the following: Someone never taking a shit at your home. A person regularly pressing upward on their lower intestine. Always having to leave a setting immediately after a large meal to go home. Irregular bloating and unbloating. These are just a few of the signs. If you notice these symptoms in a friend, sit them down one on one. Tell them you understand. Offer your support by telling them to call you when they are scared to shit and you will walk them through it while comforting them.
In the end, you might make a huge difference in this persons recovery. Oh, and for those who do not keep plungers in their guest baths, now that is fucked up.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Fuck The Family Bed You Pedophiles... Bring Back The Family Bar...
I often wonder what the fuck happened to the good old days? Do families actually have fun together like we did back in the 70's? It seems as if everyone today is so busy trying to do everything right, most are instead fucking it up.
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories were spending time with my grandparents. My grandma Betty and grandpa George were coming off the swinger era around the time I began to walk. Being the future homo I was, I thought my grandma Betty's wigs were beyond cool. She would let me wear them around her house pretending I was Diana Ross. Even at age five I was drawn to addicts.
My grandparents belonged to a club called The Moose Lodge. There might be a few of these places left however I am sure they are nothing as they were during the 70's. Saturday nights were the big night out for Moose Lodge members. My grandparents would get all sharply dressed much like people do these days to go to the Detroit Symphony. In the 70's, parents were not as self consumed as parents of this generation. Sitters were rarely used and families actually spent time together. My grandparents loved taking me and my brother to the Moose Lodge on a Saturday night. It was almost a runway show event for grandparents to show off their grandchildren to fellow members.
While the adults gathered at the bar drinking, there were games all over the lodge to entertain the kids. Best of all, you didn't have to keep running and asking for quarters because all the games were free. There was air hockey, pinball, and they even had bows and arrows for kid archery. We would end up eating so much junk food with soda pop most of the kids fell asleep on the couches throughout the lodge. I remember the bartender letting us take turns pouring beers behind the bar and the adults would give us tips. At the end of the night, grandma and grandpa would find us on a couch somewhere in the lodge and carry us out to the car. That was quality family time we really don't see in our society any longer.
A few years back I was at my usual afternoon hang out having a few beers. An older gentleman came in with a baby carrier on his arm. He took up near me at the bar placing the baby carrier on the bar. The guy was so proud to show off his granddaughter he even bought me a beer. Our conversation continued over several more beers. He even let me hold his granddaughter and feed her a bottle. At a point he had run out of smokes. He asked if I would watch the baby while he ran up to the party store to grab a pack. I love kids so of course I obliged.
As soon as the guy walked out the door, I had a stream of people coming up to me all freaked out. Most were woman acting all appalled that someone would bring a baby in a bar. Would they have rather the man left the baby in the car with the windows rolled up on a 90 degree day? What the fuck is wrong with people? The kid was in no danger. The man obviously had good judgment. He could tell I was a safe person to leave his granddaughter with while he ran to get smokes. One dumb ass bitch said she was calling the police. Naturally, in a kind manner, I told her to go fuck herself.
When we see kids shooting each other at school, I don't think we need to search far for the blame. Society has forced parents to leave their kids home with strangers. Why not bring back places like the Moose Lodge where families can spend time together as families? Just because a child is in an atmosphere where there is alcohol does not mean they become alcoholics and end up in recovery. Shit, they can even learn something. I could tap a keg by age eight.
Peoples values and morals are just fucked up these days.
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories were spending time with my grandparents. My grandma Betty and grandpa George were coming off the swinger era around the time I began to walk. Being the future homo I was, I thought my grandma Betty's wigs were beyond cool. She would let me wear them around her house pretending I was Diana Ross. Even at age five I was drawn to addicts.
My grandparents belonged to a club called The Moose Lodge. There might be a few of these places left however I am sure they are nothing as they were during the 70's. Saturday nights were the big night out for Moose Lodge members. My grandparents would get all sharply dressed much like people do these days to go to the Detroit Symphony. In the 70's, parents were not as self consumed as parents of this generation. Sitters were rarely used and families actually spent time together. My grandparents loved taking me and my brother to the Moose Lodge on a Saturday night. It was almost a runway show event for grandparents to show off their grandchildren to fellow members.
While the adults gathered at the bar drinking, there were games all over the lodge to entertain the kids. Best of all, you didn't have to keep running and asking for quarters because all the games were free. There was air hockey, pinball, and they even had bows and arrows for kid archery. We would end up eating so much junk food with soda pop most of the kids fell asleep on the couches throughout the lodge. I remember the bartender letting us take turns pouring beers behind the bar and the adults would give us tips. At the end of the night, grandma and grandpa would find us on a couch somewhere in the lodge and carry us out to the car. That was quality family time we really don't see in our society any longer.
A few years back I was at my usual afternoon hang out having a few beers. An older gentleman came in with a baby carrier on his arm. He took up near me at the bar placing the baby carrier on the bar. The guy was so proud to show off his granddaughter he even bought me a beer. Our conversation continued over several more beers. He even let me hold his granddaughter and feed her a bottle. At a point he had run out of smokes. He asked if I would watch the baby while he ran up to the party store to grab a pack. I love kids so of course I obliged.
As soon as the guy walked out the door, I had a stream of people coming up to me all freaked out. Most were woman acting all appalled that someone would bring a baby in a bar. Would they have rather the man left the baby in the car with the windows rolled up on a 90 degree day? What the fuck is wrong with people? The kid was in no danger. The man obviously had good judgment. He could tell I was a safe person to leave his granddaughter with while he ran to get smokes. One dumb ass bitch said she was calling the police. Naturally, in a kind manner, I told her to go fuck herself.
When we see kids shooting each other at school, I don't think we need to search far for the blame. Society has forced parents to leave their kids home with strangers. Why not bring back places like the Moose Lodge where families can spend time together as families? Just because a child is in an atmosphere where there is alcohol does not mean they become alcoholics and end up in recovery. Shit, they can even learn something. I could tap a keg by age eight.
Peoples values and morals are just fucked up these days.
I'm Not M.A.D.D..... I'm Pissed
One of the first steps to recovery is admitting to ones self you have an addiction. Prior to my vacation at rehab, my favorite tag line was “admitting you're an alcoholic is half the battle so at least I am half way there”. Half way to cirrhosis? Fantasy land it a good happy place. Had I tossed some illegal drugs in the fantasy land mix, maybe I could have seen Mickey, Donald, and Mr. Magoo drift into my happy place. There are only two ways into recovery. The individual decides they are too fucked up to survive, or someone deems you fucked up and forces you into recovery.
DISCLAIMER: I have never had a D.U.I., or any substance abuse related interaction with the law. Shit, I've only had one speeding ticket in whole life. Therefore this blog entry is not be written by a bitter drunk who feels fucked by the courts.
Court ordered recovery, for the most part, is way fucked up. Judge MacKenzie of the 52 district court here in Michigan will rattle on the success of his Sobriety Court. He'll show you the success rates for decreased re-offenders from his program verses those not in his program. The numbers work great for the state obtaining the state grants which fund his court. I can't completely toss Judge MacKenzie, or other Judges who run Sobriety Courts, totally down the shitter. These guys are making an attempt to help and work within our laws. I also agree that fuckheads who get behind a wheel while drunk or stoned need to be legally kept off the roads and need to face consequences for their actions. It's the methodology of how recovery through the courts that is fucked.
This past New Years Eve in my area, Lynch and Son's Funeral Homes were offering free rides home to those who drank too much and could not get a cab. I knew I would be riding a caffeine free aspartame high so told friends to call me if they had more than one drink an hour. My question is, and has been for years, where the fuck is M.A.D.D.? Why don't they establish ride programs? I'll tell you where they are, they are sitting waiting for someone to get behind the wheel fucked up and get arrested. They value funding over prevention. Lower drunk driving statistics could jeopardize their existence. This multi-million nonprofit corporation could lose grants and funding if the statistics aren't there. If these bitches really cared, long ago they would have established a safe ride program. They capitalize on individuals who lost a loved one to a drunk driver. M.A.D.D. tosses victims of drunk drivers before the media and courts to misdirect their anger and pain. It's all about the money.
If you end up getting sentenced for a drunk driving offense in the 52nd district court here in Michigan, there is a sentencing board which makes recommendations to the judge. On this board sits two members from M.A.D.D.. They pontificate how horrible the guilty party's offense is, then throw in graphic details of someone they knew killed by a drunk driver. After the boards recommendations, the judge then will issue sentencing. For the first or second offense, usually a term of probation and an agreement to enter a court ordered recovery program is ordered. If you are lucky enough to keep your license, you should be able to complete the program. Most end up with a restricted license or no license at all. You're then tossed out the door to fend for yourself.
Prior to going to recovery groups and actually meeting these court appointees, I had the attitude they got what they deserved. It's easy to pass arm chair judgment from the blind side. In reality, these people need help. No recovery program will be successful if the means are not available to actually work the program. This is where the courts fall short. M.A.D.D., well they are just a bunch of douche bags from the get go.
I met a young dude at an AA meeting who we shall refer to as Don. Dumb ass Don was on his second D.U.I.. He choose to enter Judge MacKenzie's Sobriety Court program. He also had a second choice which was 90 days in jail then probation. License suspended, three AA meetings a week, community service, random drug/alcohol screening, and monthly meetings with a probation officer was his sentence for the next 18 months. Now toss in the $2500.00 in court costs to be paid by the end of the 18 months. Dumb ass Don also racked up $4000.00 in lawyer fees autonomous to his restitution to the courts. Prior to his second offense, not learning jack shit from his first, Don was a college student in East Lansing, Michigan which the court forced him to drop out. I have no issue with the sentence. My issue lies in the means to execute the judgment.
First, why force a student in good standing to quit college? Why not communicate the probation to Ingham County where he attended college? It's a prove fact students who do not return to college after a extended period away never re-enroll. If Don's probation were transferred, all restitution and supervision of his sentence are off Judge MacKenzie's roster. This lowers the count in his Sobriety Court. If this became a standard practice, the lower numbers in his program might result in a decrease in grants and funding. Let's pull the guy out of college, so our courts can remain funded. Excellent logic and what an investment to our future tax payers! Shit, the courts transfer probation all the time for sex offenders. They want those fuckers as far away from their county as possible.
Readers, meet J.A.M.S., J.A.M.S. meet my readers. J.A.M.S. stands for Jail Alternative for Michigan Services. Basically, J.A.M.S. is a place where persons under regular court order randomly goes to piss in a cup. Consider it your own private urinal by invitation only. Sometimes they make you blow into a breathalyzer, but is mostly a piss joint. A few times a week the offender calls into a computer, enters their pin number, and if you are ever so lucky to be chosen by computer generated lottery, it gives you the day and time you have to go piss. Days and times always vary and the J.A.M.S. locations are not like a CVS pharmacies where there is one in every town. Miss a date with the piss cup, it's a violation of your probation agreement. Your ass can be out of the program and off to jail you go. This really fucks getting a regular job since you're on call seven days a week to piss in a cup. Now take into account the person has no license. How the fuck do they get there? Even the best of friends get burned out driving your ass around at odd hours over an 18 month period.
Every aspect of the sentences given to drunk drivers involves a large amount of time, obscure unstructured hours, and involves transportation. It takes a very understanding company and boss to employ a person in a Sobriety Court program. Needless to say, Dumb ass Don ended up working for me. In the end, I don't think Don was an addict, just a total dumb fuck.
As I said, I'm not bitching about the sentences given to drunk drivers. My issue is with the means available to the guilty parties to fulfill their sentences successfully. I would give Dumb ass Don rides to a small percentage of the various places he was required to go. Just that small percentage made me feel like a soccer mom with a kid on a travel league. Consider rides to community service, work, AA meetings, cup pissing, and probation evaluations. That will eat up the 12,000 miles a year on your lease vehicle in a heart beat.
If M.A.D.D. is so fucking concern about rehabilitating the offenders, why don't they have ride programs? For that matter, why don't they have peer groups of former offenders, who now have licenses reinstated, assisting in rides and advising the guilty for successful completion of their probation? It's because they don't fucking care. They don't care to establish a safe ride program on recognized bar nights such as New Years Eve. They don't give two shits if another persons family member is killed by a drunk driver which may have never gotten on the road if safe ride programs existed. Actions speak, and those bitches don't act. Judgment, grants, and their two second of fame to be heard is their only agenda.
If you know someone involved in M.A.D.D., ask them what have they personally done to keep a drunk driver off the road? After listening to their response, you have my full permission to call them a dumb ass bitch.
DISCLAIMER: I have never had a D.U.I., or any substance abuse related interaction with the law. Shit, I've only had one speeding ticket in whole life. Therefore this blog entry is not be written by a bitter drunk who feels fucked by the courts.
Court ordered recovery, for the most part, is way fucked up. Judge MacKenzie of the 52 district court here in Michigan will rattle on the success of his Sobriety Court. He'll show you the success rates for decreased re-offenders from his program verses those not in his program. The numbers work great for the state obtaining the state grants which fund his court. I can't completely toss Judge MacKenzie, or other Judges who run Sobriety Courts, totally down the shitter. These guys are making an attempt to help and work within our laws. I also agree that fuckheads who get behind a wheel while drunk or stoned need to be legally kept off the roads and need to face consequences for their actions. It's the methodology of how recovery through the courts that is fucked.
This past New Years Eve in my area, Lynch and Son's Funeral Homes were offering free rides home to those who drank too much and could not get a cab. I knew I would be riding a caffeine free aspartame high so told friends to call me if they had more than one drink an hour. My question is, and has been for years, where the fuck is M.A.D.D.? Why don't they establish ride programs? I'll tell you where they are, they are sitting waiting for someone to get behind the wheel fucked up and get arrested. They value funding over prevention. Lower drunk driving statistics could jeopardize their existence. This multi-million nonprofit corporation could lose grants and funding if the statistics aren't there. If these bitches really cared, long ago they would have established a safe ride program. They capitalize on individuals who lost a loved one to a drunk driver. M.A.D.D. tosses victims of drunk drivers before the media and courts to misdirect their anger and pain. It's all about the money.
If you end up getting sentenced for a drunk driving offense in the 52nd district court here in Michigan, there is a sentencing board which makes recommendations to the judge. On this board sits two members from M.A.D.D.. They pontificate how horrible the guilty party's offense is, then throw in graphic details of someone they knew killed by a drunk driver. After the boards recommendations, the judge then will issue sentencing. For the first or second offense, usually a term of probation and an agreement to enter a court ordered recovery program is ordered. If you are lucky enough to keep your license, you should be able to complete the program. Most end up with a restricted license or no license at all. You're then tossed out the door to fend for yourself.
Prior to going to recovery groups and actually meeting these court appointees, I had the attitude they got what they deserved. It's easy to pass arm chair judgment from the blind side. In reality, these people need help. No recovery program will be successful if the means are not available to actually work the program. This is where the courts fall short. M.A.D.D., well they are just a bunch of douche bags from the get go.
I met a young dude at an AA meeting who we shall refer to as Don. Dumb ass Don was on his second D.U.I.. He choose to enter Judge MacKenzie's Sobriety Court program. He also had a second choice which was 90 days in jail then probation. License suspended, three AA meetings a week, community service, random drug/alcohol screening, and monthly meetings with a probation officer was his sentence for the next 18 months. Now toss in the $2500.00 in court costs to be paid by the end of the 18 months. Dumb ass Don also racked up $4000.00 in lawyer fees autonomous to his restitution to the courts. Prior to his second offense, not learning jack shit from his first, Don was a college student in East Lansing, Michigan which the court forced him to drop out. I have no issue with the sentence. My issue lies in the means to execute the judgment.
First, why force a student in good standing to quit college? Why not communicate the probation to Ingham County where he attended college? It's a prove fact students who do not return to college after a extended period away never re-enroll. If Don's probation were transferred, all restitution and supervision of his sentence are off Judge MacKenzie's roster. This lowers the count in his Sobriety Court. If this became a standard practice, the lower numbers in his program might result in a decrease in grants and funding. Let's pull the guy out of college, so our courts can remain funded. Excellent logic and what an investment to our future tax payers! Shit, the courts transfer probation all the time for sex offenders. They want those fuckers as far away from their county as possible.
Readers, meet J.A.M.S., J.A.M.S. meet my readers. J.A.M.S. stands for Jail Alternative for Michigan Services. Basically, J.A.M.S. is a place where persons under regular court order randomly goes to piss in a cup. Consider it your own private urinal by invitation only. Sometimes they make you blow into a breathalyzer, but is mostly a piss joint. A few times a week the offender calls into a computer, enters their pin number, and if you are ever so lucky to be chosen by computer generated lottery, it gives you the day and time you have to go piss. Days and times always vary and the J.A.M.S. locations are not like a CVS pharmacies where there is one in every town. Miss a date with the piss cup, it's a violation of your probation agreement. Your ass can be out of the program and off to jail you go. This really fucks getting a regular job since you're on call seven days a week to piss in a cup. Now take into account the person has no license. How the fuck do they get there? Even the best of friends get burned out driving your ass around at odd hours over an 18 month period.
Every aspect of the sentences given to drunk drivers involves a large amount of time, obscure unstructured hours, and involves transportation. It takes a very understanding company and boss to employ a person in a Sobriety Court program. Needless to say, Dumb ass Don ended up working for me. In the end, I don't think Don was an addict, just a total dumb fuck.
As I said, I'm not bitching about the sentences given to drunk drivers. My issue is with the means available to the guilty parties to fulfill their sentences successfully. I would give Dumb ass Don rides to a small percentage of the various places he was required to go. Just that small percentage made me feel like a soccer mom with a kid on a travel league. Consider rides to community service, work, AA meetings, cup pissing, and probation evaluations. That will eat up the 12,000 miles a year on your lease vehicle in a heart beat.
If M.A.D.D. is so fucking concern about rehabilitating the offenders, why don't they have ride programs? For that matter, why don't they have peer groups of former offenders, who now have licenses reinstated, assisting in rides and advising the guilty for successful completion of their probation? It's because they don't fucking care. They don't care to establish a safe ride program on recognized bar nights such as New Years Eve. They don't give two shits if another persons family member is killed by a drunk driver which may have never gotten on the road if safe ride programs existed. Actions speak, and those bitches don't act. Judgment, grants, and their two second of fame to be heard is their only agenda.
If you know someone involved in M.A.D.D., ask them what have they personally done to keep a drunk driver off the road? After listening to their response, you have my full permission to call them a dumb ass bitch.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Insert Foot.... Have No Shame... It Is Italian Leather After All....
It's always comical to me how people are apprehensive to inquire about ones rehab vacation. I use the word vacation because I think it was the first time I had really relaxed since I began my job 20 years ago. Well, relaxed with out zero sunscreen tanning oil and many cases of beer. As a novice to rehab, I had packed incorrectly. It took me a few days to get the necessities down. Thank rehab Jesus for Dave. For the first three days he was running things over I needed. Being a big homo, my necessities were a tad more extensive than the hetero rehab patient. Packing for rehab will be addressed in a future blog posting. Still, this was a wonderful, educational, 16 day vacation I would highly recommend.
Staying on topic, like many illnesses, people pussy foot around directly coming out and asking questions. This past Thanksgiving weekend, my little brother got married. After the wedding, I was hanging out with my new best found friend, his mother in law – love that lady! We're throwing a few back at the hotel bar after the reception chatting as if we had known each other since birth. I made a mention of my vacation to rehab the previous winter. In all serious and caring, she asks, “how was that”. Taking a drink of my beer I replied, “the food was do die for”. She burst our laughing repeating “the food was to die for?” Those who saw me after rehab, clearly noticed the 20 pounds in 16 days to the higher end of the scale. Shit, the place had a chef from the south who made down home cooking for every meal. There were three meals square, three scheduled snacks, then a movie and pizza before lights out. And it was all fucking good. Most try to sneak shit into rehab. Being the fucked up person I am, I sneaked food out. One night, I managed to scam a full rib dinner. I called Dave and told him to meet me in the lobby so I could run the dinner out to him. That's how good the shit was.
Drop the etiquette if you want to know, just blurt it out. People in recovery love to hear themselves talk - trust me, go to a meeting. Depending on the person, you may lose a few hours of your life to the conversation you'll never gain back. The key is to act as if you know the lingo. Asking “how was rehab” is okay, but you might get an idiot like myself that rambles on about the food. Most people are really wanting to know what the fuck you were abusing so badly that your ass ended up in a rehab. In many cases, it should be pretty damn obvious. The guy who is slurring his words no matter what time of day you see him and smells like a distillery, you can pretty much guess he went in for alcohol treatment. Then there are those who you get a little shocked because they were secretly addicted to prescription medications. Even as an addict I have difficulty picking those fuckers out. Heroin addicts are easy. They are the ones with no veins left in their arms who are trying to lift your fine china and flat screen out of your house.
If you want to be “hip” within recovery culture, the correct phrase for inquiring as to what ones addiction is, “what was your drug of choice”. In any rehab facility or recovery group, people will say, “my drug of choice was” followed by the drug name or mulitple drugs. This makes sense because there is a never ending soup and salad bar of drugs out there. Dressing on the side please. Remember, alcohol is considered a drug. Again, be prepared when asking one what their drug of choice was. You may get more than you bargained for.
One guy, I will call Kenny because he spent two weeks in rehab with his jacket hood up and you only saw his eyes. My first day in group with him it comes this turn and he begins listing his drugs of choice. Holy shit, this list wasn't ending. The fucking thing was longer than a grocery list for both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners combined. There were drug names coming out of his mouth I had never even heard of. With all the drama in rehab, it is possible people will do that for attention or to proclaim themselves king of drug abuse. Not this guy, you could tell by his motor skills he did all those drugs and was most likely dropped on his head as a baby. By the time it came around to me, I felt like the guy in the gym locker room with the small penis – I only had two drugs of choice. I'll never be homecoming queen.
So there you have your etiquette for your next social function where someone in recovery is in attendance. Remember, the phrase is “what was your drug of choice”. Don't be shy or hesitant! Shit, if you are both single you might even get a date out of it.
Staying on topic, like many illnesses, people pussy foot around directly coming out and asking questions. This past Thanksgiving weekend, my little brother got married. After the wedding, I was hanging out with my new best found friend, his mother in law – love that lady! We're throwing a few back at the hotel bar after the reception chatting as if we had known each other since birth. I made a mention of my vacation to rehab the previous winter. In all serious and caring, she asks, “how was that”. Taking a drink of my beer I replied, “the food was do die for”. She burst our laughing repeating “the food was to die for?” Those who saw me after rehab, clearly noticed the 20 pounds in 16 days to the higher end of the scale. Shit, the place had a chef from the south who made down home cooking for every meal. There were three meals square, three scheduled snacks, then a movie and pizza before lights out. And it was all fucking good. Most try to sneak shit into rehab. Being the fucked up person I am, I sneaked food out. One night, I managed to scam a full rib dinner. I called Dave and told him to meet me in the lobby so I could run the dinner out to him. That's how good the shit was.
Drop the etiquette if you want to know, just blurt it out. People in recovery love to hear themselves talk - trust me, go to a meeting. Depending on the person, you may lose a few hours of your life to the conversation you'll never gain back. The key is to act as if you know the lingo. Asking “how was rehab” is okay, but you might get an idiot like myself that rambles on about the food. Most people are really wanting to know what the fuck you were abusing so badly that your ass ended up in a rehab. In many cases, it should be pretty damn obvious. The guy who is slurring his words no matter what time of day you see him and smells like a distillery, you can pretty much guess he went in for alcohol treatment. Then there are those who you get a little shocked because they were secretly addicted to prescription medications. Even as an addict I have difficulty picking those fuckers out. Heroin addicts are easy. They are the ones with no veins left in their arms who are trying to lift your fine china and flat screen out of your house.
If you want to be “hip” within recovery culture, the correct phrase for inquiring as to what ones addiction is, “what was your drug of choice”. In any rehab facility or recovery group, people will say, “my drug of choice was” followed by the drug name or mulitple drugs. This makes sense because there is a never ending soup and salad bar of drugs out there. Dressing on the side please. Remember, alcohol is considered a drug. Again, be prepared when asking one what their drug of choice was. You may get more than you bargained for.
One guy, I will call Kenny because he spent two weeks in rehab with his jacket hood up and you only saw his eyes. My first day in group with him it comes this turn and he begins listing his drugs of choice. Holy shit, this list wasn't ending. The fucking thing was longer than a grocery list for both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners combined. There were drug names coming out of his mouth I had never even heard of. With all the drama in rehab, it is possible people will do that for attention or to proclaim themselves king of drug abuse. Not this guy, you could tell by his motor skills he did all those drugs and was most likely dropped on his head as a baby. By the time it came around to me, I felt like the guy in the gym locker room with the small penis – I only had two drugs of choice. I'll never be homecoming queen.
So there you have your etiquette for your next social function where someone in recovery is in attendance. Remember, the phrase is “what was your drug of choice”. Don't be shy or hesitant! Shit, if you are both single you might even get a date out of it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Do It For Citibank... Oh, And Dead Ted...
Through my years in recovery, I have found addicts tend to be extremely creative. Outside of their addictions, many of these folks could be world renowned negotiators. Whoever came up with the phrase, “time is money” was off to a good start. Yet, it is the addict who perfected phrase with the concept “time is alcohol or drugs”. The functioning addict works hard all day. They watch the clock in anticipation for the second work is done. Five o'clock rolls around and woot, self medicating time begins!
An excellent alcoholic negotiator is past Senator Ted Kennedy. Dead Ted worked it. In his early political days, I'll bet a fifth of Crown Royal he didn't remember half the legislation he signed. Both Republicans and Democrats are quoted that Dead Ted could unite both parties on issues during late night filibusters in his office. Like that's fucking rocket science? Take a little controversial legislation, add in a few hookers, plenty of 20 year old scotch, and suddenly seniors have free health care. Now that's a fucking negotiator. Shit, he even got out of work early once, got fucked up, forget his car went off a bridge with some chick named Mary Jo in it, swam across a river to sober up, then turned is ass in to police. Show me the non-addict that could pull off a fucked up night like that and still get off.
We all cannot be wealthy senators with boot leggers for parents, but we still can be negotiators. One of my favorite negotiators I met in a recovery program was this guy we'll call Pete. Like the rest of us in recovery, Pete was missing large portions of his life due to black outs. Most of us play down those dark moments in life. Not Pete, he was going to use them to his advantage and provide entertainment while doing it.
Plastic Pete ran up a stack of credit card debt during his using days. Once on the sober track, Pete had to start digging his finances out. There really was no way to do this for those of us who know the cost of going to rehab. I can't generalize by saying we all have been through the harassing collection calls. There are you good eggs out there who don't fuck yourself by over extension. I however can relate to Plastic Pete since I also have been on the end of the collection bitches. These fucktard collection asswhipes go as far as asking how you are buying food for your family. Once you tell them that you can still afford food, they tell you to cut that budget so you can pay on the 33% interest they've now jacked your rate up to. You know the fat bitch on the other end of the phone telling you this is stuffing a fucking Twinkie in her mouth while suggesting you starve your family.
Good old Plastic Pete went on the defensive with these douche fucks. In the true American way, he turned blame for his addiction and debt on the credit card companies. His stories were classic. During one call, he demanded to speak to his cards legal department because in Michigan, any contract entered under undue influence was not valid. Plastic Pete swore Jack Daniels forced him to sign the application.
On another occasion, he agreed he would pay only charges made at one local bar and a local party store. His defense, those were the only two place in the past five years he recalls using a credit card . Any purchases made more than a mile from his home could not possibly be his because the state took his drivers license away years ago.
My favorite was when Plastic Pete told Citibank he was going to sue them for enabling his addiction and the legal fees for his drunk drivings. He argued with the collection agent that had Citibank better monitored their clients purchases, they would have seen a clear pattern that all of his were alcohol related. Had Citibank noticed this pattern and declined all future charges based on the fact he was drunk all the time. He then would have had to seek treatment and would have never gotten busted for drunk driving.
Pete said the collection agents would get so pissed tripping all over their words. Responses to charging while intoxicated must be something missing from their training manual. Plastic Pete ended up filing bankruptcy in the end, but it sounded like he had a shit load of fun along the way.
Now that is a fucking creative dude, fucked up, but creative.
An excellent alcoholic negotiator is past Senator Ted Kennedy. Dead Ted worked it. In his early political days, I'll bet a fifth of Crown Royal he didn't remember half the legislation he signed. Both Republicans and Democrats are quoted that Dead Ted could unite both parties on issues during late night filibusters in his office. Like that's fucking rocket science? Take a little controversial legislation, add in a few hookers, plenty of 20 year old scotch, and suddenly seniors have free health care. Now that's a fucking negotiator. Shit, he even got out of work early once, got fucked up, forget his car went off a bridge with some chick named Mary Jo in it, swam across a river to sober up, then turned is ass in to police. Show me the non-addict that could pull off a fucked up night like that and still get off.
We all cannot be wealthy senators with boot leggers for parents, but we still can be negotiators. One of my favorite negotiators I met in a recovery program was this guy we'll call Pete. Like the rest of us in recovery, Pete was missing large portions of his life due to black outs. Most of us play down those dark moments in life. Not Pete, he was going to use them to his advantage and provide entertainment while doing it.
Plastic Pete ran up a stack of credit card debt during his using days. Once on the sober track, Pete had to start digging his finances out. There really was no way to do this for those of us who know the cost of going to rehab. I can't generalize by saying we all have been through the harassing collection calls. There are you good eggs out there who don't fuck yourself by over extension. I however can relate to Plastic Pete since I also have been on the end of the collection bitches. These fucktard collection asswhipes go as far as asking how you are buying food for your family. Once you tell them that you can still afford food, they tell you to cut that budget so you can pay on the 33% interest they've now jacked your rate up to. You know the fat bitch on the other end of the phone telling you this is stuffing a fucking Twinkie in her mouth while suggesting you starve your family.
Good old Plastic Pete went on the defensive with these douche fucks. In the true American way, he turned blame for his addiction and debt on the credit card companies. His stories were classic. During one call, he demanded to speak to his cards legal department because in Michigan, any contract entered under undue influence was not valid. Plastic Pete swore Jack Daniels forced him to sign the application.
On another occasion, he agreed he would pay only charges made at one local bar and a local party store. His defense, those were the only two place in the past five years he recalls using a credit card . Any purchases made more than a mile from his home could not possibly be his because the state took his drivers license away years ago.
My favorite was when Plastic Pete told Citibank he was going to sue them for enabling his addiction and the legal fees for his drunk drivings. He argued with the collection agent that had Citibank better monitored their clients purchases, they would have seen a clear pattern that all of his were alcohol related. Had Citibank noticed this pattern and declined all future charges based on the fact he was drunk all the time. He then would have had to seek treatment and would have never gotten busted for drunk driving.
Pete said the collection agents would get so pissed tripping all over their words. Responses to charging while intoxicated must be something missing from their training manual. Plastic Pete ended up filing bankruptcy in the end, but it sounded like he had a shit load of fun along the way.
Now that is a fucking creative dude, fucked up, but creative.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Morbidly Obese Woman in Brown Polyester Drinking a Peanut Butter Shake Phobia
Throughout my cruel and beyond unusual sentence in this life time, I have run the gamut of shrinks and other mental health workers. What I have found to be universal is they will all diagnose you with past underlying issues. No shit, you're kidding me? All this time I thought my koutaliaphobia (fear of wooden spoons) was due to splinters – not the fact that my mother broke over 100 on my ass as a kid.
It usually takes an average of six to eight sessions, depending on your insurance, before they come to the underlying issue revelation. For the uninsured, it might be the second session followed by the phrase “you're too fucked up I cannot help you”. Either way, if you go for therapy, you will be told you have unresolved issues. As if we don't fucking know this. It's always nice to be reaffirmed that you are fucked up. Especially by someone with a professional license whom you are paying. It makes your fucked up-ness credible.
Good shrinks will tell you that resolving these past underlying issues can take years. They instead work in the here and now then address the underlying issues causing your current fucked up-ness. The insurance milker shrink will want to tackle every past issue never really getting to what is fucking you up in the present. As one shrink told me, it took me 40 years to get this fucked up, it could take him another 40 to go back and help me resolve all that shit. See, I just saved you thousands. Make sure your shrink works in the here and now. Oh, and if the shrink starts on the mother bullshit, run like you just stole a television during the LA riots.
Most of our fears stem from childhood. If you are ever really bored, think back and make a list of your fears as a kid. Of course, mine are rather fucked up. Here are a few: the dark, the zoo, the circus, animal shit, the toilet, snakes, condoms, G.I. Joe, Mister Rogers, school, the basement, heights, playing sports, Santa, just to name a few. They should just roll off the top of your head pretty easily with no effort.
General past fears we eventually get over with age. A few stick around which we manage as need be. I still have a strong fear of heights but can rationalize myself through a situation when at a high elevation. G.I. Joe can still freak me out. My penis ended up growing and my crotch no longer looks like his unless I manscape. However, some of our childhood fears can manifest and turn in to phobias. Most of these are treatable through cognitive therapy. There are those which are too complex and beyond fucked up to treat. Treatment generally involves exposing yourself to the fear gradually over a period of time. Then the traumas which are so fucked up might occur only once in a life time. These are multifaceted fears linked to a specific event. The problem with these phobias is the complexity and number of fears involved. An one of the facets can trigger panic. Recreation of the initial situation is near impossible. This prohibits exposure therapy. Basically, you're fucked in the ass if you have a complex phobia.
I have a multifaceted phobia which has crippled me to this day. There is no given phobia name. It is too fucked up. The only way to diagnose it is to call it what it is: Fear of morbidly obese woman with body odor, wearing tight brown polyester, drinking a peanut butter shake. Just typing that resulted in a gag reflex. In multifaceted phobias, not all elements need to occur simultaneously to create panic. Exposure to a single element can trigger anticipated panic causing the brain to subconsciously associate the single element with the others from the initial trauma thus resulting in a full blown panic attack.
Some traumatic events are repressed; others are as clear in or minds as they day they happened. This particular event is omnipresent. My exact age is unclear, but will guess 8 years old. It was summer time and the family was at the lake house. Every weekend, Mom and Dad would pick a night to take us putt-putt golfing then treat us to soft serve ice cream after the game. Most times my Dad had to finish my putts for me since I sucked at sports. This always resulted in my crying before the 18th hole. Putt-Putt courses that had windmills on a hole always freaked me out. I was always afraid my ball would get stuck and while trying to retrieve it, I would be decapitated. Water feature holes also scared me for there might be a snake in the water. It seemed as if time moved in slow motion while playing putt-putt. My only focus was it finally ending and running over to get in line for soft serve ice cream.
Being summer early evenings were quite warm and the soft serve ice cream stand always had a line. My parents would get a picnic table, give my brother and I money, and let us wait in line to order. Most of the other kids had to wait with their parents so we were the shit. This particular evening, my brother and I get stuck behind this family that was fat as fuck. I'm talking even the kids were as wide as they were tall. Forget trying to see what was happening in front of us being stuck behind these human billboards. I began to panic that this family being so large, their order would consume all the soft serve ice cream. The other line wasn't any shorter and more people had already formed behind us. When in lines, human nature seems to tell us the closer we get to those in front of us, the line will move faster which my brother and I did. Due to my panic of fat family eating all the soft serve, I didn't realize my face had ended up staring directly into morbidly obese moms ass crack. Suddenly, there was a smell. Not just any smell, but a smell so foul my eyes watered. It was a ass body odor smell, kind of synthetic, yet sharp like sour foot odor. I couldn't take it and motioned to my brother as I tried to turn to the side for air. Being the asshole my brother was, he caught the smell though was not as close as I was. He began pushing me so my head would actually hit her ass. I was terrified her smell would permeating into my skin. After several pushes I began to crying. What if I caught the smell and could never get rid of it? Would I smell like her forever? I already had no friends. This could make me the stinky gay fag at school. Gay fag was bad enough. At some point the Moby Marcia turned around and yelled at us to knock it off. I began to cry hysterically because all I saw was a brown Grimace, actually three conjoined Grimace's in a brown polyester stretch outfit. Her fat rolls changed shape as she turned to yell. Some actually appeared to be rolling in violence. The words were slow as they came from an oily wet face that had no definition from the mouth to her huge saggy tits. I wanted to run to my parents though I saw the fat family was ordering meaning we were next. I really didn't want soft serve ice cream at this point. I was covered in fat woman ass stank which I was convinced I would have for the rest of my life. This is when I heard Moby Marcia speak again: “An extra large peanut butter shake”. That was her order. I love peanut butter and shakes but not together. Now all I could think about was fat polyester ass stank with peanut butter and a shake. I was going to vomit. We stepped up to the window as fat family waddled off. My brother placed his order and my parents, then the woman looked at me. Nothing could come out of my mouth. The idea of eating anything made me want to barf. I started crying again and ran to find my parents. My brother ended up getting in trouble for teasing me. Once my Mom calmed me down, my dad went up and got me a chocolate dipped in chocolate soft serve cone. Yet, the smell would not go away.
35 years later, this experience haunts me and can trigger a full blown panic attack. Fat women in brown, boom panic attack. Seeing ice cream and peanut butter next to each other, boom panic attack. Fat people at soft serve ice cream stores, boom panic attack. The smell of sweat from polyester, boom panic attack. Soft serve ice cream on some levels will even trigger an attack. Due to the complexity of factors involved, there is no real way for me to get past this. It's just too fucked up for treatment. Those of you who take your kids for ice cream in the summer, keep them safe from fat woman in polyester.
It usually takes an average of six to eight sessions, depending on your insurance, before they come to the underlying issue revelation. For the uninsured, it might be the second session followed by the phrase “you're too fucked up I cannot help you”. Either way, if you go for therapy, you will be told you have unresolved issues. As if we don't fucking know this. It's always nice to be reaffirmed that you are fucked up. Especially by someone with a professional license whom you are paying. It makes your fucked up-ness credible.
Good shrinks will tell you that resolving these past underlying issues can take years. They instead work in the here and now then address the underlying issues causing your current fucked up-ness. The insurance milker shrink will want to tackle every past issue never really getting to what is fucking you up in the present. As one shrink told me, it took me 40 years to get this fucked up, it could take him another 40 to go back and help me resolve all that shit. See, I just saved you thousands. Make sure your shrink works in the here and now. Oh, and if the shrink starts on the mother bullshit, run like you just stole a television during the LA riots.
Most of our fears stem from childhood. If you are ever really bored, think back and make a list of your fears as a kid. Of course, mine are rather fucked up. Here are a few: the dark, the zoo, the circus, animal shit, the toilet, snakes, condoms, G.I. Joe, Mister Rogers, school, the basement, heights, playing sports, Santa, just to name a few. They should just roll off the top of your head pretty easily with no effort.
General past fears we eventually get over with age. A few stick around which we manage as need be. I still have a strong fear of heights but can rationalize myself through a situation when at a high elevation. G.I. Joe can still freak me out. My penis ended up growing and my crotch no longer looks like his unless I manscape. However, some of our childhood fears can manifest and turn in to phobias. Most of these are treatable through cognitive therapy. There are those which are too complex and beyond fucked up to treat. Treatment generally involves exposing yourself to the fear gradually over a period of time. Then the traumas which are so fucked up might occur only once in a life time. These are multifaceted fears linked to a specific event. The problem with these phobias is the complexity and number of fears involved. An one of the facets can trigger panic. Recreation of the initial situation is near impossible. This prohibits exposure therapy. Basically, you're fucked in the ass if you have a complex phobia.
I have a multifaceted phobia which has crippled me to this day. There is no given phobia name. It is too fucked up. The only way to diagnose it is to call it what it is: Fear of morbidly obese woman with body odor, wearing tight brown polyester, drinking a peanut butter shake. Just typing that resulted in a gag reflex. In multifaceted phobias, not all elements need to occur simultaneously to create panic. Exposure to a single element can trigger anticipated panic causing the brain to subconsciously associate the single element with the others from the initial trauma thus resulting in a full blown panic attack.
Some traumatic events are repressed; others are as clear in or minds as they day they happened. This particular event is omnipresent. My exact age is unclear, but will guess 8 years old. It was summer time and the family was at the lake house. Every weekend, Mom and Dad would pick a night to take us putt-putt golfing then treat us to soft serve ice cream after the game. Most times my Dad had to finish my putts for me since I sucked at sports. This always resulted in my crying before the 18th hole. Putt-Putt courses that had windmills on a hole always freaked me out. I was always afraid my ball would get stuck and while trying to retrieve it, I would be decapitated. Water feature holes also scared me for there might be a snake in the water. It seemed as if time moved in slow motion while playing putt-putt. My only focus was it finally ending and running over to get in line for soft serve ice cream.
Being summer early evenings were quite warm and the soft serve ice cream stand always had a line. My parents would get a picnic table, give my brother and I money, and let us wait in line to order. Most of the other kids had to wait with their parents so we were the shit. This particular evening, my brother and I get stuck behind this family that was fat as fuck. I'm talking even the kids were as wide as they were tall. Forget trying to see what was happening in front of us being stuck behind these human billboards. I began to panic that this family being so large, their order would consume all the soft serve ice cream. The other line wasn't any shorter and more people had already formed behind us. When in lines, human nature seems to tell us the closer we get to those in front of us, the line will move faster which my brother and I did. Due to my panic of fat family eating all the soft serve, I didn't realize my face had ended up staring directly into morbidly obese moms ass crack. Suddenly, there was a smell. Not just any smell, but a smell so foul my eyes watered. It was a ass body odor smell, kind of synthetic, yet sharp like sour foot odor. I couldn't take it and motioned to my brother as I tried to turn to the side for air. Being the asshole my brother was, he caught the smell though was not as close as I was. He began pushing me so my head would actually hit her ass. I was terrified her smell would permeating into my skin. After several pushes I began to crying. What if I caught the smell and could never get rid of it? Would I smell like her forever? I already had no friends. This could make me the stinky gay fag at school. Gay fag was bad enough. At some point the Moby Marcia turned around and yelled at us to knock it off. I began to cry hysterically because all I saw was a brown Grimace, actually three conjoined Grimace's in a brown polyester stretch outfit. Her fat rolls changed shape as she turned to yell. Some actually appeared to be rolling in violence. The words were slow as they came from an oily wet face that had no definition from the mouth to her huge saggy tits. I wanted to run to my parents though I saw the fat family was ordering meaning we were next. I really didn't want soft serve ice cream at this point. I was covered in fat woman ass stank which I was convinced I would have for the rest of my life. This is when I heard Moby Marcia speak again: “An extra large peanut butter shake”. That was her order. I love peanut butter and shakes but not together. Now all I could think about was fat polyester ass stank with peanut butter and a shake. I was going to vomit. We stepped up to the window as fat family waddled off. My brother placed his order and my parents, then the woman looked at me. Nothing could come out of my mouth. The idea of eating anything made me want to barf. I started crying again and ran to find my parents. My brother ended up getting in trouble for teasing me. Once my Mom calmed me down, my dad went up and got me a chocolate dipped in chocolate soft serve cone. Yet, the smell would not go away.
35 years later, this experience haunts me and can trigger a full blown panic attack. Fat women in brown, boom panic attack. Seeing ice cream and peanut butter next to each other, boom panic attack. Fat people at soft serve ice cream stores, boom panic attack. The smell of sweat from polyester, boom panic attack. Soft serve ice cream on some levels will even trigger an attack. Due to the complexity of factors involved, there is no real way for me to get past this. It's just too fucked up for treatment. Those of you who take your kids for ice cream in the summer, keep them safe from fat woman in polyester.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Eurotophobia.... The Root of all Issues....
There are a whole lot of assholes out there who derive endless bullshit theories about how the human brain actually works. My personal favorite is the suggestion that when something happens which is so traumatic, our brain has the ability to block, then store it so deep in our subconscious we have no recollection. Roll with me here and let's examine this theory with critical thinking. Grab a drink if you're a boozer; druggies, you'll get into this – drop some acid or smoke a joint. Heroin users to the back of the bus... you are beyond fucked up and talk too much for this process.
Have you ever contemplated why not one human can recollect their conception or being born? Most people don't begin retaining memories until age five. Since I suck at math, let's round this shit off. If the average human lives 70 years, yet cannot remember the first five, they have forgotten 14% of their life. For us addicts, this percentage can grow exponentially depending on how many black outs we've experienced from using. I know I met some folks during my rehab days who couldn't remember half the shit they've done. It's pretty fucking scary that by the time they die, which will be way before age 70, they'll be lucky to have remembered 10% of their life.
For this blog entry I'm just going to focus on why we don't recall the first five years of life. In my well thought, fucked up opinion, conception and the birth process are the most mortifying, psychologically damaging, and abusive experiences a human will ever endure. Once the government sticks their nose up our asses again and makes a final determination if while in the womb it's a fetus or human, shits gonna fly. Jesus score me damn good drugs if they pick human. When they call that thing human, all you who procreate are going to get slapped with double felony charges of child abuse.
You're really smoking something good if you don't believe this whole process is child abuse. The real picture is for approximately nine months, the baby is shoved in a restrictive bag. The medical profession likes pussy paint it and call this “bag” a womb. We have blocked out how restrictive this so called womb bag really is, however, we've all seen pictures. Spirit Airline seats have more fucking elbow room than this womb bag. Even if you have the misfortune of having to sit next to some 400 pound heffer there is still more space on Spirit than this damn womb bag. Next, while in this tiny womb bag, the baby is forced to live in its own shit and piss. Oh, and don't forget it's dark in there. In a nut shell, those who procreate choose to shove an innocent baby in some small dark assed bag to live in its own excrement for nine months. If that's not psychologically damaging and clear abuse, then let's elect Chuckie Manson Surgeon General.
Moving on to our next felony charge, the so called “miracle of birth”. Wake up asswipe, it's not a fucking miracle. The kid finally got up the strength to get the hell out of that smelly ass bag it was forced to live in. Now the real kicker. In order to escape, the kid spends hours trying to squeeze through this narrow chamber which is coated in slime and has a stench from fucking hell. By the time it finally escapes, its head looks like a football, every vein in its body is a blistering penis purple color, and all body parts start shaking like a junkie needing a fix because the kid knows the placenta is right behind preparing for another attack. Tim Robbins escape through the jail sewer pipe filled with prisoner shit in Shawshank Redemption was a walk in the park when compared to this “the miracle of birth.” bullshit.
Once we manage to escape from the torture endured while being in the womb bag, now is the point we begin our very first recovery in life. The longevity of the recovery clearly shows how scaring the conception/birth trauma is. For the first half of year after escape, we can only consume liquids. The ability to walk will take nearly three years. We piss and shit ourselves for four years. Even the simplest of things such as sitting up right can take 18 months due to the trauma endured. It's no wonder our brains regress almost all memories from the experience deep into our subconscious. It could also explain why so many kids are so fucked up.
Not all of us completely have been able to lock the birth trauma way and have never fully recovered from the experience. I am living proof. Society has labeled persons such as myself “homosexual.” Thousands of studies have been conducted trying to locate a gene to prove homosexuals are born predisposition to like penis. Not just their own penis, but any penis the homosexual can find. Whether it be at a night club, rest area, or bath house, we don't care who it is attached to – we fucking want it. Science needs to pull their head from their asses, if there is anything fun up there they are welcome to share, and realize the homosexuality is a phobia, not a gene. Unlike the heterosexual, the homosexual has not fully repressed the conception/birth trauma. The homo partially recalls struggling down that dark, vial smelling, canal in order to escape the womb bag. The result is the cock sucker develops Eurotophobia at an early age. Eurotophobia is the fear of vagina's. So many have suffered and allowed society to classify us as homosexual. In reality, we suffer from Eurotophobia. Unfortunately, there is currently no treatment known for Eurotophobia. Hundreds of thousands live with it on a daily basis. Because of the number of years I have had to deal with this phobia, I actually have become quite comfortable with sucking dick and taking it in the ass. In fact, it's actually quite pleasurable.
What is important to understand, is in some form, conscious or subconscious, we are all brothers and sisters in recovery. Judge not those in recovery - embrace and support them. I had a buddies wife who was always passing judgment on the dozens of recovery programs I had burned through. Little did she know her husband was still in recovery with Eurotophobia......
Have you ever contemplated why not one human can recollect their conception or being born? Most people don't begin retaining memories until age five. Since I suck at math, let's round this shit off. If the average human lives 70 years, yet cannot remember the first five, they have forgotten 14% of their life. For us addicts, this percentage can grow exponentially depending on how many black outs we've experienced from using. I know I met some folks during my rehab days who couldn't remember half the shit they've done. It's pretty fucking scary that by the time they die, which will be way before age 70, they'll be lucky to have remembered 10% of their life.
For this blog entry I'm just going to focus on why we don't recall the first five years of life. In my well thought, fucked up opinion, conception and the birth process are the most mortifying, psychologically damaging, and abusive experiences a human will ever endure. Once the government sticks their nose up our asses again and makes a final determination if while in the womb it's a fetus or human, shits gonna fly. Jesus score me damn good drugs if they pick human. When they call that thing human, all you who procreate are going to get slapped with double felony charges of child abuse.
You're really smoking something good if you don't believe this whole process is child abuse. The real picture is for approximately nine months, the baby is shoved in a restrictive bag. The medical profession likes pussy paint it and call this “bag” a womb. We have blocked out how restrictive this so called womb bag really is, however, we've all seen pictures. Spirit Airline seats have more fucking elbow room than this womb bag. Even if you have the misfortune of having to sit next to some 400 pound heffer there is still more space on Spirit than this damn womb bag. Next, while in this tiny womb bag, the baby is forced to live in its own shit and piss. Oh, and don't forget it's dark in there. In a nut shell, those who procreate choose to shove an innocent baby in some small dark assed bag to live in its own excrement for nine months. If that's not psychologically damaging and clear abuse, then let's elect Chuckie Manson Surgeon General.
Moving on to our next felony charge, the so called “miracle of birth”. Wake up asswipe, it's not a fucking miracle. The kid finally got up the strength to get the hell out of that smelly ass bag it was forced to live in. Now the real kicker. In order to escape, the kid spends hours trying to squeeze through this narrow chamber which is coated in slime and has a stench from fucking hell. By the time it finally escapes, its head looks like a football, every vein in its body is a blistering penis purple color, and all body parts start shaking like a junkie needing a fix because the kid knows the placenta is right behind preparing for another attack. Tim Robbins escape through the jail sewer pipe filled with prisoner shit in Shawshank Redemption was a walk in the park when compared to this “the miracle of birth.” bullshit.
Once we manage to escape from the torture endured while being in the womb bag, now is the point we begin our very first recovery in life. The longevity of the recovery clearly shows how scaring the conception/birth trauma is. For the first half of year after escape, we can only consume liquids. The ability to walk will take nearly three years. We piss and shit ourselves for four years. Even the simplest of things such as sitting up right can take 18 months due to the trauma endured. It's no wonder our brains regress almost all memories from the experience deep into our subconscious. It could also explain why so many kids are so fucked up.
Not all of us completely have been able to lock the birth trauma way and have never fully recovered from the experience. I am living proof. Society has labeled persons such as myself “homosexual.” Thousands of studies have been conducted trying to locate a gene to prove homosexuals are born predisposition to like penis. Not just their own penis, but any penis the homosexual can find. Whether it be at a night club, rest area, or bath house, we don't care who it is attached to – we fucking want it. Science needs to pull their head from their asses, if there is anything fun up there they are welcome to share, and realize the homosexuality is a phobia, not a gene. Unlike the heterosexual, the homosexual has not fully repressed the conception/birth trauma. The homo partially recalls struggling down that dark, vial smelling, canal in order to escape the womb bag. The result is the cock sucker develops Eurotophobia at an early age. Eurotophobia is the fear of vagina's. So many have suffered and allowed society to classify us as homosexual. In reality, we suffer from Eurotophobia. Unfortunately, there is currently no treatment known for Eurotophobia. Hundreds of thousands live with it on a daily basis. Because of the number of years I have had to deal with this phobia, I actually have become quite comfortable with sucking dick and taking it in the ass. In fact, it's actually quite pleasurable.
What is important to understand, is in some form, conscious or subconscious, we are all brothers and sisters in recovery. Judge not those in recovery - embrace and support them. I had a buddies wife who was always passing judgment on the dozens of recovery programs I had burned through. Little did she know her husband was still in recovery with Eurotophobia......
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
