Thursday, August 3, 2017

Healing Anger, Whores and Saints

Laura is looking after Gilbert.  Friends are watching my home. Anything worth anything is in my storage locker or here on me. I dazzle with tech.  Apple bling.  I am off work.  I’m off the clock.  20 years ago I chose life.  The woman in my life then had tried to kill us and me.  The woman before her had killed my baby. Drinking and smoking I had fallen in with a desperate lot. When a friend suggested I quit drinking and smoking I thought I’d prove to him I didn’t have a problem.  “I’d show him.” I had returned to the church because it had been there I remembered the good days. It had been there where I’d heard the calling to go into medicine. It was good to be on my knees praying. I’d meditated for so many years. Praying was good. Crying and remembering and knowing that it was highly unlikely anyone was going to get drunk,  smoke dope, shoot guns, or have an orgy. The church was a safe place. I was invited to go with a new friend to a 12 step meeting.  I didn’t want to work then. I felt responsible for the deaths of my wives. I felt that the abortion had been beyond my power but I was blamed for it. I thought that my professor who’d used me for sexual gratification and taken advantage of me. I felt a whole lot of self pity. I felt a lot of anger and resentment too.
Now they asked me to talk on anger at this conference.  I’ve talked here before.  I always hope they’ll forget. I don’t think I talk well.  I once did.  But not anymore.  Mostly I doubt myself.  But then I see how little others know and it seems I’m still okay.  I’m useful. Increasingly an old elephant in a country where the government hires poachers. I keep seeing my colleagues being taken out by the demonic.  Some strongman with the young around him, puppets, with strings attached. I don’t know what happened to my strings. I’m just glad I made it another year. I’m crawling into home plate, tears running down my cheeks.
It’s been tragic year. My brother died. My best friend in so many ways died.  My best doctor friend, my best Christian friend, my best recovery friend.  My other best friend of the same ilk grows yearly more ill.  Then my other young friend dies.  The Landlady was a real greedy ugly clever business woman.  I meet more of them. Women who didn’t play team sports. Feral.  Insectoid.  They use men. On Facebook the silly sorts talk about narcissists and psychopaths and sociopaths and they don’t know. I’m there are day. I loved Snakes in Suits.  Looking back at my career I fought them over and over again.  Hitlers and Stalins in clown masks.  Always I knew the problem was me.  My fear is the world I see.
I long to get off this plane at the destination and see a familiar face. My same time next year colleagues.  I find such comfort and solace with dozens of other psychiatrists who share the language of the heart.  I am so tired of being around people who chop off the heads of others to make themselves taller. I’m tired of the competition and the rat race. I turned 65 and stayed. I bought a truck to anchor me in a debt. I’m buying a new home. I’ve the money in the bank but if I spent it the government would take 70% but everyone is glad to bet on my future. I have insurance.  These are things. I just want to move onto the next dimension in time but all my talk with God remains the same with the message to stay, to work, to carry on. I want to be in my sailboat in the Atlantic fighting waves I can see not being stabbed in the back by lying psychopaths who I’ve tried to help and treated as warm blooded creatures hoping and praying they would revive but they’d bit the hand that feeds. The whole loser coward money grubbing arrogant monday morning quarter back set are there to judge. They no longer can do. They’re gloriously incompetent and need to give themselves pats on the back and lots of raises and hang together while they make insane and impossible demands that are the height of silliness.  Insectoid. I pray for them. I pray at their backs.  Their platitudes and superiority and grandiosity are shallow.
The National Post wrote the article what is the difference between the Government of Canada and the the Hell’s Angels.  I like the Jesus stories. It’s the government that errs.
I was asked to talk about anger. Not anger management. The bastards, my friends, I suspect, know something.  I live in a sandwich of slices of homicide and murder with the littlest bit of lettuce between. My mind is a ping pong ball.  I slide into this meeting, slouch into the meeting and somehow rally. Every year for 20 years it’s the same.  I want to give up on my fellow man. I want to go out and killing like Arlo Guthrie kill. I’m a sniper. I’m a chemist. I have countless poisons readily available to me. I have skills and knowledge.  I don’t scare myself. But then the violently insane are more afraid of me than I of them.  I thought Hannibal Lechter was the only psychiatrist portrayal of any validity. The new Sopranos girl is a counsellor. A ego massage therapist. I got in trouble ,the umpteenth time calling my colleague a mental whore, insisting I’d not care if he was an escort but his street slut behaviour was no good for the profession. I was wrong. He’s in leadership today.  Lust surpasses love in the world today. Truth is relative.  The silliest don’t know they’re in the experiment. I’m in God’s brain like Malkovitch.
Today’s music sucks. I’m listening to the music of my teens and twenties again and understanding where my influences came from. Doystoevsky, Allan Watts, Kierkegard, Camus, Kaffka, Paradigm shifts, Story of One, National Geographic, the Bible, Francis Bacon, Science of Fear, Future Shock, HG Wells, Churchill, EE Cummings, Franny and Zooey.  I grew up reading these and now talk to people who quote people magazine.  Or did. They’re now reading O Henry and I’m reading Star Trek. I’ve devolved.  Facebook is an entertainment.  The serious are paid and propagandize.
I like Jordan Peterson. I like freedom of speech. I fear we’ll facing the destruction of the free world by the tyrannies of dead communist doctrine wedded to the other great tyranny dead Islam.
Here in the air port there are some pretty girls.  There are fat old men, like me.  Children and back packs.  Jet set.  There’ no glamor.  It’s work to go through security. I ‘ve come down from the adrenaline rush. They’ve ojected to my guns and taken so many knives and nail scissors off me.  Half dressed and dis oriented I have left my passport or my ticket at the security cheque.  I’m back in school being caned and strapped and screamed at.  I can’t get a lather up when a princess says she was traumatized by a man looking at her.  I see the torture victims in my work and challenge anyone to say these people weren’t emotionally abused and physically and mentally abused.  There’s a oneupmanship in the self pity challenge test.  My emotional abuse needs all the public health care and I can’t be concerned about your cigarette burns and broken bones and missing limbs. I’m emotionally abused.
And the richer the person is the more they can get.  I love the picture that showed a trailer park and said that if the the guy in 50 Shades lived in a trailer on welfare it wouldn’t be a book but an episode of criminal minds.
I relax here. We sit in small groups and talk. The guys and girls tell of their spouses and children with cancer.  The widowed and divorced and diseased share their experience strength and hope.  I feel so utterly self centre and useless. My life is blessed beyond belief but I’ve lived the year with a man threatening my life and the life of my dog and no matter how many ways I block his calls or his emails he finds a way to get in my face and laugh at me….he’s living proof that I have no security. The police did nothing. It wasn’t just me. He threatened lawyers and their dogs and the beurocrats and frankly I rather enjoyed that the beurocrats were threatened.  They likely took years off work and milked it for all it was worth.  So far from reality and yet sickness still get through all the barriers to their space station ivory towers. Even now there’s a new threat and they celebrate it and hate doctors all the while claiming they don’t but there Capos and get good coin to lead us to the gas chambers. Middle management.  But this week the police called concerned because he’s threatening the Prime Minister. I don’t know if the PM has a dog. Muslims don’t like dogs so I doubt it. Maybe his kids will be threatened but they are taking it seriously. The rest of us don’t count.  Yet if I or the lawyer or the eurocrats uttered threats we’d be out of work and in jail but this man and the PM are both above the law. I work with people who tell me of the murders and tortureds they’ve done selling drugs, pushing drugs, in prisons and in gangs.  It’s a slice of reality that doesn’t officially exist.
Some days I’m out in the suburbs.  Its different there.
I miss Hank. I miss Bernie. I miss Doug.  I miss Mom and Dad and my brother Ron, and George and Richard.  I remember my Dad lonely in the end saying, “all my friends have died.” He was old and missed my mother. I love when I dream of them. I love too when I dream of the dogs.
‘I think of sex changes. I think of Leonard Cohen. “I want a new Face.”
I think of turning states evidences, walking into Ottawa RCMP and telling them the good men I know. I know that the good are now the bad, the white is the new black, that 1984 doublespeak is the new Canadian, we live for Taqikya. I need a niqab.  “This face is covered up with age and shame.”  I sing hallelujah.
We stand together our heads bowed and say the Lord’s prayer.  More and more with say the Serenity Prayer of the great christian theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. The people who want to change the outside because they can’t face their own insides haven’t knee jerked objected to Niebuhr yet. They attack Jesus.  Christians are the most persecuted in the world.  You’d think they’d like it.
But we’re slow to anger. That’s the distinction I like about Christians. I turn my cheek 70 times 70 times. Then your life is mine.  I can and will wipe out your genetic signature.  It’s the genius of my scotty dog. The ultimate rodent killer.  I like the celtic blood.  Irish and Scottish.  A lawyer with the help of government stole millions from my grandfather.  He then escaped to a place where lawyers lives outside the law.
Maybe next year they’ll anger management.  When I trained with Elizabeth Kubla Ross I understood the anger. I’m angry at God. I’m still trying to do what I’m supposed to do, questioning meaning and purpose. The great psychiatric text was ‘Denial of Death’.  I loved when we discussed these books and shared them  Now the only question people ask is ‘how much did it cost’.  No one understands there is no price on my dog.
Asked if the woman would have sex for a million dollar, she said maybe, so the man asked ‘what about a dollar’.  What do you take me for she said. That’s been decided, now I’m just dickering for price.  I feel like I’m back in Morocco with camel traders.  I want to withhold my services and remove the gun that says we can’t say we say the price of your life or sanity or medication is what ever we say because your fees and your bills have exponentially escalated with no increase in quality or service while our education and expectations have skyrocketed and all these parasites have latched on like blood suckers ordering us to work for them as they siphon off the fat.
These two sisters , teens are so enthusiastic, travelling. Young. I’m jaded and look for spinning tires to back at. The modern windmill.  My dog and I charge the free way. He’s one eyed.  I’m biker trailer trash.
The bastards asked me speak on anger.
Not enlightenment. Not genius. Not sainthood.
Anger. The pricks.
Now all I want to do is get to a room and sleep and shower and watch tv and order meal service but instead I’ll sit and drink coffee with some old guy and learn or some old girl and learn. And I’ve been blessed to know Tony and Art and Beth and Judy and Dave and Julia and Steve and Carol and the list goes on.  I look forward to seeing a gay man whose missed his death several times and a man who was in a series of accidents but he survived. I met the man with a mechanical heart. Interesting eyes.
Now they’ll be calling .I must go.
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