Trail and rules of the road

I just returned from a trail walk. Only one uncivilized person.  Perhaps ignorant is a better word.  Barbarian.  Bully.

On a trail with two directions, it can be divided by half.  This fellow took up more of the road than his half.  He was using 2/3’s of the road and going too faster than usual.  

He was alone and I was with a dog.  IF we break up a road into 2 then subdivide it into 4 then he was pushing me or the dog off the road.  Prick. Low brow. Thug.

Often I am walking with my dog and three cyclists don’t drop back into two and one or single file but hoard the road like thieves.  Four cyclists who do this are the worst.  But four other walkers as a group will take up the road and play chicken , not readjusting their group till they are right upon me and my dog. Often I recognise their social immaturity at a distance and step to the side of the walk.  They pass in a line.  The girls are giggling and commonly passive aggressive or self absorbed cunts who were simply unaware where as the guys who do this tend to be aware but bring ‘macho’ in that way children play for dominance.  I haven’t killed anyone on the trails recently simply because the effort of burying the bodies seems too much.  Easier to step aside and let the brain deficient pass.  With all the drugs around such behaviours are often just drugs.  Frontal lobe, the area of good judgement, turned off by whatever mental wanker agent is the flavour of the month or individual choice.  Zombies.  Silly people.

I walk the dog and the two of us avoid confrontations. I have to worry about the little guy getting hurt.  I have to worry about me hurting someone.  I rarely think about getting hurt myself dealing with people. I think with age I’d thought it’s a good day to die and that I really don’t have a second round in me so it’s gonna be over as quickly as I can make it because I just don’t have the stamina I once did.  Mostly the dog doesn’t like danger.  He’s a little guy and we go for a walk to stay or get fit and he likes the entertainment of a wealth of smells.  

Bullies and idiots, male and female and other , they have different agendas. I try to avoid letting their sickness or putrid personalities interfere with our getting through our walk. I like it best when we’re alone or other civilized people are walking or cycling along the trail.  The majority are toilet trained and out of diapers but there’s always one or two.  I wished I thought more of those who do the right thing and are godly rather be distracted by the satanic spawn of anal breeding.  

Have a great day. I just came home from a great walk with the dog.  

Feeling Bullied

Why God must I be bullied again?  I’m at the end of my life. I have served and done good for decades. I had some doubt and blamed myself and accepted that I was at fault when younger again and again the institutions bullied me. I accepted when I was caned and strapped in the school. I accepted when I was lied too. I always thought that if I was more experience, more educated, older, wiser I’d not face this bullying. It just goes on.  I feel trapped and harassed and my time and presence demanded for the greed and avarice of others. I’m not left alone to do what is good. In a middle of an epidemic with many new consults a week and constant complex questions in my speciality I’m fully engaged . I’m burnt out and depressed and tired.  My back hurts . My brain doesn’t work it’s overwhelmed. I can’t return all the phone calls. I’m daily faced with more and more demands. Then the institutions step in, this gang, and they demand I put all aside for them, for their money making. There is no pay for me, no compensation.  

No wonder doctors are no longer coming from the highest ranks.  The autonomy and freedom and independence and in fact the authority to make decisions is rapidly being reduced to a hierarchy where the administration tell these ‘technicians’ what to do. The arts students are a dime a dozen so they take leadership roles and rule like the communists and terrorists.  The scientists and those indispensable are reduced to the 19th century vision of the dead. 

I’m weary. I thought there’d be flying cars and robots and safe travel and dancing in the streets. Instead we have bullies.  Bullies and more bullies.  

I was minding my own business, working in my own world, doing my best and out of the cracks they came. I trained to be a healer. I heal.  The beurocrats need imitation. They demand I mirror them. They have these theatre’s of the absurd.  They insist I play their games speak their language.  It’s all pontifications and pompous and the rewards are untold money for the players but not for me. I’m shanghaied , taken from my lowly work and dragged before the bullies to do a little dance.  

I always wanted to be a writer. I wrote several books and stopped. Mainly because they wanted me to perform.  I did my time on stage. I performed. I appeared on radio and tv. I danced. I was offered positions and scholarship. I received awards.  Now I don’t so much want to appear before anyone but the absolute minimum necessary for my work.  

I want to be camping. I want to be in the forest. 

Right now I’m longing to walk in the footsteps of my grandfather in his hometown. I felt Jesus when I walked in his footsteps in Israel. I know I shouldn’t need a prop.  It’s just that Grandad had a mission and children and followed in the path of his father and his father. I have no cattle and it’s too late to farm.  I was okay to doctor. But now what do I do, keep doing this more and knowing that facing bullies shortens my life by years.  The old warriors hung up their swords at 50. I’m decades past that and continue to defend the mentally ill. But no one defends me. I’m lost and alone and waiting for death and torture.  There’s pay back for doing well. I’ve never pressed too hard. I know what they do to martyr.s

Christianity teachers the perfect man and son of god is crucified by the authorities.  

The oldest law of the world is the Chinese Law of the Fish: there are big fish and little fish. The little fish must be fast and numerous.

I want to visit the museums and art galleries and see the latest architceture and the wonders of engineering and transportation.  I want to be touched by the greatest creations of man. All around me the communists and terrorists are destroying the works of wonders. The cancel culture is the deepest of evil.  Censorship and eventual destruction of anything but what the bullies want.  Propaganda and marketting. I want to see the Mona Lisa before it is destroyed. I want to stand again at Magdalene College and remember how I left entertainment for academics. I want to be uplifted.  I am so weary of the corruption of this country.  It’s in my face and I want to turn my back on the lack of ethics and morality and apathy.  I am afraid. I pray and I meditate and i reason with my fears. I dispels them with ceaseless prayers but rather than looking at the light my focus wanders and I see the darkness.  

God is good all of the times.  

This too shall pass.

I was up half the night with the nightmares again. I saw the little girl dying because the bullies killed her. I’m so tired.  Tears stream down my cheeks as I think of those few I could not defend. There were so many.  Victims all. I rescued . I redirect. I wrested the god of addiction and pulled countless individuals from the darkness. I walked into the darkness. I did miles in others shoes and walked them back. I point out the detours when the roads had been bombed and ruined. I was a guide and covered their backs as they struggled forward.

I’ve made it this far but just as I’m crawling on my belly to what I believed was my well earned reprieve the bullies attack. They know my weakness.  I can’t fly away. I can’t escape. I’ve given all my blood as transfusion for the wounded. Now they’re monsters screaming. I was mugged in AThens. I was shot at .  I was knifed. I was falsely accused and billy clubbed . I’ve been lied to too many times. I’ve been bullied and now……gaslighted…..and I’ll get up another day and carry on.  

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me.

Always God has protected me.

Death is just a passage to be with my parents and family and friends again.  This is just a little room in a trillion rooms. It’s just a blue dot.  

All shall be well. All shall be well . All manner of things shall be well.

Rainy Day

Heavy rain beginning in night and continuing all morning. I slept in till 8 am. It’s a turn down day as the song says.  Madigan wanted me up earlier but I rolled over and ignored him hearing the heavy rain drum rolling on the roof. 

I finally fought his exuberance, jumping up on down on me, because it appears I’m getting up,.  Toilet. Dress.  Put on his rain coat and leash. Put on my rain coat and take umbrella. The neighbour was going out with his umbrella as I was. He continued to the car lot.  I dumped the garbage.  Walked to the river walk.  Rain so heavy Madigan didn’t want to continue.  I realized I had nothing better to do and need exercise.  I’ve girth.  We walked to the generator, ‘the long walk’. Maybe a half hour to 3/4 hours, there and back

Madigan was so happy to be home.  He sits on the stairs and waits for me to take off his leash and raincoat. The reward is his getting towelled off. He loves that then he’s mad dog running back and forth and hide speed rubbing his head in the carpet, jumping up and down off bed and couch.  A really big tado!

I usually meditate cross legged on the floor followed by stretches and sit ups.  After a rainy walk I’ve taken to getting out a chair to meditate on . Madigan is all over me with his little wet body and zooming if I try to sit cross legging on the floor. Even on a chair I couldn’t focus because he kept zooming about the room.  

I need a coffee I thought.

I love coffee.  

I’ve had a couple of cups of coffee and phoned some patients who had concerns. One was in. The most demanding was not in. I’ve phoned her everyday . I even gave her my home number but she lost it. Instead she phones the clinic demanding a controlled medication while she admits to doing drugs regularly.  She wants the pharmacist to be able to just dispense it. I want to talk to her before I do.  She seems to avoid me.  She’s been couch surfing.  I continue to try to do what is right but feel I have not back up..  

Self serving and self pity. - I read these words this week.  I’ve been fighting the self pity.  Self serving is a different matter.  I’ve had a life of service and duty and discipline.  Now I’m looking forward to vacations.  I am of retirement age.  I have nothing a whole lot better to do. It’s the obsession these days, I’d planned to sail in the Atlantic but my back pain worries me. I’m not afraid of the sailing as much as having an accident that would result in a costly repair.  Solo sailing is fine at sea but docking can be a real trial.  I’m also enjoying my comforts.  I’ve has such a harsh life sailing and northern work and hunting. I reflect on all those who live in townhouses and rent and have lease services and and cleaning services and got to resorts.  I’ve done a little of that but when I think back I’ve done a whole lot of heavy lifting in my life,  It’s okay to back off.  

I had the idea that I’d drive around the US for 3 months. I considered going au femme.  A variation of black like me that would change the social dynamics.  I like that au femme no one turns to me for help. I’m isolated and yet au drab I enjoy the male comraderie. It’s a social experiment. Then I wonder if it’s working out my sexual abuse and /or sexual addiction, Gender and sex.  

It’s so tied to being falsely accused and having the authorities back the lying greedy psychopaths with long histories of disgusting perversions and addiction and malingering and condemning castrating, humiliating and punishing me. $50,000 cost for lies The liars are dead now but the Nuremberg authoritiss go unpunished.  Then I think it’s my job to ‘let go and let god’.  The anxiety of being male is reduced wearing a skirt.  I’m eccentric.  I’m not a target as an old lady.  Old men especially old white men are vulnerable and targets of first order. I watched my friends be financially raped and ridiculed in old age. I remember when my father was targeted in old age and my mother asked my help, if I his son, hadn’t been able to confront his false accuser, no one would have,  A drunk he’d fired for stealing on the worksite and being drunk and doing drugs was placed in the public housing part of the housing my parents paid to be in.  This sociopath took over the recreation centre and spread lies about my father saying he’d never worked as an engineer or foreman of construction and all manner of outrageous false hood.  It made it tense for dad to go into the common coffee area because this belligerent bully literally lived there. It was funny too because Dad would doubt my acomnplisments  like when I said I shot a moose charging me and he did his ‘eye rolling’ and ‘sure bill’.  Mom and he would say they didn’t want me to be ‘too big for my britches’ but also called any story I told ‘bragging’ so I shut up. I did publicly confront dad’s bully and loudly list my father’s very impressive credentials for all in the recreation centre to hear, explained my position and credentials and asks the little shit what had he done in his life that gave him the right to judge and criticize . Naturally I told him that if I heard any more of his criticizing my father since I knew him for a drunk and liar and bully I’d be back personally to sort him out.  Mom thanked me and Dad no longer felt he had to stay in the suite and could again participate in the common area and go for coffee without being braced by this sociopath.  Dad didn’t thank me but my brother who is not one for confrontations told me Dad was thankful.  

My father in law was billetted hospital with a demented old boxer who beat him up each night. The wife, an insane harangan wouldn’t let the nurses change his room. His daughter was afraid of the mother who said he deserved this because paranoid and psychotic she believed he’d had an affair on her and vowed for years to make his life utter hell which she did, She hated me when I step in and separated him getting him a room of his own where he wouldn’t be nightly tormented.  

Now, no children, and the collection of enemies one gets from doing the right thing, the Christian thing, the moral thing, no good deed goes undefended. A life of fighting authorities on behalf of the vulnerable, aboriginals, veterans, women, the mentally ill, traumatized, old  and the addicted. Now I’m afraid no one will protect me.  I’m looking forward to death, rainbow bridge, seeing my mother and father and family and friends and mentors again, It’s the dying that scares me. Torture by Beurocratic meetings. 

I can’t stand even hearing Trudeau’s voice or seeing his face. He’s so irritating. He represents everything I’ve loathed in life, the incompetent, ignorant, pontificating , hypocritical, wastrel, pompous, arrogant and evil party boy.  I didn’t like them in school. The popular boy in the popular group went on to be caught as a serial rapist but his family hushed the news. Like the pedophile judge in BC.  The news for a day while an invalid doctor was publicly pilloried by false accusations for a year. I’m ashamed of myself. I’m like Peter who didn’t admit to authorities that I was his friend and I’d defend him in any means. I did the polite thing. I wrote letters . I was a decent feminized man. If I was a manly man I’d kill the sickos that took advantage of an old old man,  I am so ashamed .  He was a better man than me, forgiving and spiritual

I have been afraid so much of my life.  Being falsely accused.  My lying ex wife. The lying psychiatrist pig. The Hitler’s and Lenins.  

See the self pity and fear seep in to my mind at the littlest crack. When I’n dressed as a girl I can say ‘girls just want to have fun’..  I can be self serving.  It’s okay for women to be self serving, taking care of themselves and their children.  They rarely in my experience care for others not blood, Yet that’s a skewed view.  I can’t generalizer except against the Marxist lies of Marxist feminism and the propaganda of CBC and the lying liberal government of Canada,

I pray for my enemies. I try to focus on the good. I pray for the ability to forgive everyday I pray for forgiveness , I say over and over again, Let go And let God.  I ask for relief of the bondage of self. I know that my personal struggles made me what I am,  I know that expectations are preformed resentments. I know that rather than accepting ‘life on life’s terns’ I was idealistic and 

In my journal I ‘squeeze the pus from my brain’.  This is supposed to leave my mind free for the day,

Then I do gratitude lists. Thank you Lord for the good night of sleep. Thank you lord for breath. Thank you Lord for Madigan. Thank you Lord for the bank. Thank you Lord for work, Thank you Lord for heat but my heating bill doubled last month along with the food bill and gas bill and again Lord I suffered ‘fear of economic uncertainty’.  I castatrophize about the future yet today I’m fine.  I really need to get my head in the same room as my ass is. Thank you for family and friends. Thank you for the rain that waters the plants I so enjoy. Thank you for the river walk. Thank you for my car. Thank you for my clothes and umbrella.

I got a frozen bone for madigan but it wasn’t the right package. Normally the package is full of little knuckle bones but this one had on two bones that are thigh size. My little dog is having a heck of a time with a very big dogs bone.  It’s a delight to observe him.  

I am thankful Jesus. I’m thankful for your life and sacrifice. I am thankful for the promise of life after death and my experience and intuition that this world I am in is just a waiting room for heaven.  I am thankful for so much that is good . I am thankful for family who are truly amazing.   I’m thankful for friends though the death of so many wears on me. I fear getting close because the losses have been so severe.  I liked the article I read about ‘prolonged’ grief and identified. I miss my brother, my aunt, my mother and father and George and Bernie, and Hank .. I was sorry to see Dick died earlier this year.  I loved Dick and Cheryl.  I’ve missed the annual gathering of friends. I’m so self centred. I could be apart of but I isolate.  I make excuses.  I have Madigan and he’s not welcome in so many places and I don’t really care to find out if he’s welcome so avoid.  I felt sad when my other dogs and cats died, their short lives and while I maximized our time together I feel when I leave Madigan for  a half day it’s like months in dog world. I am planning to be apart from him for weeks and know that it will be so long but when I think I’m doing nothing I’ve raised this puppy this year. I’ve worked of course. I’ve taken care of us an friends and contributed to others lives and I’ve even made the bed.  So many others have not lived this long or come back from hell.  I have so much to be grateful for. Thank you Lord for all of your gifts. Thanks for Grace.  Thanks for connectedness.

Even now the day progresses and I’m caught between wanting to lie back and waste time and the thought of what I ‘should do’. I did some work and book keeping I could clean the place rather than hoping for a cleaning lady.  I could take a run to the storage locker. I need to put in the clam for UPS losing my new IPhone,  That’s what I’ll do.

So much I could do and yet I feel overwhelmed and just want to lie back and read a history book.  or a novel.  I should be writing them. I’ve books to complete but no I’m just here so often complaining and whining and snivelling when life is good. Thank you Jesus.  Help me be a better person today than I was yesterday. Help me to be of service. Thank You Jesus Christ

God within  God will come again.  Friend,

Friday Morning, day before Halloween

I woke early and decided to stay up.  6 am, 6 hours of sleep. I’d been unable to put down the book I was reading.  

Now I’m back to reading it, a Jasmine Frame detective novel. 

Halloween weekend. It’s the time of year for cross dressers and Samhein.  Our Christmas in a way.  Since Rocky Horror Picture Show I’ve been dressed in some form of women’s garb. Before that I’d worn diapers and witches costumes. Now I’m just thankful for a night when it’s perfectly acceptable for a bloke to wear a skirt.

I’ve worn my kilt and scottish regalia on other occasions but that’s military and masculine garb.

I like the soft fabrics and easy clothing of ladies wear. I remember as a child and young man I was very much into the dandy male wear. A dancer and actor in the making I’d loved wearing a new sports jacket and slacks. But after medicine and the white lab coats I was back to uniforms. Then as a consultant it was the return to a sportsjacks and slacks. I liked wearing ties. They were the one piece of male wardrope where one could express the whimsical and individual. I had a collection of wool ties and ties reflecting fine art. I loved my Rembrandt tie.  

Then one day, 20 or 30 years ago men’s clothing really did seem ‘au drab’.  I loved wearing women’s clothing and enjoying the make up like I was back in the theatre.  No doubt the dissociation associated with trauma and the added even worse trauma of the disclosure of trauma contributed. 

Halloween was the night. There were the ball nights, so called Drag Queen Balls. I did enjoy those. I even had my hair done up and nails for one occasion.  Friends didn’t recognise me till we met on these occasions and I whispered who I was.  It was so much fund to be incognito. 

I felt free and confidential dressed and made up while as a man I felt forever on guard.  I never did recover fully from the appalling trauma I experience decades back when all my civil rights were stripped and I was roundly abused by sociopaths in suits.  I’ve simply never felt safe in Canada since. We only lease our houses from the government and bureaucrats can imprison anyone.  I was released but the lies and the fowl play stayed like Hamlet.  Romeo and Juliet, the Death of a Saleman but my own fault for muy associations.  Out of the country I relax. Often I’ve taken holidays and lived out the fantasy of au femme in some foreign place where no one would recognise me. I always found Joni Mitchell’s song “Freeman in Paris”, playing in my head at those times. There was a lightness to my step. I thought too of Leonard Cohen’s song poem, Lover Lover and his line I want a new face. The sad part about betrayal is it is done by your friends.

Now I don’t care so much and for years I’ve just not thought anything of going out on occasion in a dress or skirt. I’ve enjoyed buying the alternatie clothing.  It’s all exciting and taboo. A whole journey which only others like you have shared. The humiliation and stigmatisation and judgemental attitudes of transphobic shop girls versus those other wonderful women who are simply so loving and helpful. I remember decades back getting the first breast forms and the pocket bras.  I loved the ladies who fitted me and helped me.  Those early days it was all so scarey and exhilerating.  

Of course I talked ad infinitum to pscyhiatrists, counsellors and pastors. I was even exorcised but it didn’t seem to take. There was that whole business of collecting clothes and purging but ultimately the cheap Scottish genes kicked in and I simply moved the women’s clothing to the locker only to bring it back months later.  Finally there was a separate locker or suitcase and on occasion I’d enjoy the repreive from the war footing.  I’d always had to protect and provide.  I’d always had to defend. Defending those who were injred and abused meant I was their ally and the very people and institutions who hurt them hurt me for even associating with them.  I fought bullies in school and at some point past middle age I realized thet it didn’t end.  I actually spent some years seeing a psychiatrist to discuss why I helped the needy and how best I could change to be more selfish like I ought to be. Being empathic helped my patients but certainly did not stand me well with the hierarchy. I’d actually identified and had removed senior doctors, nurses, hospital administrators and even a judge all who had been corrupt, sick but by their evil behaviour hurting others.  I”m thankful for those who had my back but I was usually alone in the fray and the system tooks days, months or years to right itself.  I still wonder what life would be like if I just didn’t care. I asked people not to kill people in front of me but they seemed to take greater glee in the act of killing and the act of doing it in front of me.  

I’ve been most suspicious of smooth operators.  The school yard bullies were stereotypical but the adult bullies looked like lawyers, mayle and female, ‘power suits’ and gentile manners, well groomed and well heeled.  A certain indifference.  I loved Arendt’s description of the Banality of Evil,.

Au femme I didn’t think of such things.  ‘Girls Just Want to Have “ fun was the song that ran through my mind. I tried to get along with everyone and didn’t object or care what people did outside of my contact with them.  It’s amazing but a girl can have coffee with Hitler and he can be very charming and it can be a fine night and that’s all it is.  Once you find out that the person you met briefly socially was a psychopaths then it’s on you to continue the relationship. I walked away but as a girl wasn’t engaged in work or service.  I was in the au femme mode on vacation. The clothing assisted me in the leaving behind of the white lab coat and the sports jacket that had been fashioned on the British Empire Officer’s military jacket.  

When I wore high heels and a white silk free flowing dress carrying a designer bag with only a few possessions, I don’t feel any desire to step forward and stop a fight or a rape or literally get involved with anyone else’s monkey’s and circus.  I had slip on heels on Davie one late night, possibly another Halloween, and was walking alone when a car with 4 jeering angry south asian man circled by me twice.  I was actually afraid.  They’d been beating up gay men and it was in the news and there I was looking like prey and wondering why women don’t carry purse guns, hat pins and wear sensible shoes. I was ill prepared and realized Feminists don’t want ‘women’s rights’ like the ‘women’s liberation' crowd I was part of.  Feminists just want to wear 4 inch heels and blame men for not protecting these little princesses.  I’d done my share as a man of protecting drunk and drug addicted ex’s with bad mouths from the consequences of their behaviour and frankly didn’t like that role. But we’d argued back then for women to have the right to purse guns and I taught women self defence.  Now here I was in these silly shoes knowing I’d at best take two of the four. Au drab I’d consider the odds not insurmoutable. I’d hospitalized three of 7 attackers once and had escaped many a hairy situation but here I was in nylons and fuck me shoes that were not even meant for walking. I was glad they left and later weeks later the police would catch them and I’d recognise them as the very same guys who followed me.  Perhaps at 6 feet tall broad shouldered and proud walk despite the coiffed hair and padded bra and flimsey dress I’d seemed to threatening to these low life low brow cowardly thugs. 

I’ve always missed the one on one cowboy fighting my friend Kirk and I engaged in as children. Later I’d do martial arts and even competed one on one in wrestling one year. I lost and wasn’t interested in belts but loved learning the skills and starting as a teen the oponents didn’t bow. They also carried knives, scars I remember painfully learning to avoid, and usually came with two or three on one.  It was only in my 20’s I began to be shot at, revolvers appearing out of nowhere and shots whizzing through the air from rifles.  I know that anyone who has faced guns has respect for them and those whose world is tv and games don’t.  I’m deeply disheartened that so many Canadian girls are so utterly ignorant of guns, and war and men.  Our military and police have done simply too good a job.  When I was in charge of the dangerously insane wards in jails and asylums I met the people that one one one scared me and I wished that it was a requirement of politicians especially liberal women to spend some time with these individuals so they could leave off their utopian fantasies and join us blokes in real world.

I envy the princess.  I wrote “I want to be a pricness for a day”.  I admire all the good mothers in my life and the great women I know. Transexual M-F go through an interesting phase when they begin to come out, often dressing age innappropriately or like hookers. The first is the appeal of the girl becoming a woman teen and trying out of different fashions, the too short skirt, the obviously not sensible shoe.  The longer one cross dresses and the older one becomes the more appropriate one is. It’s the teens thazt go through a range of styles and fashions till the settle on what works for them We do the same though with less time and less feed back.  It’s the secretiveness that surrounds us. 

Also the young transgendered aren’t dressing up for work but for social life so there’s an emphasis on the erotic. The difference between the celebrity and the whore is subtle and watching men frequently fail in achieving the right balance is a source of amusement.

I’ve not cared to ‘pass’.  I once read a delightful book called the ‘lazy cross dresser’ and realized that women have been cross dressing for a hundred years and most cultures don’t have the rigid differentiation that ours done. In the tropics I was content to wear a sarong or shorts and t shirt. It’s only in winter Canada that I ‘m even considering hose and undergarments.  

Halloween is a fun time. The Parisian and Italian Concubines and the Western Saloon girls and Burlesque all have a flavour of the 30’s flapper party. Mail order allowed all of us to order clothing fitting for home and since we were not going out it’s not surprising that the transgender crowd has robes and night gowns but not a pinafore in their wardrobe.  It’s only late in the game that cross dressers, transvestites and transexuals actually where gender distinct work clothing. My friend the Transexual Diesel Mechanic simply didn’t change from blue overalls to pink overalls. The overalls the girls working with him wear are blue like his and men and women have long hair and earring so for the trades its often only an issue of their choice of underwear and because they don’t want boobs caught in machinery everyone wears the equivalent of the sports bra or binder. No bullet bras in the journeymen and journeywoman world. 

The Transgender ‘clothing’ issue arises in the legal profession and the office where the female stil wears the skirt despite Hillary’s ‘pant suit’. Ironically high heels remained and make up and lipstick feminists refused to go Amish because theyt really didn’t want equality but rather wanted leverage. Their natural sexuality and appeal to counter the male muscle and brawn.  Hundred thousand years of natural selection.  A hundred years of modern society.  Freedom a very recent matter for the masses. The rich and powerful were always wearing women’s knickers one days armour and swords the next.  What mattered was power.  Conformity was the means to survive for little guy. 

The oldest law is the Chinese law of the fish: There are big fish and little fish.Little fish must be fast and numerous.  Parents wanted children of the middle and lower classes to not ‘stick’ out’.  The tall poppy synderome of the Australian world is the one that got chopped off. The elitte by contrast could in their private world do wahtever. As one poor black man said , ‘social workers and police are in every aspect of our lives. We live on the streets or among others.’ Only the rich can live alone in mansions with no one monitoriing their coming and goin.

In Communist countries everyone is an informer. Wealth and power give those that can afford it the Epstein Island experience or as novelist Patterson wrote, the cannibal dinner party experience. The jaded crave new sensation.

Halloween and All Saints Day and Samhein are all about transpersonal reality. This world and these passing cultural fads and fashions are nothing to the reality of life and death and questions of heaven and hell and purgatory.  We mock convention.

I wear a dress. I have no desire to be a zombie or dress as the dead. I’ve seen far too much death. But I’ve not known enough of the world of Jane Eyre and the Bronte Sisters. That DH Lawrence and Somerset Maugham world placed before the responsibilities of adult hood where families are formed and people live in the fish bowl created by their children who are questioned by teachers and bear tales of the house to neighbours and all.  I didn’t have children. I wasn’t policed. I had a dog who didn’t care if I wore leggings or pants as long as we went for interesting walks and he was well fed and I threw the ball. I can throw ball in skirt and heels or jeans.  My dog might have told the other dogs I was a bit queer but he didn’t tell the authorities.

My friends and family have not really understood but have been tolerant.  I’m surrounded by people who like the male me which I’m thankful for. I’ve served well but at the cost of leisure and self.  Dressed in a skirt I am still capable of writing. But I was driving by an accident au femme and stopped. I stood and observed that those already there were doing a reasonable job. I’ve saved so many lives at accidents and stepped in a took charge. But I actually thought I didn’t want to be exposed or dirty my clothes or get involved so only stood back observing. If anyone had done something wrong I’d have stepped in but au femme I was content to stand on the sideline. I’m also old and learning to let the young muddle along. After a while I left and seeing ambulances with flashing lights, adrenaline and testosterone coursing through the veins of the young.  I pulled out and drove on, glad not to be involved except peripherally.  

I don’t want to be centre stage. Most of my life I’ve enoyed the role of the assistant to the king. I used to be my father and my brother’s assistant and even my mother’s assistant and in surgery was sought after as a surgical assistant. I have definitely been in charge.I’m a solo sailor and a captain but I much prefer the militia to the offiial troups, the role of scout to the role of colonel, or simply being one of the crowd. I have been president and vice president but now am thankful to be able to serve. I’ve always liked duty and service and doubt that is affected by my sense of twin spirittedness or clothing.

Halloween is a time to celebrate the dark passenger or the breadth of the Jungian anima/animus/personna and shadow.  It’s a full moon too.  And an American election year. And the unspoken war with Communist Chiina continues while our PM appears more and more stoned but claims now that he’s ill. Everyone is playing the pity card. I don’t wish to. I like Gladwell’s writing on outliers. I’ve been castigated for intelligence, wealth, poverty, clothing, lack of clothing, sexuality, etc.  Judgementalness is a major coping strategy for many. I love the Catholic list of sins and how those with gluttony and sloth condenm those with lust and the avarice condemn all. I’m trying very hard to learn the Franciscan idea of acceptance, of myself and others. 

Halloween Hallow’s Eve.  I’m fay too. Its definitely the time of the year to be fay. 

 

 

12 years old: Bumper shines, IquanaBoy Scouts, YMCA

It seems my life began to be busier with Gr. 6.  The sleepy quality of Gr. 5 with it’s routine and study begin to change as we boys become more rambunctious.  When I think of 12 years old I think of hoppies and soaping the school windows.

Hoppies or “bumper shines”were ‘hopping on the backs of cars’. This was pre Uber.  As kids in Fort Garry we’d duck walk in the snow ,low down so the driver couldn’t see us, to a car stopped for a stop sign or light then grab onto the fender.  Sometimes when we were really daring we grabbed onto the rear door handle as we were walking past the stopped car. The driver would accelerate and we’d have a free ride skiing on the soles of our snow boots behind the moving vehicle.  This was a primary winter activity from Gr 6 to Gr. 10.  Frankly I don’t know why I stopped it. It really was fun especially with friends cheering or hopping on beside you.

In the burbs the car speed would be 30 or 40 km but when we hopped on the backs of buses on Pembina the bus would go at 60 km / hour. That was a thrill. The down side was when our boots hit gravel or a stretch of  the road was salted to cut down on the ice.  At that point my feet would simply stop moving while I’d begin to be dragged on my belly.  A lot of knees of jeans were torn that way especially on Pembina Highway.  I lied to my mom and said I fell down the stairs.  Several times.

One time I caught on the back of an unmarked police car. The young policeman  jumped out. The chase ensued. Only this young policeman was fast.  I was going over a fence when his boot connected with my butt.  I flew and landed head down into a snow drift. My friends had to help pull me out because I was trapped like a cork in a bottle.  

Mr. Jerry Fischer was the Gr. 6 teacher. He was for many of us the ‘To Sir With Love’ teacher character. He was a character. I remember waking him one fall on the way into school one morning.  He slept in or was passed out in his English sports car parked in front of the school unshaved and shirt tails out.  He also had a babe of a girlfriend. It was the beginning of mini skirt era.  As boys we were just beginning to notice such things.  He certainly was Kirk and my hero.  He brought plants and cages of various animals and fish into the classrooms.  It soon looked more like a jungle.  He was so enthusiastic about teaching. We, as kids, just got caught up in his passion for science mostly.  Biology became fascinating.  

I took the iguana home. On weekends someone took the iquana home.  It was sunny I was letting the iquana out of the cage on the grass. I had little cut bits of apple I was feeding this miniature green monster. Iquana were vegetarian.  Suddenly it keeled over and died. I truly believed that I’d killed it by not chopping his food up small enough.  I was mortified.  Inconsolable. My parents actually were angry with Mr. Fischer for letting the kids take an exotic beast home where it could die and a kid would cry all night.  No one thought I killed the iquana.  Certainly Mr. Fischer didn’t think that when I brought the dead iquana back to class in a shoe box.  The other kids did but none of the adults.  Really, he just died.  Keeled over with a bit of apple in his mouth.  I didn’t try to revive him. I didn’t know CPR or mouth to mouth when I was 12. I was simply horrified. But a couple of my classmates who loved the iquana like I did thought I killed it.  I insisted I didn’t. I felt so sad. I killed the iquana.  Didn’t chop it’s dinner up fine enough.  Today I don’t even think a valsalva maneuver would have helped.  Fate.

His revolutionary teaching ideas resulted in him being interviewed for the Winnipeg Free Press.  A picture was taken of him and the aquariums, I can’t remember if the iquana or some other creatures were in them but there was Kirk and me in the picture.  My mom cut the little clipping out and kept it.  She sent it to me years later. I put  it in a frame and kept it on my desk.  Biology and Mr. Fischer.

Thanks to his inspiration I got my first tropical fish tank that year. Soon I was even breeding Siamese fighting fish.  

I believe it was Gr. 6 that I joined the YMCA.  Kirk and I joined along with a number of other boys. Keith and Colin were members of the gym club. I might have been in the YMCA swimming but it was when I was 12 the the YMCA gymnastics club began to play an important part in my life. It just seemed that I went from playing hockey as a kid outside to spending all my time at the YMCA.

We took the Pembina Bus downtown and loved the walk through the Hudson Bay basement to come out on the street by the Y.  In the winter in cold Winnipeg as kids we travelled through stores, then scooted out onto the street then entered the next store, that way getting warm between exposures to the 40 below wind chill.  The wind on Portage was famous. The wind chill at Portage and Main record making.

This was when we came under the influence of Mr. Don McQuaig (sp).  The YMCA wasn’t just a gym. Young Men’s Christian Association.  I did all the levels of swimming there. In the summer I’d collected Red Cross swimming awards each year at the Fort Garry pool. So when I joined the Y I just repeated the tests and collected all my swimming awards there.  In free style swim we’d not wear clothing as boys but for the classes and tests we wore bathing suits.  There were codes of conduct and people trained there for the Olympics.

The YMCA Gymnastics Club was the thing.  We’d start with a mile run around the track that circled the gym just below the high ceiling.   After the run we’d do tumbling exercises and then take training in the different stations.  We had rings, low bar, vault, parallel bars, high bar. We learned all the somersaults and hand springs on the mats. On the wall there were pegs we’d try to develop our upper body strength with.  Pulling our bodies up and putting the pegs in the hole above. Colin Lount, Ron Brawn and Keith Carter walked the pegs up and down the board effortlessly. Meanwhile I was thankful if I could drag myself once to the top.

I’d left Boy Scouts because there was an older bully who picked on me. My 4 year older brother Ron stayed in Scouts.  He was the same age as the bully. The bully just smashed us younger kids with his fists.  

Dad had taken Kirk, Garth and I as kids and set up a rope ring in the basement. He bought us a couple of sets of boxing gloves. That was when we were 6 and bullies had bothered us in our first year of school. So there he was teaching us to box, us little uncoordinated kids, down in the basement with this rope around a part of the room and us learning to thrust and punch and dance with our feat. Little Rockie’s ahead of time. I don’t remember learning much boxing. Dad had boxed some in the Air Force. It didnt’ go on long but it stopped the bullying then.  When the older kids jumped us we punched back and that took the fun out of it for them.  

Most people don’t realize, especially girls, how often boys are bullied and how we learn to stand our ground and hit back.  I wrestled with this other kid in my class. Despite the silliness of girls we didn’t think it was bullying if kids were evenly matched. We knew about light weight and heavy weight. Girls didnt know anything and nobody fought with the girls because they were girls. Besides if a guy lost to a girl anytime he was a loser and if he beat a girl he was still a loser because he beat a girl. The girls had all the advantage in a fight. But we considered it bullying if two or more guys took on one guy or if an older bigger guy took on a little guy.  Older bigger gang guys were a problem. It was also bullying if the other guys came at you with weapons. So there I was in one of the best districts in the city and by Gr. 6 I’d been attacked three on one and 5 on one always by boys 2 or 3 years older.  Thanks to Dad my friends and I survived.  The main issue was the confidence.  If a kid showed weakness the bullies pounced. I avoided most fights by standing up to challenges and talking.  

Predators can’t afford to be hurt since they really don’t have a support network.  They’re looking for easy kills.  My dad taught me about wolves in the woods and people were the same. There’s really no ‘honor’ in war today because most soldiers only engage when they have a clear advantage. War is all about winning.  Weakness attracts war.  I still find it sad that so many people who know nothing and spent their lives protected or hiding still blab on about things they don't know anything about.

Gr. 6 Kirk found a Ju Jitsu book. That’s when our formal martial arts training began. We practiced on each other all one summer.  Tosses, throws, kicks.  Kirk was fascinated by the Eastern philosophy and we talked about that. At the YMCA there was an older fellow with a black belt and he coached us that fall and for years to come.. We took some wrestling there too. I was abysmal at wrestling. Flipped and pinned by the wrestling guys in seconds.  Lots of laughter at how easily I could be beaten by them on the mats by comparison to how it was next to impossible to get me off my feet. Billy Goat Gruff.

Billy Goat Gruff was the children’s name I got when I teased Liza Laidlaw, Kirk’s little sister. She was sharp as a whip. I called her Liza Lollypop and she came back with Billy Goat Gruff. The nick name stuck with little kids in the neighbourhood.  Liza now  a mother and maybe even a grandmother will always be Liza Lollypop.

My brother beat up the bully at the Boy Scouts . It was my first year as a scout. I ‘d graduated from cub scouts and had the big round hat I was so proud of when the bullying began. Ron told the guy to lay off. When he didn’t and Ron caught him boxing me outside the church he stepped in and punched the guy a half dozen fast ones putting that guy on his knees.   In those days of cowboy fighting there was none of the ‘curbing’ and head kicking that came later. Ron had won. The guy was supposed to have learned his lesson.  All should have been well. But he came after me again. Ron wasn’t there. I was beat up bad. He was a barefisted puncher and I took a lot of hits to the head, cut by his ring and just generally battered. My brother pounded him good in retaliation the next scout meeting. My brother was a quiet peaceful guy but a force to contend with when you were wrong and crossed him. But I’d just lost interest in Boy Scouts after that.  The bully left too after Ron was through with him but it had soured my scouting experience.  

God I was proud of my brother and thought he was the greatest guy in the world to protect me. He did it a few times in our lives.  Whatever faults a kid can find with an older brother they all go when he’s getting his ass whuppped, things aren’t looking really good , and his brother steps in to the rescue.  That was my brother Ron, a guy to be counted on. Everyone did. They always could.

I just complained that all the teachers who had had him before me would say what a great student my brother was and why couldn’t I apply myself. My report cards always read that Bill would do better if he applied myself.

I’d get A’s and B’s but this one semester I’d applied myself and got all A’s but one. My mother had said, in typical Mom  fashion, not how well I had done, but ‘why did you get that B?” So the next semester I really applied my self.  I got all B’s .  It really is hard to get all B’s. Like target practice shooting bull’s eyes’ ,a person can get lucky ,but the success is in the tightening of the spread. I worked at getting B’s for a year or two after that and then lapsed into my old pattern of mostly A’s and occasional B’s , getting straight B’s was harder than straight A’s.  That was the way my mind worked as a kid. I played weird games, only I knew the rules to.

The YMCA Leaders Corp picked up where the Boy Scouts left off. The men were trying to teach us kids values and standards and down right manly behaviour.  Looking back , it was all ethics.  Young Men’s Christian Association was about applied Christian values. William James. Pragmatism. No one talked about Jesus. We were just expected to live and behave like Christians.  

The fights continued in the locker room.  I was kicked naked by an older boy in the groin and lay in a fetal position for an eternity.  The kid was a teen ager and picked on us kids slapping us with wet towels, punching us and kicking us little guys. He was a little twisted too.  But myself and three friends ‘paid him back’. We had become good with wet towels and we all slapped him silly with wets one day in the shower. He’d bullied all of us but after that it stopped. We also came together as a group. He was one of the swimmers and we were the Gym Club. 

The higher ups would hear and put a stop to these things quick unless we’d settle it ourselves if we could. No one wanted to be a rat or a squealer. They were the lowest. Presumably someone talked to the kid too and no one wanted to be expelled from the Y.  Getting expelled from school meant no homework but we all loved the Y.  No fun in getting expelled from gym.

Keith Carter was amazing. He was great at everything.  His summersaults in the air were simply unbelievable.  Colin Lount had an injury as a kid, some polio or something like that, making his one leg marginally less functional. Without that he would have been perfect. He was so graceful. On the rings he’d lift himself up then stretch out into a perfect hand stand. Kirk had grace too. Each of us had a niche.  Ron Brawn our new friend had muscle and was amazing on the high bar.  Me, well I was the vaulter. I could run and vault where others wavered.  It took a lot of faith to launch ones self head first, fly through the air, and hope to catch the end of the long box before shooting your knees and feet through your arms to come out standing.  I was crazy.  

I also liked the parallel bars until the other competitor before the annual competition pulled my arm off the bar, when I was in a handstand,trying to make it look like an accident. He really was  hoping to injure me before the competition.  I fell and twisted coming down hard.  I had to go home. I’d injured my back that day. Till this day I still remember him slyly grinning. Then in the competition next day he was smugly confidantly looking over at me with that superior look psychopaths have.  I competed beat him despite  the pain.  He threatened me after. But I’d won that competition.  I’ve had recurrent back pain in the same spot under duress. It’s probably psychosomatic. Something to do with having your own team mate betray you just to win a competition. A regular Judas.  I didn’t understand this and didn’t have that quality. It’s actually rare. Sociopaths only a per cent or two of society and psychopaths an even much smaller fracture.  That competition was years later wasn’t when I was 12 but years later.

At age 12 the YMCA gym and swimming club was a favourite place. We’d go after school a couple of times a week and then spend most of Saturday’s there. Our mom’s would give us money for the bus and a little more.  We loved the thick chocolate smoothies that they had in the basement of the Bay going home on SaturdayS. That was the stop after we’d showered and swum and dressed . I was on the way to the Pembina bus stop.  There were usually 3 to 5 of us coming and goin to the Y.

The YMCA Leader’s Club was special. We had to show merit and pass and be interviewed with Don.  Kirk became his favourite. Don McQuaig was also one of those revolutionary leaders. A devoutly Christian man who went on to be the secretary of the World YMCA’s in Switzerland.  He really did encourage ethics and morality. he’d have these incredible discussions about life with us boys. We’d meet as a group, about 6 of us in his office and discuss life, the gym, leadership and teaching.   We’d get this pure unadulterated wisdom back.  An amazing influence. He was all about excellence.

Bullies on the London Tube

I was in England. My first wife and I had a tiny tiny flat in the basement of a house.  The toilet was outside, across the vestibule, separate, cold but clean.  South Putney.  We took the Tube to work.  Walking to the station till we separated and went our different ways.  I never liked to leave her.  She was so beautiful.  Her departure was like losing a vital organ each day since she'd been hurt in the blast of the IRA bomb.
I was so in love with her. And she with me.  Young people and we didn’t really know it.  So full of life we thought this was all it would be like.  A couple of travellers and dancers.  We’d bicycled across Europe together and now were each of us studying dance at night with world champions  She with Bill and Bobby Irvin and I with Doreen Key.
To make money for our lessons we took whatever work we could.
There was a tube station in London. I don’t remember what it was called.  In the War the Underground had been used as bomb shelters for the population.  This was one of the deepest if not the deepest.  Three flights of elevators to get to the bottom.  I was waiting for my train there at the deepest place..  Three floors down.  Masses of people in constant streams hurrying during rush hour.  Going to work.  I was standing by the rail.  My overcoat, umbrella under my arm, black brief case, black pants white shirt. I was going to work in an office.
My mother had taught me to type when I was sixteen.  I got jobs working on the proto computer typewriters.  Made more money than I would working on the oil rigs with my friends.  Could stay in London and attend the shows. Take dance lessons.  All I had to do is accept the natural ribbing I took from the girls and guys.  Both sexes called me a faggot for working as a typist.  It was girl’s work in England. Even if the keyboard was special.  I was called faggot a lot by the mail room boys. The ones without the education and the thicker accents.  Only a few of the girls made fun of me.  And some were like sisters when I worked in the pool.  Others were so very jealous that I was I was working the ‘machine’.
I was the Canadian too.  Canadians were much admired then because we were workers.  The unions had affected London badly and everyone worked as slow as they could. I was often told I was making others look bad.  I thought they were joking. I’d not encountered that sort of behaviour before.  I just thought everyone went to work and tried to work their hardest and to do their best. I was young then. I didn’t know how many kinds there are.  Travelling was opening my eyes to so much.
Her screams took me out of my reverie.  I’d been just standing probably half asleep when I heard her first scream. Loud long cries and shouts, “Stop it.  Stop it.”
I looked back to where it came from.  There she was on the down escalator.   Wrestling with a man  He had her half undressed.  Her white blouse was stripped open. I could see her fine peaches and cream breasts out of the bra which he was pulling off from behind her as she wrestled in his grip.  I watched for only a second and began moving through the dense crowd to her.  I met them as they stumbled off the escalator his big hands now pulling up her tight and proper skirt white panties showing. He really looked like he was going to rape her right there half lifted up onto the hand rail of the escalator. She was  whimpering now, ‘don’t don’t  tears wetting her face and her long black hair.
“Here, stop that, “I said, confronting the man, who was easily my height but older and thicker in the neck and arms. It was obvious he worked out.  A worker or a gym guy but definitely looking like one who had a go at the weights.  Formidable.  The girl was sobbing as I stood there staring at the man.  The stream of faceless people continued down the escalator moving around us as we formed a little huddle there at the base. He was still holding her by the arm and she was pulling her ripped shirt across herself to hide her breasts as she struggled to get free..
“Hey don’t you like girls, “ he almost spit the words at me.  “Don’t you want to see a bit of fluff going to work like,”  “You got a problem with that.” He said turning his attention fully on me as she broke his grip and he zipped his fly up. The girl had pulled away.
Just then  half dozen more of them surrounded me.  I ‘d not seen them.  I was young and naive.  I looked around for the police. There was a transit police at that level. I saw him running away. He was a tiny East Indian man. I remember seeing him phoning for help over the shoulders of the men who were now collective pushing me backwards towards the tracks.   In that way that bullies do. I didn’t know then what I know now. What cowards they are.  Always working as nests.  Never one on one but only when they have an advantage.  Six on one were the number here. And they must have been in their late 20’s.  Older tougher.
I felt the quick hand pushes  to my chest as I stumbled back, people clearing around me moving aside and away from the hooligans.  Old men reading their papers folding them and taking their place in an outer circle of spectators.
“What’s wrong with looking at titties. You some kind of girl boy you don’t like a free show. Here I was giving all the men a free show and you have to a problem with that. . You could have seen her pussy. I was getting to that.  Now how do you feel. Is this what you wanted. You could have had a free show and now you’re going to die.  Hey I’m talking to you. How do you feel girlie boy?"
I suppose he called me girlie boy because I had  long hair. I had long hair in those days.  But I was having trouble paying much  attention to him and his friends because the train was coming and I could hear the high screech of the brakes.   They’d pushed me back so my heels were over the rails. I was balancing on my soles, thankful to be a dancer,  looking at him and the oncoming train.
It was a tableau.  Hundreds of English spectators. This gang of six bullies.  And me.  The one in front of me was poking me gently now with his finger tips almost caressing my chest.
“I could just get rid of you.You’re just a nuisance. Not a real man. Don’t like a bit off titty.  Could kill you right here and it would serve you right. Interfereing in real men’s business. Putting your nose where it don’t belong.  Not minding your own business.  “ he spat out the words face real close to mine as I was turning away to watch the on coming train.
I remember seeing the driver of the train and hearing the screech of the brakes.  I imagined I was dead. There was nothing I could do. I had an umbrella in one hand and a brief case in the other. Any move and I’d be on the tracks.  All he had to do is push my chest with those hands of his.Just a slight bit harder. I was swaying.  I could maybe drop the umbrella and briefcase as I fell backwards and maybe  grab hold of him. But there was the windshield and face of the driver.  I was ready to grab onto anything but it was all frozen in time. Frozen in my memory. I saw the drivers eyes wide as 45’s.  It was the era of the Beatles and for some reason I remembered a 45 I’d bought back in Canada.  I can’t say my life flashed in front of my eyes but my mind sure speeded up with odd associations and the overwhelming thought that I just might die.
Silly Canadian Don Quixote. In a London underground tube.
They were gone as soon as the train was by and coming to the emergency stop. Like rats who’d stolen cheese many times before they disappeared into the crowds.   The girl holding her torn clothing was walking head down humiliated boarding the tube.  There was a collective shame in the group as like a crowd at the  Roman games  who had wanted  but not wanted to see the Christian killed by the lions. They were disappointed when he wasn’t. But already making excuses for why they had done nothing. A bit angry with the young fellow making them look bad and feel bad.   Not totally but a bit embarrassed too that  they hadn’t done anything.
I got on the train and rode  to work just like any other day.  Later I’d learn that these guys were known and that they worked the Underground.

Sociopaths and their Communication

Another observation on sociopaths and their communications to add to their narcissism, narcissistic entitlement, compulsive lying, denial and chronic rationalization is their insistence that they are cool and calm whereas you are  'over reacting' or even 'hysterical'.

They like to appear 'rational' which can be a product of their lack of feeling or sensitivity or a consequence of anesthetization by drugs or alcohol.  The fact is they are emotionally 'shallow' and lacking depth are 'still' like 'stagnant' waters, definitely not deep by any stretch of the imagination.

They have a hurtful and insensitive behaviour which reflects their intense jealousy and envy of others especially the majority of individuals who are clearly more emotionally developed than them and often have true accomplishments that make these latter individuals admired.

Sociopaths lack essential boundaries usually because of an overly sexualized relationship with their mothers especially if they are male. Whether the mother has encouraged this perception is a separate issue. Females will have serious sexual issues either oversexualized or innappropriately asexual and will misperceive adult sexual behaviour because of their lack of truly adult sexual emotional development , The fact remains that male or female they are developmentally fixated at a point where they are unable to differentiate them selves truly with others. What is good for them they assume is good for everyone else. They do not feel themselves causing pain but really do experience pain when others reflect back to them what they 'dish out'.  They can 'give it' but they simply cannot 'take it'.  They 'feed' on people and graze through social networks using up families and friends often by excessive demand for attention, influence or loans of money.

Lacking a separation of self from the other and being truly ego centric they simply lack feelings for others and only feel for themselves.  Professionals collectively describe them as pathologically narcissistic.  They appear to love their children as long as their children 'mirror' them and will love their families as long as their families don't question their often bizarre and privately insane behaviour. The most disturbed  will threaten to kill their wives, will kill their children and commonly are the ones one reads about in newspapers as stalking and killing their families. These are the individuals also who kill a co worker over a minor 'slight' yet appeared quite normal to those who didn't really know them, were new to their social network, yet probably had seem them reacting apparently 'rational' and saying to someone else that 'they' were 'over reacting'.

Hence when they are hurting and uncaring of others they see others as 'over reacting' and 'being hysterical'. However, most commonly these boy men and girl women, hurt themselves are the worst squealers, whiners and drama queens. They inflict pain without concern but hurt  themselves they become big babies and scream and sometimes even pee. They rage and pout and were it not for their outward adult appearances would be recognised for exactly what they are.  In psychiatry wards they are given frequent 'time outs' and in jails they spend inordinate amount of time in solitary.  They lack the developmental capacity of understanding laws in an abstract sense and only respond to laws as 'threat' and 'potential hurt'.  Lacking any true sense of  family or community they can't comprehend really anything so sophisticated as the 'golden rule'.  They principally operate on the simple hedonistic rule of 'if it feels good do it' and 'if it hurts others, don't get caught'.

Threatened they lack all manner of adult behaviour and devolve into infantile gestures and sometimes even assume fetal positions. Considering their over sensitivity to any even minor insult to themselves in contrast to their own grossly insulting and damaging behaviour they try desperately to produce the greatest level of 'victimship' because they lack higher levels of inhibition. When they 'steal' and 'assault' others they try to cover up the damages with 'talk' and 'promises'.  Unfortunately they are all talk and talk is cheap, especially when it lacks any connection to reality but rather comes with the lies and magical thinking of their highly distorted inner fantasy world.

The borderline variants of sociopaths especially the male borderline sociopaths are this odd mix of outward manliness and sadistic or passive aggressive tough boy behaviour coupled with this truly unseemly girlish behaviour when ever they themselves aren't on top, winning or being seen positively. Homophobia often is their way of covering up their latent homosexuality.  Further they are commonly antisemetic or identify with neo nazi elements.   They imagine emotional abuse where none is and have a chronic almost paranoid flavour whenever they are not being adulated.

Splitting is essential to their undeveloped character so they see people in black and white terms, as either you're all for me or all against me. At times this becomes overt paranoia and they can rant for hours about someone who has harmed them when usually the person is someone who has not tolerated their abuse and attack.

 If they ran face first into a stationary brick wall they'd insist the wall was out to get them and coming at them. Given the depth of their infantile fixation the world is all about them and metaphorically bite the nipple with intense sadism then complain vociferously if their "victims"  and "prey" pull back or avoid them.






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