Gratitude Saturday

Thank you Lord for the rain that cleanses. Thank you for the heat and propane. Thank you for the healing of my dog Gilbert and his friendship with the cat George. Thank you for my bed and for the lights and for coffee. Thank you for in door plumbing, toilets and showers. Thank you for modern science and technology. Thank you for sound and sight and smell and sensation. Thank you for my fingers. Thank you for my mind. Thank you for that sense of spiritual connection with the deep. Thank you for synchronicity. Thank you for mystics and fellow god seekers. Thank you for the WAY. Thank you for prayer. Thank you for the Word. Thank you for Love. Thank you for this electric fire that is so pretty and reassuring.  Thank you nature. Thank you for wind and the sun.
Thank you for this saturday. I would go to a meeting but I must stay with Gilbert as he’s so afraid blind and vulnerable suddenly.  I feel such sorrow at times. Thank you for the feelings of empathy. Thank you for connectedness. Thank you for family and friends. Thank you Lord for the Bible, the Holy Book, for the Torah and the New Testament, the Gospel, the Good News. Thank you for prayer and meditation.  Today I tried to meditate but both the dog and cat simultaneously began rubbing against me so I was distracted and fed them.
Thank you for writing. Thank you for this Blog. I wanted to challenge the myth that the sane were always sane. I wanted to overturn the ‘marketing’ and ‘lawyer’ lie of the ‘edited’ person. I wanted the Authenticity of Maslow. I wanted to share that the creative process was messy. I wanted write for the rich and the poor. I wasn’t seeking sales and a specific audience, like those judges who make a fortune off rulings of ‘like me’.  I wanted a ‘speaker’s corner’ experience. I wanted to show that despite genius, stupidity still reigned. I wanted to show that it was okay to just be and that today the media was lifting everything out of context and the lies were piled deeper and deeper.
In totalitarian countries there is ‘mind control’.  It’s alive and well in Canada.  Increasingly we are monitored for words and phrases. The expansion of state police is everywhere evidence. It’s disguised in pretty language like ‘banning hate speech’ or banning ‘islamaphobia’.  The people with power think the worst things and do the worst things.  They are no different except that they are often out of control.  The Saudi leadership is out of control. Old wealth tends to let the children play within boundaries. They say it’s okay to fuck the poor man's goat but draw the line with killing the goats so the man and his family starve. They are like anyone else but they usually have a lot more time and money. They crash the helicopter rather than the bicycle.
I’ve been able to walk and talk with people from all religions and countless countries and had patients who were infamous, famous, and multi millionaires. I’ve been to the parties on the street and the parties in mansions that boggled the mind.  I’ve known an amazing breadth and so often people have expressed the fear they are going insane.  I suppose I’m here to say insane is not so bad. Saniety is much over rated. The message of the 20th century is that the age of reason lead to the greatest killing machine of all time, atheist socialism/communism.  The most depraved empire of all time in the modern world was the Ottoman Empire and it’s on the rise again too. Mecca is the centre of sex slaver and slavery and violence and lies. Yet American blacks have ironically fallen for these sophisticated brown masters as have the Canadian feminists who have embraced the most depraved religion of female abuse of all time.
Meanwhile I have felt that it’s important to share thoughts that are contrary to the propaganda of mainstream CBC while the light of freedom in Canada remains.  I’ve also shared my Christian faith because everywhere the Jews and Muslims and Atheists and Pagans and even Sikhs and Buddhists and Hindus are in your face. I’m told I can’t wear a cross in Canada but Sikhs were turbans. I’m questioned for carrying a knife but Sikhs are all armed with knives. A Scottish bread knife gets a man in jail but it’s okay for Muslims to cover their faces to avoid cameras. As a Christian I’m persecuted. But I can’t say this.
I’m born white and now that’s racism.  The colour of my skin makes me a racist.
I’m a man and that makes me sexist.
I’ve had sex with men and women so I’m excluded from both groups as a pervert.
I’m divorced so I’m a failure.
Everything that I am or represent or have done has been publicly criticized by my government and by the media. When I smoked marijuana I was breaking the law and a danger to the state. I paid more than a hundred thousand dollars in penalties for smoking marijuana and now I don’t smoke marijuana and I’m condemned by the dope smokers who get all the grants as dope smokers. And the Prime Minister broke the law and the ex mayor and ex chief of police are lining up to get rich on smoking dope.
 I am disillusioned.
When I worked to save my patients lives I was called a workaholic and administrative doctors long known for their sloth and cowardice flung platitudes at the burning Rome while Trudeau played a tune.
I am grateful because CBT tells me that people who take offence at everything like our Huffington Post girls, (K.D. Laing wrote a great song Miss Chatelaine and needs to write a Huffington Post song today) , those who compete with comparison of hurt.
“I was gang raped and my bowels torn out of me and a stake stuck in my heart but a passing paramedic rescued me after six months in hospital I’ll live but I won’t run or have children and I hurt all the time when I walk."
“Well, you think that’s bad, a man looked at me. Yeah.  He looked at me. And I was emotionally abused."
“I was sexually harassed."

So all the funding that once went to help the woman left in a wheel chair goes to the rich privileged huffington post girls who have better lawyers and better marketing people and buy government beurocrats with pocket change, the bane of Nuremberg.

I’m grateful for the training in logic and fallacy and evidence based medicine and scientific method so that I can see the lies and hypocrisy that rules the courts and politics these days.
I’m grateful that history tells me that that even the Hitlers and Lenins and Castros of the world come to an end.

I’m thankful for my life and being older and the education and wisdom of my teachers and elders.
I’m thankful for the travel and the closeness I’ve had to my Aboriginal friends, my Muslim friends, my Christian friends, my atheist friends, especially my Hindu and Sikh and Buddhist friends.  I purposely don’t associated with Nazi’s or Communists and don’t hang out with drunks or drug addicts in my home. I don’t like being around the impaired. I’ve done my time in youth with unpredictable and violent people. I’ve known too many psychotics in my work and personal life. I’ve been raped and attacked and I know it’s not right for the narrative. I’m a white man and a doctor and the main stream media says that I’m the enemy.  I’ve been told by a nurse even that all doctors should die. I’ve been told by coloured people that white people should just kill themselves. I’ve been called ‘rich’ by the likes of Justin Trudeau whose wealth and privilege are beyond anything I’ve ever known.
I have been blessed. I’ve been poor and wealthy. I’ve been free and locked up. I loved sailing alone at sea as far as humanly possible from the maddening crowd.
I like being in the wilderness with my dog. I like that I can say I’ve been in a plane crash and punched a bear in the nose. These are funny tales that made for much laughter at my friends wedding in India. I love that I was able to  share what it was like living in an igloo with my Chamoran friends. I once loved the word ‘multi cultural’ before Justin Trudeau made that mean’ uncultured’ and I loved the word ‘diversity’ before Justin Trudeau and Obama and Hillary and Merkel turned that word into a weapon of slavery.
I still like bikinis and don’t want burqas and hate that men are collectively abused in Canada for liking nude women. I hate that boys are systematically being drugged all over Canada en mass to satisfy the Canadian woman’s idea of men as defective women. I often think, I can’t beat them, so I’ll join them and get castrated and take hormones and have breast.  Anything to be anonymous and get away from the constant female hate in Canada that masquerades as anything but.
I’m grateful for the options. I’m thankful for the buddhist sense of suicide as release. I’m thankful for the muslim sense of murder as jihad. I’m thankful that I know the atheist ‘it’s all relative’ and Crawleys’ “man is god.”  I’m thankful I know these things.  i”m thankful that I have seen the 180 degree lies of text books and leaders and media. I’m sorry that it took me so long.

I’ve shared this journey. My life is just a kazoo in the symphony. All day I hear more exciting lives, more sordid lives, more abuse, more joy.  I was by years of work blessed to be able to be with people and learn their true stories. I was blessed to be trained as a psychoanalytic psychotherapist and an eclectic psychotherapist all before psychotherapy was outlawed by the government licensing bodies in Canada. They won’t say that. But only counselling is allowed today. Psychopharmacology and counselling but Freud, Kernberg, Kohut, and Jung and Lang are all topped by like the southern statue of General Lee. 90% of graduated psychiatrists were women.  Women psychiatrists and other women doctors have openly said men should not be allowed to enter psychiatry or obstetrics.  Sharia medicine is the law of BC.
I am thankful I was here before the fall of Canada. I am thankful I could see the wonders of hypnotherapy and the amazing ‘cure’s’ of people who literally got up and walked after years of disability. But now euthanasia and disability and marijuana are the medicine.
Thank you Lord for this life.  Thank you for another day. Thank you for the learning and the books. Thank you for the experience. Thank you for family and friends. Thank you.

12 steps to restoring sanity.

I love when ‘you’re feeling kind of lonesome and crowd calls out for more’  and you can turn your back on all the demands and go to a place where pretty soon everyone really does know your name.

I’d been trusting and vulnerable and the old paranoia that wasn’t paranoia but reality came back.   I began feeling scared again.  There’s that place where you get in a fetal position and just rock because people who are supposed to be caring are hurting you. I didn’t know that as a kid.  I learned that as an adult.

I was forced against my will.  Sometimes it just comes back. That feeling of helplessness and terror.  They always begin their hurt with claiming you hurt them but you didn’t. You weren’t even in the country when they claimed you hurt them. Their stories unravel with layers and layers of lies but no one cares about the truth anymore. They tell you that it’s okay to feel but the moment you let down the guard the keys come out.  The locks and bolts and the pain seems unbearable. They don't want to hear what you have to say. They say that but all they want to hear is what they've told you to say. It's an education in political correctness. If you say this the pain stops. But it only stops when you figure out the words.
I still remember the pain.  I’d had surgery and they came.  After surgery you just want to lie safely and heal.   You don't want to be marched about on display.  I was expected to perform tricks and smile.  I remember limping.  There’s a thing called spasticity.  The muscles can all go into these bundles of pain. It’s a reaction.  It comes back to me at times. When I’m threatened. When the falsehoods are piling higher and higher.  
It’s called catastrophising.  What I'm doing.
You’re not going back there.
I repeat, "All shall be well. All shall be well.  And all manner of things shall be well." An Anglican minister, himself falsely accused, taught me that nearly a quarter of a century ago.
Breathe in, breathe out.  I remember St. Augustine. I try to focus on Brother Lawrence.
Everything I've  done for work is for life.   Now they want me to kill.  It’s an option they say.  When someone is vulnerable and afraid and you're just supposed to say matter of factly, " we could end it now."
It’s so terrifying to think how easily I would have. Back then. When they would have if they could and I would have because there didn't seem much to live for after all the lies and betrayal. I was wrong.  There was life after.  In so many ways life began then.
The pain was unbearable. The lies were excruciating. The love so betrayed. It’s hard enough carrying on when death is discouraged. But now they’re actually encouraging it.
I hear them saying, "You cost too much." I remember all the fights I had to get a bed or stop someone being turfed. Administration hated me.  Not a team player.  Wouldn't let people die on my watch.  Now I'm told it was a mistake.  I should have killed them outright. My life's work an error.  It all could have been so much easier if I'd just been a 'team player'.
I feel all used up. Like Jack Nicholson in What about Schmidt. I feel old.   I can't go back and undo the damage.  I can't kill people now.
I’m poor by comparison too so there's no future for me.  I'm looking at death. Some young do gooder with a lethal injection smiling to please his superiors, thinking he's doing well. Like I was when I helped people live..
I guess they don’t like us crowding the streets. I don't like the congestion in the city either but I don't have the power to do something about it.  Maybe if I did I'd stir up war and get more people to kill themselves and sell drugs and get rid of the trouble makers who've lived here a while, bring in some easier lead cattle.  It all seems like Solyent Green, just they haven't started feeding us to each other. Maybe that comes later when they've diverted more resources to their own palaces and jets. I don't know. It all seems so far above my pay grade. I'm just trying to live and I'm finding that's my mistake.  
Young people are now being taught to kill us. Not outright in plain speak English. They speak beurocratese, legalese and doublespeak and legalese but what it comes down to is, “WE want you dead,  Dr. Hay. You've always been a trouble maker.   We need your bed for someone else. You thought you earned it but they're entitled to it.”
It’s not like the new ones attracted to this, the predators, they're not going to come right out and say,"  I got this job because I like to kill people”. That’s what the pedophiles did who joined the priesthood.  There weren't even one in a thousand but that's all it takes if that one has power over you. Doctoring is more attractive without the hippocratic oath to some. Especially the powerful who know it won't  happen to them.
All the guilt and shame and regrets and self pity assail me at times. I devoted myself to the company job. I  gave  my all healing and  to saving lives.  Now that looks ridiculous in retrospect.The lengths I went to saving people. The risks I took.
I thought I was a salesman for life. I convinced hundreds to live.  I argued against death daily. I  still do. It’s ludiculous. I’m the fool. I see the disdain in the faces of the  powerful politically correct.    What an idiot they think I am.  I feel their censure as they grow more powerful given  the option to kill.  Recreational marijuana and heroin and dealing addiction and death but calling it medical and health care. It's all in the name.  There's a book called a Tyranny of Cliches I must read.   I can't get into see a doctor but here's a little dope and death while you wait.
It terrifies me because I remember that my doctor gave me hope. Doctors aren’t supposed to hold that out any more.  It’s all reduced to boxes. I'm to ask people to check their choices. Fill out the on line form and we're arrange your medical marijuana and medical death for you and throw abortion in for free.  Family deals in death. If your score doesn’t add up quite right up by some computer projection scale  then we give you  death anyway.  Really its humane. There's even new euphemisms for euthanasia.  It's all in the marketing.
I really did believe there would be a pasture.  I really hoped for a meadow to hang out in.Maybe I'd have some more sailing time. Maybe a bit of fishing. That all costs money. Once you’re finished working there's  a better place for you.
I was supposed to be at a banquet.  The people are all lovely but they’ve mostly not been on the other side. They've not been locked up. They don’’t know personally the minority of their colleagues who are psychopaths,  take pleasure in pain,  and live for control and only protect their own.  They're good people. They've invited me into their home.  I'm kind of rough. A prodigal son.
I rode motorcycles with a lot of different folk.  Outlyers mostly. I loved when I finally joined the Biker Church. We've all got scars and tattoos. I first heard Third Day at the Biker Church long before I'd attend their concert, after their songs got me through some really wild storms.  I could finally play spiritual music without falling asleep barrelling down the highway.  I still like Steppenwolf.
There’s a real insanity in speed.  Believing leathers will protect you.  Knowing grace every time you step on and step off the big bikes. There’s a thrill.  They marginalize and reduce us.  Make what we are a disease,  ‘adrenaline junkies’ they say.  But they don’t climb mountains or sail open seas or race motorcycles.  I think I'm conservative because I don't jump out of planes like some of my friends. A lot of guys and girls I know are ex military. Then there's the cowboys and cowgirls.  Rural folk. City people think everyone is like them and they think they're tolerant and understanding. We wish.
 Sometimes in their churches we don't feel welcomed.   Gospel is meant to be praise and thanksgiving but to go to some churches it seems people are acting like there’s a special merit in  passive aggressiveness.  Not the right sort of people.
I liked the the biker church.  It was alright.  Gospel riders talking about god and love long after the talk of lust and power had worn thin.
I guess I’ve known too many deaths that weren’t planned.  I’ve lost friends. I’ve lost men to death and women to divorce. The fact is the older I get the more afraid I am to get close to anyone.  Bernie and Hank gone. Family gone.
Old is good among the bikers.  Not anywhere else in this bigger society called Canada anymore.  If I was aboriginal or Chinese maybe it would be okay to be old.  Old and male and even white are the new discard words.  Past shelf life.  
Thankfully there's another place where it's okay to get old.  When I'm feeling insane and want to be among people who God has restored to sanity or is supposed to be in the process of doing there's this place I can go.  They don’t care what colour your skin is. They don't care what car you drive. It's a Travelling Wilbury kind of place.   So I just picked up the phone in my hotel.  Sure enough the city had a central office and someone was doing service manning the phone.  A man answered stating his name and condition.  I responded in kind.  Kind of a special verbal handshake. “I’m looking for a meeting.” I said.  I can tell now when I'm feeling kind of insane.
He told me the nearest one to where I was. I knew I could have asked  and  someone would have come to take me there.   I hopped a taxi instead.  When I walked in  sure enough the room was full people. I was pretty sure some of them had had a struggle to get out of the safety of their rooms.  There was coffee. Even cookies.  I sat down.  Asked if there was anyone from out of town. I raised my hand.
“Welcome,” they all said. The healing rituals began to take hold.   I knew the reading. I liked them talking about the futility of thinking of yesterday and tomorrow. I knew I got into the trap of worrying and regretting.  I just couldn’t break away from the crazy thinking. The dark places in the city were starting to look attractive. It was them or the fetal position.  Prayer and meditation weren't holding up against the pressure of endless demands and the chronic threat. It's a seige and they don't care how it messes with the mind. The process is the punishment.  I feel more and more alone.  The past and future get a stranglehold on the present.
But listening.  I begin to feel glad to be old. I applaud the newcomers along with everyone else..  It going to be okay.  Just for today.  Everything was going to be okay.

A white haired guy was asked to speak. He shared his inner story of failure and redemption.    He even talked  of miracles and no one ridiculed him. It was like at the meeting I was at when all these men and women did intercessionary prayer and no one was offended. Everywhere I go people are offended. Knee jerk offence mechanisms and name calling. I feel like I'm in a re run of the moving Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I 'm afraid to speak.  But here we all laughed.
In the background in this poorly lit basement of a church there was a banner. It wasn't part of the meeting but it was there for only me to see.  It said “Christ is risen.”  I thought about how we are all inter related, children of God.  Not some accident or random explosion.  But the product of an act of love. That felt better than the intellectual pseudoscience soup.
I drift in and out of the story the man is sharing. His own story.  Another prodigal son.
I’m at home.  I get to know the strangers on either side of me. It’s safe here.  At the end of the meeting we pray together saying words I’ve said so many times before with other strangers.
 I could go for coffee after. We do that. But I walk alone into the night and head down Avenue Road. On University Avenue passing  Queens Park I remember as a child being fascinated by black squirrels play there.
Eventually I turned at King street. Soon I was  in bed watching Vin Diesel XXX save the world. He's a funny guy, that Vin Diesel.  The stuntmen in his movies are incredible.
Another day is done.  One day at a time. I just have to live one day at a time.
They’re not going to kill me today.  They’re planning it. They’re getting all the legal work ready so they can claim they were doing me a favour. They're changing the words to make it sound right. But it’s not happening today. And I survived all those yesterdays.
And tomorrow. Well thats today.  Today I can make it again.  I just have to do the next right thing.