Conversations from hell

[The Wizard Joseph]

It can be difficult to play agnostic when the reality of the people around you both conflicts and is inescapable.  Like when you're a ward inmate, or it's your family. 

I would argue that it can be difficult to "play" anything but agnostic or atheist.  Given the chaos and randomness of life, Eris (or what I used to call the big d20 of life) seems to be the most plausible explanation for the best and worst and everything in between.

I can't call myself truly agnostic.  The experiences of my life do not allow for it.  I grew up with the experience of God being real, or at least real enough.  I definitely don't perceive it the same way that I used to, but I still experience things internally that are untranslatable to others.  Things are much different now than they used to be. I have become more willing to believe that I am the one that makes it real, and that all my experiences of God(Ishness) may well be only me and my unusual brain chemistry.  The trouble is that other people are living in similar, though diverse, realities.  I have a part of me that intuitively responds to such people and it never really went away. 

I'll try to explain with a story of my own.  The names are changed, but it's the truth of how I experienced it at the time.



I was about 14 when the usual shouting and occasional intense violence of my home life once again got to be too much.  My family always had incredible ability to fight over the dumbest shit.  I was no exception.  I snapped badly and wrecked a bunch of stuff.  In the aftermath, I opted to stay at a home for children and adolescents.  This was the first real institution that I ever stayed at and I went voluntarily.  I've always gone voluntarily, excepting one instance of near fatal reaction to a psych medicine.  I was in a state that I have since learned to recognize as mania when I arrived at the House. 

The House was a shelter for people with troubled family lives and runaways.  They were not religiously affiliated in any way, though they had some councilors of Christian background.  I was assigned a fellow I'll call Tod.  Tod was an easy going man in his mid 30's and non-religious.  I don't remember the details of our conversations for the most part.  I know I vented about the hate I had for the church I went to, and the crappy things I thought about.  There was never a point when God was unreal to me during my youth.  At the time I hated Him.  Tod's ability to listen helped to take the edge off of my anger, and there was no violence or shouting involved with my stay at the House.  This was good for me, but the state of my mind was still intensely manic and developing into irrational spiritual perceptions.  This was made more real to me when I met a 15 year old girl I'll call Liz and discovered that the shit I' been through was not so bad.

What I can remember and am willing to relate about her story is that she was a runaway and that the family she'd runaway from had been badly abusive.  She was staying at the House for shelter, but had great faith that her boyfriend was going to come pick her up.  We became friends, and I'd smuggle cigarettes in from school on occasion.  I didn't smoke, but I liked her and wanted acceptance.  I think she was also addicted to pain meds.  She asked if I could get some once, I said I'd try but didn't.  She was obsessed with this boyfriend of hers.  She told me a lot about him.  She wanted to die for him.  Her self-esteem was nearly non-existent, and she was extremely depressive.  When we were interacting there were moments when she would come out of it and laugh, but these were rare things.  They were usually seen when she was beating me at Monopoly.  I could feel an oppressive spirit on her break at these times, as though what was holding her down had to hit the corner for a bit and rest up before the next round of beating on her.  She told me her boyfriend was into black magic, and that at times she felt like the best thing she could do with her life would be die as a sacrifice.  It was clear to me the first time she mentioned it that it was an idea he had planted and had been nurturing. 

I had my own demons to wrestle.  This seems like a cliche, but it is an apt description of how it felt and how I thought of my emotional problems.  The anger and hate were always there.  I got into a lot of fights in my home and at school.  At these times it seemed like they were there for me, old buddies.  They made me feel stronger and a certain viciousness goes a long way in a fight.  I had been getting into a lot of them lately.  The more I heard about Liz's boyfriend the more I wanted a piece of him.  It wasn't about heroics or anything really other than liking Liz and maniacally KNOWING that he was an evil influence.  It was also about needing a fix and seeing the man as worse than me, the usual justification.  There was no speaking against him to Liz though.  He was a savior in waiting to her.  The story she told me was of an abuser and manipulator.  I met him only once.

It was near the end of my time at the House.  It was near the end of Liz's time too.  I had only one more night before I was scheduled to leave, and Liz asked me excitedly if I wanted to meet her BF.  Apparently she was going to leave with him in a couple of days and he was going to visit briefly before then during the hour or so of outside time we were allowed each day if we had shown good behavior.  During this time we could walk about the neighborhood for an hour or so.  Liz told me we could meet him at a nearby convenience store/fast food place.  This was against the rules, but she knew by now I could keep a secret and didn't mind breaking the rules.  I really wanted to meet him.  I could barely contain it.  Liz had no idea how much.  I had my ideas of what I expected.  I was wrong.

I thought he would be maybe 17 or 18.  The man was well into his 20's.  Normally this would not have been a problem.  I'd fought well above my class before and this meant MORE justification as he was a genuine shitbag to be seeing a 15 year old.  His demeanor was over-confidently friendly.  He had long dark brown hair, a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and bright green eyes.  He looked at me and I felt something like a tug or twitch of my feelings.  I'm not joking when I say he seemed to see past my well fitted neutral mask.  The bastard smiled at me like he knew something about me that was amusing.  Melissa introduced us and there were no handshakes.  We sat at a table and Liz went around a corner to order something.  My reason told me now was the time to attack him.  If the cops showed up it would be interesting to see him answer questions.  My old buddies turned on me however.  Something about this guy definitely set my dogs to growling, but the old sense of strength was not there.  Instead of feeling an urge to act I only felt fucking paralyzed.  The discomfort was the same as always, but this time it was around my heart and arms and not in them.  I have no better description for it.  I do not remember what we talked about while we waited.  I remember his amused expression and bright eyes.  I desperately wanted to close them for him. I had never felt so impotent before.  It lingered after we left.

I tried to make contact with Liz afterward.  She had provided me with a contact number, but the phone never got picked up when I called.  I simply do not know what became of her.  My life went on.  I hope hers did too.  As for what happened, there are good psychological explanations for it I'm sure.  At the time I felt I had lost a spiritual battle.  These days I seldom think of it that way.  I just learned that there was nothing I could do to break his influence on her.  It's been a long time since then and I've discovered better means for conflict resolution.  I still wonder what happened sometimes.  It's not the only story in my life that does that by far, but this one was one of the first times I felt truly effected by forces unknown.  God I wish I had just jumped him.

[BadBeast]

It can be difficult to play agnostic when the reality of the people around you both conflicts and is inescapable.  Like when you're a ward inmate, or it's your family. 

I would argue that it can be difficult to "play" anything but agnostic or atheist.  Given the chaos and randomness of life, Eris (or what I used to call the big d20 of life) seems to be the most plausible explanation for the best and worst and everything in between.

I can't call myself truly agnostic.  The experiences of my life do not allow for it.  I grew up with the experience of God being real, or at least real enough.  I definitely don't perceive it the same way that I used to, but I still experience things internally that are untranslatable to others.  Things are much different now than they used to be. I have become more willing to believe that I am the one that makes it real, and that all my experiences of God(Ishness) may well be only me and my unusual brain chemistry.  The trouble is that other people are living in similar, though diverse, realities.  I have a part of me that intuitively responds to such people and it never really went away. 

I'll try to explain with a story of my own.  The names are changed, but it's the truth of how I experienced it at the time.



I was about 14 when the usual shouting and occasional intense violence of my home life once again got to be too much.  My family always had incredible ability to fight over the dumbest shit.  I was no exception.  I snapped badly and wrecked a bunch of stuff.  In the aftermath, I opted to stay at a home for children and adolescents.  This was the first real institution that I ever stayed at and I went voluntarily.  I've always gone voluntarily, excepting one instance of near fatal reaction to a psych medicine.  I was in a state that I have since learned to recognize as mania when I arrived at the House. 

The House was a shelter for people with troubled family lives and runaways.  They were not religiously affiliated in any way, though they had some councilors of Christian background.  I was assigned a fellow I'll call Tod.  Tod was an easy going man in his mid 30's and non-religious.  I don't remember the details of our conversations for the most part.  I know I vented about the hate I had for the church I went to, and the crappy things I thought about.  There was never a point when God was unreal to me during my youth.  At the time I hated Him.  Tod's ability to listen helped to take the edge off of my anger, and there was no violence or shouting involved with my stay at the House.  This was good for me, but the state of my mind was still intensely manic and developing into irrational spiritual perceptions.  This was made more real to me when I met a 15 year old girl I'll call Liz and discovered that the shit I' been through was not so bad.

What I can remember and am willing to relate about her story is that she was a runaway and that the family she'd runaway from had been badly abusive.  She was staying at the House for shelter, but had great faith that her boyfriend was going to come pick her up.  We became friends, and I'd smuggle cigarettes in from school on occasion.  I didn't smoke, but I liked her and wanted acceptance.  I think she was also addicted to pain meds.  She asked if I could get some once, I said I'd try but didn't.  She was obsessed with this boyfriend of hers.  She told me a lot about him.  She wanted to die for him.  Her self-esteem was nearly non-existent, and she was extremely depressive.  When we were interacting there were moments when she would come out of it and laugh, but these were rare things.  They were usually seen when she was beating me at Monopoly.  I could feel an oppressive spirit on her break at these times, as though what was holding her down had to hit the corner for a bit and rest up before the next round of beating on her.  She told me her boyfriend was into black magic, and that at times she felt like the best thing she could do with her life would be die as a sacrifice.  It was clear to me the first time she mentioned it that it was an idea he had planted and had been nurturing. 

I had my own demons to wrestle.  This seems like a cliche, but it is an apt description of how it felt and how I thought of my emotional problems.  The anger and hate were always there.  I got into a lot of fights in my home and at school.  At these times it seemed like they were there for me, old buddies.  They made me feel stronger and a certain viciousness goes a long way in a fight.  I had been getting into a lot of them lately.  The more I heard about Liz's boyfriend the more I wanted a piece of him.  It wasn't about heroics or anything really other than liking Liz and maniacally KNOWING that he was an evil influence.  It was also about needing a fix and seeing the man as worse than me, the usual justification.  There was no speaking against him to Liz though.  He was a savior in waiting to her.  The story she told me was of an abuser and manipulator.  I met him only once.

It was near the end of my time at the House.  It was near the end of Liz's time too.  I had only one more night before I was scheduled to leave, and Liz asked me excitedly if I wanted to meet her BF.  Apparently she was going to leave with him in a couple of days and he was going to visit briefly before then during the hour or so of outside time we were allowed each day if we had shown good behavior.  During this time we could walk about the neighborhood for an hour or so.  Liz told me we could meet him at a nearby convenience store/fast food place.  This was against the rules, but she knew by now I could keep a secret and didn't mind breaking the rules.  I really wanted to meet him.  I could barely contain it.  Liz had no idea how much.  I had my ideas of what I expected.  I was wrong.

I thought he would be maybe 17 or 18.  The man was well into his 20's.  Normally this would not have been a problem.  I'd fought well above my class before and this meant MORE justification as he was a genuine shitbag to be seeing a 15 year old.  His demeanor was over-confidently friendly.  He had long dark brown hair, a black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and bright green eyes.  He looked at me and I felt something like a tug or twitch of my feelings.  I'm not joking when I say he seemed to see past my well fitted neutral mask.  The bastard smiled at me like he knew something about me that was amusing.  Melissa introduced us and there were no handshakes.  We sat at a table and Liz went around a corner to order something.  My reason told me now was the time to attack him.  If the cops showed up it would be interesting to see him answer questions.  My old buddies turned on me however.  Something about this guy definitely set my dogs to growling, but the old sense of strength was not there.  Instead of feeling an urge to act I only felt fucking paralyzed.  The discomfort was the same as always, but this time it was around my heart and arms and not in them.  I have no better description for it.  I do not remember what we talked about while we waited.  I remember his amused expression and bright eyes.  I desperately wanted to close them for him. I had never felt so impotent before.  It lingered after we left.

I tried to make contact with Liz afterward.  She had provided me with a contact number, but the phone never got picked up when I called.  I simply do not know what became of her.  My life went on.  I hope hers did too.  As for what happened, there are good psychological explanations for it I'm sure.  At the time I felt I had lost a spiritual battle.  These days I seldom think of it that way.  I just learned that there was nothing I could do to break his influence on her.  It's been a long time since then and I've discovered better means for conflict resolution.  I still wonder what happened sometimes.  It's not the only story in my life that does that by far, but this one was one of the first times I felt truly effected by forces unknown.  God I wish I had just jumped him.

What you felt there, was his manipulative exploitation of the responses and inadequacies conditioned into the institutionalised kid. The Pimp Card. The kindly face of the predator. You felt unable to confront him on his nature, and he fucking knew it. You were both totally disenfranchised from normal human responses by your conditioning. I don't know how old you are now, but that kind of conditioning sticks like shit to a blanket, and can take years to overcome. (Depending on the level of negative reinforcement levied by the particular institution) Psychiatric Institutions are probably the worst, followed by Prisons, and Children's homes. Here in the UK, a significant number of our Girls who've been in care at some time, end up in the Sex industry. The Boys, on career Criminality. A very compliant and suggestible demographic to recruit from.

Any institutionalisation of kids, will never be right until these abuses are addressed. But societies are also conditioned into "Who cares about a bunch of whores and crims?" and that needs to be addressed first. And to our shame, that one looks like it's still a long way off. Makes me mad, and depressed if I dwell on it too long, and that's not good either.
People telling their stories, with this level of honesty is the only way people can begin to understand the shit that some kids have to endure. Making them scapegoats for all societies ills as adults, is just as bad too. It feeds on the abuses of the most vulnerable people in society, and that will never, ever be right.   

[The Rev]

BB, your take on this was pretty eye opening.

[BadBeast]

Good. People are far too complacent about shit like this. It's insiduious and sick.

[BadBeast]

I just read that back, and it sounds a bit dismissive, and it wasn't meant to be. But people, generally are too easily distracted from things they don't like to look at. 

[The Wizard Joseph]

Good. People are far too complacent about shit like this. It's insiduious and sick.

It's easy to ignore and only natural that people won't act on what they don't know about.  Thanks for the input BB.

[BadBeast]

Good. People are far too complacent about shit like this. It's insiduious and sick.

It's easy to ignore and only natural that people won't act on what they don't know about.  Thanks for the input BB.

No worries Mate. But people should be braver. By actually not looking away when they see something wrong.. By actually saying "That's not fucking right!" when it needs saying. Not "That wasn't right", or "What a fucking shame" afterwards. But when it needs someone to really say it, to try and stop something bad happening. 
Little things. But important things.
Oh, and while I'm here, I'd just like to say this thread has been consistently delivering for well over a year now. (More than our milkman has) So Props to P3nt. (And everyone else of course)

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

Getting back to what Trix was talking about, I can see sharing a story being therapeutic, on the condition that it's shared with someone who actually gives a tin shit. Not a roomful of nurse-goons, random patients and a shrink who only cares about breeding horses. Strictly my nonprofessional opinion, but it seems like common sense.

Stuff like that shouldn't be forced out of a person. The girl had been forced enough. They were just raping her all over again, AFAIC.

Trust has to be earned.

[Left]

Pent invited me to post here...
...But in regards to my last mental breakdown, I don't know where to start.
I guess I could start with saying I repressed stuff and remembered it later. 
For some of you, that's going to drop any credibility I have into a pile of poo.
Oh well.
This study is the one that convinced me I wasn't making this up:
http://66.199.228.237/boundary/Childhood_trauma_and_PTSD/repressed-memory-abuse-williams-1994.pdf
Besides, in my case there's enough circumstantial evidence indicating something went very wrong.
###################################################


There was one thing I never repressed.
I was 4, and I went where I wasn't supposed to.
I ran behind the apartment buildings, once, just to see the view out over the valley.
...I was being a little disobedient, the big space between the buildings was right there, I was still technically visible.
The projects were way up on the side of the hill, you see...in Western Pennsylvania I think the rich folks like to live on flat land, so their cars don't ski off the side of hills.
So we were up in the hills, and the back of the apartments had an eagle's perch view.

...I heard a voice right behind me shout "Come here!"
I turned around...my mind registered the ugly man with the thick glasses and frizzy red hair.  He was leaning out of his ground-floor apartment window.
...But my vision zoomed in on the gun in his hand. I was looking down the barrel of a revolver.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I ran.

It took a month for me to tell. 
During that month I was terrified the guy was going to shoot my family, because, you know, that's what bad guys do on television. I tried to keep everyone in the apartment and freaked out when anyone left-thinking they'd be gunned down outside.  I would not go out myself.  I started acting utterly hysterical when anyone tried to take me to the playground.
Yes, I was a bright 4 year old, I was reading, but...still 4.


I was finally not terrified enough to say to my mom:"He had a gun," she said "Well what if he was cleaning it?"
She was giving me a bath, and I believe I actually slapped my forehead in frustration.
She went on to say he must have that gun for his job as a guard or something, surely it was harmless...so I dropped it.  She didn't believe me, so I must have been mistaken.

When you're 4, your parents define your reality to you...and her telling me this pleasant lie she told herself...made me all fuzzy in the head.
Surely mommy was right, of course.

A year later, she opened up the paper and said "Is that the guy?"
In black and white, but yes, it was.  Same ugly hair, same crooked teeth and ugly pair of glasses.
Above his head was a headline "Local man convicted of child molesting."
Molesting was a new vocabulary word for me.
"Mom, what's molesting?" I asked.
"Never mind," is what I believe she said.
###########################################

...I still have bouts of agoraphobia.  I have to force myself to go into crowds sometimes.  This is a technique called "flooding" in the therapeutic world.  In 2011, when my brain was derailing, I got to the point where grocery shopping was risking a full-out panic attack, complete with looking for improvised weapons.

...It's not good when you have to resist the urge to smack the BASTARD WHO JUST WALKED BEHIND YOU with a jelly jar in the bread aisle.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Pent invited me to post here...
...But in regards to my last mental breakdown, I don't know where to start.
I guess I could start with saying I repressed stuff and remembered it later. 
For some of you, that's going to drop any credibility I have into a pile of poo.
Oh well.
This study is the one that convinced me I wasn't making this up:
http://66.199.228.237/boundary/Childhood_trauma_and_PTSD/repressed-memory-abuse-williams-1994.pdf
Besides, in my case there's enough circumstantial evidence indicating something went very wrong.
###################################################


There was one thing I never repressed.
I was 4, and I went where I wasn't supposed to.
I ran behind the apartment buildings, once, just to see the view out over the valley.
...I was being a little disobedient, the big space between the buildings was right there, I was still technically visible.
The projects were way up on the side of the hill, you see...in Western Pennsylvania I think the rich folks like to live on flat land, so their cars don't ski off the side of hills.
So we were up in the hills, and the back of the apartments had an eagle's perch view.

...I heard a voice right behind me shout "Come here!"
I turned around...my mind registered the ugly man with the thick glasses and frizzy red hair.  He was leaning out of his ground-floor apartment window.
...But my vision zoomed in on the gun in his hand. I was looking down the barrel of a revolver.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I ran.

It took a month for me to tell. 
During that month I was terrified the guy was going to shoot my family, because, you know, that's what bad guys do on television. I tried to keep everyone in the apartment and freaked out when anyone left-thinking they'd be gunned down outside.  I would not go out myself.  I started acting utterly hysterical when anyone tried to take me to the playground.
Yes, I was a bright 4 year old, I was reading, but...still 4.


I was finally not terrified enough to say to my mom:"He had a gun," she said "Well what if he was cleaning it?"
She was giving me a bath, and I believe I actually slapped my forehead in frustration.
She went on to say he must have that gun for his job as a guard or something, surely it was harmless...so I dropped it.  She didn't believe me, so I must have been mistaken.

When you're 4, your parents define your reality to you...and her telling me this pleasant lie she told herself...made me all fuzzy in the head.
Surely mommy was right, of course.

A year later, she opened up the paper and said "Is that the guy?"
In black and white, but yes, it was.  Same ugly hair, same crooked teeth and ugly pair of glasses.
Above his head was a headline "Local man convicted of child molesting."
Molesting was a new vocabulary word for me.
"Mom, what's molesting?" I asked.
"Never mind," is what I believe she said.
###########################################

...I still have bouts of agoraphobia.  I have to force myself to go into crowds sometimes.  This is a technique called "flooding" in the therapeutic world.  In 2011, when my brain was derailing, I got to the point where grocery shopping was risking a full-out panic attack, complete with looking for improvised weapons.

...It's not good when you have to resist the urge to smack the BASTARD WHO JUST WALKED BEHIND YOU with a jelly jar in the bread ais

I do not envy you, and I am sorry that you had to go through this.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Repressed memories are super controversial. Memory itself is super-controversial. However, there's a big difference between a repressed memory and something so painful that you just don't think about it, ever, until you're ready to cope with it. And then you think about it or tell someone about it and you say, "Wow, holy fuck, I haven't thought about that in YEARS!"

But it was always there. It wasn't like a revelation, the remembering, but like holy fuck, how is it that I just never think about that and it was like it didn't exist for such a long time?

Going to school, age five, with two black eyes. I don't even remember the story I told to excuse it, but I remember telling the truth about it, and being scared shitless that I'd get it worse when I got home. Instead she cried and said she was sorry, and she never hit me in the face again.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Repressed memories are super controversial. Memory itself is super-controversial. However, there's a big difference between a repressed memory and something so painful that you just don't think about it, ever, until you're ready to cope with it. And then you think about it or tell someone about it and you say, "Wow, holy fuck, I haven't thought about that in YEARS!"

But it was always there. It wasn't like a revelation, the remembering, but like holy fuck, how is it that I just never think about that and it was like it didn't exist for such a long time?

Going to school, age five, with two black eyes. I don't even remember the story I told to excuse it, but I remember telling the truth about it, and being scared shitless that I'd get it worse when I got home. Instead she cried and said she was sorry, and she never hit me in the face again.

There was one instance, when I was young.

My sister and I remember it differently.

What I remember is me falling down the stairs while dad was drunk on the couch watching sports.

What my sister remembers is dad being drunk and pushing me and me falling down the stairs as a result. Seems the only things we can agree on is that dad was drunk and mom was at work.

I hope that I am right, and my sister is wrong.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Repressed memories are super controversial. Memory itself is super-controversial. However, there's a big difference between a repressed memory and something so painful that you just don't think about it, ever, until you're ready to cope with it. And then you think about it or tell someone about it and you say, "Wow, holy fuck, I haven't thought about that in YEARS!"

But it was always there. It wasn't like a revelation, the remembering, but like holy fuck, how is it that I just never think about that and it was like it didn't exist for such a long time?

Going to school, age five, with two black eyes. I don't even remember the story I told to excuse it, but I remember telling the truth about it, and being scared shitless that I'd get it worse when I got home. Instead she cried and said she was sorry, and she never hit me in the face again.

There was one instance, when I was young.

My sister and I remember it differently.

What I remember is me falling down the stairs while dad was drunk on the couch watching sports.

What my sister remembers is dad being drunk and pushing me and me falling down the stairs as a result. Seems the only things we can agree on is that dad was drunk and mom was at work.

I hope that I am right, and my sister is wrong.

Not that it matters now.

Dad may have his problems now, but he would never do that sort of thing these days one way or the other.

He's a good man now, even if... malfunctioning.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Repressed memories are super controversial. Memory itself is super-controversial. However, there's a big difference between a repressed memory and something so painful that you just don't think about it, ever, until you're ready to cope with it. And then you think about it or tell someone about it and you say, "Wow, holy fuck, I haven't thought about that in YEARS!"

But it was always there. It wasn't like a revelation, the remembering, but like holy fuck, how is it that I just never think about that and it was like it didn't exist for such a long time?

Going to school, age five, with two black eyes. I don't even remember the story I told to excuse it, but I remember telling the truth about it, and being scared shitless that I'd get it worse when I got home. Instead she cried and said she was sorry, and she never hit me in the face again.

There was one instance, when I was young.

My sister and I remember it differently.

What I remember is me falling down the stairs while dad was drunk on the couch watching sports.

What my sister remembers is dad being drunk and pushing me and me falling down the stairs as a result. Seems the only things we can agree on is that dad was drunk and mom was at work.

I hope that I am right, and my sister is wrong.

Ugh

Sometimes the brain reconstructs things just a bit differently, to protect you from things you aren't able to handle.

[Nephew Twiddleton]

Redacted per request.

I may have to reread this several times.