posted on May, 25 2010 @ 09:42 AM
Chaotic is one way to describe my life during the past 27 years. Pathetically funny is the other. Traditional values were questioned, new ways of
relating to myself and others were sought. Sometimes it seemed as if I and those around were running off in all directions at once, taking each new
idea or feeling, original or stolen, to its extreme, desperately seeking little answers and big relief that would never come.
I was urged to be here now, to get out of my spinning head and into other shivering bodies, to drop my facades and express my feelings to make a
difference in this wonderful world, but only the real feelings in contrast to the unreal. I was told to go with the flow against the wind and let it
all hang out. This led to nude groups and beaches, where I shed my defense like my clothes and let it all or nothing hang out in the fresh air. Here I
remembered having taken the all or nothing attitude that had left me with nothing at all, pretty amusing. I went totally shameless for the former or
the latter because I was the Type A personality which was bad and didn’t want to change to the Type B which was supposedly good. I just couldn’t
swallow my pride. My long-standing problems, hardly ever identified, were the special effects of traumatic birth experience, I guessed, and I could
now treat myself to a rebirthing or a massage.
Although intimacy and love, or lack of both, mattered, I needed space to do my own thing. But I didn’t quite figure out, like nobody else, how at
least two people, a multiple personality option included, each doing their own thing could do anything together. Escapism in every sense of the word,
I just knew one, became the international pastime.
Thinking was denigrated because it inhibited spontaneity and generated phony intellectualizing. Like mine, somebody dared defy me, self-critical. I
found out that I had been thinking too much anyway and it had been hurting me as well for better or worse. Far more preferred were spirited gut
reactions, such as I hate you, kill ‘em all, and any combination of four-letter magic words. Oh, how I loved them all.
Being in touch with my reigning feelings indicated that I was in touch with myself, God, again, damn, overhauling and actualizing, a very high
achievement. Apparently I grew confused. One may wonder who I was in touch with before when the highest good was to be myself. Scandalously enough, I
never discussed the crucial question of how it was possible to be anything else.
Later I just gave up and put all my energy, if any left, into the far simpler business of not making money. Yes, not making money, since money-making
was too complex for a self-starter like me. I had to follow through step by step, descend leap by leap. Profit meditation bloomed for long. Its
sublime purpose was to reduce tension and / or achieve enlightenment, minimizing losses. Surface tension, perhaps, as I was pretty shallow. My
extravagant millionaire’s lifestyle without the melons imminently threatened to bankrupt me, though someone had made me broke. The seeking problem
was that I was finding it. Interest in the financial guru subject waned when I caught myself virtually flying without abusing substances. The
government-impoverished nation already had enough trouble with air traffic control. But I still kept looking for the magic that would change my life,
rubbing more salt into my deep wounds as a low hard-lander, having learned a cash lump sum lesson or six.
It turned out that I was not as OK, by the way, what irony, Czech Airlines, as I had imagined. My classified number of officially recognized mental
disorders jumped significantly. However, I knew what psychic healing meant and took. I, its devotee, didn’t die out soon. So it worked out fine for
Jogging was for a time thought to be a cure for depression and other ailments that now plagued me with more intensity.Legend had it that research
proved it did indeed cure the economic depression because ...