We here alot of people these days theists/atheists claiming that "Jesus was not God;However he was a good moral teacher and a nice person" Does anyone else realize what hypocrisy lies in a statement like that!??!

Jesus was either

1. Lunatic: Jesus was not God, but he mistakenly believed that he was.
2. Liar: Jesus was not God, and he knew it, but he said so anyway.
3. Lord: Jesus is God.

please spare me the crap about how He was "A good teacher" if He wasn't who He claimed to be, Then it would either make him about as bright as a squirrel or as deceitful and persuasive as Adolf Hitler. He would be a mob leader who ravaged through cities and caused riots, who went and destroyed property and in the end would be the cause of thousands of deaths...

C.S. Lewis recognized this and stated the following about this "trilemma" in his book Mere Christianity:

"I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the s"Son of God", or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronising nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to. ... Now it seems to me obvious that He was neither a lunatic nor a fiend: and consequently, however strange or terrifying or unlikely it may seem, I have to accept the view that He was and is God."

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

This was what Juliet told Romeo when she found out who he was, a Montague - the enemy of her family, the Capulets.

While the line certainly bespeaks romance, it also signifies ignorance, first by revealing the naïveté of young love to the workings of the world, and second, by revealing a philosophy behind what people don’t normally think about in the world – that which we call, is called what it is, because it is.

This goes beyond onomatopoeia, beyond a cow that “moos” or the phone that “rrriiiings”. Neither is it about proper and common nouns, or names. Indeed, what IS in a name? It is not just a label for the tangible and intangible; i.e., the things in the surroundings and the ideas in the head. A name is not like a transparent plastic case that holds its contents inside.

One need not study semiotics in order to understand this, though some background knowledge on Saussure might be useful. Put simply, according to Saussure, the sign is composed of the signifier (the name by which something is called) and the signified (the concept). We live in a world of signs, where the signifier is the signified, and the signified is the signifier. Communication in whatever language, whether verbal or nonverbal, operates under the assumption that people have a shared knowledge of these signs. For example, I want to tell you about this majestic tree that I saw. Even if I describe it to the tiniest detail or draw it as accurately as possible, or take a picture of it and show it to you, we will only understand each other if you know what a tree is. Otherwise, even the image itself will be just that, an image. In other words, TREE is neither just a word, nor an idea. It is a name for something that is known to both of us.

Even God realized the significance of everything having its name. Adam was made responsible for naming the entire of creation. And in so doing, he became its steward. Even Jesus called some of his disciples by different names, as if to show the transformation he brought about in their lives had an impact so tremendous that they weren’t the same people anymore. Hence, the change in names signified the change in their beings. 

Only recently have I become comfortable using my real name. For a long time now, I have preferred the bi-syllabic version of it because it sounds more casual, approachable, like your friendly girl-next-door. In the past couple of years, it became shortened still (monosyllabic), and it soon fit me like a new favorite pair of shoes. The new name was more mature, chic, like a sophisticated foreigner. And a certain group of people still calls me by that name. No wonder I feel like a foreigner in their midst, not so much sophisticated as mysterious, detached, alienated. But a select few, including my parents, call me by my real name. It never occurred to me to think about it before. My name is composed of two words, both of which mean the same but in different languages. It was not intentional, according to my mom, but it’s a coincidence that has influenced not exactly how I want myself to be perceived, but rather how I want to perceive myself. Literally, I strive to live up to my name. I used to be ashamed to admit that. Now, I am not only comfortable, but rather even more appreciative of who I am. There are myths and legends behind my name, powers and wonders I wouldn’t mind possessing. I wouldn’t mind either if they possessed me.

I truly believe that had I been given another name, I wouldn’t be the lunatic I am. If someone insists that what matters is what something is, and not what it is called, only a lunatic will bother to go to great lengths to disprove it. Does it really matter in the end? Maybe not. After all, what good can come out of this kind of discussion? Only a lunatic will see beyond a futile mental exhaustion and understand that pleasure, satisfaction, and fulfillment can be derived from such intellectual masturbation. 

It seems that many regulars can't wait to see the loony tune loose the the plot completely are concerned about his state of mind and felt they should pay him a visit to take the piss and gloat at his fall from favour see if they could offer any moral support, however, he wasn't anywhere to be seen and visitors had to make do with his wacky blog instead.

Mr Monkey can't help wondering whether hiding out in a darkened room with padded walls, somewhere in Birmingham!

It seems Mr Monkey's revelations and campaign to get him removed as the Conservative candidate for Edinburgh South West not only succeeded but has pushed him over the edge. Apparently the lunatic is now seeking professional help from a psychiatric counsellor, yes a shrink!

Following a series of psychiatric tests Professor Apes has confirmed he is suffering from Charisdnatphobia Syndrome. Although there is no known cure for this illness, it is possible to learn to live with it.

Mr Monkey has learned that part of councillor Potts treatment is to confront his demons head on and to explore his inner emotions. He is also being encouraged to bring his problems out into the open and to share them with the world. Seems Tory Boy has heeded the advice of the professionals and is now analysing every aspect of his life and those who have an impact on it. 

Working in partnership with Professor Apes, councillor Potts has devised a way of tackling the little green things wandering round his head. His warped, twisted and perverted brain has decided to set up a blog dedicated to analysing his problems and uncovering the true identity of his nemesis and worst nightmare, Mr Monkey. CLICK HERE.

If Pudgy Face fails to respond to treatment, Professor Apes is set to refer him to a Doctor Rhesus, a specialist in Charisdnatphobia Syndrome at Edinburgh Zoo. Apparently his treatment includes forcing lunatics to confront the 'monkey demon' using a strict regime of physical and mental torture, a bit like the old days in a Victorian lunatic asylum.

Green button

Toad

Swamp

Liar

Green at the traffic lights

Green to go

Hit the green button

20:28:29 Wel- Red button

20:28:50 Wel- Red button

20:29:11 Wel- Red button

20:29:32 Wel- Red button

20:29:57 Wel- Red button

Predictive abc

Words of the possessed

Sending options

Send to many

Toad Swamp Liar

Send

Message Sent

Toad Swamp Liar

Send

Message Sent

Toad Swamp Liar

Send

Message Sent

Toad Swamp Liar

Send

Message Sent

Toad Swamp Liar

Send

Message Sent

Record000.amr

Silent

21:05

21:07

21:09

21:13

21:22

Non predictive abc

"Please"

Send

Search

Aks

Select

OK

Message Sent

22:40

23:54

Toad

Swamp

Liar

Wel-

Toad

Swamp

Liar

The annoying this about me is that I think that if I didn't have manic depression that I might be a happy person.  When I think back to the days of rare euphoric mania, I was never fazed by anything, I was fearless, sociable, creative and I think, or thought, that it was just an exaggerated version of what I was really like.  I am clearly naturally optimistic or else I wouldn't be there and wouldn't be putting myself through these fucking medications and appointments.  They take up an astonishing amount of my life. I don't actually believe in "the real you", I think who we are is fluid, not fixed.  But I think that the maybe natural me is not this person.  How I do not want to be this person. 

The psychiatrist, the CPN and the social worker.  It sounds like the title of a low budget film.

While waiting for my appointment today, I noticed a rather strange man having a very animated conversation with himself.  He was dressed in a t-shirt and trousers, held up by braces, with a pink Barbie shoulderbag, an arm covered in jelly bracelets and a baby's bonnet on his head.  He was about fifty years old with a sparse, rubbishy little beard.  I often see strange looking people in reception- it is a mental health centre after all- but he was the most interesting.  He wandered very jovially around explaining to himself, or to whomever he was hearing, how things worked.  He cast grateful clarity upon the light switch and waved his hand in and out of the automatic doors as if to prove that there was no mist or magic present.  I almost wanted to speak to him, but he seemed to not hear, or be ignoring, those who did. 

Today I said goodbye to my wonderful, P.J Harvey loving, cigarette cadging heavily pregnant CPN Hannah.  It was quite a perfunctory farewell and I'm glad it was as I felt like crying.  I wanted to tell her how much she's done for me, but in order to avoid gushing or appearing pathetic I just said, "Thank you for everything" and we had a hug.  I hope she's back next year and hope that in November she gives birth to a baby and not a goblin or portable television or suchlike.

Hannah was a revelation to me after an awful year in Haringey's mental health team.  My previous CPN was crap.  I don't know if she was hampered by Haringey's general shitness for which it is renowned but she was almost entirely useless to me.  We'd meet once a month or so and she'd nod for a little while, scribble stuff down and that would be it.  I lived with Rob and couldn't claim benefits so I was encouraged over and over again to work, and thus kept losing jobs because I was not well enough to be working in the first place.  It messed with my head because I was ill (still am) and it was humiliating and battering to have to leave jobs because of it or be sacked.  It was also excruciating to know that people easily picked up (and do pick up still) on the fact that I had mental illness because of my behaviour. The stress was immense and even just working while taking the medications I was and am was difficult. Even travelling to work was traumatic as I'm not good at travelling alone.  They, and my illness in general, makes it hard for me to concentrate, remember stuff or not trip over, and, most embarrassingly, when I was on Lithium I had terrible hand tremors and slurred and they thought I was drinking.  So, on lots of occasions, I stopped taking my medication so I could function at work.  The result was relapsing over and over into manic episodes.  She didn't offer any advice, didn't really do anything and I would have just walked away entirely had I not moved to Islington.  

When I moved to Islington I had lost another job and was advised not to work.  The cycle was neverending and I was close to homeless.  Hannah helped me with my benefits and the DWP, which was a massive load off my mind (again, you can do a search on this site to see the amazing amount of problems I had getting benefits.  I have no idea how people commit benefit fraud, it's impossible, they want to see your blood and bra size before they will help you.  I get DLA and Income Support amounting, and the forms were filled in by me, Hannah and the psychiatrist, who also wrote supporting evidence.  People under 25 are also very discriminated against by the DWP.  They seem to assume everyone has the same needs and has their parents.  I wouldn't ask my mum for a light let alone help).  It took a while for me to actually get them but I did and now at least I have some sort of security.  

We met weekly, she actually listened, she made me laugh and she took me seriously.  I had a very dim view of mental health services before I met her.  Now I can see how useful they are if they're decent.

I'll miss her.  I told her when my Radio 4 play was on (next year, although I can't tell the world at large when yet) and hopefully she'll listen and laugh at my ridiculousness. 

I met my new care worker, who is not a CPN but a mental health social worker.  My first impressions of her weren't good; she spoke very LOUDLY and slowly, as if I were simple.  If she tries to patronise me there might be fists.  She looks like one of my mother's raucous friends.  But they're first impressions.  Hopefully I will like her.  And hopefully she's as good at her job as Hannah is.

I also saw the psychiatrist.  He is much easier with me than he was before, not as clinical and starched.  He refered to me as "profoundly depressed" which surprised me but which I know is true, I just don't care much, about that, about me, about anything at the moment and haven't done for months.  I used to be terrified of dying but it's deserted me.  It was almost an insurance but now I don't care if I get hit by a car, at least it means an end.  I don't often get "ordinary" depression.  There is usually an aspect of mania to it, which is difficult for them and for me.  I am still having the horrible racing thoughts and I am exhausting myself pouring all my energy into distracting myself from it, which also means I have been doing Stupid Thoughtless Impulsive Things® that have been getting me into trouble.  I am physically fucked at the moment, which isn't helped by the fact I have totally lost my appetite and have no energy, but have still somehow gained weight.  I hate the combination of feeling of tireless mental energy, but when you open your mouth you take about an hour to get one sentence out because you have to interrupt your own hideous spin of thoughts to extract something that makes sense and is relevant to the question.  I am noticably a bit "weird", some would say, but I can't help that.  I put it down to just being a rather "odd" and slightly eccentric- and not in a "Fnar, I'm MAD!" way- person.  

I have zero concentration too so keep losing the thread of what people are saying to me.  Sociability feels like one grand performance but I still do it so I am doing something and I want to be happy.  I let my guard down in my psychiatric appointments.  I don't pretend to feel better or worse than I do.  I don't particularly like writing about this mood, either, because it isn't changing and I don't want to be melodramatic or depressing.  I need a modicum of control here, even for just my benefit.

I got the usual round of questions, some which made me think.  

Are you hopeful?  Nope.

Have I been having thoughts of harming myself?  Duh.

How so?  Jumping off something high, hanging, train tracks.  Violent but definite ways.  I am afraid of overdosing again because it's not reliable and in my experience has been painful and horrible. 

Have you ever bought a rope?  No.  I have always resisted thoughts of hanging myself because it's how my then-best friend Vicky committed suicide in 2001.  That, and Brendan and my dad's death, is one of the main reasons I am still around despite feeling this way.  I am aware enough to know that no matter who you are in relation to someone, they will feel partly responsible for your death and it will haunt them, like those deaths haunt me.  It is in part being alive because I have to be, but I am not sure I can be that cruel.  For the most part I keep the thoughts to myself because I know how difficult I found it when Brendan, Vicky or my dad told me bluntly and plainly how they wanted to die.  I only really talk about these things when I am at my appointments. 

Have I been feeling guilty?  Yes, about everything (particularly haunting me is the incident recently when I drunk dialled my ex and caused a massive fight which ended in him telling me never to contact him again.  I am mortified that my existence and stupidity upset someone I don't even know and caused problems.  I also don't want her thinking I am some stalker or mentalist, it's not the case.  I hate the thought of her or anyone else reading this and thinking, "What a nutjob.  I'm glad I don't know her".)  

Do I enjoy anything?  No, not really.  Hence the lack of writing or wanting to write, not being arsed to eat, barely listening to music, not being able to focus on reading,  the hardly bothering to have baths and the unusually for me not bothering much with make up or clean clothes these days. 

What was the worse physical thing I have ever done to myself?  I was puzzled by this question.  Did he mean an accident or otherwise?  He clarified, he meant suicide attempts and self harm.  I found this hard to answer because the suicide attempts I have made are things I don't have a clear memory of. I wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time although I do remember being almost robotic when I did them.  The most recent was last year and it involved taking every Lithium pill I had left.  

Have you ended up in hospital, had stitches or such from these things?  No.  The truth is that I would never phone an ambulance for myself or go to A&E.  I have certainly needed stitches in the past, and have had them once on my face.  I have rather bad scarring because of the lack of stitches.  I held myself together and used cold stuff to numb the area (leading to me knocking a joint of meat down the side of the bed, which stayed there, rotting, stinking, before I cared enough to get rid).  I stopped cutting myself for a while and drank bleach instead.  I used to put it in my a cup at the side of my bed.  It looked like water.  I also used to use bleach to brush stains off my teeth which is one reason I have such terribly rotted teeth now.

Due to my ineptness, though, when I have taken overdoses, I have just vomited, a lot, for a long time and felt terrible and weak and sick.  I probably should have gone to hospital and I might have done a bit of damage to myself.  I didn't tell anyone at the time, on any occasion, what I'd done.  One of them was when I was still at school and severely depressed, had just lost Vicky and also being stalked and harassed by every communication available by Robert's then girlfriend.  I could barely move in the morning but my mother, usually a enabler of truancy, barked at me to get out.  I threw up in front of her and she made me go.  I puked out the window of the taxi (in West Belfast black cabs are a form of public transport), got out to ring her on a payphone to ask to come home, puked on the ground, she told me to go to school, I got to school, puked at the entrance then collapsed in my class.  And then went home and threw up combinations of blood and black stuff.  I remember very well standing above the bowl staring into the black, shiny surface of the water. 

I think it worries them a bit to know that if I got really low and was thinking of doing something, I wouldn't call anymore.  They keep reminding me that I can ring the Crisis Team (who I was with in April) or go to the crisis centre.  My rationale is that if I get that bad, I'm going to do whatever and it'll be my choice, so.  Hannah's rationale has always been that I am not thinking properly if that's what I want to do so they try to prevent it.  

He also asked me how often I laughed and cried.  I laugh more than I cry, but I am not the kind of person who cries at all.  I am the kind of person who cries at films and books, but not at real life.  I sometimes cry when I alone, I cry out of grief and sadness for my dad and Brendan and grandparents.  For the most part, though, I am almost stoic and unemotional when I am depressed.  I have been really anxious and panicky for months and that's been tearing me up, too.  It makes me feel physically sick.

The new person asked me if this was one of the worst depressive episodes.  The psychiatrist thinks that it is severe depression.  It is not one of my worst in terms of your standard depression.  I have been depressed to the point of muteness and paralysation, but this, somehow, feels different because I am indifferent.  I have the acute feeling that this may be my last depression and the one that ends it.  I have no strong emotion either way about it.  I have been mildly surprised at the attention being paid to it; I have been having a lot of psychiatric appointments, and he is concerned.  I thought nothing would get through his implactable veneer.

She also asked on a scale of 0 being the lowest and 10 being the highest where I am.  I said I found that hard to answer because I don't have the stereotypical type of depression that can be quantified as such.  But I told her that I felt pretty bad and have done nearly all year.  (Aside from one manic episode at the beginning).  I wonder what normal mood must be like.  I haven'd had a sustained period of it for over ten years.

Since having stickers gently placed on my breasts yesterday I am now starting Effexor which the doctor hopes will help and is a bit of a last resort.  I will try it, of course, will try anything, I don't enjoy feeling this way.  Other antidepressants have kicked me into mania which is why they have been hesitant to start me on one.  I had fun today thinking of the medications they have tried in the past two years since I left hospital.  Read them aloud, it sounds like poetry.  There has been:

Lithium (mood stabiliser most commonly used for my type of bipolar, bipolar I disorder) (which didn't work and made me ill)

Depakote (mood stabiliser used in conjunction with or when Lithium is not working) (which also didn't work and on which I put on weight.  It has fucked with my hair too)

Seroquel (an antipsychotic used for schizophrenia, mania and psychosis) which I still take.  I put on a lot of weight when I started it but it has levelled of 

Haloperidol (an old school antipsychotic) in hospital

Lorazapam (I think it is a tranquiliser) in hospital

Paroxetine (antidepressant) made me manic

Sertraline (antidepressant) did the same thing

Lamictal (mood stabiliser for Bipolar I disorder and apparently good for rapid cycling, which I have, and which has actually calmed down) which I am still taking to keep mania at bay.

Risperidone (antipsychotic) which gave me hypomania-inducing insomnia

Zopiclone (hypnotic, sleeping pill)

Valium (benzo, I think)

and before that, at 16 and 18:

Carbamazepine (mood stabiliser given to me when I was manic.  Made me worse)

Olanzapine (antipsychotic, used for schizophrenia, mania and psychosis.  Given to me for manic psychosis)

It raises a wry smile as, before I had to go into hospital, I was notorious for hating doctors and not even taking headache tablets.   It must mean something, that at least I'm trying.

I am worried about taking Effexor.  It sounds like the name of a fast car.  I hope it picks me up out of this, but if it doesn't, I don't think there is anything left to try other than ECT or something.  All I can hope for is for my mood to naturally switch, as is does, but then it would go back into depression, as it does, and I can't be like this forever, I will not make it.  

I'm vainly worried about weight gain, too.  It seems shallow but bear in mind I have an eating disorder and BDD.  It could pick up my depression but the other two would get worse and I would still be depressed. 

I hate beginning medications as every time I get really unsettling nausea and vomiting and feel absolutely shit for ages.  Psychiatric medications are hardcore drugs and they fuck you up in the first instances.  I don't think any further memory problems either as I have successfully forgotten to pay most of my fucking bills this month.  I bought a cute chalkboard for the hallway so that I could jot things down but it was counterproductive since I forgot to jot things down...

I'm also worried it will send me manic as I'd put money on it being a dysphoric mania.  Although I guess I am going through "agitated depression" at the moment, dysphoric mania (which I have written about before, you can search posts) is like hell made real.   It is difficult to medicate me because of the manic edge.  Mania has always been more of a problem for me than depression and always caused the most destruction, turning psychotic at its zenith.  Yes, I get depressed but usually the mixed episode type of lunatic despair.  People's predominate opinion of me has been that I am stark raving mental rather than a depressive because of it.  

Anyway, we shall see, eh?  Gosh, isn't life exciting?  *Performs amusing dance*

Sometimes I may as well just not be here

I should be invisible

Does anybody really care at all

That I am here?

My head is hurting with all these words

I hurt from every pore

I wonder if anyone would miss me

If I wasn’t here anymore?

It’s not like anyone would notice

How would it make a difference?

I wish someone would tell me what to do

I WISH I HAD THE ANSWERS TOO

Is it going to be like this forever

Will I always be like the wind

Everywhere and nowhere

Not really touching anything

Unless I’m in a rage?

Crying only tears of death

Torment, torture

Just want to be loved

A need for protection

That isn’t coming from above

This can’t be my life

This just cannot be it

Emptiness returns

From a decade of

Hauntings, and a realisation

That everything is exactly the

Same.  Not even one thing

Just one thing

Has even had the slightest bit of

Change.

This man is not an illseed, but he is SICK.

Hampir dua bulan ini aku benar-benar tak bisa menulis, walaupun sudah kupaksakan. Jadi kupikir sebaiknya aku vakum dahulu, menunggu mood menulisku kembali. Dan selama itu juga, aku tak berkeliaran di blogosfer, membiarkan penatku terobati oleh rasa rindu.

Yah, rindu. Akhirnya aku rindu untuk menulis lagi. Rindu membaca komen anda-anda sekalian. Dan rindu menebarkan sampah di tempat anda :lol:

Ehm, kebetulan ini sudah menjelang Ramadhan, kupikir ini waktu yang tepat untuk memberitahukan suatu eh beberapa hal kepada anda. Mumpung momen baik begini *biasanya maap lagi diobral, diskon besar-besaran* ;)

Pertama-tama izinkan aku meminta maaf atas segala kesalahanku kepada teman-teman yang singgah ke tempat sampah ini. Siapa tahu ada tulisan atau komenku yang menyinggung perasaan, sudilah kiranya memaafkan.

Maapin yaa...yah...yah...

Tengkyu :mrgreen:

Berikutnya, ada hal lain yang ingin kusampaikan disini, yaitu mengenai identitasku. Memang sih tak ada larangan untuk menjadi blogger anonym, tapi ada sedikit salah persepsi, yang kuakui, memang kesalahanku untuk tidak meluruskannya segera, membiarkannya menjadi identitas lainsiji.

*sebenernya mo ngomong apa sih?!*

Hehehe, begini teman-teman sekalian. Aku, pemilik blog tak jelas ini, bukan bergender XY seperti yang selama ini anda kira.

WHAT??

:lol: Yep, aku XX *ingat cukup dua X* :lol: a.k.a perempuan

Well, mungkin sebaiknya aku mulai memperkenalkan diri lagi. Namaku May, bloggy jumper paling aktif se-nusantara yang mencoba insyaf. Blog ini adalah satu dari belasan blog yang kubuat, kutempati beberapa bulan, lalu kehilangan mood dan kemudian dibiarkan sekarat. Blog pertamaku adalah ini , yang sudah 7 bulan lamanya menjadi kuburan kemudian akan segera di hidupkan kembali tanpa perasaan bersalah . Mungkin teman-teman sekalian akan sedikit terkejut kalau membaca “warna” blog pertamaku itu (bahkan kalau membaca blog-blogku yang lainnya :mrgreen: ). Well, inilah aku, an eclectic lunatic dreamer.

Dan, aku juga mo bilang kalau aku awalnya tidak berniat untuk membentuk image lainsiji seorang laki-laki. Tapi melihat komen-komen yang menyebut aku dengan panggilan mas atau abang :lol: aku jadi ingin tahu, apa benar tulisanku terkesan maskulin atau cowok banget, terlalu mendukung rasionalitas, sedangkan pandangan sebagian orang, hanya laki-laki yang bisa atau capable melakukannya maka lainsiji must be a man (maap kesimpulan ini memang menggunakan asas praduga bersalah :lol: )

So, whatever alasan anda berpikir saya seorang laki-laki, sekarang anda tau anda salah ;) .

O iya, buat teman-teman dari rumah lama, yang selama ini terikat janji untuk tidak menyebut nama dan linknya, kalo mo komen di sini, sekarang anda-anda bebas :lol: *buat om dana, cucian deh loe*

Okelah keknya, udah cukup postingan kali ini. Postingan berisi pengakuan dosa sekaligus pengumuman dibukanya kembali blog ini. Terimakasih buat waktu dan komennya selama ini.

And last…

Selamat Menunaikan Ibadah Puasa bagi yang melaksanakannya.

Semoga Sang Maha, menggenapkan bilangannya dan mencukupkan kekurangannya, sehingga kita berkesempatan melaksanakannya dengan baik. Amin

Ucapan terimakasih kepada:

Pak Suhadi, Pak Sawali, Norie, Esensi, Letsgetluz, Juliach, Achoey, Erickningrat, Azaxs , Uwiuw, Tigis, Ashardi, NH18, Trijokobs, Jeunglala, Mr El Adani, Diorockout, Ulan, Rafki, Gempur, Rhyzq, Tehaha, Nastanesha, Wizurai, Mojo

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Hello, Mexico and rest of the world (power of the FRIJOLES UNITE!!!). It hasn't been a good week to be me, no it hasn't.

Not only do I have to watch a few blubbering emodirge movies for my work and hand in positive reviews (I have ZERO integrity, natch!), but my iPod got fubar'ed on the mexican Metro.

So, yeah, people of Mexico, if you read this then please, please, PRETTY FEKKIN' PLEASE... use condoms, okay? Or WALK to work, but don't come around like a bunch of teeny boppers on the Metro selling me fekkin' stupid stand up comedies on pirate discs or a collection of alternative hits of the 90s (with Smash Mouth's only hit of the 2000s and Robbie Williams' Feel...real alternative, dig?) and pushing me or not apologizing when you drop the book I'm reading when YOU PUSH ME...

And to that effect, what the flipping baleros is wrong with the Metrobus? Yeah, replace a sh1tload of buses with a tiiiiiiiiny teeennsyy pair of buses that OBVIOUSLY is working above the allowed limits. Instead of spending the taxpayers money in underground wallpapers (in tunnels, nonetheless) and PROPAGANDA for a presidential race that comes until 2012, why not buy a few more units for the Metrobus?

And before you think "yo, Frilly, you said this blog isn't political, lolz!!!" well, I'm chickening out and changing the subject.... I gave my 2-weeks last monday and today I met the dude that's gonna replace me. The poor bugger does NOT know the kind of clusterfekk he's walking into, really. It's like I was eaten by a great white shark and I'm begin expelled on the other end and see the next victim and I just wince my eye and say " I DONT ENVY YOU! "

But I digest. And then digress. And I see that I started 2 paragraphs with "and". That's a no-no. Also, I see that I've started TWO sentences with And. That's another no-no. Also, I see that I'm abusing "no-no" to try to be hip.

Off topic, does "no-no" should really be hyphened?

Anyways, so there I was, writing my reviews at the work and all, when allova sudden this dry (expletive deleted) bint that I've been chatting up IRL tells me by e-mail (not even telephone, for Jebus' sakes! HECK, not even TEXT MESSAGE!! THE CHEAP PLONK!!!) that she's dumping my arse because she says I've have (get this) "low sense of self" and that she's grown out of people "of my sort".

Sorry? Hello? You are a sexless piece of dumped-white-trash -retailer-park - emodirgesinging - putrid- Evian- water - drinking-moronic- smiling- mortart and brick minded -bucktoothed -robbie williams adorer - olympicgamesoogler- senseless-piece-of- pretentious- bitch-on a mighty high horse. You suck so much for judging someone and getting a flippin' bad excuse like that. If that's the best you can do I feel sorry for you and whoever goes near that rotten custard and rhubarb pudding you call a brain. I even feel worse about the germs that have to digest that and turn it into something MORE valuable than your opinion of me.

Boo. Hiss. You suck.

Phew, for a moment there, I lost myself, I lost myself, I lost myself, I lost myseeeelf ... I mean, I had to get that one outta the system, didn't I ?

Anyhoo, I decided to go for a nice goat cheese and chicken salad at the deli when it turns out that the lovable girl with the nice smile that used to work there is vamoooosed!!! Holy Moses Turds on Beans, Batman! Dammit shipflangingdivbombed JEBUS! I really liked her and she was real friendly and WHO THE PEJE* AM I KIDDING? She wouldn't go out with a sad old tosser like me.

But anyhoo, I had a good meal and there I was, practicing my seventies-style swagger....when this massive ANGER FROM GOD rain came outta nowhere and made me scurry around like a little senseless defenseless adjectiveless ant.

Then I got hit by a car and I'm writing this on a lap my good friend, NOISY BISHOP (yo!, bitch, you gonna die a virgin!!!) brought to me to the hospital... so... EVERYTHING'S FINE... like she says (click the link..I DARE YA!!!)

So....argh... I dun a poo. I'm exhausted and now my blog, my precious and lovely blog will be in the hands of emodirge blubbathon lover NOISY BISHOP and his cohorts.

If anything happens to it, I'm chasing you cnuts and cutting you up and selling you as roadkill to the nearest mcdonalds...buncha chavs!!!

I hope you can make it, guys, I really do... It's not easy being the troubled man I am....

Oh, and if you read this post and don't click to see Electrelane, well, I respect your opinion. :D

*Oops, I lied...

PS: I don't only hate the yellow and black suckblobs from PRD. I also hate the holier-than-thou-twats from PAN and the jingoistic money grubbing tossers from PRI. I'm an equal opportunity hater, that's me, yes it is.

Right, for readers old and new, let me clarify where I am in terms of treatment.  It will be useful for you.

Previously on The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive...

Have a read of that to catch up.

I am being treated for two separate disorders at the moment.  Like a lot of people with mentally interesting diagnosis, I don't have "just the one" thing that ails me.  The bells on thing is manic depression, of course.  The secondary thing is Body Dysmorphic Disorder.  For this, I have just started cognitive behavioural therapy.

Most days, I would rather lie in bed then chew off my own toes than attend my CBT sessions.  It's sheer luck that I'm quite well mannered and missing sessions to be is the height of rudeness.  So I drag myself out and I go.  I spend the first fifteen minutes feeling cagey and guarded, then eventually open up a little, perhaps too much.  I am the master of the rambling anecdote; once I start talking, a stream of consciousness bubbles up and I keep going until I'm stopped.  It's either that or I feel too depressed to converse, in which case I stop and start like a faulty car.

At the moment, I feel low, but my mood is still, if you excuse the terminology, "reactive"- i.e I can be cheered up for a while- so in my world, that's a good thing.  In April you could have punched me in the face and I wouldn't have flinched.  And I have spent months so depressed that I had to force feed myself.  It could get better from here on in.  It could also get worse.  I don't know.  My head is still a cacophony.  But right now I have so little energy as to not be impulsive.   She asked if I might kill myself.  I just said I couldn't promise anything.  That really is the best I can say.

Today we discussed The End.  The End of Worlds, the End of Life, or, in the community mental health team, the end of my CBT sessions.  CBT isn't like classic psychotherapy where you go and cry for an hour indefinitely.  It's time limited, and my time is up in October.

October is also the month in which my CPN leaves to have her baby.  I'm nervous about the changes.  I really like my current CPN, and I will miss her.  I am worried about the next one to come.  I'm worried I won't like them, or they won't "get" me, or they will try and force me to do things I am not ready to do.  I am not ready to be discharged, although Hannah assures me that this won't happen for some time until I'm well enough, which I am not.  I worry about "dependance" on the team, but when I think about it, it's not that.  It's ten years of unchecked mental illness that has, over and over again, ruined whatever patchwork mockery of a life I had.  And getting treatment, which I've discovered is a long, hard process.  The being checked on helps me continue my medication.  As I said, I dislike rudeness.  So I go in every week despite how I am feeling.  It is something to focus on, when there is not much else in my life to anchor me.  It is, in my mind, an achievement.  I would rather pour my energy into being pro-active than to lie on my bed like a dying swan.  I'm still scared, though.  And it is hard.  I hate, hate, hate taking medication.  I honestly cannot decide if it is for the best or not.  Everyone around me says it is on the basis that I am calmer than the frenetic ball of manic and despairing energy they knew me to be "before".  (Before, in my eyes, is when I was at least interesting and memorable, even if I did nearly die because of it, even if I kept losing everything.  Ah, messed up priorities once again).  A lot of the time, though, I feel like crap, just sluggish and rubbish.  I hate the weight I'd put on and hate that I now gain weight if I even think about food.  I hate the hair I've lost, and that my hair won't grow properly because of my medications.  I hate the nausea, the shakiness, the routine, the sleep, the zombiefied feeling and inability to finish anything.   But I do have to think of other people, and what I have put them through.

I'm more at ease with the end of CBT.  I'm not really sure how I feel about it all.  Today we talked about thought processes, safety behaviours and intellectual reasoning.

I've mentioned many times here that very often my intellectual reasoning is sound but my emotional reasoning is not.  This is true for everybody.  I am, for the most part, intellectually aware of a lot of things but as I said, I cannot take my own advice. It is why intellectually I accept that I am suffering from Body Dysmorphic Disorder and in treatment for it, but emotionally I believe that it's only the extent to which it impacts on my life that is wrong, and not my basis (I am ugly) that is wrong.   I think if anything fucks up your life it should be questioned but to me it is ways of coping with my physical appearance rather than needing to change how I actually feel about myself.  That is what is frightening to me, because I just can't imagine ever feeling differently about how I look. Because it would mean accepting it, when I spend a lot of time trying to change it (make-up, hair dye, dieting all the time, eating-disordered stuff).  I just can't imagine looking into a mirror for only a few seconds and being happy with what I see.  The best I can conjure up is feeling resigned to it.

We also talked about mood affecting my judgment, which is absolutely true but the only times I have ever felt great about the way I looked is in manic episodes, and they quickly turned terrifying when psychosis and paranoia kicked in and I'd find myself in front of a mirror pulling rotting skin from my bones.  So, naturally, says she, depression would affect my feelings about my appearance.  I know this but how do I change it?

The thing is, I'm not as bad about my appearance as I once was.  Okay, I still think of myself as a deformed gargoyle, but there was a time when I wouldn't even leave the house in daylight, and other times when I didn't leave the house at all.  I used to wear coats indoors and live in hats, pull scarfs up to my chin and cut my face.  I have got better in some respects on my own (and with the help of Rob).  Some things remain.  I am moderately reclusive and one of the main reasons is because of my appearance.  I forego social invitations because of it.  A mirror panic attack.  I don't buy clothes in shops other than charity shops because the mirrors and the onslaught of beautiful women is so difficult.  So I look slightly bizarre and rakish most of the time.  I don't go out without make up, I never wear my sleeves up, I am paranoid about being looked at, I fear judgment to the point of panic, I don't believe compliments and I actively seek insults. (To be honest, that is one of the reasons I post photos of myself).  I still have an eating disorder, though I have put a lot of effort into working on it and not throwing up (but too many laxatives).

The era of "getting better" I guess actually started when I had to begin work.  I have a work ethic, and I had to get out and go to work, even though I was constantly late because I spent so long on my appearance.  I'd bring make up to work as well and kept running to the bathroom to sort myself out, feeling panicked and anxious if I didn't have time to do it.

The problem is that to me, this is vanity. One could argue that it is the exact opposite; maybe an excess of admiration with myself would be a wonderful thing.  But think how uncomfortable and neurotic you feel when you're standing in your bedroom clasping flesh from your stomach.  Think of how you mind starts to race with how awful and fat you must be.  Then turn it up to ten,  and imagine someone else is watching you indulge in  this shameful, self-defeating behaviour.  That's how it feels for me to be engaged in CBT for what is essentially a protracted, whining, "I am ugly".  In my head, I can't help saying, "There's wars on, people are dying of hideous illnesses, billions of people in this world have nothing to eat, people are suffering, crying, calling for help...and I'm worried about what my nose looks like?" It's repulsive narcissism, as all of this feels to me, my own tiny, bleak little world in which I obsess over myself.  I don't think in those terms for other people-everyone deserves a happy life and if things are getting in the way of that, then you should try and fix it- but I can't help feeling that way about myself.  She would say that "can't help" is a phrase not to be used.

I have the feeling that, as practitioner of therapy rather than the old medication side of things, she doesn't agree with my theories about biological mental illness.  She gave me a sheet today to fill in, a mood diary to keep in terms of depression and stuff.  I said I'd keep it to appearance related things as honestly- and this is not a cop out- there are very few "triggers" for me in terms of depression.   I called myself "Solar Powered Girl" a little while back, as, in the light of someone speaking to me, I will smile and respond, but as soon as they turn their heads my face falls immediately.  It is not an act, it's just the way I am, resetting to "default".  Manic episodes of yore- before medication- did not have triggers either persay (as in they didn't really hook up to whatever was happening in my life.  Things could be awful, or fantastic, and the same thing happened) but like depresssion some things make it better or worse.  Sleep, usually, an abudance of or lack thereof.

I'll try to keep up with the little mood sheet thing.  I need to get over the feeling of trivial vanity or else everything will just stay the same.

Today will henceforth be know as "Hell On Earth Day," @ the Library. Today was off-the-wall busy while at the same time totally FUBAR in every conceivable way imaginable. No transactions were straightforward. Every question had secondary and tertiary questions tacked on for good measure, or through the reference interview process I discovered that they were really completely different questions all together.

At one point Special Ed, a needy surly tattooed woman, a woman I'll call "Berlin" who is mad all the time for no reason whatsoever, and a nearly completely deaf patron who frequents the library were all in the Library at the same time vying for my attention. Later on we also had appearances from Space Ace, and Porn Man... You know it's a bad day when your interaction with Space Ace is the most "normal" experience during the course of your entire day. I need counseling now.

... Anyway, the highlight of my day was dealing with the perfectly normal looking well spoken guy, 30ish, who came in to use the Internet late in the day who began acting VERY paranoid schizophrenic just before we closed. He had headphones in his ears as he was composing an email, and began mumbling occassionally to himself. Then he began looking over his shoulder at the Reference Desk. At one point I asked him if he needed help and he calmly said, "If I need help I'll ask." Fair enough, so why do you keep looking at us over your shoulder then Captain Freak? Why?

At one point he looked over his shoulder, turned back around and said, "That's it, keep laughing... Like a vegetable." Then he looked at us again, turned back around and said, "Yeah, smile. That's it smile like a vegetable." OK whatever dude! Just don't kill me on the street when I leave here tonight.

I'm just glad that he didn't give me any trouble at closing time. It was like I went to a place where everyone was on acid but me... You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

I need (another) scotch.

Eventually, the British Government took over the territories of Kenya and Uganda from the Imperial British East Africa Company. In 1920, Kenya became a colony of the Crown under direct administration of the Colonial Office in London.

The railway was expanded from Eldoret to Kampala, bypassing the use of ships on Lake Victoria from Kisumu. Additional branch lines were built from Nakuru to Nyahururu, from Nakuru to Rongai and from Konza to Magadi. The invasion of Ethiopia by Italy during World War 2 forced the British to build a railway from Nairobi to Nanyuki in order to supply its forces. British troops forced the Italians out of Ethiopia and restored Emperor Haile Selassie to his throne.

After independence in the early 1960s, railway and port operations in Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania were administered by a single body: the East African Railways and Harbours. The break up of the East African Community in 1977 marked the beginning of the end for the region's railway system. Each of the three East African countries took up running its own system. In Kenya, railway and port operations were split between two state-owned corporations: Kenya Railways and Kenya Ports Authority. The railway became starved of funds.

In Uganda, civil war between 1979 and 1986 paralyzed railway transport which is yet to recover to this day.

What a fucking freak show! Was it just my Library or was this a more widespread phenomenon today? I mean, it's not a full moon or anything. It was so bad I came home, immediately opened a bottle of wine and watched Office Space. I can only hope that whatever asylum they escaped from rounds them up tonight and takes them back into protective custody. It's really the best thing for them as well as the general public...

Weet je waar het woord Lunatic vandaan komt?
Anthony sprak in zijn boek over het -wat jij denkt- onmogelijke waar maken.
100 jaar geleden verklaarden ze je ook voor gek toen je zei dat iemand op de maan zou staan.
Kijk ons nu.....
We weten allemaal dat we naar de maan kunnen en vinden het niet meer dan normaal.
Luna betekend maan.

Dus wie zegt dat wat onmogelijk is???

Ik voel me rustig voor het eerst en ik vergeet gewoon de tijd en dat ik ook maar iets moet.
Ik geniet gewoon van de spelende kinderen, de muziek die ergens uit een auto galmt ( het zonnige Thong song van Sisqo)...

Ik heb chocola gekocht voor mijn vriend en vriendin. Sharin' the goods!
Ik ben, met een kleine detour, onderweg naar Melanie en daar heb ik echt veel zin in!

Vannacht heb ik ook geschommeld... onder de strerren die lichtelijk verstopt zaten achter de wolken.
Het was heerlijk even rustig worden na mijn drukke werkavond.
Ik lag in de schommel in mijn rok en blote benen.
Echt niet koud en good company.
Het begon zachtjes te miezeren en hoewel de nacht al donker was, de pik zwarte wolken die er aan kwamen namen die miezer mee.

Maar het gaf allemaal niks.
Ik vond het heerlijk.