I’ve been working on some stories, doing my writing thing, looking for some kind of idea to make some sense about. I like the way I can reduce my thoughts into independent words and phrases, making up sentences and paragraphs for myself. It seems like a powerful thing to me. I’m not simply obeying something. I’m working at my own creativity.

Creativity is a powerful asset to the human mind.

It’s something many people can’t do.


I don’t know of any other living thing that has this much power to do this much creating, to effect the world around us, as humans have. I may not like to watch TV or movies, but must admit the volume and variety of stories, just on cable TV alone, is remarkably diverse. I didn’t come up with all those ideas myself. Someone else thought of them. When I think of the enormity of that concept, I’m held in awe of some of the producers of the work that passes by us all, on the TV everyday.

My mind is always criticizing the creativity of others. It’s as though my ethical training, or spiritual principles, or creativity, is always scoffing at the creativity of others. I need to turn off the boob tube to create something of my own origin to be happy with. It’s a challenge to create anything, from the blank page on down.

One such idea will take over my thoughts, at the slightest suggestion.

It’s not fair.

My schizophrenic mind will come up with all sorts of terrible possibilities of what might happen to me at some unknown time in the future, or it will rehearse some horrible experience from my past, which I, somehow, can remember a lot more clearly now than I ever could before. I’m a slave of my disabilities, until I take charge of the whole ball of wax, and refuse to give into it.

It seems like I’ve been disabled ever since long before my breakdown, at the age of twenty. It’s a matter of record that I was diagnosed at the age of twenty, but my mind has been playing tricks on me forever and a day. I don’t intend to give in. It’s my mind, and it has it’s own a spiritual warfare. I want to be the ultimate victor of the fight, on a daily basis.

That’s why I need to write every evening.

I definitely had a memory disorder for much of my lifetime. I don’t want that to be a part of my life anymore, so I’ve done everything I can think of to defeat whatever it was that held my memory back from functioning. I know enough about my own life by this late hour in the game, I know what I’ve been through, and Whom I have believed.

He wants me to be successful.

There has been enough time go by. I have sufficient training to handle this. I can remember my basic training, and revert to that memory whenever I feel tempted to condescend to it. I’m in control again. I managed it, by thinking through the whole situation. Being a man of reason and a man of creativity, I can come up some other things to focus on rather than the troubles of the past.

The time goes by without being apparent, and I’m working at restructuring my thinking, as a responsible adult would do with any conscience whatsoever. It’s a basic exercise of the human mind. I’m not going to submit to feeling threatened or weak or any such thing. It’s a lie anyway. I’m very safe at Powder Ridge, and I know I’ll continue to be.

My trustee has power enough to shelter me against all sorts of assault on my resources. If I don’t give power away to the wrong people, to people I know I can’t trust, I’ll be just fine. I already know who most of those people are, and how to keep them out of my life. I’ve closed the door against such rabble, long since, and I am not powerless against them anymore.

I’m going to be just fine.

It’s not a physical battle I’m struggling against, but a spiritual one. The evil one is trying his very best to overthrow the power and authority the Lord my God has given my writing. My spirit doesn’t have to give in to all the troubles I get to thinking about in my one track, German mind. I end up thinking about all the things that happened to me when I was getting loaded.

Does that make sense?

I should say not!

My future is not dictated by the defeats of my past. Besides, the future that I’m working with has mind boggling possibilities, anyway you look at it. The one thing that can sunder me is for me to drink alcohol, and I know where that leads already. There is no one in my current environment who can prevail upon me to drink alcohol.

It’s a dead issue, as long as I don’t pick it up again.

That girl can’t come down here screaming and cussing, and get anywhere but into jail with the kind of behavior she does at the drop of a hat. All the people who guard the door have already been briefed on what sort of machinations that girl is likely to spin to get at me. I’ll just stay away from her, it’s that simple. At this point, she has no power I don’t give her.

This situation is not at all like the situation with that drug dealer a long time ago, who had the power to keep me penniless and starving, in my insensible youth. I’m not behaving the way I was in those days, and that one specific fact is something I can stand on with authority, for the spiritual battle that rages against everything I’ve stood for, ever since I’ve gotten sober and stayed that way.

I will prevail.

I can have confidence that I’m going to be victorious against all sorts of spiritual assault, not to mention physical assault. I watched some of one of the Terminator movies tonight, about those machines someone else had to fight, which cannot be destroyed. It was only a little bit of fiction. I have a lot of authority over someone else’s fiction.

I can fight with my own truth in order to win against that kind of irrational argument. This is why I write. I get all worked up about how vulnerable I am, whenever I already know I’m not. I have to keep my thoughts focused on the idea that I’m victorious. I have authority over all my own fiction, and more authority over someone else’s fiction than I have over my own.

It’s a struggle which my chemical imbalance makes more difficult for me, than the central conflict the average man has to deal with. I refuse to give into my own moods, and that’s all there is to it. She says she doesn’t play games, but games are all she’s been playing for a long time now. I think she has it in mind that I can relate to her pain, if she’ll just screw up her face with it.

I’m a thinking, reasoning human being, and if I don’t want to be around such behavior, I don’t have to be. There is plenty going on. I can simply choose another spot, if that’s what I want to do. Maybe she doesn’t want to be around me so much anymore, or maybe she just has this crazy notion that I look up to such behavior as crying at the least little ache or pain.

I ought to tell her to dry up.

But I go on and on, and my basic point remains the same. I’m in a spiritual conflict with a spiritually deficient mind. We try harder. My heart’s not in it to give into what somebody else wants. I’d rather be focused on the things I’ve earned for myself, as if I’m looking ahead, rather than remembering something long done and over with. Larry can’t find me, much less touch me.

Patti did some of the same BS I’m talking about. She was always wincing and groaning with all the physical aches and pains she said she had to deal with. It’s time to walk away from all that. I don’t revere that sort of behavior, and I’m not going to start now. Whatever expressions happen to cross my own countenance are immaterial here. I don’t like people who feel sorry for themselves.

It’s just that simple.

I have enough problems with pity parties. I don’t want to go out with them with some else who’s indulging in pity. Give me a break. It’s just that I’m not interested in looking into the face of anyone who has the cowardice to believe I’ll feel sorry for their pain, if they’ll only register the BS on their faces. I could complain about my hip an awful lot more than I do, too.

I just don’t want to be a cry baby, and don’t feel comfortable around one, either.

Now, I’ve made myself angry. I’ve been thinking about some things that tap into my revulsion, and I don’t like this, and don’t like that. Boy, this spiritual warfare stuff is a subtle business. One can scarcely see all the troubles coming, until it’s working on our own emotions. I still don’t want to give into it, and I’ve been struggling long enough.

I think I’ll put this down awhile.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at
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