Now, I realize this little tidbit of information about myself is something of a very personal nature, considering that I’m posting this on my own blog when I’m done with it, but I’m having to be a little bit reminiscent and consider some of the lessons my mother taught me while she was still alive. She’s been gone better than four years now. What I’m about to share with you was shared with me when I was in my forties or fifties. Of course the lessons my mother taught me have been surfacing as a moral imperative that I have to share with the world, so that I won’t forget any of them again.

I don’t want to be remiss and forget any of them, for lack of being open about myself in writing.

I find this revelation to be important to me only, and that it’s not likely anyone who doesn’t know me or care about me already, is particularly likely to give a hoot about whatever it is I have to say about my own, personal history, especially something as personal as this. But since I’m recovering from a memory disorder, and find I have to mull things over in writing to solidify the thoughts in my active memory, I find myself posting all sorts of very open and honest things about my own life, on my blog.

This confessional thing I do in order to gain as much recovery from chronic schizophrenia as I can muster. Now, it is a fact that schizophrenia is chronic, and there is no known cure for it, but I am adamant that I’ll regain as much of my personal health as is generally available to me, by writing in the way I do on my own blog. I think I’ll post this on my own blog, instead of one of the other blogs I contribute to, because it focuses on a revelation about some of my deepest, personal history, and don’t want anyone else to feel the burden of publishing this revelation other than myself alone.

The thing my mother told me about, was from before I was born. My father broke down the front door of the house, while he was locked out, when I was still in the womb. He broke the door down with his bare hands. Mother was afraid for my unborn life. It was almost as if she were trying to make amends to me, for flooding my fetus with all that fear that day, as if it were her fault that my father had a violent nervous breakdown. I’ve been running away from that monster ever since. I remember when I was tripping on mescaline at the tender young age of twenty, and I saw a monster which my tripping buddy didn’t see. I pointed the thing out to my friend at the time. He said there was nothing there.

The monster had substance as far as I was concerned, whether it did so for anyone else or not. I’ve always thought it was Mescalito that I saw, but maybe it was something entirely different than that, that I saw with my hallucinatory head, while I was tripping my brains out in college when I was still only twenty years old. Maybe I had a vision, like the Native Americans talk about having. Visions are a big part of their spiritual life to this day.

Maybe it was my own mind’s idea of who my father really was, from my earliest perspectives, from before I was born. Mother and I were both in our right minds when she finally told me this little piece of intelligence. I had to mull it over in my mind for quite awhile after she told me, but it grew on me. She was very old by the time she told me this, somewhere in her eighties, but still had most of her strength and most of her faculties. I had my sobriety intact at the time, too. It’s not like I hallucinated the story sometime under the influence of something.

I’ll never know in this lifetime what or who that monster was in that vision that I had when I was tripping my brains out at the tender young age of twenty, when I was supposed to be going to college, just because I had taken an hallucinogenic chemical somewhat akin to LSD, called chocolate mescaline, which was some kind of little pill that my buddy cut in half and shared with me, as if it were something like a piece of cake from his mother’s oven back home. Forget it, I’m never taking anything like that again, if I live to be a hundred.

It’s out of the question.

I know that I’ve treated my readers with the utmost confidence for the longest time now. I realize that there is no such thing as confidentiality that exists over the internet. Once I put something out there, it’s out there. I’m confiding in the whole world here, and realize that I’m doing it. I don’t even know who reads this stuff. What I’m trying to do is make a written record of my recovery from a whole host of troubles I’ve been working on for a lifetime now. It’s my woods, and I’m going to have to find my own way out of it, if it takes me twice the confession I’ve treated you with so far. But be assured I am making headway.

The other thing I’m doing is writing psychological treatises for the education of whomever might be interested. I find there are some fiction writers who have no more perspective on mental health issues than to have watched One Flew Over the Coo-Coo’s Nest on the late night TV one night, and in contrast, I want to offer my personal experience to the psychological community, as a case study in point, for the edification of the students and practitioners of psychotherapy, since I happen to have become exceptionally prolific in my writing, and outspoken in my maturity.

Writing is exceptionally cathartic for me, even if I don’t do anything with my memories but confess them to a piece of paper and a blog entry that no one ever reads, I still feel a need to write like this, and I feel a benefit for having done it, whether it benefits anyone else or not. I’d like to write some fiction, and I do from time to time, but it’s revelations like this one that I’m always on the lookout for, to delve into them with more openness and honesty than I’ve ever done before, as if it’s a mission. I do this because it feels good to me.

Sort of like a good, healthy sneeze, or a good, honest orgasm.

I’ve been in psychotherapy forever, and am beginning to get the hang of sharing whatever comes to my mind at any given moment, with whatever medium I happen to be working with at the moment. I realize that there are those who don’t like my blog, and are likely post negative feedback about what I’m doing here, but I am convinced, nonetheless, that the heart-felt necessity to write this ongoing catharsis remains a tangible need that I happen to possess. I’m open and honest here about what makes me tick, because I’m aware there are those who read what I write, and I hope they get something out of it.

Mother was offering me something to think about before she passed away. She gave me a perspective I would never have been capable of producing independently myself, if I’d have had to ply the recesses of my own mind to get the correct idea. I don’t remember what things were like before I was born, but I can remember what my mother told me when I had begun having success with my long term sobriety. It’s a revelation that’s been growing on me for quite some time now. Mother wanted me to understand my own instincts, as well as possible.

I think she felt she owed me that.

Oh, and I’d like to digress here for just a moment and tell you that I think that much of modern day the Right to Life Movement is a little over the top, just as much of the modern day Christian sect happens to be a little over the top these days, but I can look back in my own mind’s eye, at many of my beliefs and behaviors throughout my lifetime, and tell my reader absolutely, that life begins at conception, not at birth.

I was an abused fetus. Talk about child abuse.

When I look at the big picture of my life, and consider my mother’s statement when we were both in our right minds, about what had happened to us when I was in the womb, I know, absolutely, that what my father did to make my mother fear for my unborn life was something that shaped a lot of whom I became after I was born. There is such a thing as child abuse when you’re abusing the feelings of a pregnant woman. My parents are both dead long since, by this late date, but the fact of the matter is that my father abused me before I was born.

I’ve thought it over good and hard, too. No wonder I became the rebel I turned out to be in life. My father was a Methodist Minister when I was a child, and he was supposed to be trustworthy, but he really wasn’t. He never thought of anyone but himself, and all he ever wanted from all of us in his immediate family, was to be blindly, and without employing any of our independent conscience, to be obeyed. Why should I have obeyed such a monster as my father, when he couldn’t even control his own impulses to father a family he understood he couldn’t be responsible for later, or be anything but violent toward his whole family when his four – count us – four children of his own, were growing up?

Then, to make matters worse, he was violent toward our mother, while we were all still children. He was violent to her like that when all four of us were right there to watch the whole scene that he was putting on for his own purposes. And we were expected to obey someone like that? I was in open rebellion against that man, from the first time I was big enough to be able to open up the kitchen door and get out, without getting caught at it.

I got as far away from that monster as was humanly possible, who kept beating on all of us throughout our own sacred childhood and equally sacred motherhood. The one thing my father did was to violate his own responsibilities and his own obligations he had heaped on his own head voluntarily, from the time my oldest brother was first conceived. Dad took on all that responsibility when he knew he couldn’t manage it. It was his own choice.

He couldn’t resort to claiming innocence by way of stupidity, or lack of intelligence, or any such BS as that. The bastard got a PhD in good standing from Pitt University for Christ’s sake. He was one of the most erudite people I ever met. He’d been voraciously consuming book after book for his entire lifetime. A philosopher like my dad could never claim to be ignorant of his own responsibilities and his own obligations, where his own family was concerned, but he did what he felt like doing, anyway.

His behavior was unconscionable, even to a five year old child, who had a little bit of independent brain matter to refer to in spite of what that man’s irrational demands happened to be. I would rather, blatantly disobey that man, and submit to his beatings later on, than to be party to his irrational tyranny. So the argument of his ignorance is just plain not valid. He did what he wanted to do, and to blazes with all the consequences for his family, which he was responsible for from the beginning. He knew he was responsible for all of us before he ever fathered any of us.

I realized the same thing when I was a young adult, and chose to disable my reproductive capacity in preference to fathering a schizophrenic child on my own, just as soon as I learned the issue of schizophrenia being a genetically transmitted disease. Now, it may have been that, after WWII was over, the idea that schizophrenia was genetically transmitted was not public knowledge yet, and as far as that’s concerned, my father remains somewhat acquitted. I just hope and pray that there wasn’t a child born as my own child, that I don’t know anything about, before I had my operation in my own adulthood.

There became four of us in five years. Dad was responsible for all of us from our conception, but the man found out he couldn’t handle all that. When did he find that out? When he was a father which time? He had the violent breakdown when I was in the womb, but my sister was born fifteen months after I was, and all my mother was doing was obediently submitting to her husband. He was nothing but irresponsible, and his children are the ones who continue to suffer the aftermath of his shirked responsibility, with his sacred obligations, ever since he realized he’d bitten off more than he could chew. He was beside himself with irrational fear and irrepressible violence toward everyone in our household, for as long as I can remember, which is from the womb.

It’s more likely that the story has been growing on me ever since mother shared it with me several years ago. It’s late at night by this time, but the flow of my thoughts are as clear as a bell. I have to write, to get some of this out of me tonight, since another day might wake me up and steal my point away from my conscious mind before I’ve gotten it down.

My tripping buddy and I were half way up the mountain, tripping our brains out on mescaline, and I saw a monster close by, when I was still only twenty. He was not far away from me, and sat there on that mountainside smiling at me. I’ve never seen anything like it, for as long as I’ve lived. I can’t take anymore mescaline. It’s out of the question. Whatever that monster was has retreated into the obscurity of the unconscious memories in my mind.

It was a monster is what it was. The stuff that I took almost killed me when I was twenty, when I was the picture of health in my youth that I was at the time. I don’t wonder what mescaline would do to me by this late date in my life. I don’t care. I don’t want to find out. I don’t need to know. I was tripping and saw a monster. That was the traumatic experience that brought on my own Acute Toxic Psychosis and Chronic Schizophrenia. I’ve been battling this stuff ever since. Now, it’s the world’s turn to hear about it on my blog.

Mescaline would be a nightmare of epoch proportions for me if I ever took it again. Forget it, it’s not a viable option to resolve anything, including this issue of the identity of my own, personal monster. I need all of my faculties to cope with all of this life, and I’ve done a lot of work on my sobriety that I’m not interested in sloughing off, while I take on another walk on the wild side, looking for a monster that’s dead and gone, in his grave. The creature never looked like my father, either. My body won’t put up with that sort of abuse again. I need my wits in order to deal with the things life has me faced with.

I know my experiences with taking drugs to be counter productive.

I realize how vital it is to maintain my own sobriety. I promised my mother on her deathbed, that I would shelter my sobriety against all takers until God takes me home. I don’t understand what the darned thing was that I saw on that mountainside when I was twenty years old, and I don’t really care. I survived my father’s outrageous misbehavior, and I survived seeing something very bizarre when I was tripping for the first time, of the many times I tripped in my very confusing, very irrational lifetime, and have survived to tell the tale.


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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