My time has come to feel good about myself as of September 12, 2009, the first day suicide ideation was remote from my thoughts in my adult life since February 23, 1993 when I made a decision to follow a delusion to regain my soul, the which I had lost to the wiles of a woman in the bowels of New York City, or so I believed.
On or about February 23, 1993, someone pranked my sister with baby at the time at 5am saying that I was on acid, which was a lie. I was sobering up in San Francisco at the time attending SFSU and and my family was spread out across the country and world.
When I moved to San Francisco, I knew no one. On February 23, 1993, I had word from my brother that I made that call to my sister, the which I denied.
To this day, I don't know who made that call, but suspected a few people.
In time, I would narrow it down, but as of September 15, 2009, one year and three days since the collapse of Wall Street in 2008 and eight years and four days since that fateful day when the President at the time was in a kindergarten class and rushed back to work, I don't know who made that call and I still deny making it.
However, I believed nefarious people were at work to destroy me since the fight where I was beaten down in a 94th and 5th Ave apartment by kids from Trinity HS in NYC 1989.
When I left NYC after five years living in a two bedroom apartment and going to school between ten years old and fifteen years old, the woman or girl I had befriended at fifteen and whom would ultimately break my spirit when I was in SF by 1993, called me and told me horrific news of what the Trinity HS kids had done to her and told me to keep it a secret, sullying any feeling I might have once had for her or anyone in NYC by February 23, 1993 when in SF.
So, on February 23, 1993, I felt that I lost my soul or had lost some important reminiscence of my self, if I did not quite put my finger on it being my soul at the time.
I was in AA during the spring of 1993 when I joined a church having rarely been to church before, proselytized and by May of 1993, was escorted from classes at SFSU by my father who had traveled from overseas where he was working to come fetch me and place me in a psychiatric hospital in NYC.
After the hospital stay, I flew back to SF where I stayed until December 1993 when I left to live with my parents overseas for six months maintaining my conviction to follow whatever it was that had thunderstruck me on February 23, 1993 reading the Bible.
By May 1996, having left overseas in May 1994 and driving around the country with no word as to where I was going to my family, I was in Seattle, WA taken to another psychiatric ward by a distant family member who happened to be a psychiatrist.
She had collected me under guise of needing help 80 miles north of Seattle though I had never met her before.
In May 1996 in Seattle, I was diagnosed with SZ and, to be true, I had experienced hell in the months preceding May 1996.
Also, by May 1996, having already read the New Testament, I had finished the Old Testament among many other literary works by Hawthorne, Hemingway, Norris, Cervantes, etc spending the between years in the library at WWU.
When hospitalized in May 1996 in Seattle, my parents and a friend of theirs came to see me and enrolled me in social services. Between May 1994 and May 1996, I had been living in a truck going to community college in WA. I achieved an Associate of Arts despite my troubles at the time.
By October 1997, I drove for the eighth and last time across the country to Maine where I would stay with my parent's friend for two years in a small town until November 1999 when I moved to Portland, ME, where I reside until this day.
When in the small Maine town, I had a small dog I had adopted upon arriving who was caught in a trap in the woods. I rescued him and he was fine, but I was shook up and wrote a letter to the editor of the paper in the small town invoking "by opposing end" ignobly for my quest to regain my soul for it was then that I realized my former conviction in 1993 once again, sidetracked in Seattle from ascertaining my goal by being diagnosed with something as horrific as SZ.
The letter was included as an after log of a short novella that I wrote in 1998 called "Cherub, an epic episode." On the back cover of "Cherub," I invoked a Grateful Dead line from a song called "Estimated Prophet:" "my time coming any day... don't worry about me, no."
Meanwhile, I had entered college in Portland, ME and moved to Portland in November 1999 and started "Portland Radio Theater" at the college station being featured on January 6, 2000 in a local weekly at the time.
Soon, things spiraled out of control in my fifteen minutes of fame whereby everyone knew me by my photo in the weekly as Portland is a small town and miscreants of all kinds lambasted me during my meanderings around town saying go back to Kansas.
Meanwhile, the local rock station was staging an event at a theater doing promotions on the radio of the significance of Pink Floyd and The Wizard of Oz.
I rode my bike in town in June of 2000 with my small dog on the bike rack.
Hence, go back to Kansas and the fact that I had written a surreal piece on SZ of two brothers a world apart intersecting metaphysically when one dies and the other had been bragging of winning blood money, but then goes crazy.
So, I had a stigma.
All the while, I had searched for a job and had found a job at the university where I had started Portland Radio Theater. I fled town in summer of 2000 to the small town where my parents had now bought a house to commute two hours each way for a part time job to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.
I returned to Portland in September 2000 to resume my apartment living and be close to work only after suffering from a hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 at a wedding for my landlord in Portland in the small town two hours from Portland to and from which I had commuted in summer of 2000 to avoid being ostracized by miscreants. The winter of 2000 was spent resuming drinking as I felt bad from being stigmatized.
By April 2001, the same miscreants crawled out of their walls in Portland and saw me riding my bike with my dog on the rack again and resumed teasing. I was determined to hold my ground. The landlord at whose wedding I had had the hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 was to purchase chickens for his backyard.
The wind carried the news and I was promptly egged as a chicken by miscreants on the street for which I assumed was because I had left Portland the previous summer to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.
So, determined to hold my ground, I dawned a clown's nose and bicycle horn and on June 7, 2001, I rode the streets in the West End of Portland crowing like a rooster. I had told the landlord and his wife that I would get them a rooster if they got chickens when they told me they were purchasing chickens for the backyard.
My apartment turned into a construction zone with the carpenter landlord and his helper stepping on my bed with shoes due to my crowing like a rooster and there was no help to be had from anybody.
On June 7, 2001, I was stopped by three burly officers of the law in cruisers at Longfellow Square in the West End and was asked why I was crowing like a rooster as they had reports of my yelling slurs.
I explained that I was not slurring people; that I hated nobody and that I was crowing like a rooster because miscreants were calling me a chicken adding:
"I was walking in VD Port the other day reading the 'Casco Bay Jerkly' when all of a sudden one of those high school kids and you know how they hang out down there up and says 'have fun going home with your dog.' So, being a clown I tooted my bike horn twice like a clown does."
One of the officers said that this was good, but told me to go home and go to work. I did.
Incidentally, there was an article in the "Casco Bay Weekly" in June 2001, the same weekly that had featured me for "Portland Radio Theater" at the college radio station on January 6, 2000 and what ensued to be escaping stigma in summer of 2000 and commuting four hours for a four hour work day at the U., featured an article called "Portland by the Nose," which was about the smells of Portland from the sewage plant to flowers in the West End, the which if you stop to smell them, someone might yell at you.
I was hospitalized yet again for SZ in July 2001 after being beaten down in my own apartment on July 4, 2001 at 1am by the landlord's underage drinking buddies from Portland HS when the landlord and his wife had been out of town and I caught the kids fucking over the chickens being awoken by their party.
I had called the police, but when the police came, they said not to call them anymore as the kids had hidden and then reappeared after the police left.
I was hospitalized for SZ after July 4, 2001 and released from the psych ward on August 3, 2001.
On August 4, 2001, one of those kids from July 4, 2001 shouted at me when he saw me and said that he would "kill me."
I proceeded to notify my doctor, my parents, the landlord's friends down the street and the doctor told me to tell the police and file a report, the which when I went to the station, they escorted me to the hospital yet again.
I have no sympathy for what happened in New York City on September 11, 2001 as everything that happens is supposed to happen: in effect, the Butterfly Theory.
However, all teasing stopped after 9/11/01.
I had long hoped for the day that New York City would sink into the East River and a doctor that I had been seeing following my episode in fall 2002 said that I might get my wish, if that was my wish.
So, I have no sympathy for what happened on September 12, 2008 on Wall Street, at least not for the Madoffs of the world, of which there are many on Wall St., as I take it as figuratively sinking into the East River.
My time has come as of the other day, today being September 15, 2009 wherein I feel good and feel like living and have no suicide ideation or that it is remote from me and that my prayers have been answered since I set upon this road to work through this delusion on February 23, 1993 when in San Francisco until this day in Portland, ME.
My soul has been restored by opposing as I wrote to the editor about the trap in 1998. Now is my time to go back to suffering the slings and arrows as there is nothing left to the delusion after 16 1/2 years of hell called SZ. I have no need to convince anyone. To each his own. That is my story.
After thought: Jim Carroll, author of Basketball Diaries and former Trinity HS student and whom I saw speak at WWU in 1995 as well as wrote a book report on Basketball Diaries in the eighth grade, died September 12, 2009.
Was there method to my madness? No one can really say, not me anyway!
I may be a pathetic, crazy, schizo, teat sucker, asshole, motherfucker, chicken, alkie, fangul who swills his drinks with sperm (all things that I have been called over the years): but now, after so many years of feeling bad, I feel good and know for myself that while there is right and wrong and bad and good, I have always tried to choose the right over wrong and good over bad making me, by and large, a good person. Thus, I feel good now.
Knowing the difference makes me a NON psychopath, as a psychopath doesn't know the difference.
The fact is that while 77% of media stories portray mentally ill people as criminals, the actual number of criminals in the mentally ill population is simulative to the general population, which is 3%.
"It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native criminal class except Congress." - Mark Twain
I am not a criminal and have never been arrested as of age 36. I don't hate anybody, but do think that mean people suck. I wrestled for years to reach this point in my life and so now it is no skin off my back what anybody thinks of me because I know that I am a good person and I know that some other people (maybe not a lot of people) know that I am a good person.
"Some people think great god will come from the sky, take away everything and make everybody feel high, but if you know what life is worth, you will look for yours on earth." -Bob Marley
On or about February 23, 1993, someone pranked my sister with baby at the time at 5am saying that I was on acid, which was a lie. I was sobering up in San Francisco at the time attending SFSU and and my family was spread out across the country and world.
When I moved to San Francisco, I knew no one. On February 23, 1993, I had word from my brother that I made that call to my sister, the which I denied.
To this day, I don't know who made that call, but suspected a few people.
In time, I would narrow it down, but as of September 15, 2009, one year and three days since the collapse of Wall Street in 2008 and eight years and four days since that fateful day when the President at the time was in a kindergarten class and rushed back to work, I don't know who made that call and I still deny making it.
However, I believed nefarious people were at work to destroy me since the fight where I was beaten down in a 94th and 5th Ave apartment by kids from Trinity HS in NYC 1989.
When I left NYC after five years living in a two bedroom apartment and going to school between ten years old and fifteen years old, the woman or girl I had befriended at fifteen and whom would ultimately break my spirit when I was in SF by 1993, called me and told me horrific news of what the Trinity HS kids had done to her and told me to keep it a secret, sullying any feeling I might have once had for her or anyone in NYC by February 23, 1993 when in SF.
So, on February 23, 1993, I felt that I lost my soul or had lost some important reminiscence of my self, if I did not quite put my finger on it being my soul at the time.
I was in AA during the spring of 1993 when I joined a church having rarely been to church before, proselytized and by May of 1993, was escorted from classes at SFSU by my father who had traveled from overseas where he was working to come fetch me and place me in a psychiatric hospital in NYC.
After the hospital stay, I flew back to SF where I stayed until December 1993 when I left to live with my parents overseas for six months maintaining my conviction to follow whatever it was that had thunderstruck me on February 23, 1993 reading the Bible.
By May 1996, having left overseas in May 1994 and driving around the country with no word as to where I was going to my family, I was in Seattle, WA taken to another psychiatric ward by a distant family member who happened to be a psychiatrist.
She had collected me under guise of needing help 80 miles north of Seattle though I had never met her before.
In May 1996 in Seattle, I was diagnosed with SZ and, to be true, I had experienced hell in the months preceding May 1996.
Also, by May 1996, having already read the New Testament, I had finished the Old Testament among many other literary works by Hawthorne, Hemingway, Norris, Cervantes, etc spending the between years in the library at WWU.
When hospitalized in May 1996 in Seattle, my parents and a friend of theirs came to see me and enrolled me in social services. Between May 1994 and May 1996, I had been living in a truck going to community college in WA. I achieved an Associate of Arts despite my troubles at the time.
By October 1997, I drove for the eighth and last time across the country to Maine where I would stay with my parent's friend for two years in a small town until November 1999 when I moved to Portland, ME, where I reside until this day.
When in the small Maine town, I had a small dog I had adopted upon arriving who was caught in a trap in the woods. I rescued him and he was fine, but I was shook up and wrote a letter to the editor of the paper in the small town invoking "by opposing end" ignobly for my quest to regain my soul for it was then that I realized my former conviction in 1993 once again, sidetracked in Seattle from ascertaining my goal by being diagnosed with something as horrific as SZ.
The letter was included as an after log of a short novella that I wrote in 1998 called "Cherub, an epic episode." On the back cover of "Cherub," I invoked a Grateful Dead line from a song called "Estimated Prophet:" "my time coming any day... don't worry about me, no."
Meanwhile, I had entered college in Portland, ME and moved to Portland in November 1999 and started "Portland Radio Theater" at the college station being featured on January 6, 2000 in a local weekly at the time.
Soon, things spiraled out of control in my fifteen minutes of fame whereby everyone knew me by my photo in the weekly as Portland is a small town and miscreants of all kinds lambasted me during my meanderings around town saying go back to Kansas.
Meanwhile, the local rock station was staging an event at a theater doing promotions on the radio of the significance of Pink Floyd and The Wizard of Oz.
I rode my bike in town in June of 2000 with my small dog on the bike rack.
Hence, go back to Kansas and the fact that I had written a surreal piece on SZ of two brothers a world apart intersecting metaphysically when one dies and the other had been bragging of winning blood money, but then goes crazy.
So, I had a stigma.
All the while, I had searched for a job and had found a job at the university where I had started Portland Radio Theater. I fled town in summer of 2000 to the small town where my parents had now bought a house to commute two hours each way for a part time job to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.
I returned to Portland in September 2000 to resume my apartment living and be close to work only after suffering from a hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 at a wedding for my landlord in Portland in the small town two hours from Portland to and from which I had commuted in summer of 2000 to avoid being ostracized by miscreants. The winter of 2000 was spent resuming drinking as I felt bad from being stigmatized.
By April 2001, the same miscreants crawled out of their walls in Portland and saw me riding my bike with my dog on the rack again and resumed teasing. I was determined to hold my ground. The landlord at whose wedding I had had the hyponatremic seizure on August 28, 2000 was to purchase chickens for his backyard.
The wind carried the news and I was promptly egged as a chicken by miscreants on the street for which I assumed was because I had left Portland the previous summer to avoid being ostracized by miscreants.
So, determined to hold my ground, I dawned a clown's nose and bicycle horn and on June 7, 2001, I rode the streets in the West End of Portland crowing like a rooster. I had told the landlord and his wife that I would get them a rooster if they got chickens when they told me they were purchasing chickens for the backyard.
My apartment turned into a construction zone with the carpenter landlord and his helper stepping on my bed with shoes due to my crowing like a rooster and there was no help to be had from anybody.
On June 7, 2001, I was stopped by three burly officers of the law in cruisers at Longfellow Square in the West End and was asked why I was crowing like a rooster as they had reports of my yelling slurs.
I explained that I was not slurring people; that I hated nobody and that I was crowing like a rooster because miscreants were calling me a chicken adding:
"I was walking in VD Port the other day reading the 'Casco Bay Jerkly' when all of a sudden one of those high school kids and you know how they hang out down there up and says 'have fun going home with your dog.' So, being a clown I tooted my bike horn twice like a clown does."
One of the officers said that this was good, but told me to go home and go to work. I did.
Incidentally, there was an article in the "Casco Bay Weekly" in June 2001, the same weekly that had featured me for "Portland Radio Theater" at the college radio station on January 6, 2000 and what ensued to be escaping stigma in summer of 2000 and commuting four hours for a four hour work day at the U., featured an article called "Portland by the Nose," which was about the smells of Portland from the sewage plant to flowers in the West End, the which if you stop to smell them, someone might yell at you.
I was hospitalized yet again for SZ in July 2001 after being beaten down in my own apartment on July 4, 2001 at 1am by the landlord's underage drinking buddies from Portland HS when the landlord and his wife had been out of town and I caught the kids fucking over the chickens being awoken by their party.
I had called the police, but when the police came, they said not to call them anymore as the kids had hidden and then reappeared after the police left.
I was hospitalized for SZ after July 4, 2001 and released from the psych ward on August 3, 2001.
On August 4, 2001, one of those kids from July 4, 2001 shouted at me when he saw me and said that he would "kill me."
I proceeded to notify my doctor, my parents, the landlord's friends down the street and the doctor told me to tell the police and file a report, the which when I went to the station, they escorted me to the hospital yet again.
I have no sympathy for what happened in New York City on September 11, 2001 as everything that happens is supposed to happen: in effect, the Butterfly Theory.
However, all teasing stopped after 9/11/01.
I had long hoped for the day that New York City would sink into the East River and a doctor that I had been seeing following my episode in fall 2002 said that I might get my wish, if that was my wish.
So, I have no sympathy for what happened on September 12, 2008 on Wall Street, at least not for the Madoffs of the world, of which there are many on Wall St., as I take it as figuratively sinking into the East River.
My time has come as of the other day, today being September 15, 2009 wherein I feel good and feel like living and have no suicide ideation or that it is remote from me and that my prayers have been answered since I set upon this road to work through this delusion on February 23, 1993 when in San Francisco until this day in Portland, ME.
My soul has been restored by opposing as I wrote to the editor about the trap in 1998. Now is my time to go back to suffering the slings and arrows as there is nothing left to the delusion after 16 1/2 years of hell called SZ. I have no need to convince anyone. To each his own. That is my story.
After thought: Jim Carroll, author of Basketball Diaries and former Trinity HS student and whom I saw speak at WWU in 1995 as well as wrote a book report on Basketball Diaries in the eighth grade, died September 12, 2009.
Was there method to my madness? No one can really say, not me anyway!
I may be a pathetic, crazy, schizo, teat sucker, asshole, motherfucker, chicken, alkie, fangul who swills his drinks with sperm (all things that I have been called over the years): but now, after so many years of feeling bad, I feel good and know for myself that while there is right and wrong and bad and good, I have always tried to choose the right over wrong and good over bad making me, by and large, a good person. Thus, I feel good now.
Knowing the difference makes me a NON psychopath, as a psychopath doesn't know the difference.
The fact is that while 77% of media stories portray mentally ill people as criminals, the actual number of criminals in the mentally ill population is simulative to the general population, which is 3%.
"It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native criminal class except Congress." - Mark Twain
I am not a criminal and have never been arrested as of age 36. I don't hate anybody, but do think that mean people suck. I wrestled for years to reach this point in my life and so now it is no skin off my back what anybody thinks of me because I know that I am a good person and I know that some other people (maybe not a lot of people) know that I am a good person.
"Some people think great god will come from the sky, take away everything and make everybody feel high, but if you know what life is worth, you will look for yours on earth." -Bob Marley
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