Inherited Pain A Curse to be Hidden

Frankly if a lump of who knows (pain) is remembered suddenly to recur throughout all of life a better bridge is given to present and past history. Beholding the lump I am more connected to a problem I dealt with instinctively and much better when I was younger. Not having a name for depression or training in its manifestation, I imagine a guiding duty to be cheerful or industrious dismissed the courtesan at first rouge. Simplism neither seeing the temptation nor demon steward of its action, too innocent to be seduced. Typically by pleasure and herein lies the rub. It is not by pleasure. I am betrayed into a state of being by a clouded history of micro-decisions. You do not choose how you feel but by what is permitted from your values. Before real pain I was too insensitive, and before junior-senior psychology I was too unsophisticated. But the real waker was after going to the psychiatric hospital.

I no longer believed in pretty much anything I believed in. During the hospital confinement, God and Christ rolled in our ward and every Bible verse became pertinent and referential. The Bible is an asset if you're oppressed by a system directly not giving a shit for your self- determination. You can only leave for fifteen minutes at a time. You have two releases a day. The kitchen is only open from 4 to 5pm, where Sanka instant coffee is served. Bed by ten. Breakfast at seven fifteen. Sorry you can't sleep some nights for the man sitting on his bed staring at your knees. I am Shadrach, Meshach and Abedigno! 'I will not eat at the king's table when I get out.' After the daily confinement, however, the drudgery of beholding life's mess in one's own apartment didn't trigger the euphoric events, which really releases tension. I have fallen down a gorge.

This lack of direction and sense of shame persisted for months of inactivity to coincide with my resumption of work. The glaring disappointment is something, a symptom of a long curse of differing content over the years. Were my ancestors inbred? What is this sack of demon carted around from continent to continent to end up in residence in me, I wonder. The threat and fear of mediocrity, the growing proof of it. Accepting the people you admire are understood from knowledge and not from likeness. Or that the great movers of history are part of a game you can know but you can't see. That Orwell called the book "Animal Farm" and what I had not noticed until being shown the evidence in the world is this title, though it may emphasize the animals taking over the farm, implies the surrounding farmers are all surrogates over their own cattle. Though the animals took over this one, the general rule is society is ruled by a small group for whom we have no access to and little knowledge of. I am someone else's cattle.

But this is just content.

In other times I had other blocks. My divorced parents. Life of distraction to hide pain. Yet every explanation defied emphasis on the one constancy: a bag of pain. And something I have battled every season of my life, memory I need to affirm and take solace in its recurrence. For I beat it then! This gives hope to now.