Anxiety and Depression: Roots in Childhood

All good parents want the same thing: Health and wellness for their children. As we propel ourselves into the future, parents take action and give more and more thought to better provide healthful foods and activities for their children. Studies that prove the detrimental effects on children of such disciplinary practices as spanking and yelling resonate with today’s new parents on unprecedented levels, encouraging parents to be gentler and kinder when shaping the personalities and characteristics of their children. This article aims to let parents know what they may be doing wrong and why their kids may act out more than others.

            The purpose of this entry is to shed light on the ways in which parents are unwittingly damaging to their children, how they can better support their children moving forward, and what happens to children who grow up without proper support from their families. To accomplish this goal, I will tell my own life’s story as a means of letting others out there know that they are not alone. Abuse takes many forms and we do not have to lie down and take it.

            My life started like any other girl’s life in the early 1990s. I was born in a secular hospital to a mother who had been abused most of her life since childhood, did not know how to tell someone “no,” and wanted nothing more than to work as a secretary while raising her children in a farmhouse with horses in the fields. My father was a tweaker.

            I fit in perfectly to the heteronormative expectations of our society, always a people pleaser. Early on, I lived with my mom, but it wasn’t long before I lived with my dad, who, unbeknownst to me, did not make me his first priority and that’s why he would yell and spank me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, even if what I said was the truth. It didn’t take long for him to get rid of me so he could focus entirely on himself and his addiction, though. Before the age of 5, I was living with his mother and her husband, none the wiser to his habits or any of the reasons behind my not living with my own mother.

            Those were the easy days. Kindergarten and first grade were the best years of my life. I had friends, teachers loved me, I was social, I fit in exactly the way I wanted to—exactly the way I was supposed to. I was a good kid. I was happy and I didn’t think very deeply about my mom or dad because they were just never around. It didn’t matter whether they were there or not because I lived in a nuclear household with the only exception being that the “parents” were actually my grandparents. Before first grade ended, though, my mother filed to take custody of me and my grandparents asked me if I wanted to go live with her.

            At the time, I could not fathom why I hadn’t been living with my mother all along, so I eagerly accepted the idea of moving to her house and being with her. I knew that my dad was not always nice to me. He liked to tease me, make fun of me, tickle me too much, yell at me, and spank me. Surely, my mother would be much better, I thought. I was wrong in the way only those who have made a decision that ultimately lead to various health problems would understand.

            My mother was neglectful. She would pay no attention to me, leaving me entirely to my own devices, unless it was a meal time or she thought I’d done something wrong, at which time she would yell at me either way. Yelling for food is one thing—most parents do it and it is not a detrimental practice—but when she would yell about the disobedience she perceived, it was a different story. My grandparents would drop me off at my mother’s house and I would scream bloody murder and cry as if my cat had died, clinging for dear life to the elders who provided me safety, security, good hygiene, prescription spectacles that were aesthetically pleasing, and clothes that fit.

            My paternal grandmother took notes. Every time I came back for a visit, she would check me over and note anything that construed child abuse. The welts on my butt from wooden spoon paddlings were the most obvious sign. What she couldn’t see or record was the true damage done to my psyche, but that is not to discredit her by saying she failed to record any important information. On the contrary, her notes were thorough enough to use in court, as that was their intention, and outlined everything from the lice on my head to the dirt in my toenails.

            There was one thing that didn’t make it to my grandma’s notes, one thing that was significant enough to change the way I saw myself for years to come: My mother told me I wasn’t pretty. Explained to me later, as an adult, my mother said that her reasoning behind such a statement was that she was told the same thing as a child. I don’t see how that justifies such abusive language—there is no way to justify abuse—but I don’t hold it against her because now I understand her mental illness, not just how it affects me. The other significant abusive event was when my mother’s boyfriend molested me, continuing to touch my private parts after I told him “No,” and “Stop,” multiple times.

            When he came into my room, lay down on my bed, and began feeling me up, it was the climax to the abuse I’d endured from him over the course of my stay with my mother. Previous abuse, I had tolerated, but this time, I told him to stop. Instead, he licked my earlobe and I could not protest due to the laughter generated from the tickling sensation of his tongue. Previous abuses fled my mind. All that mattered was that he had woken me up and all I wanted to do was sleep, but he would not leave. I was appalled—he had always stopped when I told him to, before. He tugged my pajama pants down and I said, “No,” and he told me to let go. I struggled, my tiny, 9-year-old fingers holding onto the hem of my pants for dear life as this middle-aged man forced the fabric from my grip, baring my legs and letting the cool air of the room violate my sensitive, prepubescent skin.

            “Don’t tell anyone,” an earnest, hushed, panicky request, sounded like a joke when the unwelcome stench of his spunk filled the room and the gooey, sticky substance rendered my blankets unusable. How was I to keep this thing a secret when I had told him I didn’t want him to do it in the first place? I was a good girl and I had been told that it was the right thing to tell on someone who was not respecting your autonomous desires. So, I did. I told my best friend, then my older brother, then my mother. The reactions of the first two were bolstering; the third reaction left me confused and damaged.

            My best friend listened with sympathy and offered me her support. My older brother began scouring the property for blunt force objects including crowbars and baseball bats, with which he intended to beat my offender over the head until death. My mother looked at me and said, “Keep it in the house. Don’t tell anyone else.”

            I was hurt and confused, but I listened to her. I didn’t tell anyone else, so when the cops arrived at the house, I couldn’t figure out why. It turned out my brother had told a neighbor girl whose mother had alerted the authorities. My mother’s boyfriend, the father of my second-youngest brother, was hauled away and I was taken to the hospital for examination given the nature of the crime.

            The hospital gave me an adult-sized, preheated, white blanket that I wrapped around myself, taking comfort and solace in its heat and security. I would keep this blanket for nearly a decade before deciding it served as nothing more than a reminder of my trauma. They looked me over, checked my insides for seed, and then let me go, never once losing their faces of friendliness, concern, and compassion.

            With her boyfriend gone, my mother was faced with homelessness, a fact to which I was clueless in part due to a complete lack of understanding that people could actually fail to find housing. Thinking of what was best for her children in the best way she could think of—all the while telling me it was my fault he was gone, my fault she was facing eviction again, and my fault my baby brother would never see his daddy again—encouraged her to allow me to move back to my grandparents’ house, the very house from which she had taken me.

            I thought I could be happy again. I thought moving back under my grandparents’ roof would somehow fix everything and make it right. The reality turned out to be very different, taking instead the form of further abuse from my mother. Phone calls from my mother greatly upset me as she would yell and scream at me over the phone, telling me that her circumstances were my fault, leading to the purchase of a speaker phone that would allow my grandmother to listen to the entire conversation and help me cut it off when the time was right. I never thought that I needed actual guidance, encouragement, or attentiveness to my development as a 9-year-old child.

            It was not until after I separated from the military that I realized the depth of my childhood ignorance. The advice my grandparents gave me was sound and given with the best intentions, but I thought the advice lacked encouragement. I thought it lacked the kind of rhetoric that makes a child think, “I can do this!” and instead included the kind of rhetoric that makes a child think, “I’d better not try it.” Case in point: When I told my grandma that I wanted to go to art school because my dream was to be an artist, her words were, “What are you going to do with it? Are you going to be a starving artist?” This was a significant exchange, one of many smaller exchanges, that caused lasting damage despite the fact that it was not the entirety of the conversation or even the whole of her advice.

            My grandparents found a counselor for me immediately after the sexual abuse incident. The counselor told them I’m strong and they trusted me when I told them I no longer needed therapy. I had no way of realizing the depths of my mental illness or how it would manifest later in my life. Pieces of conversations are missing from my memory, leaving me with the damaging pieces and not the helpful bits. Phrases like, “That’s not helpful,” stick in my mind, while encouragements like, “You could look into doing a double major,” fall short of my mental registration. The therapist I saw as a teenager was unable to target all of this, but she was able to pinpoint my mother as the root cause of my insatiable rage, thus provoking me to write a large series of violent poems directed at my mother.

            I was lucky. I had access to care, no matter what. I had family members who honestly and truthfully looked out for the best for me. They were not perfect. No one is. Every parent is going to say something damaging to their child. The important thing is to heal the wounds as much as possible. When I finally swallowed my anxiety and called my mother from Germany, I was pleasantly surprised by her response and my ability to have a full conversation with her that ultimately led to the healing of our relationship. When I mentioned to my grandmother her response to my desire to be an artist, she came back a little later and reminded me of the rest of the conversation, giving me a better understanding and helping reassure me that my childhood was not actually as terrible as I had come to believe as a disabled veteran.

            If the most important thing is communication, though, my dad falls short and always has. Where my mother grew and became healthier, my dad has stagnated in that I feel more comfortable of talking to my mother about any issue I have than I am comfortable talking to my dad. I have gone through the forgiveness process with my dad as much as my mom, for they were both equally nonexistent for much of my childhood, though in different ways. When I called my mom from Germany, it was with the goal of forgiving her for the neglect and abuse of my childhood. It went well. Forgiving my dad felt much more forced because he came clean from drugs and practically demanded forgiveness.

            Forgiveness cannot be forced or demanded. Demanding or forcing forgiveness is a good way to eliminate all possibilities of future forgiveness. When my dad came clean and said, “Yeah, I’ve been doing methamphetamines. I would get clean for a short while and get my shit together, then I’d go get loaded and lose it all.” It explained the pattern of behavior I so abhorred in him as a child and with his insistence and my grandmother’s willingness to listen and forgive him, I found myself sucked into his web of deceit. Deception in the form of words that assured me that he would turn around and be a good father. A supportive dad who would actually care about me and encourage me towards my goals. I thought the elimination of drugs from his life would turn him around. I was wrong—not in that he ever relapsed, because he is still clean, but in that his attitude never changed. His way of approaching me never changed.

            It is important that one day, I forgive my father. It is important to forgive those who hurt us, not to excuse their behavior or even to say it was, is, or ever will be okay, but to relieve ourselves of the negative emotions that we harbor without forgiveness. Parents are imperfect. Now that I am a parent, I have a much deeper understanding of what my mother went through. I also have a much better understanding of the ways in which my father has interacted with me throughout my life. I interact with my daughter in many similar ways to how my dad interacted with me when I was young. I also interact wither her in ways my mother interacted with me. But more than that, I have the best example of a parent I could ever have asked for: My husband.

            Without my husband, it is likely I would not be writing this blog post. It is likely that I would not recognize the abusive nature of my father’s rhetoric. So, I will close with advice for parents. Perhaps it will seem cliché. Perhaps it will seem overdone or unsolicited—parents get so much advice already, who am I, as a newbie mom, to interject?

            I’ll tell you who I am. I am a woman. I am a disabled veteran who suffers from major depressive disorder, persistent postpartum depression, generalized anxiety triggered by certain social interactions, and PTSD from not only my time in the military, but also from the course of my life.

            So, to parents, I have this to say: Listen to your children. When they tell you their dreams and aspirations, think before you speak. Make sure your FIRST words are words of encouragement, not of advice or caution. It is good to caution our children of the dangers in life, but it is more important to ensure that our children feel strong, confident, and capable of facing the challenges ahead.

            Be mindful of your reactions towards your children. When your son or daughter spills an entire gallon of milk onto the kitchen floor, take a deep breath before you speak. Walk away if the adrenaline is making your hands shake. Take your child to the side, away from the mess, to explain to them why their actions were wrong. Demonstrate what they must do to make it right and lead them to do it themselves—with the gallon of milk example, clean it up with them, but make sure they do most of the work and remain positive while doing it. There is nothing in the world harder than keeping your cool when your child is testing your last nerve. But that is the absolute most important thing any parent can do for their kids. Keep your cool, remain positive, and encourage more than you advise.

Rethinking Overpopulation

My studies have taken me on many trains of thought as I’ve read about sustainability, architecture, agriculture, and more. One of my major assignments, due soon, is a presentation based on a book. The book I’ve chosen is Biomimicry. It has given me more ideas than any other book up to it that I’ve read for class. This blog entry is about using biomimicry, including the Cradle to Cradle design, something I’ve just learned about today that is a holistic, biomimetic approach to human life, to put it simply.

            I have often told my friends that humans are overpopulating the Earth. I have touted sources, pointed at population numbers, indicated pollution levels and natural decimation by human hands and I have advocated the use of eugenics to help fix the human problem. Today, however, I found myself digesting the words of a piece of text titled “Life Upcycles.” I don’t know where it’s from or who the author is; it was passed out in class for everyone to read. I’m glad for it because it has brought up some highly interesting points.

            Frequently, I think to compare humans to other animals on Earth. I compare us to octopi, who demonstrate great amounts of intelligence yet die before passing it on to the next generation. I compare us to cattle, who live lazily in comparison to the hustle and bustle of humanity. In all of this comparison, however, I never thought to look at such creatures as ants or even sheep in order to learn from them. My comparisons were always aimed at persuading my listener that humans are a shitty species and we have to do something to change it. I’ve never had suggestions for how to change it, as I have hoped to come across someone with ideas of their own. Finally, I have found the kind of ideas I have sought for so long and it seems kind of fitting that the answer was in text rather than in a social interaction.

            Ants are a highly organized species. Every single last ant that exists on Earth has a job, a purpose, including their “children”. What surprised me to learn was that ants actually have a higher collective biomass than humans—the equivalent of about 35 billion people. What Life Upcycles thinks about this is that humans can easily live happily and sustainably on Earth, using Cradle to Cradle, with a population of 10 billion.

            The point brought up by my text that has me rethinking my entire argument on overpopulation is this: Instead of telling us that we need to have “zero emissions,” or we have to “stop” doing things, it would be better for us to create objects and buildings that work with the environment rather than separately from it. It seems like a rather complex statement to me because it is a new idea for which I have little understanding. We, as people and including myself, have a habit of telling each other all of the ways in which we need to be “less bad,” but not of telling each other how we can do “more good.” So, how can we do more good?

            The first steps have already been taken. We are doing less bad. Companies and businesses everywhere tout the ways in which they are reducing costs, reducing waste, reducing badness. In addition, we now have things in place such as LEED and the Living Building Challenge, meaning that architecture is moving forward in a way that may allow us as humans to live and work on this planet in a more symbiotic way.

            When we rethink overpopulation, it is important to note that carbon is not inherently bad. We have come to think of “carbon” and “emissions” as four-letter words: bad things that must be eradicated in order for our species to avoid auto-annihilation. When we see companies advertising goals for “zero emissions,” we think, “Great! Yes! Good!” But is it, really? After all, take a look at the advertising images: Often, companies bragging about “zero emissions” use images like trees to indicate how “green” they want to be. The thing is, though, trees are not emission-free.

            Trees emit oxygen. Oxygen is an emission of trees and the more trees there are, the taller and older they get, the more oxygen they emit. So, rather than saying we should strive for “zero emissions,” we should look at what we are emitting. Trees essentially eat carbon dioxide, which we exhale. As Life Upcycles puts it, “emissions are breathing.” So, how can we create an environment—a habitat for humanity—that breathes, rather than exuding toxins? That is my question as we move forward.

            No longer will I so ignorantly claim that humans are in overpopulation. No longer will I so ignorantly advocate the use of eugenics as a solution when other opportunities abound. Finding the opportunities is the trick.

Sustainability: Architecture and Words

My blog is overdue for a new post, and what better topic than sustainability?

            As I’ve mentioned, the program I’m currently taking at The Evergreen State College is called Sustainability: Reimagining the Built Environment and the Written Word. I’ve missed a lot of class and a couple of assignments but I don’t think I’m failing and I don’t think I’ll fail, I just think I’ve been pretty overwhelmed by the wealth of knowledge available on this topic and all the ideas that come to mind every time I read new text related to what we do in class.

            I have a huge project coming up. I get to design a building or group of buildings, essentially, that meets LEED requirements and may even qualify for the Living Building Challenge. This means I have to do this project with practicality in mind and suggest using absolutely NO new materials. Everything must be recycled and reused.

            I suppose now is a good time to cover a couple of things. First: LEED. What is LEED? I certainly didn’t know what it was before taking this program so I wouldn’t expect you to know it by sight. “Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design,” is a “certification program focused primarily on new, commercial-building projects and based upon a points system.” Source.

            Second: The Living Building Challenge. Details, naturally, can be found at their official website. Put simply, the Living Building Challenge seeks to create “regenerative spaces that connect occupants to light, air, food, nature, and community.” When my class took a field trip to Seattle to tour the Bullitt Building, we learned some basics of the Living Building Challenge. To us, it was explained that the building has sensors that detect the amount of air flow through the building and the amount of sunlight filtering through the windows. The Bullitt Building, specifically, has outdoor shades that lower and raise depending on the level of sunlight coming through windows on the building. The sun on the east may cause eastern window shades to lower, while western window shades stay up high to allow the shaded side of the building to get more natural light. Solar panels on the roof provide the majority of energy to the building—in the case of the Bullitt Building, I believe they actually became energy positive many times and thus sold energy to Puget Sound Energy, making money rather than spending it on electricity. Ventilation of the building and plumbing all revolve around sustainability and reuse.

            The Living Building Challenge is far more interesting to me than LEED. While I think that both are great and necessary in today’s world, moving forward, I think the Living Building Challenge is one that all new designs should strive for. It has seven “Petals,” or performance areas, each of which has its own requirements, also known as imperatives. The petals are Place, Water, Energy, Health & Happiness, Materials, Equity, and Beauty. In order for a building to meet the requirements of the Living Building Challenge, they must meet all imperatives of at least 4 Petals.

            This design assignment, reusing materials and applying adaptive reuse to the spaces they want to use for this project, has me thinking of the “Mistake on the Lake,” or the Capitol Center Building, a blight on the landscape standing nine stories high in concrete, steel, and glass. Straight lines, a flat roof, and an earthquake-proof foundation despite sitting on fill in a flood zone. The architecture of the gutted, long-deserted building in the midst of many of Olympia’s public services is ugly not by design, but rather neglect and disrepair and I think that most, if not all of its materials can be taken and used for the new spaces this project seeks to create for artists in Olympia.

            There are many sites with articles covering what locals call the Mistake on the Lake. All of these articles explore a couple of ideas for adaptive reuse of the building, which has been grandfathered into the area that today has a developmental height limit of 35 feet. The Capitol Center Building cannot be added to or expanded due to new architectural codes in the area and many, if not most of the residents in Olympia would rather see the eyesore taken down rather than renovated. The steel and glass standing nine stories high could be taken and used for the artists’ spaces we have been assigned to design.

            New ideas come to my mind every time I read something new about sustainable architecture. Even if I’m reading about old buildings that do not meet new LEED certifications or Living Building requirements, I find ideas coming to mind of how we can use old aesthetics and new methods of design to create beautiful, sustainable architecture that brings people together and makes a place “pop”. I find myself incapable of articulating these ideas to my faculty and often, I even find difficulty transcribing my ideas to my journal. I hope that this blog entry clears up a little space in my head, files away a couple of thoughts that clutter my mind, and allows me to clearly formulate and articulate the ideas I have for this major assignment.

Questions Concerning Humanity and Utility

Humans are an interesting lot. It seems at once like yesterday and like forever ago that I wrote my blog entry, “Humans Are Actually Terrifying.” It seemed a popular enough piece at the time, but I think it’s good to spark some dialogue about the human condition and our habits as we live our lives.

            A classmate of mine asked, regarding architecture, “At what point does development become meaningless?” This made me think of some other things I have thought about, other questions I have asked: At what point do we realize that not every single human needs to ‘make a living’ in order to be valued and loved? What is the true purpose of cancer and why are we so intent on and obsessed with curing it in all its forms? What further studies can we do that might tell us the reason cancers appear? Isn’t cancer simply the evolutionary process taking place? Why do we grieve those who die? Is death not merely a part of life that we should all accept? Should we not honor the dead for who they were in life, rather than bemoaning the fact that they no longer breathe our same air?

            We should celebrate the lives of those who have passed. Take, for example, the late, great, Alan Rickman. Or, perhaps, the wonderful Carrie Fisher. Yes, it is sad that they are gone because they were wonderful to see on screen. Has it crossed no one’s mind, though, that perhaps it was their time to go? It may seem premature to us, as we expected Carrie Fisher to finish the Star Wars movies and Alan Rickman to tell his great-grandchildren about Harry Potter, but since when has the world cared about what humans think should happen? Life happens on its own terms and we simply need to grab on, hold on tight, and figure it out as we plunge forward with the persistent march of time. I was particularly devastated with the passing of Robin Williams. He was like the cool uncle I knew and loved but had never actually met. I felt an intimate connection with him that I would like to mention before anyone tries to tell me I simply don’t understand because I was never a true fan. It felt as though a family member and a true friend had passed when Robin Williams took his own life and I cannot fathom why he did it. All I know is that he was found to have hung himself on the day I gave birth to my daughter. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences. For a while, I mourned Robin Williams, but I realize now that the best thing for me to do is to continue his legacy by ensuring that my wonderful daughter knows all of his movies, so that she can see what a wonderful soul we had with us for some time. I want her to know Robin Williams as I knew him, to feel him as intimately as I felt him, even and especially when he discussed mental illness. Robin Williams can help teach my child compassion and wherewithal, even if there is no longer a chance of my meeting him in person. I hope we can all think of our favorite late celebrities in this way.

            What is cancer, really? I always imagine one of two things. The first is to imagine feeling lumps multiplying within my body at an exponential rate, so that each time I poke a particular part of my body, it feels like more and more little balls are forming within. The other is to imagine what cells look like as they multiply… and multiply, continuously. Why do cells become cancerous? What purpose could cancer serve that humans are blind to due to our “divine spiritual and intellectual development”? People like to share things on social media that condemn cancer for the suffering it induces in those who become sick with it. People like to do things like participate in Relay for Life and purchase items from the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Awareness (a scam if I’ve ever seen one). “Cancer is horrible!” “Fuck cancer!” “Rest in Peace Grandpa, Grandma, Auntie Susie, and Uncle John, all cancer victims…” I do not seek to belittle the emotional implications behind the suffering endured by cancer patients. I do, however, seek to belittle the way in which we approach the topic. Why do we think it is so vital to save every single life that comes into this world? Why are we the only species on the planet that coddles the weak and unfit? Is it so that we can flash our Good Guy Badges in one another’s faces and claim we’re such excellent citizens because we have compassion? What is true compassion? At what point does compassion turn from strength to weakness?

            I believe death is a part of life. I believe that we need to accept the inevitability of bodily death and focus less on what happens afterwards and more on what happens beforehand. The religious are, in many cases, entirely too focused on what seems to be the end of the journey that is life. I believe wholeheartedly in living in the moment as much as possible. Of course, it is important to plan for the future. After all, we do have an average life span depending on demographic and geography, so that virtually every person on this planet could plan as if to live up to that point. In this way, people could be prepared for the future even if they weren’t to reach as far into it as they’ve planned. We also need to learn from the history we are taught and presented, as well as do our own historical research in order to develop well-rounded ideas of what has happened over time and what mistakes were made, so that we do not continue to repeat that which has been detrimental to our livelihoods. It has been said that the smart man learns from his mistakes while the wise man learns from the mistakes of others. I believe this is true and I strive to learn from the mistakes of others so that I can push forward and hopefully contribute to human evolution in a positive manner. This leads me to a connecting point…

            In coddling the weak and unfit and by supporting those who would otherwise die in nature’s survival of the fittest, do we waste resources on those who do not contribute to our futures? In what way are the severely handicapped useful to our lives aside from teaching us a level of compassion that is virtually useless? At what point will our habit of coddling the weak come back to bite us in the ass due to overextension of resources? We are already an overpopulated species on this planet and we continue to fuck up the environment by transporting wildlife from place to place, disturbing local ecosystems and forcing species after species into extinction not only from the transport of species to new lands but also from such abhorrent activities as shark finning and bottom trawling our oceans. We worry about sustainability but who will we be sustaining for? At what point will we need to prioritize human lives based on people’s merit? At what point do we stop demonizing eugenics due to the Holocaust of World War II and instead look at it as a viable possibility for improving the human race and reducing our impact on the planet?

            I encourage feedback to every blog entry, but this particular entry is one on which I very much wish to see dialogue sparked. I would especially like to see what some thoughts are as far as the question regarding architectural development, as that is the question posed that sparked this entry and all the questions I’ve presented herein.

Finding the Ground

Roots. They grip the ground. They keep plants in one place and provide nutrients and everything needed for the plant. In order to have roots, you have to have ground, and moving seriously uproots me, sends me into the air. I feel like I’m tumbling through the air, trying to land and figure things out again. We moved into our house at the end of August, this year. It took me until yesterday, December 16^th, to unpack my box of trophies and trinkets that have always resided in my bedroom. Now they reside in my study. It’s awesome. I have my bowling trophies on the windowsill, I have the engraved plate my mom bought for me on the shelf above my monitor, right next to my awesome, new jester frog. My study is fucking awesome, now, and it took me until now, halfway through December to Christmas. It feels like I’m settling down as I put more boxes in the attic and find homes within my house for more of my belongings.

            Plenty has happened in the months since I last wrote. I realize now that I need to forgive myself for not writing more often. Forgive myself for taking so long to unpack and get everything set up. Frankly, though, I didn’t want to write blog posts from the living room, anymore. I don’t like moving the furniture on the carpet because the carpet is really thick and even the chairs, as light as they are, don’t move very easily if I try sliding them. The apartment floor was much better for it. I’m so glad to have my study set up so I can blog not only with a monitor and a computer chair where I can see everything on my screen clearly, but also so that I have a secluded space in the house that is my own, where I can get away from everyone or select my company. There is only one chair, and it is mine. No one else sits in it. I plan to make my altar next to the window in this room. This is my space. The only things in here that aren’t mine are two of Randy’s books on Tao, because this is basically the book place of the house and they look good on my shelf.

            My trash container is a party cup. Literally a black Solo cup that sits on my desk and holds a few small things and is nice and discreet. I don’t have to change trash bags or cart things in and out of the room. I can take the cup out, toss it, and grab a new cup to bring in for trash. It’s wonderful. I bought new speakers, a new monitor, a new tablet—everything is fucking great. I can’t wait to actually start using the tablet, but I’ve been really absorbed in the Sims 4, lately.

            Two friends are staying in my art room until they get on their feet and can get their own place(s). I have yet to hang my dragon posters because I want to swap the locations of the hutch and what Randy thinks is a carrion cabinet. If it is a carrion cabinet, it’s very simple and has a large opening and single shelf in the large area for maybe a TV and cable box, I would imagine. Either way, I want to switch the walls on which these pieces of furniture currently sit, and put Persephone’s TV in the “carrion cabinet” and the hutch against the wall next to the front door. My battle dragon can hang over the hutch and the cliff dragon can hang over where Persephone should put her riding cars away, next to the fireplace. I plan to hang my other purchased paintings along the walls in the stairwell to the art room.

            Today, I read some articles. One was about the effects of alcohol on babies while breastfeeding. The other was about Mick Jagger having a new baby at the age of 74, with a woman by the age of 30. The breastfeeding and drinking article started out by saying that imbibing in a few drinks during the holidays will not necessarily result in anything negative with the nursing baby. It then went on to say that mothers should be conscious and aware of how much they are drinking, however, as getting drunk while breastfeeding is generally frowned upon for many reasons that have nothing to do with how much alcohol gets into the breast milk. As far as Mick Jagger having another baby… Well, that’s for another blog post, but my point here is that I’ve managed to pull away from the Sims long enough to get my brain working and creating ideas based on my experiences as they relate to what I’m reading. It is also immensely helpful to have the two friends I have staying with me. They provide socialization and while I have gone through more marijuana over the past month than I have in practically the past two years, it has been a pleasure to have them because I have started to find myself again. One friend, I’ve known for the past six years, since the end of high school but prior to the start of the military, pays attention to things far more than I’m used to people paying attention, particularly about personality traits and the like. He has helped me recognize, again, who I am. Who I have been. He’s helped me put some of the pieces together.

Critical Thinking and Research

The problem with some people is that they buy into televised news networks’ rhetoric.

            In the process of doing my own research and working to independently come to my own conclusions about such issues as NAFTA, Hillary Clinton’s candidacy for President, and Bill Clinton’s crimes as President, I have been called lazy, dumb as a rock, and a fuckhead. These from people who support Bernie Sanders and whose goal should be to educate those around them, not cut them down for their ignorance.

            I thought Bernie supporters were basically cut from the same thread: independent thinkers, considerate of others, and willing to correct others when they’re wrong without throwing shade at them.

            I was wrong.

            As it turns out with everything in life, Bernie supporters are made up of a multitude of personality types, including the assholes who “don’t have time to teach” those who don’t know better. Somehow, Bernie has managed to touch the hearts of these rock-hard people who think they’re better than everyone else and that they have all the “right” answers. This speaks volumes for the Independent Senator from Vermont.

            I’ve learned a great deal over the past few weeks. A lot of what I’ve learned has to do with my college classes, most recently Critical Thinking in Everyday Life and previously Elements of Health and Wellness. These are two of the most important classes I could have taken with the University of Phoenix, as I have learned what I must do to continue my path of healing and I am currently learning how to challenge my thinking and the thinking of those around me to encourage the betterment of persons, including myself.

            In addition to my class work, I’ve learned that the North American Free Trade Agreement, cosigned by Hillary Clinton, has resulted in greatly increased trade deficit with Mexico and Canada. It has also contributed to the movement of thousands of American jobs to Mexico, where labor can be purchased cheaper than in America, and imports from Canada and Mexico have greatly increased while exports have decreased, despite promises of the opposite from NAFTA supporters at the time of signing. (Source: https://www.citizen.org/documents/NAFTA-at-20.pdf)

            In addition to my NAFTA research, I’ve learned that Hillary Clinton has literally flip-flopped on live television regarding nearly every major issue we face today, including gay marriage and her stance as a moderate. When I presented the video to prove it to my grandma, she countered with, “They use sound bites to make their point and don’t show the whole story.” If that’s the case, I’d like to know what the whole story truly is, because the video pretty clearly shows Clinton lying through her teeth about changing her stance on issues such as gay marriage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dY77j6uBHI.

            In addition to my Hillary research, I learned that Bill Clinton was, in fact, impeached in 1998 following a lawsuit against him by Paula Jones and the court case involving Monica Lewinsky. I learned that the word “impeached” does not, in fact, mean “removed from office,” but refers instead to the legal proceedings that played out in 1998 and led to Clinton’s acquittal of his charges, despite his perjury. My grandma likes to tout that Bill “was bringing down the national debt,” but if that’s the only good thing he did while he was in office (it’s not; the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell act was actually a good thing at the time), I wouldn’t say he’s a great example and it certainly doesn’t guarantee that his wife would continue the good work. (Source: http://www.eagleton.rutgers.edu/research/americanhistory/ap_clintonimpeach.php)

            Research is only the first step to independent thinking. Research without question only leads to information acquisition, not the objective weighing of said information to reach an informed, credible conclusion.

            I’m sorely disappointed in the quality of people involved with Bernie Sanders’ Dank Meme Stash on Facebook. They’ve proven to be rude—just as, if not ruder than Hillary supporters. All I want is to see the information for myself; one man argued that “the wheel doesn’t need to be reinvented,” but I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel. I’m the newly-awakened kid who has never seen a wheel before and wants proof that it’s round because if I don’t see it with my own eyes, it could really be square for all I know.

            I’m done taking information at face value.

Some Thoughts about Thinking

Thinking about thinking is hard and most people don’t do it. The Puppeteer runs amok and it seems that the majority of people, at least in the United States, are under Its power.

            The Puppeteer is all of the forces in the world which would have you believe whatever piece of information is presented to you, without question. For example, when the preacher tells you that God is omnipotent and loving because the Bible says so, that preacher is an agent of the Puppeteer and you’re a victim of that power if you don’t question what he says. How is God omnipotent? What evidence do we have that God exists, aside from an ancient text that has been poorly translated thousands of times? How many times has the Bible been translated? How many inaccuracies exist due to translators’ desires to convey cultural context over literal meaning?

            These questions are penetrating, critical questions that help us to think critically about religion and what the preacher says. These types of questions are what I am now exploring in my class through the University of Phoenix and I feel fortunate that I now have the resources before me to take control of my own mind in a way that I hadn’t previously considered needing doing.

            The Puppeteer is evident in Its work; we see It at work with the 2016 election, as we are flooded with information from the different sides of the race. We see Hillary blasted all over the television, Bernie blasted all over the Internet, and Trump slandered all over both. What information should we believe and what information should we toss as useless? The answers lie in the research.

            Yesterday, I did some research on Hillary Clinton. I discovered that she has a history of defending women’s rights and speaking against the big banks, Wall Street, and Big Pharma. I also learned that she stands by her decision in the 1975 rape case that is often cited as a means of “exposing” her as a “villain”. The truth is, she stands by the fact that she is responsible for the lightness of the sentence because she fulfilled her obligation as a defense attorney. Initially, she requested that she not be appointed to the rapist; when her request was ignored and she was thus obligated to defend the young man, she fulfilled that obligation, regardless of how it made her feel or what the result was in the end. She was a defense attorney and she did what all defense attorneys strive to do; she defended the man against his charges.

            Some things I already knew about Hillary are that she did nothing wrong as Secretary of State during the Benghazi incident and she has not been found responsible for any loss of confidential information through her emails. In fact, all speculation against her regarding Benghazi and her emails have been led by Republicans and those supporting the Republican Party, such as Citizens United. Smear campaigns against Hillary should not be any more readily believed than smear campaigns against Bernie; however, so many Bernie supporters are willing to believe that Hillary did something wrong with Benghazi and she lost confidential information in her email scandal. These are the same Bernie supporters who proudly tout that they’ve done all their own research and have all the facts to make their decisions.

            Why are so many intelligent people so willing to sit back and just absorb whatever information best suits them? Why are they so disinclined to dig a little deeper in their research and find the real truth for themselves? It’s been touted by Bernie supporters that they’ve all done their own research, but the more I think critically about the things Berners share, the more I realize they’re sharing false information almost as much as the truth.

            When did our society come to so value laziness and lack of critical thought?