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Cerberus

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Everything posted by Cerberus

  1. I think he's under somewhat of a misconception. chap (n.) 1570s, "customer," short for obsolete chapman in its secondary sense "purchaser, trader" (also see cheap). Colloquial familiar sense of "lad, fellow, man or boy" is first attested 1716, usually with a qualifying adjective. Compare slang (tough) customer and German Kunde "customer, purchaser," colloquially "fellow." Here, he seems to use in the same way as people nowadays say "like a sir." I mean to say, what-what? 🧐
  2. It could be worse. You could have had a heart mutter, which over time and under adverse circumstances could progress into a heart grumble and then to a heart gripe. I do hope they figure it out for you. That depends entirely on how you used it. "I promulgated into the loo" would make no sense, and thus earn you no fuckingawesomeness. Promulgating the notion that using a complex term makes one appear erudite is more likely to have the desired effect. As you can see from my frankly superb illustration. 🧐
  3. You can't mix Monty Python humour and Benny Hill humour. It confuses people.
  4. Nor should you be. We don't advocate self-diagnosis here on CB because accurate diagnosis of clinical conditions requires the training, experience, and extensive study for which one obtains a degree. Even a mental health professional does not self-diagnose, because it is clear that, viewing the condition as he or she does from the inside, an objective assessment is not possible. No one here is qualified to diagnose you. The best we can do is for those with the diagnosis to tell you what their experience is like. Ideally, you then compare that with the experience you are having and take those observations with you to a professional to aid that person in a comprehensive diagnosis. Even a professional diagnosis is not always on target the first time; a dx is only as good as the information the professional is given to work with. It may change as more information comes to light. Your best hope of an accurate diagnosis is to provide your pdoc or tdoc with all the information you can at the outset. As to your overall question of whether a person can become bipolar, the cause of bipolar depression - or indeed, any flavor of clinical depression - is not well understood, so it would be difficult to say whether a factor exists to cause such a change, or whether that person is simply born with such a predisposition. What can be said is that a person can discover that he or she is bipolar because of the first onset of symptoms. Whether that person became bipolar, or was always that way and simply 'activated', is at this time unknown. We would encourage you to take any concerns to your care provider if you begin to feel distress. If, however, your current meds help you stay mostly happy as you say, it may be that the specific diagnosis isn't as important as sticking with what's working.
  5. That clears up what that earler post was about. All that time I thought you were talking about Cummerbund. Actually, the 'C' word in question isn't really an English word. It comes straight from Latin cunnis, which means precisely the same thing. Only the Romans didn't have a problem with saying it. In fact, they wrote it on the walls in public buildings (well, brothels) and nobody bothered to remove it. For instance, in the House of Jupiter and Ganymede in (ill-fated) Pompeii, a place believed to have been a gay brothel, intact markings on the walls have been found reading things like Livius me cun[n]is, Tertulle cun[n]is ('Livy is my cunt, Tertull's cunt'). ~head spins~ This takes body dysphoria to a new level. Please tell me that there is any legitimate potential medical necessity for this procedure that would enable a doctor to call this anything other than genital mutilation. With male circumcision there remains a dubious argument made about medical need in some cases, and indeed, I was one such case. I don't think the mental health care establishment considers surgery the first-line treatment for a feeling of unease about one's labia. From what I read on the subject, the great majority of these are done simply because the women are unhappy with the appearance of their genitals, possibly responding to a perception from media that they should look a certain way, and for this reason it has come to be known as "The Barbie Surgery". Barbie indeed - barbaric, maybe. I swear, humanity seems, to me, to becoming more irrational by the day, and I don't see any hope of it turning around before we're just knifing each other and gnawing on the bits. You know, every human civilization that has ever developed... has eventually collapsed. Every single one. Take the Maya in Central America. Flourishing empire at the time of European arrival. Collapsed like a deck of cards. And what did the Spaniards find them ritually doing? Cutting their genitals. Just saying.
  6. Let me challenge you: Take a moment to closely examine your own anus. What? You're having some difficulty with that? Allow me to offer you a mirror. No? Still a bit distant and indistinct? Hard to see in that tightly-bent-over position? I don't suppose it would be much easier if it were shifted more toward the front than the back, but of course, any lady could tell you precisely how difficult it is to take a good look at her own lady parts. Men can pull the thing out and examine it in detail. It even (not to make too elaborate a point of it) magnifies itself without the aid of a glass. Men have the benefit of the visual to teach them about their junk; they are at liberty to study it in detail in their alone time, and indeed they do. Women, on the other hand, are hampered by an experience that I can only imagine must be akin to trying to find something under the bedclothes in the dark. To be sure, diagrams are available. My own sexual education came largely courtesy of the Time/Life Atlas of the Human Body. (The sum total of my father's birds-and-the-bees talk with me consisted of "Mutter-mutter-mutter-mutter Keep it in your pants." I had no idea what he was talking about.) But even the diagrams are of limited use - for men, the thing stands out, distinct from the principal bulk of the body. It has a characteristic, identifiable form. It can be readily measured, and don't we know it. For the ladies, the parameters are less distinct; there are folds within folds within folds, all folded up inside the mass of the body. One feels uncomfortably like a vivisectionist just trying to understand how it all fits together. You mention the questionnaire in which women had difficulty naming the sundry parts of their genitalia. This is hardly surprising. Those part-names mostly cling to their Greek/Latin origins, and there aren't a lot of common synonyms for 'labia'. The synonyms for 'penis' and 'testicle' would fill pages. Still, if a certain number of women struggled with said test, can you imagine how a cohort of men would fare? In short, girls have a harder time getting to know their parts because they can't take them out and look at them the way boys can, and when they do get a look, what they see is labeled in a foreign language. No wonder there's an air of mystery about it all - but really, oughtn't there be? I think there should be something mystical about the place where life begins.
  7. I think I can lay your skepticism to rest there. Vaginas do, in fact, exist. As to ghosts, and other matters paranormal, I - who refuse to be irrational - maintain an open mind. One cannot embrace science if one closes one’s mind to any possibility, however unexpected. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
  8. Replace the last line with “put them outside”. I \annihilate Loxoceles wherever I find them because they’re too dangerous to coexist with. Like the aliens from the Alien movies. One fucks not with them. I will not kill any other spider, however, for these reasons: 1. Spiders are creepy, but so are other insects and if it weren’t for the spiders we would be up to our armpits in bugs. Spiders, and their vast numbers, aren’t a mistake of nature, they’re an integral and essential part of its balance. We eliminate them at our peril. 2. I do not kill any living creature if I can avoid it for the simple reason that I do not have the ability to build one to replace it. In college I once rescued a spider in the dormitory and took it outside, and another student said, “Why didn’t you just step on it?” I replied, “Can you make one?” He didn’t have an answer. 3. Karma. There’s always something with a metaphorical foot big enough to squash me if it wanted, and my track record with karma is pretty consistent. If I went about gooshing spiders I’d probably die from falling into a pit full of Loxoceles.
  9. Okay. Here it is: From now on, every time you say, think, or write something shitty about yourself, it means you're actually a Flat-Earther. Because if you believe that obvious bilge about you, you'll believe anything. Every time you think to yourself, "I'm a miserable piece of shit", you have to envision yourself standing on a flat planet. And because both things are false, you can't prove that either of them is true. So you'd be basically talking out your arse. Which would make you...flat-ulent. And if you don't knock it off with the self-brutalizing, I'm going to abuse my Admin powers (again) and set up a text filter so that every time you type "miserable piece of shit" it's going to come out as "keen humorist and all-around swell bloke". And if that doesn't dissuade you, I'll make it read "proud supporter of Boris Johnson".
  10. I neglected to mention in my last post that I myself am an arachnophobe, and my arch-nemesis is Loxoceles reclusa, the Brown Recluse, or fiddler spider, so named for the signature violin-looking brown markings on its thorax. Lococeles is one of the most dangerous spiders in North America, because its bite will cause large areas of one’s flesh to rot away. Anomalocaris would look at Loxoceles and say, “That’s my boy!” with a tear in however many hideous eyes it had. Many years ago I lived in a rental house which I discovered to be infested with Loxoceles. No, infested is too mild a word. Saturated, perhaps. I became so adept at identifying the monsters that I could now distinguish one of the reclusa from across the room. I slew without hesitation ot mercy. “Attercop! Attercop!” I cried, channeling the same heroic desperation that drove back the vile spawn that had bewebbed Mirkwood in the dark days. Wretched creatures. I do have to say that for a nation so blessed with relatively benign spiders, Britain certainly takes its arachnophobia seriously. Tolkien amplified them to the stuff of nightmare legend in the form of Ungoliant and Shelob. And you even carry on so about this false brown widow business - we’ve got the full black ones here, boyo, shiny jet black and bulbous with the fire-red hourglass underneath. Gn-AH! One doesn’t idly poke about in the woodpile. And wolf spiders ~shiver~ every so often one will creep up from the basement damps, five inches across, and I can see its eyes glint right at me from across the room, and I know it’s saying silently, “Remember Anomalocaris? Yes. Of course you do. He lives on in Us. We are Legion.” Then he slips back into the crack and is gone. It occurs to me that this discussion may not be having the calming effect that @Simba Cub may have been seeking by opening this thread; if not, I apologize. If it’s any comfort, at least know that you are by no means alone in your fears. Sometimes the best way to deal with them is to drag them out into the open and give them a public thrashing.
  11. Are there venomous spiders in the UK? Yes. Almost all spiders are venomous - that’s how they get things done. Are there a lot of spiders around you? Yes. Lots of spiders. Lots of them. A 1958 study estimated that the average meadow in Sussex contained roughly 49 spiders per square meter. The world is teeming with arachnids. Arachnophobia is very common, and perhaps one of mankind’s most shared fears. This isn’t actually all that surprising. Back in the Dawn of Time, our original ancestors were the first creatures to develop a backbone - the vertebrates - and they did so swimming around in primordial seas...with anomalocaris. Anomalocaris was the ancestor of what would eventually become spiders, and he had these hideous fanglike things that were just perfect for making nosh out of newly minted vertebrates. So I believe we all have a deeply imprinted generic race-memory of when we were little proto-fishes living in fear of the great Fanged One, and even though the tables have now turned and we could goosh any of those little anomalowannabes under our heel, they haven’t lost any of their terror to us. The best way to address an irrational fear is with knowledge. Learn all you can about the spiders around you, until they become familiar, commonplace - boring, even. Here’s an article to start you off: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.wired.com/2013/10/you-are-within-3-feet-of-a-spider-right-now/amp A word to the wise, however - on no account should you watch the 1977 film Kingdom of the Spiders. Its horrid ending still haunts me now more than 40 years later, but far, far worse than that - it starred William Shatner.
  12. Here's the problem with online dating sites (or hookup sites, or any sort of site that purports to connect human beings for IRL interaction) - they are a blind communication medium that relies, and must rely, in part on the parties involved to represent themselves in good faith. Because no one can see the other party in person to verify what is being conveyed verbally (textually) or to infer meaning from body language or other cues, a level of trust is indispensable. The trust must be a mutual compact across the platform - it must be a given that a person can be taken at his or her word, or else no meaningful communication can take place. What we see instead is that human beings are incapable of this. For whatever reason, dishonesty and deceit begin to be applied. Perhaps at first it is only a small fudge of a couple of years on someone's age, or a harmless untruth about one's full weight, but lies beget lies, and the anonymity of the internet - indeed, the use of anonymizing usernames - makes it both tempting and easy. So the communication system becomes corrupted with falsity, and suddenly the messages sent back and forth have lost some of their value. Into this swirl of doubt step the malicious manipulators who capitalize on doubt, and ruthlessly take advantage of an environment in which there is still some possibility that a respondent is genuine - they do their best to mimic the genuine as a mask for the utterly false, and gradually erode the confidence of the participants of the platform until no one believes anyone is real at all or trusts anything anyone says. And the whole enterprise becomes useless for its original purpose. Without strict controls and vigilant monitoring, this pattern repeats across all such platforms because it's an inherent defect. And even with the most stringent moderation, it's still impossible to ensure that people don't succumb to the temptation to lie. That, also, is an inherent defect. The best way to avoid this is to put down your screen and go somewhere where there are people interested in the same things you're interested in. At least then they'll have to lie to your face. Or show you their buttocks in person. Which might fall into the category of oversharing, but I suppose it's a matter of taste.
  13. So he projectile-vomited pints of black blood, did he? Let's do a little math. The human body contains, on the high end, 1.5 gallons of blood, or 12 pints. Hemorrhagic shock sets in after the loss of about 20% of the body's blood, or at most, 2.4 pints. So if this fellow is to be believed, not only did he notice blood in his semen, he did so in the middle of dying from blood loss. While he may not have been full of blood, he was certainly full of shit. Your arm ached a bit? That, too, must have been a challenging wank. Oh - you mean from the injection, I suppose.
  14. My first encounter with mental health care, as a depressed adolescent, came in the form of a young counselor whose opening gambit was to take me outdoors to throw a frisbee with him as a means of developing a rapport. Kindly, this could be called a misstep. Factually, it was idiotic. Given the subject at hand (me) it’s hardly surprising that that move erected a wall of deep distrust and suspicion between us that he was never able to breach. In the intervening years, I have been in the care of multiple mental health care professionals. For some, I use the term “professional” in a very generous way. Those who were of no assistance to me, or were a poor fit for me, I discontinued seeing (in one case abruptly, and in no uncertain terms). The ones who proved truly beneficial I retained for years - my therapist for 20 years (until his retirement), and my pdoc, whom I have been seeing now for more than a decade. The point is, the idea that you can decide that mental health care isn’t going to work for you after one trial of it is nonsense. It would have been more remarkable, in fact, if you had struck gold on your first attempt and found just the right situation for your specific circumstance. The same applies for meds - sometimes we have to try several before we find the right one that works. You simply don’t try one and then decide, “medicine doesn’t work on me.” It’s worth giving it another go. Once upon a time in the late seventeenth century in Merry Olde England, there were some people who were not Merry. They were, in fact, miserable, so miserable that they couldn’t stand it. They decided they had to find a new home. But where to go? France? Please. They were miserable, not insane. No, they upped stakes and went to the Νetherlands, and managed to be a little less miserable for a little while, but the problem was, the people were friendly but they couldn’t spell ‘sea’ properly, and all-in-all, it just wasn’t England and couldn’t be made into England because it was inconveniently but firmly occupied by the Dutch. So these miserable people moved again. This time, knowing that they couldn’t go back to misery in England, they instead sailed off to a spot on the map marked Unexplored Territory. They arrived, after a tedious ocean voyage, at the shore of an unspoiled and vast territory, plonked down an English flag, named the place Plymouth Colony, and began a new life in a New World in which they shed the constraints that had caused their misery back at home, and began to define an entirely new misery for themselves on their own terms. Because that’s what people do. In any case, they stuck it out, and their miserable little enclave eventually became the miserable nation known as the United States of America. They may have been miserable, but at least they were free, and brave. At the risk of undercutting my own point, I suppose it must be pointed out that, considering their strict negative views on most matters of pleasure and sex, it could be fairly argued that if anyone could ever truly be said to have enjoyed being miserable, it was the Puritans. I have more than once been told, by tdocs and pdocs, that I “enjoy being miserable”. I instantly and forcefully correct that notion. I do not enjoy being miserable. I fight an internal war against it every day. I remind these people that the reason I continue to pay their exorbitant fee is that I don’t enjoy being miserable, and wish to stop. If they’re telling me that I’m not progressing because I don’t want to leave some sort of comfortable wallow-hole I’ve created in my misery, then they’re simply not paying attention to what I’m saying. It has been a very, very long time since I have been happy, assuming that I ever truly have been. I have an inkling that I might possibly have had a few moments of it as a child, before mental illness set in and puberty arrived to scuttle any hope of recovery. I know this isn’t ‘normal’ - this can’t be normal, because no human being should have to live like this. I refuse to accept that misery is my ‘normal’. You shouldn’t accept it either. If you do, you might as well move to France.
  15. If you're applying this to suicide, oh dear me is that mistaken. There are so many ways to fuck up a suicide and leave yourself alive but far worse off, it's a wonder anyone ever actually risks it. And imagine the self-flaggelation: "Fuck. I can't even kill myself properly." Just don't go there. Note to self: Fluent In Silence is not prohibited from using the word 'Yet' in posts. Omit 'yet'. Auto-replace instance of 'yet' with 'because that would solve nothing.' What is this guessing? While no one is permitted to prescribe psychoactive medication on the basis of plain guesswork, at least a Pdoc is using educated guesswork based on intensive study in the specialty. Unlike, say, you. (Yet. Note that I'm still allowed to use 'yet'.) Pay special attention to this passage: Had to seek counselor -> was seeing counselor -> stopped seeing counselor -> difficult summer follows. While there may be no steaming pile of something odorous to prove that COVID caused the inability to have a counselor available during these difficult times, it can't be ruled out as a significant factor. On the other hand, you can't demonstrate that it wasn't an important factor.
  16. Which in turn reminds me of a childhood trip to the zoo with one of my cousins, who at the petting zoo picked up what was probably an emu feather off the ground and used it to tickle the nose of a nearby llama. What happened next? What do you think happened next? Ka-choom! The llama sneezed a coating of green mucus all over her pretty blond face. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer psychopath.
  17. At the park I worked at, wild turkeys were like the park chickens. Constantly sauntering around the administrative area. From time to time I would glance out my office window and there would be some gobbler moseying on by, so close I could have beaned him with a wad of paper. I made a habit of walking around the grounds of a morning during their season, collecting cast-off feathers. I have tins full of them, nearly enough to make another turkey. They weren’t so tame that you could walk right up to them, though - this was still in a National Park, not the middle of a city, and they were still at least nominally wild. If you approached, they would raise and bob their heads, as if to say, We used to be velociraptors, you know. Just saying.
  18. I saw that news report as well. Have you thought of sending it to your sister and asking her what she thinks of that teacher and what happened to those children?
  19. Male coyotes range from 18-44lbs. Coyote/dog hybrids, or coydogs, on the other hand, can top out at anywhere from 60 to 120lbs. If the animal you encountered was bigger than 40 or so pounds, you were probably looking at a coydog. Animals that live on the interface with human environments sooner or later become habituated and less timid toward humans, but that doesn’t make them any less wild. Here in godforsaken rural Kentucky where I live, coyotes have been a relatively recent arrival, and I only occasionally see one break cover of the woods to cross a road at dusk. You would hardly know they’re here, except once in s while, on a clear, still night, a chorus of eerie, melodic howls, barks and yips will suddenly begin from a pack of them not far off out in the fields, and their song will build and swell and rise in voices both haunting and piercing - and then abruptly fade into the night as though they were never there.
  20. Suicidal ideation can be considered a kind of alarm system to alert you when your condition is entering an actively symptomatic period. Suicidality is never a condition of a mind whose processes are stable—if you can't shake the thoughts, it's time to reach out for professional assistance. I'm not going to do it right now is not the same thing as I'm not going to do it. It's good that you are able to look at your condition with some analytical perspective and recognize that this is not only transitory, but illusory—although it may seem like the truth in the moment, you know that it isn't, and won't be. I also fully understand how frustrating it is to have weathered a bout of suicidality and come out the other side, only to find the thoughts back in your head again like a roommate you thought you had finally gotten rid of and here he is back again on the stoop. Well. I'm on record as being highly skeptical of any decision made on the basis of emotion under any circumstances, but I'm autistic and clearly a poor authority on limbic matters. I have, however, as an autistic person who must carefully observe the way neurotypical persons behave within the context of their emotions, often found that emotion is, even in the best situations, as likely as not to lead one to make irrational, self-defeating decisions. It's just baffling to me. In this case, in particular: No. Don't trust your feelings. Your feelings are utterly gonzo right now. Flue, it hasn't been clear in your narratives with us to what degree you are under the care of a mental health professional. You don't post an actual dx, so we don't know if you even actually have one such that you would know exactly what flavor of MI you're coping with. I sort of get the sense that you're doing the best you can largely on your own with the help of your friends Bottle and Pint. If you aren't under the care of a prescribing psychiatrist, it's time, mate. Here's the alternative. You get the treatment you need. You don't have to suffer like this. There is treatment available that can stop the suicidal thinking. Just waiting it out isn't necessary, and it isn't wise. I'll bet anything you like that you don't actually want to die. I'll bet you just want the pain to stop. If I'm wrong, you can fish-slap me with a mackerel down at the pier. Free shot.
  21. You don't have to process the idea that you might deserve someone being nice to you; deserving doesn't enter into it. You don't have to earn the right to have friends. It's not a privilege. It comes standard as part of the "being a human" package. You get to expect it in the way you get to expect that the windows will roll down when you buy a car. Not only that, but it's a pretty durable feature as well - a person has to work pretty damn hard to destroy his ability to be liked by anybody. Homo sapiens are social animals (on the whole; misanthropes like me don't count). For 50,000 years, our very survival has been dependent upon our ability to clump up together because, one-on-one, we're shite against leopards. And because we found out early on that if we weren't nice to one another we ended up knifing each other to death and saving the leopards the trouble, making nice sort of became general policy, and then just a given. So you may adjust your logic accordingly.
  22. Exactly! So what you work on now is raising the level at which you know it's shit to a higher level. Eventually you reach the level at which you look at the shit and say to yourself, That's such shit that I'm not even going to dignify that by acknowledging it. I know. I didn't say it was easy. I graduated from I'm a piece of shit and then unfortunately decided to do postgraduate work inThe Universe is a piece of shit and I'm still there working on my thesis in Existential Despair. I've heard that some people who graduate from IPOS go on to lead reasonably satisfying lives. I wouldn't know, myself, but I can easily see how that would be true. Most people avoid the higher-level degrees in misery for a reason. A few weeks ago, I went kayaking on our local river. Upstream. The Green River is a languid thing, no whitewater, nothing exciting at all. At one point over an area of rills and shallows, I passed a small flotilla of other people in kayaks and canoes floating downstream, and one of the women called out to me, in a most friendly fashion - "What are you doing, crazy!?" I smiled wryly (if she only knew) and continued paddling upstream as they passed me by. After a few moments, I suddenly realized that although I was actively paddling, the island next to me was not moving at all. Well, not that it would; rather; I was not moving at all in relation to it - the river was pushing me downstream at the same rate that I was paddling up it. I paddled harder, and advanced to a point where the river was even shallower, the current correspondingly swifter, and the need to paddle harder even greater. At one point, the current seized hold of the bow of my kayak and turned me a full 180 degrees pointed downstream. By the time I got upstream of that area of shallows, I had to ground the kayak on the upstream end of the island and get out to rest. I was drained. The current upstream had become languid again, and I could continue. I got back in the kayak and resumed my trip in greater ease. But the thing about going upstream is, you can never stop paddling. The moment you do, the current pushes you back. Slowly, or swiftly, the pressure is always pushing. You can never quit striving against it if you want to get to your destination. Depression is a river. Sometimes the current is a slow, oily creep, sometimes a torrent of black, swirling water through jagged rocks. Sometimes there are places where you can get out and rest, sometimes not. If you're lucky you might find a way to portage around the most impassable stretches. But your destination is upstream, and you will never get there if you stop paddling. One day someone will invent an outboard motor that will work in this water, but for now, all we have is the paddle. I get this too. I get this far too late. I let all the friendships I made in high school and college drift away, save two people, for this exact reason: Because I knew that if I contacted them they would say, "So how have you been?" And because I'm Autistic, I knew I would automatically tell them the truth. And the truth was grim, and sad, and I absolutely refused to pull all of my friends down into the Abyss with me. I would rather see them from afar in their happy lives than have those lives darkened by the stain of mine. Even in telling you this I'm breaking my cardinal rule: Don't Spread Your Miasma. If you could perceive it, you would see an aura around me, a dark halo of negative energy like a malevolent nebula that infuses my entire existence. Everything I do, everthing I touch, every relationship I have with people, this miasma ultimately works into it and darkens it. Without fail. So I pull back, to protect the people around me... from me. Fortunately, I have never seen anything quite like this in anyone else. Other people have negative auras (not that I can actually "see auras" or any such New Age-y hoo-hoo) but I can sometimes sense a negative radiance from some people (politicians are especially vile). I think it may have to do with the fact that as an Autist I can't read their body language and facial expressions in the neurotypical way, and have had to cultivate a different set of perceptions to gauge the people I meet, as a survival mechanism. In any case, I have never seen anyone else manifest the kind of pervasive doom-cloud that surrounds me, and therefore I tend to have hope for the rest of you. And keep my distance. You are right - talking to people is better. Perhaps I was wrong all along to stay away from my friends. Perhaps I could have benefitted from them. Perhaps their light would have eroded my miasma rather than the other way around. Possibly so. I strongly recommend giving it a try; I can't recommend following my example. It's hell in the Abyss. Definitely go the other way.
  23. Dear God, you read Camus? I wanted to kill myself whilst trying to get through Camus as well. For the love of Heaven, don't go anywhere near Nietzsche. Have you considered the possibility that you've simply drawn the wrong conclusions about why things aren't well with you? Your mind considers all the deficits in your life, the lack of the things you need like companionship, interaction, and basically anything else that brings good feeling, and conclude that, in terms of causality, the cause must stem from some flaw in your self. Because what else could it be? Obviously, you think, all of this happens because you're a piece of shit and therefore worthless. It all clicks into place. A perfect explanation for the unending question: Why does this keep happening to me? Except, of course, that's total bollocks. A. Nellie is an elephant. B. Nellie is pink. C. Therefore, elephants are pink animals. 🚫 Sorry, wrong answer, thanks for playing. (Elephants aren't pink. You're just drunk.) A. Bad things happen to worthless people because they deserve it. B. I'm a worthless person. C. Therefore, bad things happen to me. 🚫 Wrong again. There's no such thing as a worthless person. (And what state are you probably in while you're thinking this? Drunk? Just making the comparison.) Disordered. Thinking. It's nasty because it's hard to realize you're doing it while you're inside it. The solution is to stick your head outside of the mental bubble and inspect the whole thought process. It doesn't stand up to close inspection from the outside. Wanting to hurt yourself, whether slowly by drinking, quickly by self-harm, permanently by suicide, or subtly by mental flailing, is not a normal state of a well mind. This much is clear. You are not fine. It's okay to say so. None of us is fine here. Some of us don't even remember fine. Getting to fine, I think, is most often a process of working things outward.
  24. When I first saw your topic title, I thought, "There are three of us moderating here. We've been doing it for years." Then I realized what you meant. Your posted dx doesn't indicate whether you have a formal diagnosis of Alcohol Use Disorder as defined by the DSM-V (the DSM-IV used to differentiate Alcohol Abuse and Alcohol Dependency, but V lumps them together). If you don't have a formal dx, and are unsure where you sit with regard to dependence, americanaddictioncenters.org suggest that you can take a questionnaire like the one available on the moderation.org website, called “Alcohol Dependence Questionnaire.” If your dependence score is 20 or above, moderation may not be the right choice for you. If you have a lower score, a harm reduction approach could entail trying moderate drinking in conjunction with therapy, but always consult with a medical or mental health professional before beginning any form of treatment. Remember, Moderation is a harm-reduction strategy, not a harm-elimination strategy. If you want to completely eliminate the harm that comes from drinking, you have to completely stop drinking. Alcohol has sometimes been termed "the poison that kills slowly". But whether you can benefit from Moderation at all has a lot to do with factors like how firmly it has you in its claws, how much of a habit you've developed, the degree of your own willpower and cognitive agility, and what comorbid issues you may be using it as self-medication for and how you're otherwise addressing them. If you're the sort of person who rebels at being told what to do, balks at being compelled or forbidden to do something, or can't stand feeling ashamed or embarrassed, traditional methods may prove problematic, and Moderation may give you an alternative in which you can place more trust in yourself to make your own decisions and find a path to sobriety that works for you. You need to be a self-starter, though, and you can't be so far into alcoholism that chemical and psychological addiction is acting on your brain in ways that make cognitive techniques difficult or ineffective. If your willpower is weak, you should probably forget about Moderation - you have to know that you can tell yourself This far and no farther and stay behind that line in the sand. If you're a cognitive weenie, it's not going to work. If you've already crossed the line into a degree of chemical dependence, Moderation likely isn't going to be advisable because any drink will reinvigorate the abnormal biological dependencies affecting you and set you back. Bear in mind, please, that I do not speak from personal experience here, but rather from research and observation. Mercifully, I don't have an addictive-type brain, but I've watched what addiction has done to my nephew, and reason has no power against chemistry. Give it an inch, it will take a mile and keep on driving and not even notice the bump when it runs you over. You say you have a plan for yourself to moderate your drinking to twice a year, on celebratory occasions. That sounds reasonable, provided you don't use the opportunity to binge. You're saying that you're tempted to change your mind, but what's tempting you? Cravings. That's a red flag. If you had said you were considering modifying your plan because when you have a steak you enjoy it more paired with a Cabernet Sauvignon (yours is, I presume, a sophisticated palate) that might seem objectively rational; it's something you could take or leave. But responding to a craving tells you that something is amiss - something in your biology or psychology perceives an unmet need for a thing it should not need, and is causing you a level of distress as a result. The wrong thing to do would be to meet that mistaken need and thus prove to your body/mind that it was right to want what it shouldn't have. That link to the American Addiction Centers website goes to a page on Moderation, which might provide some more useful advice, whether or not you actually suffer from an alcohol addiction.
  25. This topic does not appear to be germane to the purpose of our boards in any way as a peer support forum. If you feel, however, that you need to discuss this further with someone, I recommend seeing a mental health care professional, as no one here is qualified to assist you. Barring that, I suggest speaking with the Plejaren. They sound open-minded.
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