Thanks Brazil

Life in the State of Mania

I have a couple of post coming very soon, but as I sit here trying to get motivated to write, I have noticed something. My statistics are showing me that people from Brazil keep hitting my site and I just want to say THANKS!!! Very Cool and one day I would love to see your country….

Thanks again Brazil!!!

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In the Middle (a suicide story) Part 2

Life in the State of Mania

coffin in groudAnother day in America, another funeral, and the statistics again are counted, confirmed, and written down somewhere for everyone to see. But for the survivors of the suicide the tragedy, or should I say travesty has yet to begin. To the friends and family it now becomes their duty to fix the survivors  in the ways that they understand . So for the left wing righteous among us according to their  Religion 101 the act of suicide is one of the greatest sins against God, and going to 

hellhell is the judgement on those that commit suicide.  All that was eternal is now stripped away from that lost soul to suffer in anguish for all time.

CAN I GET an AMEN!!!AMEN

NO!!! No amen here, I cannot believe that God would be so unjust, but then again some of the stories in the bible are kind of scary. The God that I believe in knows that the majority of suicides are made by the clinically depressed, mentally unstable in a world that gives birth not to Gods but mere humans — 490000 human babies every day!

Now to step back to Part 1, and that path that I was on. In those last days before I was institutionalized I told you of a peace that came over me, and in my self-talk I had committed to the idea, and had formed a plan. A Psychiatrist once told me that; “There is nothing more dangerous, or incredible; than when a Bi-Polar has come to a decision” and I was there. It is all a blur to me leading up to that night, and it was time for me to act, me wife knew that something was up and confronted me, and all hell broke loose, I do remember some of this, and that every immediate family member came with my family doctor to the house breaking horsesthat night. They, my family and the doctor talked me down it was like saddle breaking a new horse, I was then taken to the mental hospital, yes I said it; “mental hospital”

The noises that came from the hallways as I tried to sleep that first night was everything you would come to expect from a good asylum horror movie, but I asylummade it. I awoke in the beginnings of a drug induced lobotomy and made my way to the sitting area, where a gathering of patience’s where sitting, staring, and worse.  As I sat there, all I could think was; “Oh — my — God, this is a mistake” I wanted to scream but who would notice and they would just shoot me up with more drugs. I remained calm and waited for a chance to call my wife.  That day she came and got me, then moved me to a closer hospital that could care for me, it was there I spent the next few weeks.

“Your father – he didn’t love us enough, so he killed himself, and isn’t coming home anymore”

I hear statements like that all the time from those that have never been, or refuse to admit being depressed. I shudder at their comments, and want nothing more than to slap those speaking silly. I know now, that I was very close to the ending my life one night a long time ago, but I was lucky, I have a family that believed differently than those people do, I was luckier than those that made the statistics list that day.

Stay with me only one more post to conclude this series. “The End” (a suicide story) Part 3   — Will be coming soon…

The Psychologist

Life in the State of Mania

Today I went to my Psychologist, (therapy ongoing, 30 years) yes “My Psychologist”. It was decided that I must write a letter to my father, my dead father. It is thought in some cultures that reconciliation can still be achieve with a written letter even though the addressee does not have a physical address.

So over the next few days or weeks, that is my intention to write an letter that will forever change the rest of my life, sounds easy. How does a person put into words, feelings that he was never able to express before, when the said father was alive?

If I write a cordial letter will that help? Or am I to let it all hang out use the words that I felt — feel? Is this possible, or is this a test in futility? How ironic! The word “futility” this would be the word that my father would use to describe me, ineffectiveness, uselessness and trifle.

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