[spiritual_emergency]

Time's Shadow; or Aegis Past

Music of the Hour:

Shamisen Vs. Taiko

Tammuz had first seen the Woolly Man two days before. The sun, red and swollen, set the jagged peaks ablaze with topaz and vermilion. An eagle circled and swooped, and Tammuz's eye, following it, had caught a coppery glint for just a moment. A scarcely visible speck at the mountain's edge flashed. It shimmered a moment by the marker stones a day's walk away. A Walker, a Woolly Man! He rushes to beat the setting sun. He burst into the council tent, spilling a leather bucket of fish eyes.

"The Woolly Man comes, the Woolly Man!" he shouts.

"Shish!" comes a chorus from his uncles and aunts, his older brothers and sisters.

"We know," smiles the shaman, Ham his uncle.

"Be quiet, listen." In the silence a distant flute shrills.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Killican stands by the marker stone and looks back toward the setting sun. He pulls one black knot out through the leather in his vest. He slips nine red knots inside. His cape's copper sheets cast golden rectangles into the gathering shadows. He sighs. Twelve black knots now hang from his vest. Four moons he had traveled East. The Homeland was less than another black knot to the North. First to the Elephant people, then to the Weavers to add his tally to the Great Mantle. He shifts the fringed mass of woven memories over his shoulder. Shadows gather over the rounded hills and pastures of the Land. Smoke drifts from a few shepherds' fires and meets the purpling sky. He can just make out the foot of the trail to the One Road from the East to the West. So many years since he had seen the Gatekeepers. No one he had known could still be alive. He wondered; would his legends still live? The valley is crossed with the trails of shepherds and goats. Tended fields fill spaces where once, so long ago, the mighty mammoths had been stampeded to the Mouth of Bones. He gags at the memory of the stench of it. No mammoths had been seen for generations; he still missed their musky meat. Gently he lays his mammoth skin and Mantle on the soft grass. No wool could ever match its warmth. He drinks from a skin and chews a bit of jerky as he spreads his sleeping roll. His eyes fill with the stars as his flute sings of old friends and distant lands. Almost home. He would sleep well tonight.

He awakes to the bleating of goats, sitting up as they crest the hill. A spindly boy whistles a shrill note that brings an answering bark from a small dog. Killican rushes to gather his things before the goats can trample or chew his gear. He watches the boy's face widen to a toothy grin as he shoulders his Mantle.

"Woolly Man you're early, the Counting is not till spring."

The boy bounces up and pulls a chunk of cheese from his bag.

"Stories for cheese, Woolly Man." He waves the fragrant chunk of cheese before him. He steps back as the knotted fringes of bright yarn swing over the old man's back.

"That's the heaviest Mantle I have ever seen; how far have you gone?" The old man shields his eyes against the glare of the morning light and squints at the boy.

"I've been to the Land Beyond the Rising Sun, lad."

The boy's cry muffles as his face hits the dust.

"You have been to the Land of the Dead?" His eyes cast about in fright. "You bring the Orrngh?"

Killican can scarcely contain his laughter.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Jesse, sire."

"You know the First Greeting of the Wise, Jesse?" The old man stands straight, struggling to suppress his grin. Jesse nods. With as much seriousness as he can muster, the Woolly One intones from memory:

"The world is filled with monsters enough; let us suffer fools with shame."

The boy looks up between his fingers and chokes out:

"The Sun save us from the Demon Ice."

Killican reaches down and lifts the boy to his feet.

"You're getting dust all over that tasty cheese, boy!"

"How many stories do you have, sire?" The boy sputters, passing him the cheese.

"As many as the stars at new moon." He bites off a big chunk of cheese and grins at the boy. He laughs.

"You will have tales, my boy, but first more cheese."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The village is filled with barking dogs and dancing shadows. Smoke and the sounds of sputtering grease and laughter fill the air. The Hunters carve strips from heaps of skinned carcasses and boast of a good hunt. A young girl, Mara, sits by a fire and wonders at the stories the men tell; how whole herds of gazelles would run into a pit. Some shouts and rocks to set them running, some men in lion suits jump and roar, and the whole herd runs to their deaths. 'Just another story,' she thinks to herself, 'like the Woolly Man who brings the Orrngh'. She chews her charred jerky strip and moves away from the smoke that now reaches her from the sputtering fire. All about her the fires burn. Strips of meat and fish stretched over racks are drying. Denan, the old woman who kept the Counting Strings, had said to dry much meat; the Ice would be bad this season and the Elephant People must move beyond the Gate Stones to the pasture lands in the south. Mara sits next to Jesse, the chief's youngest.

"What is an elephant?" she whispers, and looks down to gnaw her meat. Jesse wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. He shuffles his fur cape up over his head and grabs a cracked leg bone from beside the fire. Poking it from the cape flap, he hunches and looms toward her.

"Orrngh!" he bellows in his lowest voice. Mara gleefully shrieks and prods the lumbering creature with her crusty steak.

"You don't scare me," she squeals in glee.

Across the fire Denan the Medicine Woman looks toward the Fire Keeper. He nods. The old woman rises slowly on her stick. The scar across her wrinkled brow glistens in the evening light and the flickering flames. Her fringed shawl flutters with knots, colored yarns, bright stones, and carved bones-the memories of the Fore Mothers. She bends her knobby frame and smiles at Mara with the few teeth left in her head. Mara looks up and scowls at the old woman.

"And I'm not afraid of you neither," she says, biting her crispy meat and baring her teeth.

"You're going to meet the Orrngh tonight, Mara," the old woman rasps. Her nearly toothless face opens into a gaping maw. She lunges at the little girl and snaps her teeth at the tip of her nose. Mara drops her bone and leaps behind Jesse.

"You won't let the Orrngh eat me, will you, Jesse?" Still in his hunched skin he turns and bellows:

"Not if I eat you first!" The child scurries giggling from the tent. Jesse stands up from his skin. The old woman pets his cheek. Her wrinkled face a maze of light and shadow.

"Good boy," she whispers.

"Gather the children. Tell Mara's mother to sit close to the fire. She has been chosen to receive the Mark." He hurries into the twilight.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tammuz, Mara's brother, had been born just after the last visit of the Woolly Man eleven summers before. Most of the young men and women of the village proudly wore a white stone of Naming from the Walker's last visit. Each one had a story they would tell again when the Woolly Man came.

"Will I get a white stone, uncle? Will I get a story, too, will I get a Name?"

The grin on his shaman uncle's face made his next words seem strange.

"Beware the Orrngh, Tammuz; he may eat you."

"That's just a story to scare babies." Tammuz scoffs, poking the fire.

"We'll see tomorrow night, won't we." Ham spins the rack of drying fish.

"He swallowed my sister, Denan, the Medicine Woman; that's why she has that awful scar."

A mischievous grin creeps into the corners of his mouth. He reaches his burn-scarred arm into a bucket and smears his cheeks with fish guts and ashes. He leans into the boy's face.

"He might make you as pretty as she," he says, goggling his eyes at the boy.

"Too bad he didn't fix your ugly mug," Tammuz giggles, swinging his poking stick at his uncle's dripping mask. Ham's face takes on a fierce grimace. His arms swing wide as he lunges toward the boy.

"Beware the Orrngh," he hisses. He holds his scarred arm under the boy's nose.

"Look at it boy. Who did this to me?" Tammuz cringes, almost whimpering; he shrinks back and his eyes widen.

"H-he's not just a story?" He stammers. Ham looms over him. His eyes glare; his bared teeth glint in the fire light and shadows.

"No story is just a story!" He hisses between clenched teeth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The children whimper as outside the darkened tent the drums throb and the men call upon the Orrngh with chants and rattles. A pipe shrieks, a crashing of branches. A warning cry pierces the night. The drums rumble; a warrior's call is answered by the thud of a falling body. A wail ends in the cough of death. The drums fall silent. The men shout; arrows and spears swish though the night. An ear- bursting "Orrngh" shakes the air. With screams of fear and pain the men run; their cries grow distant, then stop. The wind whistles in the trees; the fire sputters. A wolf howls in the distance. From outside the tent's edge the jagged shadow reaches. It rattles with dry bones and it smells of stinking meat. The children scream. A hand reaches out to stifle each of them; they struggle. Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoes in the night, and in jumps the Ornngh! Flashing eyes blaze from its entire body. Its long fangs drip with blood; its trunk swings down across a belt of skulls, each with glittering jewels for eyes and tinkling, piercing tiny bells. A puff of smoke comes from its trunk and the fire roars into a raging blaze. Suddenly, two gigantic eyes on stalks gleaming with red and black terror swing up over the tusked beast. Its trunk flies up and more dust flies as another ear-bursting "OHNNGGRRN" erupts from the beast. Mad with shivering horror, a few children squirm from their captors' grasps. Their screams shrill out against the rocks and the bellowing of the great beast. It lurches forward and swallows one of the shrieking children, Mara. The girl's muffled cries grow dim and disappear. A great shooshing escapes the beast and fills the room with a foul stench. A halo of twinkling stars circles about it. A very human hand rises to its lips. "Quiet," it whispers. The children stifle.

"Be quiet or I will eat you!" It whispers.

"Be quiet or I will roar again!"

A frightened child lets out a sob. Suddenly the beast's human hands become the claws of a great bear. It spreads its arms and the flutter of bats fills the room as wings and wings and skulls and skulls of bats wither and woosh about the room. The fire roars; cinders crackle. The figure spins its great wings in a spiral about it. A piercing whistle cuts into the ears. A hide flies from the beast and covers the fire. Darkness fills the room. Mara screams; her voice muffled as if still living in the great beast. The smell of burning flesh fills the air; a dull glow upon the floor. A wooshing of bat wings, the whistles of birds, and buzzes of flies fill the air. As the creature circles the glowing circle of dark ocher its eyes begin to grow fierce. A loud belch fills the room with the odor of blood and vomit. The child's shriek pierces its muffling for just a moment. Another child shrieks. The giant clawed foot of a huge monster fills the dull-red glowing circle that had been the fire. The footprint bursts into flames. By its light a great claw reaches into the horned beast, pulling out the blood-covered, dung-caked little girl. She is thrown into a leather bucket. As she gasps for air her screams become a mockery of frogs. The bucket is held before the fire.

"Listen," says the creature; lifting its elephant ears one by one. It dumps Mara at the fire's edge. She squeals as the embers brand her hand for life, a living testimony.

The monster is gone. The children are released; they rush to comfort their stoic hero, Mara.

"Did it hurt mu--," Tammuz's voice is cut short by a whispered, "Quiet, listen! he might come back!" The women and children huddle together, shivering with wild eyes piercing the night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Outside, Ham leaves a haunch of smoked meat beside a tent. He peers within at the elephant's head on a stool beside a basin. Ivory tusks glow in the firelight. A woolly mantle rests behind, its knots and strings a blaze of colors. Killican, a wizened old man, winks at the hunter.

"Was it a good show?" Ham nods his head.

"I won't have to say 'Quiet, listen' for a whole year!"

Their laughter echoes into the night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In honor of T.S. Eliot and Allen Ginsberg.

With thanks to "Fred" (the "shaman" who gave me the story) and "George" (who listened to mine.)

[reddragon]

i cant concentrate long enough to read all this or the meaning but the music was ok. for myself i find comfort a bit in folk type music.

[spiritual_emergency]

Hello reddragon,
I confess I shared that story because I thought it might be refreshing to come at this from a different perspective. Music and storytelling were two tools that helped me understand and share my own experience. Sometimes, getting everything out is half the battle.

At any rate, sometimes it's pleasant to take a break and talk about something other than whatever problems we might be carrying. After all, we're still human beings underneath all of that.

i find comfort a bit in folk type music.

I really love that Shamisen/Taiko song. It amazes me that two simple instruments could come together to create something so powerful. Folk music can also be soothing and comforting to me. Do you have any favorites in particular?

~ Namaste

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[reddragon]

i have no favorite but i do like just instruments playing. i don't need any more words. to change the subject if you want. honest, my job, i work where i deal withe a lot of hateful people,i am a minority when it comes to keeping the peace.there, workers hate everyone.yes i hear the voices 24/7 but after many years i learned to try to make those voices help for good.(to say)

[spiritual_emergency]

reddragon: i do like just instruments playing. i don't need any more words.

That makes perfect sense to me. If I'm going to share any more music with you, I'll look for stuff without words.

to change the subject if you want. honest, my job, i work where i deal withe a lot of hateful people,i am a minority when it comes to keeping the peace.there, workers hate everyone.

It's tough to be a minority in any capacity. Something that's sort of funny is you find words to be too much for you -- I found lots of people to be too much for me. My first couple of jobs, it was good for me to work with just a very few people. And I got lucky. They were all nice.

yes i hear the voices 24/7...

You must have learned a lot of different coping skills over the years to be able to deal with your voices for so long. There are some other people here who hear voices as well. Some of them take medication for it and they say it's helped them quite a bit, but a few of them still hear voices even if they take medication. Maybe you could share some of the things you've learned -- it might help someone else.

... but after many years i learned to try to make those voices help for good.(to say)

In one of your other posts you said that your voices help you when you're out on the street. I don't know for sure but I'm guessing they help you figure out where the good and bad places are. I'm guessing too that maybe some of those voices you have are kind and others are not so kind. I didn't get voices in quite the same way but I got feelings, and those feelings would do the same thing for me -- help me figure out what was good and what was bad.

Anyway, here's a nice song -- no words...

.

[nowheretorun]

please keep adding SE

[reddragon]

yes , i have been dealing with it for many years and found ways to cope with it without telling others. if the ways i deal with it can help others i would help, that is one way i cope with it, just some you cant be nice to, you have to learn when and whom. i would even know how to help others with this problem. putting things in words is a bit of a problem to me. so i wouldn't know where to start with what to do.
thank you for the music. i have a disk with music that has helped me for the last 4 years now. i would put it up but i don't know how and if i could, i don't know if it would be legal. i don't understand all the Internet type laws.
of late, here is how i deal with this problem. i come here and post and go to the chat room and vent (to say) some of them out.
off this subject, a new employee where i work, i noticed some of what i went threw, talking to herself, just a bit,laughing when no one is around, and other things i went threw a long time ago before. she is just a child, 19, she is curious about chat rooms but never been to one. my mind is wandering a bit now but tonight is a decent night. i don't know how or what to to do to help her. i don't REALY know her or have feelings or anything else like that. i just know she has the same problem or something like mine and i don't want this person to ,well always be like this. how do i help her?
thank you my friend for all you help, in the past,present and maybe the future.

[reddragon]

thank you friend. i have listened to some of your music and they are peacefull, to calm the voices.THANK YOU.

[spiritual_emergency]

Hello nowheretorun. I hope all is well with you and yours.

.

[spiritual_emergency]

reddragon: yes , i have been dealing with it for many years and found ways to cope with it without telling others. if the ways i deal with it can help others i would help, that is one way i cope with it, just some you cant be nice to, you have to learn when and whom.

I agree. There are good people and bad people, and even the same person can have good and bad moments. (Like me, I was so grouchy last night!)

i would even know how to help others with this problem. putting things in words is a bit of a problem to me. so i wouldn't know where to start with what to do.

Everyone seems to start by figuring out what helps them first and then, one day they see someone else like them who is just starting for themselves and having a hard time... so they try to help by sharing something that might help that other person. Sort of like you and that young woman you saw at work -- you know that she's going through something like what you went through and you want to do something to help her if you can.

thank you for the music. i have a disk with music that has helped me for the last 4 years now. i would put it up but i don't know how and if i could, i don't know if it would be legal. i don't understand all the Internet type laws.

If you can tell me the name of the CD and maybe some of your favorite songs from it, I can try to see if I can find the song on the internet -- that way, you could share some of your favorite music too.

of late, here is how i deal with this problem. i come here and post and go to the chat room and vent (to say) some of them out.

I'm very pleased for you, that you've found this place because it makes such a big difference to be able to talk with other people who understand what you're going through. I know it helped me feel not so different once I found other people who had similar experiences. Before that, I felt very much alone.

off this subject, a new employee where i work, i noticed some of what i went threw, talking to herself, just a bit,laughing when no one is around, and other things i went threw a long time ago before. she is just a child, 19, she is curious about chat rooms but never been to one. my mind is wandering a bit now but tonight is a decent night. i don't know how or what to to do to help her. i don't REALY know her or have feelings or anything else like that. i just know she has the same problem or something like mine and i don't want this person to ,well always be like this. how do i help her?

That can be difficult because most people don't want their employers or co-workers to know that they have these kinds of experiences -- they try to keep it hidden and don't talk about it at work. I suggest you start just by being kind and maybe she will feel she can trust you and might tell you about some of her experiences. If you felt okay with it you could tell her about some of yours or you could say something like, "I have a friend who hears voices too and she went to a site on the internet that helped her..." Then, you could give her the name of this place or share some links with her. Something like that.

thank you my friend for all you help, in the past,present and maybe the future.

You are most welcome. I was helped by many other people too, when I was in much worse shape than I am now, and it really made a huge difference. They really helped a lot and it wasn't so difficult what they did -- they were just kind, they listened to me talk, they gave me space to work things out for myself.

The nice thing about a place like this is it brings together a lot of people in one place where we can talk about our experiences, share what helped us, and learn from each other. And I do have to say that most of the people here are kind and helpful. I hope you'll continue to stick around.

~ Namaste

.

[reddragon]

the dis is called divmittes,twelve dances with GOD.
bad day now.somewhat
will dealm with it .
bad day now.
i still dont know how i can help others. everythin confusion now.

[reddragon]

Everyone seems to start by figuring out what helps them first and then, one day they see someone else like them who is just starting for themselves and having a hard time... so they try to help by sharing something that might help that other person. Sort of like you and that young woman you saw at work -- you know that she's going through something like what you went through and you want to do something to help her if you can.
the ting is , i know i have a problem that others give words to. i deal with my voices all day and on a good day i see only a couple figuers talking to me. today , not soo good. so i cant be help to others can i? bad moment,sry.cant or willing tyo hekl= anyone now.

[spiritual_emergency]

reddragon: the dis is called divmittes,twelve dances with GOD.

I found it here: Ian Anderson Divinities: 12 Dances with God

Some of his songs are also on youtube.com: Ian Anderson

i deal with my voices all day and on a good day i see only a couple figuers talking to me. today , not soo good.

I hope your day gets better for you, reddragon. In the meantime, maybe this song will help.

~ Namaste

[Junerain]

I look and look for someone who is going through anything REMOTELY like I've been going through...it is hard to find, a pearl has been found in this oyster yet I do find there is no one with an oyster with any hints of resembling how odd, how strange, my oyster is and was, my _story_......

I begin to tell it and others not only shirk away emotionally...saw physically draw back and hide their eyes and glance from meeting mine ((((it is that sad))))

I want to get the word out that recovery is possible but I am made to feel I do not deserve recovery from a story this strange.....

[spiritual_emergency]

"No story is just a story!"

Treatment or Therapy?

The medical model of handling the acute "psychotic" episode comes under the classification of what is known as "treatment," which implies doing something to the patients to relieve them of their symptoms, even to cure them. The alternative paradigm I am proposing is based on the concept of a "therapy" that gives respectful heed to the psychic process underlying the symptoms.

The original meaning of the Greek word therapeia was a "waiting upon" or a "service done" to the gods, with implications of tending, nurturing, caring and being an attendant; in time the word was applied to medical care. The original connotation is pertinent to the handling of acute "psychotic" episodes, since the persons going through them are in a state of being overwhelmed by images of gods and other mythic elements. Hence a therapist does well to "be an attendant" (therapeutes) upon these mythic images so as to foster their work. "Treatment" strives to stop what is happening, while "therapy" attempts to move with the underlying process and help achieve the creative aim implicit in it.

Visionary experiences of various kinds, including acute episodes, have a tendency to take six weeks to accomplish their inner aims. It is intriguing to reflect on the connotations of this, for this number is recognizable as forty days, with all this time’s connotations. Pacing is an important phenomenon that invites our scrutiny. Our experience indicates that in the acute episode the more floridly disturbed the persons are, the more rapidly they move through it. Intensity seems to correlate directly with favorable outcome. The persons who are frightened, overwhelmed with imagery, and engrossed in their preoccupations are the ones most likely to have a favorable inner experience, from which they emerge with significant change.

When we admit individuals who are at the very onset of their episode and again, at the height of their disordered state, they may be fragmented, often mute, with scattered bits of ideation passing across the mental stage. At this phase of the process the mental content is a hodgepodge and the ego has quit the field, lost in the deep interiors of the psyche. Listening to an individual at this time gives kaleidoscopic glimpses of mythic themes that often leave the listener bewildered. Yet if we sit quietly and attentively with a person in this state for only two or three times, we may find the fragments coalescing into a story that gradually begins to move forward...

Source: Trials of the Visionary Mind

.

[spiritual_emergency]

The first time I told my story I could only do so from within a state of altered consciousness and because there was so much I could not say, could not express, I often had to use pieces of other people's stories to tell my own. Pieces like this one...

TIME IS A BLIND GUIDE.

NO ONE IS BORN JUST ONCE. IF YOU'RE LUCKY, YOU'LL EMERGE AGAIN IN SOMEONE'S ARMS; OR UNLUCKY, WAKE WHEN THE LONG TRAIL OF TERROR BRUSHES THE INSIDE OF YOUR SKULL.

I RAN AND FELL, RAN AND FELL. THEN THE RIVER: SO COLD IT FELT SHARP.

THE RIVER WAS THE SAME BLACKNESS THAT WAS INSIDE ME; ONLY THE THIN MEMBRANE OF MY SKIN KEPT ME FLOATING.

FROM THE OTHER BANK, I WATCHED THE DARKNESS TURN TO PURPLE-ORANGE ABOVE THE TOWN; THE COLOR OF FLESH TRANSFORMING TO SPIRIT. THEY FLEW UP. THE DEAD PASSED ABOVE ME, WEIRD HALOES AND ARCS SMOTHERING THE STARS. THE TREES BENT UNDER THEIR WEIGHT. I'D NEVER BEEN ALONE IN THE NIGHT FOREST, THE WILD BARE BRANCHES WERE FROZEN SNAKES. THE GROUND TILTED AND I DIDN'T HOLD ON. I STRAINED TO JOIN THEM, TO RISE WITH THEM, TO PEEL FROM THE GROUND LIKE PAPER UNGLUING AT ITS EDGES. I KNOW NOW WHY WE BURY OUR DEAD AND MARK THE PLACE WITH STONE, WITH THE HEAVIEST THING WE CAN THINK OF: BECAUSE THE DEAD ARE EVERYWHERE BUT THE GROUND.

THEN---AS IF SHE'D PUSHED THE HAIR FROM MY FOREHEAD, AS IF I'D HEARD HER VOICE---I KNEW SUDDENLY SHE WAS INSIDE ME. MOVING ALONG SINEWS, UNDER MY SKIN THE WAY SHE USED TO MOVE THROUGH THE HOUSE AT NIGHT. SHE WAS STOPPING TO SAY GOODBYE AND WAS CAUGHT, IN SUCH PAIN, WANTING TO RISE, WANTING TO STAY. IT WAS MY RESPONSIBILITY TO RELEASE HER, A SIN TO KEEP HER FROM ASCENDING. I TORE AT MY CLOTHES, MY HAIR. SHE WAS GONE. MY OWN FAST BREATH AROUND MY HEAD.

I RAN FROM THE SOUND OF THE RIVER INTO THE WOODS, DARK AS THE INSIDE OF A BOX. I RAN UNTIL THE FIRST LIGHT WRUNG THE LAST GREYNESS OUT OF THE STARS, DRIPPING DIRTY LIGHT BETWEEN THE TREES. I KNEW WHAT TO DO. I TOOK A STICK AND DUG. I PLANTED MYSELF LIKE A TURNIP AND HID MY FACE WITH LEAVES.

MY DAYS IN THE GROUND WERE A DELIRIUM OF SLEEP AND ATTENTION. I DREAMED SOMEONE FOUND MY MISSING BUTTON AND CAME LOOKING FOR ME. IN A GLADE OF BURST PODS LEAKING THEIR WHITE STUFFING, I DREAMED OF BREAD: WHEN I WOKE, MY JAW WAS SORE FROM CHEWING AIR. I WOKE TERRIFIED OF ANIMALS, MORE TERRIFIED OF MEN.

A GREY FALL DAY. AT THE END OF STRENGTH. AT THE PLACE WHERE FAITH IS MOST LIKE DESPAIR, I LEAPED FROM THE STREETS OF BISKUPIN; FROM UNDERGROUND INTO AIR. I LIMPED TOWARDS HIM, STIFF AS A GOLEM, CLAY TIGHT BEHIND MY KNEES. I STOPPED A FEW YARDS FROM WHERE HE WAS DIGGING---LATER HE TOLD ME IT WAS AS IF I'D HIT A GLASS DOOR, AN INARGUABLE SURFACE OF PURE AIR--- "AND YOUR MUD MASK CRACKED WITH TEARS AND I KNEW YOU WERE HUMAN, JUST A CHILD. CRYING WITH THE ABANDONMENT OF YOUR AGE.

HE SAID HE SPOKE TO ME. BUT I WAS WILD WITH DEAFNESS. MY PEAT-CLOGGED EARS.

SO HUNGRY. I SCREAMED INTO THE SILENCE THE ONLY PHRASE I KNEW IN MORE THAN ONE LANGUAGE. I SCREAMED IT IN GERMAN AND YIDDISH, THUMPING MY FISTS ON MY OWN CHEST: DIRTY JEW, DIRTY JEW, DIRTY JEW.

THE MAN EXCAVATING IN THE MUD AT BISKUPIN, THE MAN I CAME TO KNOW AS ATHOS, WORE ME UNDER HIS CLOTHES. MY LIMBS BONE-SHADOWS ON HIS STRONG LEGS AND ARMS. MY HEAD BURIED IN HIS NECK, BOTH OF US BENEATH A HEAVY COAT. I WAS SUFFOCATING BUT I COULDN'T GET WARM. INSIDE ATHOS COAT, COLD AIR STREAMING IN FROM THE EDGE OF THE CAR DOOR. THE DRONE OF ENGINES AND WHEELS. ONCE IN A WHILE, THE SOUND OF A PASSING LORRY. IN OUR STRANGE COUPLING, ATHOS' VOICE BURROWED INTO MY BRAIN. I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND SO I MADE IT UP MYSELF. IT'S RIGHT. IT'S NECESSARY TO RUN.

FOR MILES THROUGH DARKNESS IN THE BACK SEAT OF THE CAR. I HAD NO IDEA WHERE WE WERE GOING. ANOTHER MAN DROVE AND WHEN WE WERE SIGNALLED TO STOP, ATHOS PULLED A BLANKET OVER US. IN GREEK STAINED BUT COMPETANT GERMAN, ATHOS COMPLAINED HE WAS ILL. HE DIDN'T JUST COMPLAIN. HE WHIMPERED. HE MOANED. HE INSISTED ON DESCRIBING HIS SYMPTOMS AND TREATMENTS IN DETAIL. UNTIL, DISGUSTED AND ANNOYED, THEY WAVED US ON. EACH TIME WE STOPPED, I WAS NUMB AGAINST HIS BODY. A BLISTER TIGHT WITH FEAR.

MY HEAD ACHED WITH FEVER. I SMELLED MY HAIR BURNING. THROUGH DAYS AND NIGHTS I SPED AWAY. FROM LONG AFTERNOONS WITH MY BEST FRIENDS BY THE RIVER. THEY WERE YANKED RIGHT THROUGH MY SCALP. BUT BELLA CLUNG. WE WERE RUSSIAN DOLLS. I INSIDE ATHOS, BELLA INSIDE ME.

I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG WE TRAVELLED THIS WAY. ONCE, I WOKE AND SAW SIGNS IN A FLUID SCRIPT THAT FROM A DISTANCE LOOKED LIKE HEBREW. THEN ATHOS SAID WE WERE HOME, IN GREECE. WHEN WE GOT CLOSER, I SAW THE WORDS WERE STRANGE; I'D NEVER SEEN GREEK LETTERS BEFORE. IT WAS NIGHT, BUT THE SQUARE HOUSES WERE WHITE EVEN IN DARKNESS AND THE AIR WAS SOFT. I WAS DIM WITH HUNGER AND FROM LYING SO LONG IN THE CAR.

ATHOS SAID: "I WILL BE YOUR KOURUMBAROS, YOUR GODFATHER, THE MARRIAGE SPONSOR FOR YOU AND YOUR SONS."

ATHOS SAID: "WE MUST CARRY EACH OTHER. IF WE DON'T HAVE THIS, WHAT ARE WE . . ."

ON THE ISLAND OF ZAKYNTHOS, ATHOS SCIENTIST, SCHOLAR, MIDDLING MASTER OF LANGUAGES PERFORMED HIS MOST ASTOUNDING FEAT. FROM OUT OF HIS TROUSERS HE PLUCKED THE SEVEN YEAR OLD REFUGEE, JAKOB BEER.

Source: Anne Micheals: Fugitive Pieces

or pieces like this one...

Mathew Good Band: Strange Days ~ Beautiful Midnight

[spiritual_emergency]

It's been almost seven years since I first told my story from within that altered state and I had to get up from the computer so I could wipe off the sweat that came with sharing that piece up above.

There must be a little
spilled blood in every story
if it is to carry medicine.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Junerain: I look and look for someone who is going through anything REMOTELY like I've been going through...it is hard to find, a pearl has been found in this oyster yet I do find there is no one with an oyster with any hints of resembling how odd, how strange, my oyster is and was, my _story_.....

There are two parts to the telling of a story. The first part is simply to tell it. Initially, a person may not know where to begin. I suggest that they start where they start. Like me, they may find that their story first rises out of them in fragments and disconnected pieces, like pieces of a puzzle. The story may take place in the past, in the present, in the future, or in a place where Time itself doesn't even exist or all those places at the same time. People might tell their stories using pictures, words, music, poetry, metaphor, dance, even colors. I had to use all of the above to capture the immensity of emotion and experience that was involved. Borrowing once more on the words of a truly skilled and remarkable psychiatrist...

If the therapeutic factors in the psychotherapy of the neuroses are puzzling, those in the psychoses are utterly mysterious. So much is this the case that in the average psychiatric opinion, it is generally held that, as a matter of fact, there is no healing for the psychoses, that there can be allviation of symptoms but not cure. I have always been reluctant to accept this closing of the door upon the possibility of healing, and this is because I find, as Jung has found, that the psyche knows better than we do what it is up to in its deep turmoils.

Since the psyche had its own intentions in a psychosis, when the unconsciousness is activated to this extreme degree, a welter of emotions wants to come into play, accompanied by images of a mythological cast that belong to these emotions. Most of these elements of the psyche are very necessary to the further growth and development of the personality. It becomes a very painful experience when they meet a wall of prohibition that dams up their flow and prevents their movement.

Much of the synthesizing and organizing action of the psyche goes on at the level of the unknown, that is, of unconscious process, long before it is a matter of conscious insight - long before it reaches the ego. This unconscious process is essentially emotional in its quality and hence the play of emotion is best allowed to do its own work. Too early a recognition of meaning, and formulation of it may scotch this subtle process that goes on beneath the surface.

The central archetype is the factor in the psyche that, according to all the evidence in our observations, has the capacity to transform the self. This change involves not only the self-image in the usual sense, but also the structure of the personality as a whole. The means by which this is brought about in the psychotic episode are those that I have described as the "renewal process." When I speak of this kind of "ideation," it should not be thought of as a fanciful play of symbolic ideas. Rather, they occur as powerful, even overpowering, emotional and spiritual experiences. That is the reason for my preferring to refer to these archetypal phenomena as "affect-images," since they are made up principally of emotion and image together as aspects of the same entity.

Trials of the Visionary Mind
John Weir Perry Ph. D.

If the first part is telling the story. The second part is telling it to someone. That someone might be a friend, a family member, perhaps a therapist. Some people don't have anyone they can tell their story to and for them, I recommend that they imagine an ideal listener and tell their story to that imaginary person. Later, they may find that they tell their story and parts of it to many, many people, many, many times over.

Part of an individual's later task will be to organize their story in linear fashion. A timeline can be helpful for this stage. Simply draw out a line and then place a dot upon it to represent your birth and another dot to represent where you are now. Then apply the "pieces" where they belong on the timeline of your life. Don't be surprised if telling one pieces triggers the telling of another piece or if some pieces belong to a time before you were even born. Story-telling is a very fluid process but it's the process of telling and organizing those details that helps create order out of disorder.

I want to get the word out that recovery is possible but I am made to feel I do not deserve recovery from a story this strange.....

Everyone is deserving of recovery Junerain. Everyone.

~ Namaste


See also:
- Telling the Story of the Experience
- Personal Definitions of Recovery
- Telling Your Recovery Story

.

[reddragon]

ty spiratul . i have the disk for that, it helped me and still is good to hear.still bad today.i can never concertrai on all the words posted but i understand, we all have stories. i have to evil past mede to me, fore those that have i dont know what to say.

[reddragon]

my friend, i have not been completle honest, i have looked around this sight and did find close to what i wont tell any this Paranoid . i distrust everyone. that is why i am reluctent to express or tell the truth about me.
i am ashamed and not.i survive .in fact, everytime i come to the chat, everyone leaves,is it becaus i admit i see things and hear the voice and react to them. say i am crazy if you wish.at least we are honest among ouselves.we decided to keep or problem to ourselves and .....

[spiritual_emergency]

reddragon: my friend, i have not been completle honest, i have looked around this sight and did find close to what i wont tell any this Paranoid . i distrust everyone. that is why i am reluctent to express or tell the truth about me.

I understand too, reddragon. It's like you say: we all have stories.

A common theme in the stories above is fear. And what is paranoia but fear? Fear that someone will hurt us. Fear that someone will not understand us. Fear that someone will think less of us. Yesterday I broke into a sweat remembering that time when Fear was everywhere. That's why, when that man gave me that song it was so calming. I had been so frightened and for a little while at least, he helped me feel safe.

Fear can stop you loving
Love can stop your fear
Fear can stop you loving
But it's not always that clear

Big Calm

I always say that the goal is not to be Fearless but rather, Fearful at the appropriate time. Fear exists to alert us to the possibility of danger so we don't want to get rid of it and in this world we live in, danger is an aspect of reality. But if the personal world we live in has become nothing but fearful, that exerts a terrible toll on a person and their body. Like Mara in the story above, we need to learn how to face our fear so it doesn't paralyze us and take control of our lives.

We need to understand the past in order to reclaim the present and the future. An understanding of psychological trauma begins with rediscovery of the past.

The fundamental stages of recovery are:
1. Establishing safety
2. Reconstructing the traumatic story
3. Restoring the connection between the survivor and his/her community.

Psychological trauma is an affliction of the powerless. At the moment of trauma, the victim is rendered helpless by overwhelming force. Traumatic events overwhelm the ordinary symptoms of care that give people a sense of control, connection, and meaning.

Certain experiences increase the likelihood of harm.
1. Being taken by surprise
2. Being trapped
3. Being at the point of exhaustion
4. Being physically violated or injured
5. Being exposed to physical violence
6. Witnessing grotesque deaths

Trauma occurs when action is of no avail--when neither resistance nor escape is possible. The traumatized individual may experience intense emotion but without clear memory of the event--or may remember everything in detail but without emotion. Traumatic symptoms have a tendency to become disconnected from their source and to take on a life of their own. (Dissociation)

Source: Trauma and Recovery

Many people who hear voices or experience psychosis have a history of trauma. For them, part of healing means dealing with that past trauma, learning from it, and then putting it in its rightful place.

Thanks for sharing a bit more of your own story reddragon. I hope you will share more, but only as you feel comfortable and safe doing so. In the beginning it's not unusual to feel safe and then unsafe; safe and then unsafe; safe and then unsafe. So a person can move back and forth between trusting and not-trusting. This is why some people's stories must be told over a very long period, just one piece at a time.

~ Namaste

.

[pachyderm]

Originally Posted by spiritual_emergency

Yet if we sit quietly and attentively with a person in this state for only two or three times, we may find the fragments coalescing into a story that gradually begins to move forward...

Yes.

(The message you have entered is too short. Please lengthen your message to at least 10 characters.)

[reddragon]

hello spiritual , i am confusesed .
Many people who hear voices or experience psychosis have a history of trauma. For them, part of healing means dealing with that past trauma, learning from it, and then putting it in its rightful place
. i have no past of this.i have never been through anyting enough to cause my problem.
the fear part, i am sorry, truly sorry you had a bad time. the fear canmake things worse. i got my fear to go away by just saying , oh well.then i go on., hard to believe but i overcome that part.

[spiritual_emergency]

Came across this one recently...

... Dr. Rasmussen one day asked him (Najagneq) if there were any in whom he himself believed; to which he replied, "Yes, a power that we call Sila, one that cannot be explained in so many words: a very strong spirit, the upholder of the universe, of the weather, in fact of all life on earth -so mighty that his speech to man comes not through ordinary words but through storms, snowfall, rain showers, the tempests of the sea, all the forces that man fears, or through sunshine, calm seas or small, innocent playing children who understand nothing. When times are good, Sila has nothing to say to mankind. He has disappeared into his infinite nothingness and remains away as long as people do not abuse life but have respect for their daily food. No one has ever seen Sila. His place of sojourn is so mysterious that he is with us and immensely far away at the same time."

And what does Sila say?

"The inhabitant or soul of the universe," Najagneq said, "is never seen; its voice alone is heard. All we know is that it has a gentle voice, like a woman, a voice so fine and gentle that even children cannot become afraid. And what it says is: Sila ersinarsinivdluge, "Be not afraid of the universe."

Now these were very simple men-at least in our terms of culture, learning and civilization. Yet their wisdom, drawn from their own most outward depths, corresponds in essence to what we have heard and learned from the most respected mystics. There is a deep and general human wisdom here, of which we do not often come to know in our usual ways of active rational thinking.


Source: Schizophrenia: The Inward Journey - Joseph Campbell [PDF File]

~*~



When I walk beside her
I am the better man
When I look to leave her
I always stagger back again

Once I built an ivory tower
So I could worship from above
When I climbed down to be set free
She took me in again

There’s a big
a big hard sun
beating on the big people
in the big hard world

When she comes to greet me
She is mercy at my feet
When I see her inner charm
She just throws it back at me

Once I dug an early grave
to find a better land
She just smiled and laughed at me
and took her rules back again

There’s a big
a big hard sun
beating on the big people
in the big hard world

When I go to cross that river
She is comfort by my side
When I try to understand
She just opens up her hands

There’s a big
a big hard sun
beating on the big people
in the big hard world

Once I stood to lose her
When I saw what I had done
Bowed down and threw away the hours
of her garden and her son

So I tried to warn her
I turned to see her weep
Forty days and forty nights
and its still coming down on me

Music of the Hour:

[Junerain]

I have built many an ivory tower, worshipping traits others_ have from above, only to descend down to where I can see and be embraced that _I had these such traits, all along, deep, deep inside me

[spiritual_emergency]

Junerain: I have built many an ivory tower, worshipping traits others_ have from above, only to descend down to where I can see and be embraced that _I had these such traits, all along, deep, deep inside me .

That's called "withdrawing your projections".

.