• Myth, religion and reality

    Ancient Sumerians are thought to have believed in a place called Irkalla. The ancient Greeks knew of a place called Tartarus. The Hebrew bible refers to Sheol and Gehenna. Islamic traditions (and possibly the Koran – I haven’t taken the time to research it much) refer to Jahannam. Christianity – and much of modern western civilization – call this place Hell. We all have a general idea what Hell represents, wether we believe in it or not. Regardless of what it’s called, I believe they all have a few things in common – it’s neither pleasant, nor synonymous with hope. Quite the contrary, it is a place of hopeless despair.

    I’m writing this because I think there is a hell, but I don’t think you are familiar with it. It has nothing to do with religion, myth, or ancient beliefs. The Hell I’m referring to is a place of our own making – some of us anyway. It’s not something we’ve built, or a place you can visit on a whim. It is both real and imagined.

    It is mental illness.

    It is not the garden variety anxiety that falls at the feet of mighty Xanax. It is the slippery slope of the profoundly ill, from which there is sometimes no return. It is a laundry list of antipsychotics; the Phenothiazine and Butyrophenone families, with a few of their step-children: such as Clozapine, Olanzapine, Quetiapine, and Ziprasidone. Then when all of that fails, there’s ECT.

    Hell is a place of constant torment, with no hope of escape. Sometimes it’s in peoples homes. Sometimes it’s on a locked ward; that place in hospitals no one likes to talk about. If you’re one of these unlucky few it doesn’t matter where you are or where you go, because it follows you everywhere; because it really is all in your head.

    This isn’t a story about me, just something that I have to see. Seeing it doesn’t break your heart, it smashes it like a glass on a tile floor – shattered in an almost infinite number little pieces.

  • The exception to the rule

    Sometimes the hit flows up-shill.

    Case in point:
    Beth has a class project for her “gifted” class. She comes up with an idea and makes a blueprint. When she gets to a point that’s outside her expertise… namely: designing her presentation props in Microsoft Office – she enlists the help of Cheryl.

    At this point, the assignment becomes Cheryl’s project. She takes the blueprint designed by Beth and enters the necessary data in a Word document. When she gets to a point that’s outside her expertise… namely: formatting the document so everything fits – she enlists the help of her husband.

    At this point, the assignment becomes MY project… and I want to know why I’ve got a school project due thirteen years after I graduated.

    If you do your child’s homework, they’ll get a good grade. But if you show them how to turn the computer on, they’ll figure out how to play a lot of online games and remember every fracking product web address flashed on the boob-tube… and you’ll end up doing the next damn project anyway.

  • Can you dig it?

    I think I could get into being a househusband. Aside from laundry (which I have to do anyway), it’s not so bad. Mind you, I didn’t say it would be easy. But there’s a certain pleasure to be had cooking a meal, sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the water to boil, watching the kids play in the back yard.

    Have I said this before? My deja vu alarm is going off.