The Gate

There was a movie when I was a kid that terrified me. It was a kid’s horror movie, and it worked. I had nightmares for years about hands that would pop out from underneath my bed and drag me to the depths of hell. Which is what happened in the movie. I used to check my hands all the time to make sure a demon eye didn’t sporadically grow in one of them. In the movie hundreds of tiny, terrorizing demon creatures would form out of your walls, and like ants, surround you, and tear you apart. Crazy for a kid, right? This was a kid’s movie in the 80s. It was PG. In the end, they must defeat the devil himself, which is a dragon-like monster with tentacles as arms that comes up from your floor. I think it was called, “The Gate.”

The CGI was impressive for its time, which is how it gained popularity in the first place. Of course now it’s a bit laughable to look at. So is the concept. Of course, showing all that monster stuff to children, and the idea of being dragged to hell for an eternity of torture, and marketing it to the 7 and up crowd… yeah, that probably wouldn’t fly today.

By the way, are you noticing a theme here? Because, this is where the movie gets really cringe. And I never caught it until I decided to watch this movie as an adult, to sort of face the cause of abject fear in my childhood. It’s entirely religious propaganda. Not just because of the hell part; Jesus, satanic practicing, evil witchcraft, and all Christian ideology you can throw on a script, is referenced all over the movie.

The kids partake in, essentially, dark arts. That’s what opens the gate. And there is this one kid who is reciting that this is witchcraft, against God, they are sinning. I just want to make a note here, nothing that they did involved witchcraft in any way shape or form. Of course a horror movie is never complete without some one who knows better and does it anyway because of peer pressure. This is why those kids are later being chased by demons, they deserve the consequences of opening this door. Which mister know-it-all brat constantly points out. You can only say, “I told you so,” so many times before your friends start to wonder if sacrificing you is an option. Anyway, how dare they question the all mighty Lord and Savior for a fun night of running away from evil! And while they did do this sinful, anti-god witchcraft, it is noted that it gained so much power so quickly because the older sister, oblivious to what her little brother and his friends were doing, was sinning as well… by taking advantage of the fact her parent’s will be gone during the weekend and throwing a party. How dare she! Her vane in planning this perfect party, failing to pay attention to her little brother, constantly chasing him away. Making him cry a lot because he felt so out of touch with his now teenage sister. Granted, I’ll agree that it’s pretty bad babysitting to completely ignore her little brother like that. So much so that right under her very nose he opened the door to hell, and didn’t even notice until her friends got eaten or dragged off by tiny pitchforked demons coming out of her wall. One might think a good, responsible babysitter might have caught her little brother causing world altering mischief before her friends came over. But, they lost their brother sisterly bond, and she acted like she didn’t like him anymore. This is just adding to her sins: her vanity, disobeying her parents, and being a bad sister. They have a nice talk about it, because I guess the demons took a break from terrorizing so they could bond. Demons really want to ensure a broken relationship gets fixed before the two of them go to hell. Especially since they know that love conquers all, including Satan. So let’s make sure they bond so that later we are defeated. Good plan.

There are various tools they used to defeat Satan, when his Godzilla with tentacles like appearance broke through their house. One of which was the power of God and prayer. A weapon was the crucifix. Oh, and the newfound rebonding between brother and sister. That’s what essentially destroys Satan, loving your siblings. Yup. That’s what did it. It makes no sense, because they are in the middle of suburbia and one might think some one would have seen Godzilla rise out of a house. The sheer fact that the military was not involved in taking this out was absurd. Or at least the police. There was a party where kids died, and those that escaped ran for their lives, and told their parents they were seeing this type of stuff after attending a party without parents home. Wouldn’t you think your very underage child was drunk or given drugs at said party, and would call the police to report it? I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t believe their story was real, but I would certainly be concerned that they were seeing those things. Especially if one of those things included dead kids. You know, the ones that never came home.

So, the whole town was a bunch of sinners, I guess? Neglectful parents, no 9–1–1 or phone calls to other parents concerned about the fact that their kids didn’t come home? No finding out what happened while their kids babbles out some LSD like tripping, to notice a consistent story among all the kids that returned home from the party? No one wanted to investigate exactly what was going on?

After Satan is destroyed, the kids’ parents call. They are an hour away. Which I think most kids who have just been through that will be thankful, and ready to go to the hospital to ensure their demon friends didn’t cause any internal damage while fighting them. Not to mention needing some therapy because nothing causes PTSD more than fighting Satan himself. But no, their thought is, the house is a wreck, their parents will kill them if they don’t clean it, and also find out there was a party without their permission. That’s definitely more important. And most definitely the worst problem on their list of problems that happened over two days. Que 80s cleaning montage. How they fixed the roof after Satan broke through it and then retreated back down the hole he came from is unknown. He also didn’t damage the wood floor. I didn’t realize how polite the devil is, fixing up their house so it at least there isn’t any structural damage. But he didn’t clean up the party, which according to these kids makes the whole thing more unfair.

Parents come home, don’t notice anything amiss. Their kids are more than happy to see them and can actually convince them that nothing at all was ever wrong. That whole situation behind them, they go back to their normal life with no psychological implications at all. And no legal trouble, considering they do have some dead bodies in the house they never cleaned up. And a bunch of angry parents who sent their kids to a party where they came back hallucinating, and some who never came back at all.

Which is the cringiest part of the whole thing. God saved them, and the hell that was going to be brought on the world was stopped. And since these kids have now learned their lesson, God ensures they get away with everything scotch free.

The moral of the story, therefore, is if you sin by literally opening the gate to hell in your living room, so long as you realize what you did and repent, there is no long term consequences of that. God will even make sure your parents don’t notice you threw a party and ground you by giving you a heads up they are close by and you should really get around to cleaning. I guess that was a bonus reward for their fixed relationship? Just right back to your normal, happy life, as if it never happened.

Quite frankly, I wonder if that whole town was in hell from the very beginning: unchecked psychopathic children destroying mankind, not reporting a fire breathing demon showing up, parents so oblivious they still haven’t noticed their kids never came back, and police too lazy to go and find out exactly what drugs were given away at the party to cause mass hallucination. And no phone calls from these two kids’ parents who went away for a weekend until they were an hour of coming home. Cringe.

My Wish

I remember, way back in my early childhood, a dream I had of a black Knight, on a black horse, surrounded in a room of nothing.  A cape of hope hung around his neck and he looked at me, straight at me, and in the raspy echo of his helmet said, “Come to me.  Come get it.”

I have to share this.  I have no choice.  At some point it has to come out.  It will hurt people, and I’m sorry.

I’m not one who pushes God.  It’s a taboo subject, and I think God is something people come to on their own accord.  Belief or not, I don’t judge.  I don’t judge people’s religion.  God is an experience, and everyone has a different perspective.  It’s as individual as staring at a table.  My vantage point has me looking in one direction, seeing what I can see with my eyes, feeling what I can feel with my hands.  Your vantage point is different than mine.  Maybe an inch above, to the left.  You see more than I can see.  For me the table has legs.  You can’t see the legs, so for you the table has none.  

And for those who cannot see the table, whose vantage point has them too far away, or turned around, that doesn’t mean the table isn’t there.  That doesn’t mean your perception is wrong.  You’re experience is different than mine, but we are all experiencing the same thing.  Because as much as we see a table, science says it’s mostly empty space. Nothing.  So, even non-believers are staring at the same thing, just differently.

I’m trying to put us all on the same page here, if you haven’t noticed.  Believers and non.  Because I want everyone to keep an open mind.  I’m not here to convince anyone of God or Religion.  I just need to tell my story, and I just need you to listen.  There is no point of a story if no one listens.  But I have to say it, I can’t keep quiet any longer.

A friend of mine convinced me to write this, in his own special way.  Actually, he doesn’t even know.  He just asked a simple question.  He wanted to know what sparked my curiosity.  And then there is my therapist.  Who asked how.  Actually, many doctors have asked how.  How am I alive today?

I have been through so much, survived so much, and yet I persevered.  I did it and I can laugh.  No matter how much I have been hurt, no matter how much I have been angered, I still have love and not hate.  I refuse to give up on my family and friends.  I refuse to be swallowed in misery.  It’s not an easy road to take.  Most wouldn’t.  But, I’m a survivor. And I truly believe there is a reason for it all.  I truly believe in the end it will mean something.  Because it does.  Because I want to leave something of me behind to help.

So here it is.  My soul.  My curiosity.  

In college my life fell apart.  My mother had a botched surgery on her shoulder.  It left her in more pain then she went in, and caused her to be disabled.  My mother was always a strong, independent woman.  She worked hard to give my sister and I a life where we weren’t rich, and weren’t poor.  We got everything we needed and then some.  And when she applied for disability, all on her own, no lawyers, no nothing, the government agreed with her.  It’s rare, most people get denied their first try, even with a lawyer.  But, she was truly unable to work, the pain too great.  We all knew it.

And it broke her heart.  Here, a woman who worked her whole life, a woman who relied on herself for everything she needed, who in the 60s was told she could be only this or only that; defied her father, married the man she would happy with;  who gave her life to her children so they could get everything they needed and wanted and grow up independent dreamers.  And she was told by the US Government that she was no longer able to support herself.  That’s how she saw it.  She told me in not so many words.  She felt useless.  I watched a woman who I admired shatter.  And I wasn’t the only one who felt the repercussions of our strong family matriarch give up.  The glue had withered, as glue does with age.  

I don’t want to discount credit to my father here.  He is strong in his own way.  In my house, my mother ruled.  She held us together and she held him together.  He never denied that, and wouldn’t.  But there is something to be said for a man who stands behind his woman.  Who supports her 100% in every decision she makes, and agrees with her whether he truly agrees or not.  Both my parents took the anti-establishment of their times to heart.  Gender roles meant nothing, religion was control, God was a word, the “Joneses” was an illusion, and money came in from both sides regardless of a “breadwinner.”  Now maybe for the tradition of what makes a man, “a man” it makes my father look weak, but for us it was strength.  Because the outside world could see what it wanted, but the inside… we knew the truth.  

My mother was glue.  Strong glue.  Any crack was quickly filled.  And it wasn’t a dictatorship.  Believe me, my parents loved both my sister and I dearly.  They weren’t perfect, no parents are, really.  They made mistakes, some catastrophic, but they are human.   So, “dysfunctional family”?  Sure.  Name me one family that isn’t.  

But the glue snapped.  My family crumbled quickly.  My mother’s despair sucked the wind out of everyone.  I don’t blame her for that.  It was unfair of us to rely on her so much.  And I could make excuses.  I could say I was a child, I didn’t know any better not to.  I could say it was my sister who took every advantage she could to break the sanctity of the inside and threaten to expose us for what we were.  I could say my father shouldn’t have put that much pressure on my mother, should have been stronger, should have better prepared him and us for that moment.  

But where would that leave us? Blaming and pointing? Accusing and name calling? Hurting and anger? Nothing to solve the problem, just watching it grow and fester.

Hindsight is 20/20 isn’t it?  Because that’s exactly what happened.  Blame, pointed fingers, everyone knew what everyone should have done and it became a big mess.

As college was coming to an end, so was I.   My mother was injured, and then my father rolled his ankle, and became injured as well.  My sister was getting married.  Then divorced.  Everywhere I turned I had injury, heartbreak, and chaos.  

And I became depressed.   I felt my mind regress back to my childhood.   I reached out for help.

It’s amazing, when you sit in a hospital full of depressed people, how many people turn to God.  Or, well, actually away.  Everyone seemed angry at God.  Everyone felt abandoned by him.  I asked one of the nurses about this, why is it everyone talked about God?  She told me that most people, like me, were at the end of their ropes.  Facing the darkest corners of their minds, facing the choice of their own mortality.  They felt rejected, and angry.  I did too.  But not by God.  I didn’t believe in God.  I couldn’t put hate into a thing that didn’t exist.  But I knew I existed.  And I knew who to be angry at.  Everyone else.

I was angry at my mother for shutting down; angry at my father for not standing the ground and taking over; I was angry my sister had an escape through drugs; I was angry my friends didn’t have to feel what I did; I was angry my parents threw money down the drain; I was angry I had to keep going; I was angry I had to go out into the world alone;  I was angry I had to keep public perceptions up;  I was angry that I couldn’t tell the truth; I was angry that the truth brought both fear and change. 

They say people who make the choice to commit suicide don’t really want to die.  I think back to that time, and, yeah, I really wanted to die.   So whoever “they” are need to understand.  We want to die.  I even had an after-plan.  I wanted my energy and anger to haunt what was around me.  I wanted the blame to be cast on those around me like a curse, to punish all generations.   It was about revenge, hatred, and pain.   I would watch the catastrophe happen as a final middle finger and laugh and say “I told you  so.  It wasn’t my fault, I tried to tell you and no one cared, no one listened.  And now look at what you did.  It wasn’t my fault at all.”

 I tried to die by running my car into a tree (missed).  I tried swallowing hair spray (yuck).  I tried standing in a tub with the shower running and an electrical cord plugged in (thanks Hollywood).  There was even a time I seriously considered making a sign that said, “I hate black people,” and  driving down to Camden, NJ, standing in the middle of the street with it, letting the gangs kill me, for me.  Yes, I got that from a movie.  That’s how depressed I was.  I watched an old Die Hard movie and actually thought it was a cleaver way to off myself.  Death becomes an obsession when you are depressed.

One  night  there was a fight going on.  Typical fight.  My sister in one of her lucid moments, denying something she did in her comatose drugged state.  Screaming, throwing things in the bedroom.  My father hiding upstairs.

I just walked out.  Unprepared.  A total compulsion.  I didn’t stop to put on a jacket in the cold November air.  I didn’t stop and think about shoes.  I just walked barefoot down the road to the park being guided by some sort of peace of mind.   A comfort, calling me there.  I felt united with the world.  For some reason I felt so at peace, like something guiding me.  I felt one with the earth, free, and alive.  Suddenly I felt the whole purpose of life, the whole connection, the design of everything.   And there it was.   Some kids must have tangled up the swings, but I swear it was like a perfect noose.  

And as I stared at it, the rain began to fall.  All of it made sense at that very moment.  The connection.  The world was crying for me.  Nature was mourning me, I could watch it in these few moments and it was beautiful.  And peaceful.  And freeing.  I imagined me swinging back and forth in the wind, like the end of Huxley’s novel, “Brave New World.” How poetic.  A family refusing to show emotion, a singular revolution of hatred, how meaningless it had all become.  That’s how I imagined me.

I tried to climb up the pole, but the rain, the light mist that had passed during my peace… I kept sliding back down.  I tried stepping on the other swing but it wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to get my head through the chain and snap my neck.  Eventually the mud on my feet, the slickness of my skin, with the dampness of the rubbery swing and wet iron got me nowhere but landing on the ground.  God won, and I cried my eyes out, and went back home defeated.  I cursed it.  I had a new thing to hate, and it was God.  It mocked me with its humor  and I screamed, “Is this your way of getting me to believe in you?”

Now it was personal.

I told my mother I would get help for my depression.  For my problem.  I wanted to give my family some sort of hope.  As sick as this sounds, it was so I could dash it away.  Because I was so angry.  I wanted them to feel as miserable as I did.  I let my sister convince me to call this private hospital and check myself in over the phone.  The guy listened to me, he really wanted me to come then and there, but he didn’t have a room.  I lied to him.  I told him I had no plans to kill myself.  I begged him to let me come tomorrow, put my name down for a room.  That I wanted to die, but I promised I wouldn’t do it that night.  He called it a verbal contract.  Sure, bud, whatever you say.  

The stage was set.  MY stage.  In MY room.  In MY walls.  MY energy, MY haunting ground. The last thing to do before I drank my pills was the suicide note.  I wrote it all out, every word.   The hate, the misery, the blame, the isolation, the selfishness, the pure unexplainable pain.  The noose.  God.  I wrote it all down.  There was nothing left for me to do but die.

And it was like I saw outside of myself for a moment.  Like suddenly I didn’t belong in my own body.  It’s deafening.  I can’t hear anything.  Or I don’t remember hearing anything now.  And I brought up the thought of “they”.  What “they” say.  “They say people who are suicidal don’t want to die”.  Did I want to die? Was this it? 

I thought about where I would be buried.  Could I have a burial? Would I go to a graveyard? Suicide is a crime by the church, would they let my mother bury me? I wondered what the end would bring me? Peace? Is this a sin? What did I really think would happen? Would I float above and watch the suffering? Would I really be able to watch the wrath of my anger? Do I just enter a void and all is over in an anticlimactic event? 

I poured a bunch of Aleve in my hand, and stared at it.  I saw all my past attempts to die.  I realized I won.  This was going to work.  I beat God at its own game.  I would join it now.  I smiled at my victory.  Who else can beat God? Surely God understood how miserable I was, how desperate I was, it was trying to save me,  kept trying to stop me, but it couldn’t… it wasn’t… it..

A realization hit me.  All those suicide attempts, all those times wondering why whatever it was wouldn’t let me go… It wouldn’t…

Something beyond me wasn’t letting me die.  Something believed in me, or needed me, for something beyond what I could see.  And I see two hands before me.   One filled with pills, one not.  I could win and die, beat God at its own game.  Or I could trust in God that I was meant for something.  That this was a test of some sort.  I took a deep breath, clenched both my fists, one around the pills, the other empty, and with tears in my eyes I whispered to the energy around me, “You love me.  YOU love me.  You’re fighting for me.  I promise I won’t take my life.  I swear to you I will not take my life, but  please, please, make this better, please.  If you make this better I won’t kill myself.”

A leap of faith.  As Kierkegaard had put it, a “Theological Suspension of the Ethical”.  I put my hand out to something.  At this point, I didn’t know what.  Just something.  Something that had kept me alive all this time.  Something that refused to give up on me.  Something wasn’t LETTING me die.  I felt loved.  It had been a long time since I had felt love.  Especially the love I felt at that moment.

But the pink cloud  doesn’t stay.  Life doesn’t work like a fairy tale.  And my soul came crashing back down to my body eventually.   Only this time I had no escape plan.   

I clung to the hope I felt that night I tried to die.  I clung to that desperate will to live for something.  And as each empty day passed, as each challenge rose and fell, I started to question what I did.  What had I trusted? Why? What life was this?

I put my faith and belief in… what? Was it just my own human will not to die? My mind? I started questioning everything I learned.  I still wouldn’t break that promise I made to it, but I was beginning to think it was some sick joke all over again.

Days of desperation turned into weeks, into months, into years of waiting.  What was my purpose? Why was I alive? What was I meant to do?

Any hope withered as no answers came to the questions.  Every route I tried to get out of this despair left me at a dead end, circled me back to the same dark place I was.  I lived like a ghost.  There was no anger at this point.  There wasn’t anything, it was all a void.  I didn’t even think I was worth the trouble to die.  Yeah, there is a beyond to suicidal depression.  Being so depressed you don’t even deserve to die.  

 Months passed.  The world swallowed in darkness around me.

“I can’t go on like this anymore.  I need you to hold your end of the bargain or I’m going to die.  I don’t know what to do, God.  I will break my promise if you don’t help me. “

Deep black misery coated my consciousness

“I can’t do this any longer.  I give myself to you.  I said I won’t kill this body and I won’t, God.  But I am already dead in spirit.  So I will wait for you to take my body from my soul.

 “Oh God, oh God, why have you forsaken me?”

And then everything shut down…

…And I Broke

Not a break, not a snap

But a shatter.

A shatter of shards around me.

Was a mind once

Now it lay in prickly pieces

A painful process of peculiar patterns

Possibly never pasting right.

And it hurts

Apparently a day went by.  My body did stuff, disconnected to me.  I have flashes, disconnected clumps of time.  I apparently did a lot that day, but I have no memory of any of it.  Just brief attempts of my mind attempting to gain back control of reality, to fall back into the obscure safety of the subconscious.  

My understanding, from what I have pieced together from those around me, is that my anger boiled over into something I could no longer control.  The bleak sadness just put me to sleep.  I really did become a ghost.  Dead, with just an energetic body moving, talking, pretending among the conscious.  

God had given me what I wanted most in those years I waited.  Something I was trying to will into truth.  I was beyond wanting to die.  I wanted to cease existing.  I wasn’t worth the trouble, the misery death would cause.   And for a day my soul did just that, ceased. Leaving nothing but the shell, an angry energy disjointedly hung in the present.  

A reprieve.  

When I awoke from this trance, this break, I lost everything.  Independence, autonomy, freedom.  I woke up where most do when faced in a psychological break, a state mental asylum.  Hidden from society like a thrown away piece of meat past its use, as if I might poison those I meet.

I was told by anyone who mattered that I didn’t belong there.  I wasn’t them.  I had a psychological breakdown brought on by depression, environment, drug addiction by myself and those around me, and a complete injustice done to me by the mental health system.  “A Disassociative Fugue.” Where most people are swallowed by that hell for their eternal lives, doctors in the hospital with the help of an outside organization rescued me.  

But I sat in hell for three long months.  A place where the criminally insane, homeless, and hopeless cases of mental incapacity come to rest.  It was violent, scary, and unpredictable.  Some of the staff might have well been patients, some of the patients would have made much better staff.  It had it’s terrorizing moments, and some of the most beautiful acts of humanity and friendship I’ve ever had.  But throughout all of it, I hung on to my hope.  This serene promise that had been made.

Dante had to go through every circle of hell before reaching paradise.  This was my final circle before reaching life again.  I spent my whole life trying to find God.  I yelled at it at age 7 to show itself or I would not believe.  In fifth and sixth grade I was angry at it for not doing what I wanted.  In high school I had such a traumatic fear of death and what happened afterwords that it would keep me up all night.  I read the history of God, religion, death, afterlife, to discover what it was all about to the times of man.  And there were so many Gods and religions to pick from I couldn’t chose.  Ever.  

I told you this started in college.  One of my more happy memories was when I was with a friend of mine in Lake George, NY.  The sky was gorgeous, and the night was clear.  We were having a great time as the sun set over the water.  And just as night fell into the sky, a star twinkled.  And yeah, I’ll admit, I thought of the little children’s poem.  So, I made a wish.  I wished to be happy.  And something instinctively struck me.  Like time stopped for a second.  A thought whispered, “What would make you happy?” I remember really considering this question.  Maybe even to the point my friend thought it was a bit weird.  And I thought about what was going on at the time: my sister’s addiction, my mother’s disability, my father’s isolation, my friends moving on, college life ending, jobs, careers, the start of adulthood and responsibility  and the fear such a transition involves.  I thought hard, and looked back up at the single star and I said quietly to the night air, “I want to know God.  That will make me happy for the rest of my life.”

In the end, what I should have known at the beginning, is that this isn’t going to change.  I can’t change people.  They are who they are.  And I am me.  I can only speak for me.  This was my journey, with all the wrong decisions.  But, I learned.  I learned about me and about others.  I learned about people and life.  I learned mistake are just that, mistakes.  They can be fixed, and we can move on.

I opened this by stating that I don’t want to prove to you God exists.  I just knew I could not exist for me.  I had to reach out to something intangible.  And whatever that was saved me.  So I believe.  It is part of my journey for survival.  If I didn’t, I’d be dead.  You wouldn’t be reading this.  I wouldn’t exist in this moment.

And in my spiritual quest, I got my wish.  I got what would make me happy.  And I’m a better person for it.  So, I alone, have to believe.  I owe my life to it.

Whatever “It” is.

Odd Answers to Government Surveys

I kind of like the company I work for.  It’s perfect for a person doing what I need to do.  Boring, tedious, but they make it fun.  I do government surveys: health, political, or sometimes for a college or other non-profit.

So, while these survey’s are on telephones (and most people hang up on me), I’m not telemarketing.  I’m doing work for legit. causes.   Things that will possibly make this place better.  SO FILL IT OUT PEOPLE, THIS IS IMPORTANT!!! (You’d be surprised at how many people curse me out).

I love doing political surveys (we don’t call within our state, because we may bias the survey, so we have no stake in the issue).  They give me a good, overall, mindset of people.  Plus, of all the survey’s we do, those are the ones that allow us to have a say in their government.

And I get hung up more on by those, then anybody.  And then I hear complaints, “Well, if anyone ever asked me, I would tell them to do this….”  Well, we are calling, and you are hanging up on us.

Anyway, the high folks give the funniest answers.  Usually, they give the answer to the question you asked 4 questions ago, not to the question you are on now.  The drunks just talk.  Talk and talk.  And you have to guide them back to the survey, as much as you want to hear all about how much the question reminds them of some story as to why they think that way.

But hey, they are answering the questions, (and thus, influencing politics) and I am really patient.

Then…. the weirdos….

I divide this into three kinds.

1- The perverted:

Somehow they confuse a government survey with a sex line or dating service.

2- The “Oh my god I can’t believe s/he just said that” guy/girl:

These people have answers that are so out there, (for those of you that get this reference: Think “Deliverance”), they are either messing with you, or you really wonder if Deliverance still exists.

3- HUH?

More on these in a minute.

So, the perverted.  That needs no examples.  You can imagine them on your own.

So, the guy I chose to represent the (2) “Did s/he just say that????” category comes to us from a state I won’t reveal, on a subject and reason I will not share with you.

On a topic about education, I person told told me s/he thought one of the problems wrong with schools was, “the fact we don’t beat the kids enough.” Because, sure, nothing fixes a problem by just beating everybody into making it better.  😕

Amazingly, I’m able to keep a calm tone.  I record their answers as they say them.  Because, s/he’s the only one that hasn’t hung up on me in two hours, and s/he’s taking the survey.  It’s his/her right, and your’s.  And… yet YOU have probably just yelled at me and hung up.

Anyway, I record their answers, as they give them, whether I think they are wrong or just stupid, I put it down w/o influence.  Because I think it is their opinion, and they have a right to express it without judgement when asked.  Technically, just because I may not agree, doesn’t make it less valid.  Facts and opinions are two different ballgames.

Then there is (3).  The “Mother Ship has landed people”.  The one’s I promised you.

I’m going to give you two examples in this.  Because this one person gets the cake for a refusal to take the survey.    I think s/he was messing with me, or possibly “on” something, (sigh) at least I’d hope it’s one of those two.

When asked if s/he would like to participate, the answer was, “No, I’m not home right now.  I’m a figment of your imagination.” and hung up.

Now, I’m really patient.  Those are normal.  People find interesting ways not to participate.  And even the perverts and the foot-in-mouth diseased Americans, with patience, and anonymity, you learn to bounce it off you and get through the survey.  Even if it takes a little longer.  Because… they…. are….. taking…. it…..

Did I mention that these survey’s are important, and yet you are hanging up on us?? And THESE people are answering!!!

So, okay.  This example is from a health survey.  I think I can say that without trouble.  And just to stop having to type “his/her” and “s/he”, we are going to assume this is a male.  That does not mean he was, and it doesn’t mean he wasn’t.

That was the first time my indifference waivered.  This guy was one of those people you knew were completely serious, and the more you spoke to him, the more you realized that even Mother Ship rejected him.  The more I tried to keep him on the survey, the more “creative liberty” he took in his interpretation and ideas.  He never crossed the line, and it wasn’t my patience faltering.   I just couldn’t do anything with him.  I tried.  But, I had to let him go.  When asked an insurance question he told me (paraphrasing) his insurance is of the godly kind, where none is needed.  “Because God is my insurance,”  Yeah, okay, time for you go to go now.  I politely stepped out, as his answers were so obscure at this point I couldn’t.  But, later on, when I got home, I thought… well…. he has a point.

NO NO NO… STAY with me here.

There is a Buddist saying that says “There is a fine line between pure enlightenment and mental retardation.”  (C/P one of the 200 names from Google search here)  So, the statement, “God is my insurance.”  Genius or insane? I think it is a valid point, comes from a very obscure reasoning, but, the point is valid.

Okay, throw god out of your head for this.  WHATEVER “this” is, (God, Jesus, nature, energy, Allah, Buddha, health, unity, science, laws, circle of life, whatever you Scientology people do (some alien guy, right?) and whatever other form/name/power/label you want to put here that I didn’t mention) it is a form of insurance.

Okay, too genius to answer on a basic level, and too….. whatever he was dealing with that made him, “off”…… to realize at some point “god” and “money” don’t collide when it comes to the science you have available to save your life.

But maybe ignorance IS bliss.  Maybe not knowing any better, and the knowledge of nothing but peace from the idea of, essentially, something makes us alive, and something makes us dead.  Money can reverse the suffering, for a time.

Of course, it will lead to unnecessary problems of diseases, and needless, needless suffering that doesn’t NEED to happen.  (We used to rely on only God.  That was when the Black Plague was around).  And, money force doctors to put the bottom line over human life.  Because the oath is noble.  The mortgage, kids, student loans, and kid’s college fund doesn’t give a s*** about your oath, and, in this economy, you HAVE a job.

I wanted to reply to him, “But God gave you the way to pay, to offer people the gifts of healing.”

But I had to be indifferent on the survey.  I had to let him go.  He was suffering needlessly, and maybe one day will read this before it’s too late.

Odd answers to a survey.  And these are the people who take it.  There are more wierdo’s then actual answers.  SO STOP CURSING ME OUT AND TAKE THE STUPID SURVEY!!