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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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I'd quit worrying. If I knew. For certain. That I would live forever. As
a conscious, thinking being. My difficulty. Is coping with a sense of
my mortality. That one of these days. I will no longer be. I'm at my
temporary worry-free best. When I forget. That I'm going to die. The
certainty of death means I have only a limited time. To get things
right. If I had forever. I could take my time. Of course, I dream of
forever. Under a variety of fanciful scenarios. Including survival in
another dimension. Other than physical. Yes, all sorts of spiritual
possibilities. It's my form of psychotherapy. I create delightful
imaginary worlds. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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Really, nothing wrong with living in an imaginary world. As long as it's
a happy one. Don't know for certain if my long stays in Paradise are
imagined or real. But they seem real. So it really doesn't matter.
Unfortunately, I have a friend or two or three living in hell. Or so
they tell me. But I suspect that with a psychotherapy session (from me)
they could easily find their way to Paradise. Another thing. I don't
charge a fee. I ploy my trade for free. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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Maybe that's why I fell in love. With writing. While I was still a
youngster. It gave me the opportunity to create imaginary worlds. Early
on, it was funny worlds. That made me and others laugh. My teachers. In
junior high. Had me read my stuff. Aloud. In class. And my cohorts
(other students) laughed. I made up mystery stories, too. They were
always funny. Never serious. I discovered irony, too. Without really
knowing it was irony. I don't consider myself a serious writer. Or a
talented writer. Just an ordinary writer. Unafraid to experiment. To
take chances. Risks. Maybe that's what has made me a romantic idealist, a
spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. It
comes naturally. That's what I encourage others to be. Their natural
selves. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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I love being. Because that gives me opportunity. To be alive. And
conscious. In so many ways. To grasp my own reality. To link myself to
all sorts of worlds. Real and imagined. Sometimes, I don't know the
difference. Which ain't all bad. I imagine being a spirit. Free of my
physical shackles. Occasionally, I feel free. Maybe that's all it takes.
Feeling. That one has entered a dream world. Paradise. Sometimes, it's
momentary. Other times, it's more lasting. Sometimes, I try to write
about it. Which makes me feel immersed. In good and pleasant vibes.
Amazing. The discovery of one's self. Life becomes my voyage of
discovery. --Jim
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Joined: 10/6/2015
Posts: 8
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Yes, the words make them real--all those shadowy landscapes--those 'almost' places that have at their core a luminosity that dulls our normal existance making it so temporary and small... or bringing it at last into being... I don't know which. I go through my day hardly able to function, having to lay down so many dreams... yet if I can only catch a few words... 'true' words that come from really seeing... then, like keys to some hidden realm, they open a sort of magical portal, and my movement through time slips away from me like leaves in the fall crumbling and turning to dust, and the brilliance that remains propells me into the eternal. If this is all that's left to me, then it will be enough.
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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I admire and respect you, Myrrh, for accepting your fate. By learning
to cope. The best you can. With dementia. You made a wise choice. In
coming to musings. Where you will be treated with good vibes and understanding. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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Maybe I am living in a virtual reality. In which the people in my life
aren't real. Merely figments of my imagination. Yes, maybe the entire
world ain't real. Could be that I'm not real. That I'm no more than a
character in a dream. Of course, I feel genuinely real and alive. A
living and conscious being. Maybe that's the way I'm supposed to feel.
In a virtual reality world. Maybe I'm a spirit. And this is a virtual
reality game. That I'm playing. For the pleasure of feeling physical.
--Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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Traumatic experiences. I've had my share. In my 80 years of living. A
friend tells me, that some of my trauma should be treated. In
professional psychotherapy. For my own good. To better understand. How
traumatic events have affected my life. Maybe in negative and
detrimental ways. Without me being fully aware of it. I have
nothing against seeing a psychiatrist. But I'm my own
best psychotherapist. May sound like bragging. But I've always
found ways to effectively deal with trauma. Even as a youngster. I'm
able to elevate and distance myself from trauma. And see it all. In an
objective manner. Turning the experience into a positive thing. The
friend surmised that my father's suicide, when I was 13, must have been
difficult to cope with, psychologically. Yes, it
was. Initially. Until I concluded. That the suicide
was a positive thing. For dad. For me. For the family. For everyone. As
the years passed, I was able, more and more, to glamorize the suicide.
As being the catalyst for much good. In my life. In my mother's life. In
the lives of so very many people. And that, at the time, in 1949,
it was my dad's best option. Perhaps even an act of courage. Yes. I
would tell a psychiatrist. That's an example. Of how I typically deal
with the trauma in my life. By glamorizing the long-term outcomes. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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When my dear sweet wife Jeanne became Alzheimer-riddled. Maybe that
qualifies as the most traumatic event of my life. Fortunately, I learned
to deal with it. So did Jeanne. But it wasn't easy. It was a struggle.
For much of the 13-year sojourn. Initially, I was in denial. Persuading myself.
That Jeanne was misdiagnosed. But I learned to accept the verdict. And
the inevitable. A steady decline in Jeanne's condition. Took me several years. To
learn to make the best of the situation. Being a 24/7 care-giver was the
hardest. But I adapted. Adjusted. During the last 38 months of Jeanne's
life I became an 8-10 hour a day care-giver. Supplementing
Jeanne's care at a nursing home. Never missed a day. As Jeanne's
advocate and protector. Gave her special attention and care. Daily
outdoor romps in a custom-built wheelchair. Showers. Every night. Just
before bedtime. Hand-fed meals in the pleasant privacy of her room. A
daily dose of good vibes therapy. In all sorts of imaginative ways.
Care-giving became a fulfilling and loving pleasure. The most gratifying experience of
my life. What started out as a devastating trauma, turned out to be a
love feast. Helped to make me a better human being. Yes, the Alzheimer's
experience became a blessing. No longer trauma. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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My dear friend Julie. She's an interesting case. Possibly because she's
had so very much trauma in her life. Or so I suspect. I've been
personally lucky. Because my traumas have been well-spaced. And I've
been able to deal with them. One at a time. And thereby turn traumatic
experiences into blessings. Julie, meanwhile, has been deluged with
trauma. Virtually non-stop. Since childhood. Yes. Yes. That's it. Julie
has to learn to cope with a bevy of accumulated traumas. Stuff she's
ignored. For far too long. Little wonder. That Julie spends more time in
depression. Than out. Little wonder. That Julie hardly ever gets
through a day without her primary fix. Wine. Wine. And more wine. Julie
is sick. Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. She recognizes it. But not
quite enough. To seek help. To check in. For sustained treatment.
Julie's diseases are treatable. But in America, we allow people the
free choice. To be or not to be. And Julie chooses not to be well. Not
to be happy. --Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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After years and years as a care-giver. For her
Alzheimer-riddled parents. Dear friend Julie. Has an amazing opportunity. To
become a better human being. For the experience. Instead, Julie has become a
mental and emotional and physical wreck. Fighting a losing battle against
depression and alcoholism. Sad. Because. Unlike Alzheimer’s. There are effective
treatments. For Julie’s maladies. Often leading to recovery. But Julie
steadfastly refuses to go in for treatment.
To volunteer for readily available help. Indeed, an ironic situation. Julie
instinctively and devotedly knew how to help others in peril. But not herself. Now
she’s drained. Out of emotional stamina. Out of the wherewithal that it
takes. To put her life back together again.
Of course. I argue daily. That we
sideline observers. Husband Rick. And multiple dear friends. Could intervene. And
force Julie into treatment. But we don’t. Because of an odd mistaken notion.
That the impetus must come entirely from Julie. Yes, it’s un-American to force
Julie into treatment. Takes away her freedom. To do as she pleases. Personally,
I’m sick and tired of the asinine American way. Give me a break. Give me common
sense. A way to save Julie. From herself. -- Jim
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Joined: 12/22/2011
Posts: 5462
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I wonder. If god/creator is merely a concept. An idea. A state of mind.
At best, a creation of one's fertile imagination. Perhaps no more or no
less than a spirit. Exactly what I want to become. By shedding my
physical being. Yet remaining fully alive and conscious. Living on the
same plane as my imagined god/creator. Is that too much to ask?
Certainly, it isn't blasphemy. To have such a thought. To evolve. Some
day. Into the exact image of god/creator. As an equal. Achieving the
highest form of life. Even if it's only imaginary. As long as I have the
ability to make it feel real. The wherewithal to dupe myself. Into
believing any and every thing. --Jim
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