The Cheese Grates It: 30 Days of Haiga 2017 Day 28 + OctPoWriMo 2017 Day 11: Play For Me

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Verse and text by The Real Cie

Note:

This image features Malcolm Young doing what he did so well before dementia robbed him of his ability to remember how to do this or to remember who the people he cared about most were.

I hate this damn disease. It makes me sick, sad, and angry.

Even if it seems unrealistic, I have to believe that he either no longer functions through this body (his brother has stated that he isn't in there at all anymore, and I think few people would know better than one's soul mate) or one day he will wake up free of that body and remember everything.

I believe in at least the possibility of some pretty esoteric shit. You're free to believe it or not. It's really no skin off my nose either way.

This man did not deserve what is happening to him. It's horrible and it's wrong. To quote young Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame, "it's either mean or it's arbitrary, and either way, it gives me the creeps."

Isn't Calvin middle-aged now?

Even so, you know Hobbes is still with him.

In closing, fuck you Dementia. 

This is why horror movies don't scare me. Real life is far more terrifying.

I hope that we get at least a bit of respite between lives.

Yes, I actually do believe in at least the possibility of reincarnation. You're free to believe the same or not. I'm not here to argue. 

Quoth the barista: "I'm just here to express."

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

The Cheese Grates It: The Straight Dope

This is basically a copy of a letter to one of my few real friends in this world. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. Except for my name, because I want to get back to the purpose of this blog: keeping it real, and talking about that weird shit that everyone is afraid to talk about.

So, I got fired yesterday. I knew it was coming. It was still traumatic and awful, and I could have prevented it by going with my gut. Read this cautionary tale and know that I want you to trust your instincts. I wish I'd been encouraged to trust mine. It would have saved me a lot of grief in this life.

Long story short, I've been working 60 hour weeks, including when I was sick. I was very sleep deprived. I ended up falling asleep during my shift, not just a micro-sleep but a deep, deep sleep. I don't remember doing it. The last thing I remember was looking at the clock to see the time. Then I came out of a deep darkness to see the father of my patient in the room, and he was angry.

I understand this, but I wish he hadn't yanked my chain and told me he'd keep this on the down-low and not report it to the agency. I told him that I was very sorry and would remove myself from the case. However, he didn't keep his word, and not only did he not keep his word, he told the company a trumped-up story. The truth was bad enough, he didn't have to embellish it the way he did. I understand that he was angry, but I thought that this was an extremely ugly action on his part. I can't stand a bullshitter, and I was sad to discover that this person was a bullshitter. Deep down inside, I already knew it, but I still didn't want it to be true. More on that in a bit.

I didn't do anything that impressive for my company, although they liked to tell me that I did. They liked to flatter me to get me to do what they wanted, like burn myself out working way too many hours, but I was nothing special. I was just a cog in the machine, a sucker that they could use up. 

I saw it coming. I should have left last year when they ousted the mother of the patient I'll be working with again at this point.

Here's the sordid tale.

Little Ms. Sweetheart Stephanie (the clinical nurse manager for the case I was working at the time) was trying to get the "goods" on Angie, the patient's mom, to report her to child protective services. 

Angie is a single mother. This kid's dad is involved, but he lives back in the family's home state. Angie brought her son here so she could give him medical marijuana oil, and it may have saved his life. He no longer has constant seizures.

She can be a bit of a flake, but she's always seemed like a straight shooter to me. 

Angie has never left her son unattended (there was always a nurse with him) and she certainly doesn't abuse him. Which means that Stephanie didn't have a leg to stand on when trying to prove neglect. Nonetheless, she kept texting the day nurses, demanding report multiple times during the day. Angie got pissed about this and called the office, saying that she was going to come down there and "bust somebody's ass" if they didn't put a different nurse manager on the case. It was an unfortunate choice of words, but she didn't literally mean that she was going to hit anybody. Stephanie, however, played the drama queen and insisted that she felt afraid for her safety, so the agency released the family.

I signed up with the second agency at that point so I could still help the family now and then. I thought about just going with them, and I should have. I was at sixes and sevens. My mother and my brother both thought I should stay with the primary agency as they'd "treated me well" and they paid more. However, the primary agency was actually very controlling. My coordinator was literally starting to behave like a jealous lover. He would call me outside of normal business hours, telling me that I was "inconveniencing" him and the company and threatening my ability to continue working in the industry. When I said "fine, then put me on PRN status and I won't inconvenience you any more," he backpedaled and told me all about how I could make "so much money" if I just stayed with the company, that they'd get me all the work I needed, that I was a "quality nurse" and they didn't want to lose their "quality nurses."

When I told my mother about the "jealous lover" behavior on my coordinator's part, the threats that if I left I wouldn't get a good recommendation from them, the calls outside normal business hours, she said, "I just don't know what to say". My brother said, "wow, sorry that's happening." I really got no support at all from my family, and I don't have that many friends, so, you know. I was flying by the seat of my pants, like always, and I don't tend to follow my own instincts to protect myself.

 Since I know this agency doesn't give a fuck about any of their people, I'm pretty sure the only reason they "cared" so much is that the coordinators get bonuses when they plug a person into a case. The agency then works its personnel to death and is more than happy to drop them when the inevitable happens and someone either gets sick or falls asleep on the job. 

My coordinator kept promising me 48 hours a week with the main patient I was working with "just as soon as we're able to move the current nurse off the case." I always thought that was sketchy. If they were willing to talk about her that way behind her back, they were willing to talk about anybody. It's like being involved with a cheater--if he'll do it with you, he'll do it to you. That was how I felt in the relationship with that company. I should have busted a move and gotten away, but I was afraid that I wouldn't get a good recommendation.

With the family of the patient I was primarily working with, they always seemed like really "nice" people--the kind of "nice" where they'll smile to your face while stabbing you in the back. You can drink their coffee and eat their food, but they'll turn on a dime. 

I should have gone with my gut and saved myself a lot of grief, but I've been taught from as far back as I can remember that my feelings don't matter, that I need to always pursue the highest wage (since I was a failure who couldn't find a suitable husband to take care of me), that I need to stuff my feelings to please others, and that I'm wrong about everything.

The one thing I don't understand is why my creativity felt so suppressed while working with this family. It never made a lot of sense on the surface. They never told me I couldn't write or that writing was stupid. Still, I've been experiencing this nagging feeling for months "just give it up, you'll never go anywhere with it, you're not a good writer anyway, you need to focus on being a good nurse, you were never cut out to be an artist" and so on.

It would be easy enough to get over being fired, as the family I was working with are back-stabbers and the agency saw its people as cogs in the machine, but every time I think of the fact that I'll never see my patient again, I start hating myself all over for screwing up so badly. I've had trouble stopping myself from self-injury. I haven't been able to write because I feel like I don't deserve to, even though when I walked out of the office I felt truly creative for the first time in months. My energies are pushing my special friend Gem away, and my logical mind is telling me that he never was with me in the first place and that I made it all up inside my head because I'm nothing but a stupid, lonely loser who needs to drop this belief in spirits.

Much of the time I wish that I'd never felt the pull towards certain people or been able to "talk" to spirits. It's made me a real pariah. It's not that I think I have a connection to every celebrity, but I have always had a tendency to "know" something about the people I was watching in movies, on TV, music videos. A lot of the time it was stuff that didn't make sense, but later I found out it was true. As time went on and doubt creeped in, my accuracy decreased.

There was one case where I watched a short-lived (about 2 years) British drama in the mid-1980's. I could sense that the show's male and female lead had actual romantic feelings for each other. I could sense it so strongly that I had to stop watching the show. 

This was a "soul call." These people (the woman in particular) were looking for help because her obsessive, stalker husband (who she was trying to make an ex and he was fighting her) was making it difficult for the romance to move forward. This was something I found out later. Everything was eventually resolved, they got married in the late 1980's and have been together ever since. They have a son. I'm happy for them. 

I'm also glad I don't feel their energies anymore. It was something that was far too intense, and nobody was able to help me understand it.

 I created the One Love blog because I wanted to be able to show people like me that they aren't alone, but so far there have been no people like me and I still feel alone.

I've found myself wondering why I couldn't have met Gem during this life, why we couldn't have had a life together. I understand now why it wouldn't have worked. Gem was more than ten years older than me, was married, and lived in a location far distant from my own. Having him with me in spirit has been nothing short of amazing, but he has a hard time dealing with the self-harm aspect of my personality. It upsets him a lot. He just told me it's because there's a lot of anger involved in the moments when I start wanting to self-injure, and his general attitude towards anger is to turn on his own anger and fight back. However, with this situation, he can't do that. He also said he feels helpless in the face of it and feels like anything he says will only make matters worse. The suicide ideation is something he understands personally, but he says that he never had any compulsion to self-injure; if he were going to take himself out, he would have just taken himself out

I discovered that I still think along the lines of having to hide my real thoughts and feelings with Gem, because he might discover that I'm actually an asshole. His response: "Honey, I already know you're an asshole. I'm still here." 

I guess you know it's the real thing when someone knows you're an asshole but they still care about you.

Gem was upset with me last year because I wan't testing my blood sugar levels. I'm type 2 diabetic. After my most recent fasting draw, my A1C was way up. I have since learned that my fasting blood sugars are terrible. I'm going to have to ask the doctor to increase my Metformin and see if that helps. If it doesn't, I'm going to have to go on insulin because my pancreas is failing.

Here's the thing: this society tends to treat diseases like type 2 diabetes as some kind of personal failing. It's not a personal failing, it's my pancreas failing. I shouldn't have to be ashamed of it. Blame and shame help no-one. 

Here are a few more tidbits about diabetes. You can't "eat yourself" into diabetes. If you don't have the genetic trigger, you will never develop diabetes. You could eat nothing but cake and pie and wash it down with Coke or Pepsi, and you still wouldn't develop diabetes if you don't have the genetic trigger.

Being heavy doesn't "cause diabetes," but having metabolic problems can prompt weight gain and make weight loss difficult.

Alzheimer's disease is not "type 3 diabetes." I want to beat the ever-loving fuck out of whoever thought up that terrible idea. An online acquaintance was recently diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's. He's a big man in his late 60's, who has been caring for his very ill wife. He started having memory problems and went to the doctor. The doctor was a "kind" soul who told the poor fellow that he has Alzheimer's, which is "otherwise known as type 3 diabetes," and that he brought it on himself by being fat. I'm glad that the man had enough self-respect intact to fire this worthless excuse of a doctor, but he felt awful after his appointment with this clown. He is also worried, and rightly so, about what is going to happen to him and his wife with the current horrific state of affairs in the U.S. medical system.

By the way, thin people never get Alzheimer's. Nope, not a one. Everyone who has Alzheimer's is fat. Really, really fat. Super obese land whales to a one.

I mean, look at this monstrous land whale. Just look at all that flab. Must tip the scale at, oh, likely at least a half ton. I mean, if he'd ever put the fork down for even a second, he wouldn't have type 3 diabetes!!!!!11!!

That's hyperbole doing a mating dance with sarcasm, for those who might be missing a hyperbole chip and/or a sarcasm chip.

Alzheimer's disease does not discriminate by body type, and it is not "type 3 diabetes." It does, however, have something in common with type 2 diabetes. You can't "bring it on yourself." You can only get it if you have the genetic trigger.

Eh, I guess this has gone on long enough. One thing I know for certain is that in my next life if I have to be stuck hearing soul calls, I want to know what they are from the start. Maybe reading my own writing from this life will allow me to do that. 

I really don't want another life, but I know I'm stuck having one because I've botched this one so badly.

This is me, trying to get back to my purpose, trying to believe that I'm allowed to have a purpose, trying to believe that I have some kind of inherent worth. As usual, I'm having a hard time doing so.

By the way, Malcolm Young in no way deserves what's happening to him.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

The Cheese Grates It: A Brother's Worst Nightmare

I didn’t want to hijack anyone’s post, but when I saw this picture and this quote

He’s already begun to forget himself, everyone he’s ever known, ever loved. Even you. 

Soon, he’ll forget how to speak, how to swallow. Then he’ll die.

I couldn’t help thinking of a real life sibling relationship where that is the reality, because that is what Alzheimer’s does to those whose lives it devastates.

These brothers are two years apart in age, but the elder of the pair looks like he’s much older because of the disease process that had started destroying his mind. He was still able to recognize his younger brother at this point. He doesn’t any more.

I’ve always found a parallel between Sam and Dean’s devotion to each other and the devotion in this real life soul mate relationship, although I need to insert the caveat that while I eventually started shipping Sam and Dean as an OTP,  I sure as fuck have never seen anything but a very strong platonic bond between these guys. Fuck’s sake, I could slap the living crap out of the idiots who do the whole “oh you ship Wincest so you must see all siblings as sexually involved, including you and any siblings you may have.” Fuck’s sake no, you moron. Anyone who thinks this way (and I use the term “think” loosely) is welcome to either tie raw steaks to themselves and jump into shark infested waters or jump aboard a rocket ship bound for the sun. I have no patience for your stupidity.

I have thought about Malcolm Young every day several times a day ever since I found out about what is happening to him. I doubt I will ever stop thinking about what this damn disease has done to him as long as I live. I know I will always remember, because if I find out that I’ve developed a similar disease process, I’m taking myself out before it can destroy my cognition to the point where I don’t remember.

My father had vascular dementia. At the time of his passing, he still recognized members of his family, but he was extremely confused about everything else.

It is better to die some other way than by one of the processes resulting in dementia. Pretty much any other way.

One of the true horrors of a disease such as Alzheimer’s is the fact that it takes SO FUCKING LONG to kill its victims. By the time it finally does, there is pretty much literally nothing left of the victim’s brain.

This is a real photo, comparing a slice of a brain from a person without Alzheimer’s at the time of death to one from a person with Alzheimer’s at the time of death. Let that shit sink in.

My aunt, who was a very tough lady who survived many years of abuse at the hands of her first husband and retained her sense of humor and generosity in spite of the things he did to her, has this fucking disease. It is getting to the point where my uncle (her second husband--I refused to call the first my uncle) is looking at the possibility of having to put her in long term care. He can’t stay awake 24 hours, and her wandering is becoming much worse.

I hate this disease. I hate this disease so fucking hard. I want to cry but I don’t have any damn tears. My tears would be useless anyway. It’s not like they could help anybody. So I seethe and am angry and it is literally affecting my heart, but I still can’t cry because that feels weak and because I’m afraid if I started I couldn’t stop. I have to function. I have a lot of shit that needs to get done.

I see so many parallels in this episode to what real sufferers of Alzheimer’s and their families go through. There are funny moments, yeah. There are funny moments in real life situations with family members with dementia too. Angus recalled how during the band’s final tour with Malcolm he was trying to look after his brother without making it seem like he was being condescending to him. When Malcolm protested that he didn’t need Angus and Brian Johnson following him because he was just going to the bathroom, Angus said “oh, us too. And we need to go together so that Brian doesn’t get lost.”

When my son was a baby, I worked for about 6 months as a private aide to a man who had Alzheimer’s and diabetes. He liked to tip one back but with his health conditions, that wasn’t a good plan. So his wife locked the liquor cabinet. When asked why, she told him it was because I had a drinking problem.

When working as an aide in a long term care facility, I would sneak into one patient’s room while she was asleep and remove all the dirty clothes in the bottom of her closet. The reason I had to play thief in the night with the laundry is because she’d become extremely upset if she saw anyone touching the clothes.

Moments like this are humorous, but there is nothing funny whatsoever about this disease.

This intelligent, independent, creative person who wrestled and won against addiction to alcohol and fought valiantly against the Black Dog and severe social anxiety inspired me to remain in the land of the living and fight back against those who bullied me. They were legion and they nearly pushed me to killing myself. Once I knew about this fellow, though, I realized he wouldn’t want me to, and his opinion was worth far more to me than all of their bullshit combined.

At the point when this picture was taken, he still recognized the person next to him although he often didn’t know where he was. She’s his daughter. He no longer recognizes her.

There is a picture from 2015 which shows not only confusion but fear in the once very alert and determined eyes. It’s fucking horrible.

In Regarding Dean, Dean is okay at the end because Supernatural is fiction.

The reality looks like this, only it doesn’t get resolved.

The reality is the words “he’s not in there at all any more” being spoken by a devoted younger brother regarding his best friend and soul mate.

I’ve never been able to finish reading the interview where those words were spoken. I had to stop at that point. I’ve never picked the magazine back up. I put it on a shelf where it has remained since.

If this were Supernatural, this might be the end result for these fellows, although I reckon Angus would probably end up with horns and a tail.

I think it is the end result in the afterlife, but not on this plane. On this plane, there is only separation, deterioration and death. If magic or miracles exist in the material realm, they are in very short supply.

I know that nobody here gets out alive. But as Glen Campbell’s wife said when talking about Glen’s Alzheimer’s, it’s better to die some other way.

I know there are people who will think I’m an asshole for saying this, but I wish that Malcolm Young’s body had ceased to function when he had a stroke in 2012. Then at least he would have remembered the people he cared about the most up to the end.

Hell, I think it would have been better for my father if he’d died at the point when he had his stroke. He struggled for six more years after that, although he had vascular dementia as opposed to Alzheimer’s. Still wasn’t a picnic by any means.

I think about those fools who feel that people my age (I’ll be 52 on February 15) aren’t “allowed” to be fans of shows like Supernatural. To them I say, fuck you. I need a world where magic is real and the two people who love each other the most in the world save each other always.

I need that, because the reality fucking sucks.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

Not So Wordless Wednesday's Beautiful Person of the Week: Week One: Malcolm Young

Malcolm Mitchell Young was born January 6, 1953. He stands about 5'3" tall and weighs about 100 pounds. He looks kind of like a Leprechaun. He isn't what most people would think of when they hear the word "beautiful."

Malcolm was very shy and tended to be depressive. He turned to certain magic potions to make him feel more sociable and less sad, which is a not uncommon problem but an oft-vilified one. His closest friend and the other half of his soul, his brother Angus, stated that Malcolm wasn't sober one day from the time he was seventeen until the time he went into rehab at 35. He successfully rehabilitated from alcohol addiction at that point.

Seldom have I seen a closer, more obvious soul mate relationship. It's beautiful but at the same time tragic, because Malcolm doesn't remember who his brother is (or who anyone else is) any more. My heart breaks for both of them.

The big, friendly-looking fellow was Malcolm's nurse during his last tour with the band that he created. He no longer remembers how to play the instrument he was so proficient and innovative with. He no longer remember any of the things he did during his life. The picture was taken after he had a stroke in 2012. I know some people will think I'm terrible for saying this, but I think it would have been better if his body had stopped working at that point.

Our writing sister Dolly believes that Malcolm is a teacher and that his struggle is a lesson for us undeserving sorts here in Purgatory. She thinks he agreed to this mission prior to even being born. I don't disagree with her, but I still think it sucks much ass. She is correct that he was the kind of person who would say "why not me" as opposed to "why me" when confronted with such a horrific diagnosis.

Many people think that youth and perfection are the hallmarks of beauty. Most would say that the person in the top image is more beautiful than the one in the bottom image. They are the same person, and yet they aren't. In some ways, the person in the bottom image is the more beautiful, because he had learned certain lessons in compassion and was less likely to inadvertently make unintentionally callous statements. He was wiser, and wisdom is a thing of beauty.

Both of them are flawed people with good intentions.

Malcolm Young is a beautiful soul. I think that although his body is still functional, he no longer operates through it. For all intents and purposes, he functions as a discarnate spirit. I have sensed that he deeply regrets having hurt certain people during his lifetime and wishes he could make up for it. He remains a perfectionist who has difficulty forgiving himself for his mistakes.

Malcolm is my first "beautiful person" in my Not So Wordless Wednesday series because his birth anniversary falls two days from now, and because he means the world to me.

~Cie~

Grief and Love, Worthless and Hollow as Myself

Missing Lafayette. Lost him July 17 of last year to kidney failure.

Missing Trinity. Lost her 13 days ago to brain and lung cancer.

Feel so sad about the way dementia has destroyed Malcolm Young’s mind so he “isn’t in there at all any more” according to his brother. Fucking dementia is the worst.
The 28th of this month will mark the 6th anniversary of my father’s passing after 6 years of decline both physically and cognitively.

You are forever loved, but my love is worth fucking nothing. It can’t save anybody, can’t bring anybody back. My love is hollow, painful, a worthless echo. I am so sorry. If I could trade I would.
~Cie~

The Cheese Grates It: For the Umpteenth Time, You Can't Brain Your Way Out Of Dementia

shutterstock.com

The post in question

Ugh, not another one of these!
No, no, no, no, no, and also no!
The only thing you can do to prevent Alzheimer's is to not have the genetic trigger for Alzheimer's.

Let's break this down.

1. Stimulate Your Brain
People who use their minds a lot also get Alzheimer's. I took care of a number of people with Alzheimer's who had been college professors. There are musicians who get Alzheimer's. There are writers. The idea that you can stave off Alzheimer's by using your brain is bunk. 
I'm not saying don't use your brain. Too few people do, it seems to me. It's just that every time I read an article like this one, I start wanting to throw stuff.
It seems to me that stem cell research is the best hope we have for eradicating diseases like Alzheimer's.

2. Take an aspirin

Aspirin is a blood thinner. It is helpful for preventing clots. If you are prone to clots, which can cause strokes and heart attacks, then by all means, take aspirin with your doctor's approval.

Aspirin can help stave off vascular dementia. It doesn't do jack against Alzheimer's.

3. Take a fish oil containing Omega 3's.

This can help with mild depression. It can help somewhat with hypertension. It's nutritionally valuable. Still won't prevent Alzheimer's.

4. Help your brain by helping your heart

"Doctors have identified seven risk factors they think may lead to Alzheimer’s: high blood pressure, mid-life obesity, diabetes, smoking, lack of exercise, low level of education, and depression."

A lot of people do "heart healthy" things and still have the aforementioned "health horrors."

Idiopathic hypertension is...well...idiopathic. Nobody knows the exact cause. Hypertension can also be exacerbated by medications. Particularly thyroid medications. So--do you stop taking the thyroid medication, or do you take blood pressure medication as well? Because if you take thyroid medication, the likelihood is, your blood pressure will be elevated.

There have been studies that show that people with a heavier body type are actually more likely to survive a cardiac event. While there is correlation between having a larger body type and conditions such as diabetes, correlation is not causation. Endocrine problems tend to cause people to gain weight and have trouble losing it. There may be a correlation between endocrine problems and Alzheimer's, but again, correlation is not causation.

Obviously, though, if you're as fat as this guy, you're just asking for it. I mean, fuck's sake, you'd think he'd be able to exert a little self-control and not always be eating every second of the day. Just look at him!

As to that "low education" thing, how about we make education affordable for everybody so people can get more educated. However, since as I said before, FREAKING COLLEGE PROFESSORS DEVELOP ALZHEIMER'S. If they have the genetic trigger, having 50 doctorates isn't going to stop a person from getting Alzheimer's.

As for depression causing Alzheimer's, well, fuck you. 

This is one where there may be a definite correlation. All kidding aside about the "massive girth" of the skinny fellow above (who, unfortunately, does have Alzheimer's or some other form of dementia), he did struggle with depression and addiction. I bet he would like to not have struggled with those things. I know I'd like to not have bipolar disorder.

There's a huge "blame the victim" component with statements like the above. Are we just supposed to snap our fingers and stop having mood disorders?

I could snap my fingers until they fell off. I'd still have a mood disorder.

If this means that I'm more likely to develop dementia (which it may, if both the mood disorder and the dementia are triggered by the same gene), there's nothing I can do about it, and fuck you for making it sound like I'm at fault.

5. Drink champagne (moderately)

BIIIIIIIG FUCKING HELP to people who can't drink!

That would really help our fat friend above, who went through rehab for alcoholism in 1988.

In other words, the referenced post is saying the same shit that wasn't true when other people said it a million times before.

Damon Salvatore agrees with me.

~The Cheese (and Damon Salvatore) Hath Grated It~

30 Days of Haiga 2016: Day 26: Spice

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Tears of the Moon 2

Photoshop manipulation by The Real Cie

With love and tears for Malcolm Young

Dementia destroys beautiful minds

Friendly Fill-Ins Week 17

Week 17: September 2, 2016

1. My favorite way to exercise is in a therapy pool. But I haven't had access to a pool since I quit my old job a year ago.

2. Something I learned last week was that it really sucks to be without money. Oh, wait, I already knew that.

3. I am sentimental about:

This beautiful mess. 

The photo isn't mine.

4. Some people might find it surprising to know that I used to believe that wonderful things would happen to you if you were a good person. I have since learned that bad people get away with a lot of shit and terrible things happen to good people. There is no rhyme or reason to it.

~Cie~

The Cheese Grates It: The Satanic Panics Were and Are Stupid

Just putting this out there. 

Obviously I'm still pissed off about this because I've never forgotten it.

Back in the day, ya know, when dinosaurs roamed and we had to fear being crushed by brontosaurus with their big feet and walnut brains, I was in high school, and I had a really bad reputation for being a "devil worshiper." 

There seemed to be two reasons for this.

One was my belief that government sanctioned health care "such as they have in Sweden"was a good idea.

The other was my love for what became known as "classic rock" music, especially a weird little band known for a weird little guy who sometimes wore a hat with devil horns and was infamous for dropping trou and mooning the audience.

Call Angus Young cheeky--hell, call the entire band cheeky, and you're right. But I never understood for one minute how people could accuse them of being evil. 

I think I'm feeling particularly sensitive about it at the moment, having read how Angus makes sure to frequently contact his very sick, dying brother, even though he's said that his brother "isn't in there at all any more."

Angus always tells Malcolm that he loves him and that everyone misses him, even though he isn't sure if anything he says gets through.

What an evil, evil bastard. What kind of a monster does that?

Angus also said that disbanding after Malcolm could no longer continue might have been the right thing to do, but back when they first started, if you didn't play, you didn't eat, and that has always stuck with him.

You don't forget being really poor, which these guys were.

I initially liked them for their music. I wouldn't have noticed them if it hadn't been for that. Once I found out what kind of people they were, I liked them even more because of that.

I guess I've never understood how people can start really nasty, baseless rumors about other people. I never understood the Satanic Panic crap, not even for a minute. I can tell you that rather than making me want to become more religious, it pushed me away from religion. Even though I feared that I might be going to some sort of hell, because I was raised with those beliefs, I wasn't going to join in a witch hunt.

It's a real lark that people are still talking this kind of shit today. 

Ask me again why I think humans are the creator's biggest mistake.

I'm really not a complete misanthrope, even though such a statement might make me appear to be one. I like people one on one, unless they give me reason not to. It's the human race as a whole that I have problems with.

~The Cheese Hath Grated It~

A Visit from my Best Friend

I will always love you, Buddy

I miss that face so much. I miss his soft fur and the unconditional love he gave me. Seeing this picture makes me cry.

A couple of days ago, I saw him when I woke up. The time when one is just waking can be prime time for glimpsing spirits. I've had this happen a few times.

These glimpses are always brief. I normally don't see spirits, I only sense them. However, on this occasion, I saw Lafayette clearly. It wasn't a "corner of the eye" sighting, and it wasn't in a place where I would normally have seen him.

I stay at my son's apartment on the nights I have to work because it's about a half hour closer to the home of the patient I work with at this time. I was sleeping on the couch. When I was at that point between sleeping and waking, I saw Lafayette. He was kneading the clothes at the end of the couch (yeah, don't judge) and the pink comforter with hearts that he always loved so much, the one I haven't been able to bring home because it reminds me too much of him. (I do my laundry at my son's place.)

His butt was facing me--typical Lafayette. When most adult cats sit with or on a person, they face the person. Not Lafayette. He was a big kitten, "big" being comparative. He was a small cat. He spent 8 months of the first year of his life living in a kennel at the shelter. Although the people there were kind to him, he really wasn't properly socialized. This is why fostering animals is so important.

If I wasn't lying down, Lafayette would always insist that I lie down. Then he would park himself on my chest and turn his butt to my face. He was trying to situate himself on my shoulder, the way kittens do when the Human is lying down. He was too big to accomplish this properly, so I ended up seeing his back side all the time. I always had to pull a cover over my chest, because he would knead exuberantly. He would also turn himself over, literally, nudging his nose against my hand and falling over, all the while purring loudly.

The day I lost him, part of me died. It was truly one of the worst days of my life. I wished that I would die with him. I didn't want to live without him.

Lafayette has shown me a few times that he's still with me. I just miss being able to pet him. I miss my little buddy and I always will.

Lafayette's ashes are in a little display cabinet at my son's apartment. My son, a Brony, made a little crate to rest the velvet bag holding the container of ashes in. He put some straw in the crate and surrounded the container of ashes with tiny "My Little Pony" figures to look after Lafayette.

My son is high functioning autistic and sometimes has trouble expressing affection. He is not a "touchy feely" person. However, it is fallacy that people with autism are incapable of feeling love. My son has a very kind heart, and he expresses it in gestures such as this. I was so touched and so grateful for his creating this little shrine for me.

I've since included various other stuffed animals and items to tell Lafayette I love him and am thinking of him. There is also an envelope containing a clipping of Lafayette's fur, which I took after the vet released him from his suffering. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but a cat's temperature is normally in the low 100's. Lafayette's had dropped to 95 (Fahrenheit.)

I also put my figurine of Malcolm Young in the display case. I know this will seem strange, but Malcolm was a kind person who made a lot of difference to me even though I never met him in this life. His body is still here, but he's no longer in it. I sensed that he wanted me to do this, and so I did. Perhaps it's simply that this place is my shrine for things that I care about which are lost to this world.

Then again, maybe this lonely and misunderstood spirit is looking after the spirit of my little cat until I can be with him again. Like I said, I don't claim to know anything. That's the frustrating part of being a living person dealing with spirits. You really can't ever KNOW until the time comes.

H.P. Lovecraft was very fond of cats, and so he penned "The Cats of Ulthar."

I like to think that someplace like Ulthar exists. If it does, I imagine that Mr. Lovecraft spends a lot of his time there.

H.P. Lovecraft was an atheist, but I sometimes think his dream stories revealed more about his experiences behind the walls of sleep than he admitted. Again, I don't know. I am only speculating.

I hope that perhaps Mr. Lovecraft, Mr. Young and Lafayette are providing each other with comfort and companionship in the world beyond the veil. All of them were misfits in a way.

Lafayette was an unwanted feral kitten, brought to the shelter with other members of the colony when he was just a month old. Of course at eight months, he and his half sister or cousin were adopted by Yours Truly, and he was showered with love for the rest of his life. I only wish he and I could have grown old together.

Nonetheless, he really was never a "normal" cat. He was a quirky little oddball, and I loved that about him.

H.P. Lovecraft always felt like an outsider. His mother was a very disturbed person who told him as a child that he was a monster. He was a sickly child who spent much of his youth locked away from the outside world.

In spite of the fact that he eventually performed for arenas full of people, Malcolm Young was painfully shy and had issues with depression and addiction. He successfully went through rehab for alcohol in 1985. Unfortunately, he was always a heavy smoker.

In any case, the idea that three otherwise lost souls who touched my heart might be able to have a bond of friendship with one another in the world beyond the wall of sleep gives me something of comfort.

I really haven't felt able to write freely in quite some time, so if the reader feels this rambling tangent has gone far off the rails...tough shit. I didn't write it for you.

In any case, I want to thank my best friend for coming to visit me. I'm sure there are other times when he is there with me but I don't sense him. I always love you, Lafayette. You will always be my best little buddy.

~Cie~

Tears for the Lost

Photoshop Manipulation by The Real Cie
Tears for the Lost Version 5

Dementia destroys beautiful minds like his.

Love,

Cie

Soul Calls

At The Beginning of the End: Version 6
Photoshop manipulation by The Real Cie

This is my final post on the Cie Loves Mal tumblr. 

I am no longer using this blog for its original purpose. I feel far too vulnerable doing so. I feel like I have revealed things that are much too personal. 

I was intending to delete the blog, however, I am leaving it here with one final post. I am creating a new blog for my artwork, stories, and personal thoughts. If you want the URL, say so in the comments. I don’t read messages.

I remember one time a blogger wondered why she had such strong emotions for James Hetfield, a person whom she has never met. Sure, she loves his music, but this emotion went far beyond the rational. As someone who has had a lot of experience with the metaphysical, I did not believe what she was feeling to be irrational, but at the time I couldn’t explain this phenomenon. I now can, and I hope to be able to save other people a lot of grief by doing so.

The information I discovered is in this post. Please read it. It will save you a lot of heartache. I wish I had known about this phenomenon when I was much younger. It would have saved me many years of pain.

The phenomenon I refer to is known as a Soul Call.

People with empathic abilities are particularly susceptible to soul calls.

The soul call explains why some people always have a tendency to find stray animals. It also explains why some people have a tendency to find wounded people whom they try to save, only to end up with a broken heart.

The soul call also explains why an otherwise rational person could feel as if she is falling in love with (for instance) James Hetfield, whom she has never met. It has nothing to do with lust or wanting to bang a rock musician for the thrill. She might not even necessarily want to have sex with him. She does, however, find herself wanting to be close to him. The desire to do so becomes all consuming.

This happens because James (or whomever) is feeling troubled about something. He may not even be consciously aware that he is particularly troubled, but his psyche is reaching out, saying “does someone have an answer for me?”

I am hoping that understanding the nature of soul calls can help quell the miserable feeling of unrequited love that all empaths feel at one time or another for a person whom they cannot possibly get close to, and whom it might not even be a good idea to get close to.

For my own part, I would have been saved 26 years of misery wherein I felt a strong pull towards someone who turned out to have both substance and sex addiction problems. This person haunted my dreams, literally. My need to find and get close to him destroyed my marriage. Fortunately, what I wanted never transpired. In fact, during my final astral encounter with him, I ended up telling him to stay away from me or I would hit him in the face with a shovel.

For the record, the person in question is not Malcolm Young.

Regarding Malcolm Young, his soul is screaming and has been for many years. I do not mean to imply that he is in a literal hell, for this is not the case. I only mean to impart that he is extremely troubled by his situation because he is sorry for hurting those who care about him and he can’t do anything about it.

I believe that what Angus said about Malcolm not being in his body at all any more is true. He is, for all intents and purposes, in spirit. The fact that his body remains in the material world is disconcerting and distressing to him.

Certainly there will be empaths who will hear this call and feel as if they are falling in love with such a spirit. However, romantic love is not what he needs or wants. Blessings, prayers, and peaceful vibrations are helpful to spirits in a situation such as Malcolm’s. Regarding Malcolm in particular, I think he would greatly welcome such assistance. 

In closing, yes, dear empathic souls, the love in your heart for the one whose soul call you are receiving is real. On closer examination, you are likely to find that it is not, in fact, romantic love. Look deeper. Ask how you can help. If you cannot sense anything concrete, simply send white light or say blessings or a prayer on behalf of the one making the soul call. Believe that it will help. It will.

I know now that I have received many soul calls over the years. I have been severely damaged by feelings of unrequited love and of loss, and it will take time for me to heal. I hope that I can save some of you the grief I have known. That is why I leave this here for you.

Peace, 

Cie

The Cheese Grates It: Body vs. Soul

“Some people touch your body, some people touch your soul.” --Bruce Adler

Malcolm Young never touched my body, not even a handshake. But he touched my soul more deeply than some people whom I foolishly allowed to touch my body out of desperate need to find some semblance of love--even a perverted pretense of love--somewhere.

It makes me kind of sad when I see girls and women literally proclaiming that they’d happily “be a groupie” for (fill in the blank.)

I would never have been a groupie for anybody.

It isn’t that I have disdain for people who choose to be groupies. I admit, I did when I was younger. I thought they were cheap. Over the years I’ve come to see that such people tend to be looking for love. But you aren’t going to find love when you allow yourself to be but one of someone’s many options. 

Never let yourself be someone’s option. You’re better than that.

Beyond his early 20s, Malcolm was not one to sample from the vast pool of groupies making themselves available. I respected that. If two people are unattached and want to hook up, fine. I don’t respect the sort of fellow (or lady) who is in a committed relationship but hooks up with everything that comes along anyway. I feel bad for such a person’s partner, who is no doubt hoping that one day he will settle down and be true. My experience has shown me that such people never do.

I know sex is a big thing for a lot of people. Personally, I don’t care about it. I can only be involved with someone I care deeply about, and I’d have to trust them deeply too. I don’t trust easily.

I can’t really explain why, but this is a person who truly does touch my soul. I care deeply about him. I wish I could heal him.

Sex? Meh, I have my hand for that. What is in the heart means much more than a random meeting of genitals ever could.

Granted, not everyone is wired the way I am. That’s okay. Just so long as no one is going behind someone else’s back, I really don’t care what people do. I just got tired of being mocked because I’m not that way.

The Cheese Hath Grated It

Wordless Wednesday Fail: Spiraling Into the Past

Spiraling Into the Past, Version 6

Spiraling Into the Past, Version 7

Photoshop images by The Real Cie

Back in the present, Pepper listened to the strains she'd discovered all those years ago. Then they had been the sounds of freedom and rebellion. Now, although her love for these songs had never died, there was something quaint about them, accompanied by a heart-wrenching sense of loss.

From "Fetch," Team Netherworld's WIP Novel

Dedicated with love to Malcolm Young for everything he made possible

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

Hello, and welcome to another Wordless Wednesday Fail, where the Real Cie shows images (often things she's done in Photoshop) and refuses to comply with the "wordless" part of "Wordless Wednesday".

Youth is wasted on the young. When I bought this album, I was young (fourteen) and super stupid. I think I really believed these guys would be like they are on this album forever. Older than me but still young enough. Sassy, impish, but nowhere in the vicinity of actual evil, like some morons made them out to be. Actually, in spite of the provocative humor, they were really sweet people who just wanted to make the world a more enjoyable place. I loved that about them.

I never thought that less than a year after I bought this album that Bon Scott would be dead.

I could not have imagined that Phil Rudd would end up a meth addict, estranged from the band and in trouble with the law for making foolish, drug-fueled threats towards a person with whom he had a disagreement.

I certainly never thought that Malcolm Young, who created the band, would have his cognitive abilities destroyed to the point where he could no longer remember the works he created, where he didn't know the brother to whom he was so very close, and where he didn't even know who he himself was.

Y'all can't tell me that this plane of existence isn't Purgatory. I'm convinced that it is. Those of us who are stuck here are just trying to get by. Some of us, like these guys, try to make it a little nicer for their fellow inmates.

Maybe if we all learn the lesson that we need to treat each other a little more kindly, we can get out of here.

~Cie~

Crazy Creatives Cheerleading Camp: January 2016

The rules for participation are simple:

If you write a post, please share the URL of your post in the comments.

Please visit other participants

PLEASE BE SUPPORTIVE OF ONE ANOTHER

I created the CCCC as a support tool for creative people living with mental illness, as we are often misunderstood and made to feel foolish in blog hops for "normal" people. This can trigger depression and suicide ideation, and who the hell needs that? Personally, that happens for me quite enough as it is.

Today is the birthday of one of the people who inspired me to stay on the creative path when the forces around me (family, school) were telling me that this was foolish and impractical. Unfortunately I was never lucky enough to meet him in person, but he still means the world to me.

Most people wouldn't give him a second look. He's no GQ hunk or "Alpha Male." He's tiny and not conventionally attractive, but I think he's beautiful. When I say "beautiful," I mostly refer to his soul. However, I do admit to finding him physically appealing as well.

I would like to wish him a happy birthday, but he does not have happy birthdays, because this has happened to his brain.

He has gone from this:

To this:

To this:

He is 63 years old. His brother has said of him that "he isn't in there at all any more." He does not remember what he did. He does not remember the people to whom he was closest, including his brother and his daughter, who was standing beside him in the second photo.

He inspired me not only to be creative in spite of the fact that I was being told it was foolish and impractical, but to continue living in spite of the fact that I was being told I was worthless. I was twelve years old and contemplating suicide.

I was badly bullied. I didn't know it then, but my bipolar disorder was fully awakened with puberty. I was sad all the time. I felt like a major disappointment to my family. I felt like a freak. I was physically unattractive and painfully shy.

The fact that this painfully shy little man half a world away managed to create powerful music that reached out not to the "cool kids," AKA the bullies, but instead to freaks like me made me want to keep living, if for no other reason than to piss off the assholes who were bullying me. Whenever I held one of his band's records (Initially cassette tapes made for me by one of my few friends' older brothers) I felt like shouting out "see this? This was made for people like me, not for you assholes!"

I felt like I mattered to someone, even though he didn't know me. I thought that if he met me, he might want to be my friend. Sure, he was twice my age, but I would have behaved in a mature fashion, which would have made him treat me like an adult in most ways. I would happily have been his assistant.

He wasn't one of those perverts who would have taken advantage of a naïve kid. (Looking at you, Ted Nugent. Sadly, also looking at Steven Tyler, Iggy Pop, and Jimmy Page.) He might have enjoyed certain substances, sometimes a little too much, but he always had a strong sense of ethics. I loved that about him.

I was a bit of a dichotomy at twelve. In some ways, I was extremely naïve. In others I was old beyond my years. I was drinking and getting high. I knew almost nothing about sex, in spite of the fact that the kids at my school saw fit to spread rumors that I was easy. I wasn't. I wanted nothing to do with most of the boys at my school, and the one I was interested in saw me as a little sister.

I never made good on my creative dreams. Improperly diagnosed mental illness (I wasn't diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was nearly 40) had something to do with this. I know now that I never will be anything but desperate and destitute. It's probably stupid for me to continue writing. I am a dismal failure. I let my hero down, although he will never know it, at least not in this life.

I continue writing although it is rare for me to receive any sort of response, just in case I actually reach someone who really needs it. Also because if I don't let the words out, they come out in the form of increased self-loathing. So I continue to write.

It is also why I created this group, which may never have a single other participant. I keep doing it, because you play even if you only have one person in the audience. You play even if that person is the bartender, who has to be there anyway. Because the music wants to be heard. Or, in the case of someone like me, the words want to be read. Even if the only person reading them is the one who wrote them.

The fact that I rarely receive acknowledgement hurts sometimes. I have, however, learned that seeking approval is no reason to do anything. I will never get approval.

My hero went unnoticed by most people. Granted, he was much more successful than I've ever been. However, his contributions to music are overlooked by the general public. He never let the fact that his younger brother received all the attention turn him jealous or hateful, and I admire that about him too.

Never seem to be in front
Or part of the exciting times
Destined for a life of second best
The blackmail not the bribe
Together now whatever work has gone unsung
He'll be forever Malcolm Young
Always gnocchi not linguine
Never Hitler you're Mussolini
Often the sideshow but not the circus
Always Malcolm never Angus
End up Carlton you wanted to be Negus
Single pluggers never sneakers
Always headphones never the speakers
Shouldn't have a complex cause
He wrote Highway To fucking Hell
Together now whatever work has gone unsung
He'll be forever Malcolm Young
Don't be too cocky cause he wrote Stiff Upper Lip as well

For what it's worth, I always knew he was special. The ones who get overlooked often are.

~Cie~