Well, I am close to saying it is all over

Well, I am close to saying it is all over--the purpose of this blog was to document my efforts at reclaiming my sexuality and soul.  I have failed.  At this point, barring a miracle, I realize that I will never be a human being again--I have lost both the freedom to live my sexuality and experience my soul.  I cannot stop the NSA from drugging me; as a matter of fact they have put two implants in my brain which not only track me, but I suspect drug me as well.  I can no longer fight to escape it.  Even when I go to the bosque, I am sick with the psychotropic drugs.  They can track me (I watched some skinny, tall dame in black signal a helicoptor before she sprayed me with drugs one night last week), and drug me at will.  In this particular case, it was a good thing I was close to the truck, because she doped me up so good that I could barely walk the 25 yards to the truck.  I am used to not being able to walk by now, though I continue to force myself to try to work out, even if only barely, and do yoga.  I don't know how much longer I can force myself though.  I feel so sick and weak and fluish all the time.  My autism is becoming severe, and I literally find it difficult to even be around people, so I do my best to avoid them.  It is especially hard when they talk to me, because it takes too much effort to talk back to them, and I am not in reality, but at the bottom of a deep, deep pit.  Fortunately, I don't have to talk to very many people.  Being isolated from people doesn't really bother me that much.  I spent my entire childhood and youth living that way, and I learned very well how to live in that painful desolation.  What really bothers me, and leaves me in suicidal despair is not being in touch with my interior life.  I cannot pray, either mentally, verbally or contemplatively.  I am a zombie, totally cut off from all emotions, and my great little secret that only one person that I know of ever guessed, is really how much of an emotional, "devotional" prayer I am.  Because I don't show emotions, people do not realize how much of my prayer, even pure contemplative prayer, depends upon, and wells up from an emotional relationship with Jesus Christ, but now I am completely cut off from any emotions or feelings, any "soul", and without that, life has lost all meaning.  The other day in the laundromat, while I was totally zombied out on psychotropic drugs, I experienced a first.  A little 2 or 3 year old started throwing her toy figurines at me.  Her mother was apologetic, but I looked at the little kid, and understood.  She feared and reviled the subhuman, mostly dead zombie that she saw in front of her.  Normally children pick up on my friendly, extroverted energy, zest, and joy for life, and respond to me with with open eyes and frankness (though I do hear a lot of "are you a boy or a girl?"), unlike too many of their parents who think I am hyperactive to the point of flakiness, or "schizophrenic" as the unimaginative, intellectually dour and spiritually immoral MIB do (speaking of which, I met another NSA psych the other day in Dr. Huaman's office--"Martin"--I guess he wanted to check out his drugged slave for himself.  Maybe he wanted to see if I would have any kind of emotional reaction to him, but even though I knew who and what he was, I was too alienated from reality or any of my emotions to do anything other than observe.  He probably is really proud of himself, not knowing at all the depth of my contempt and hatred for him).  Anyway, I guess I had better get used to lots of negative feedback--people in general, (much less children) do not understand or appreciate autistic perception or alienation, and I do believe that I am on my way to becoming "Rainwoman."

Another real hardship is my complete inability to read.  I can only remember three times in my life when I absolutely could not read or pay attention.  The most prolonged period was my senior year, when I suffered a bad case of senior burnout.  In retrospect, I think it was God's grace directing me away from graduate school, because at the time, that seemed like a natural next step for me. But if I had gone on to graduate school, I would have become a rarefied, ivory-tower, bookworm neurotic.  The "real world" was a challenging place for me to be in, but I learned so much about remedial social relations and practicalities that I would have missed  had I gone on to the easy, intellectual insularity of graduate school.  Still, after the intellectual intensity of my first three years in college, it was hard to pick up a book, and find it boring, shallow, overspecialized or the "same old same old."  At the time I was constantly chasing the cosmic GUTS ("grand unified theory of spirituality") that I had just briefly caught a glimpse of during my conversion, and I had no patience with the pedestrian dissertations and essays of academia.  Of course, I know now (and knew then) that the problem really was with me, not the books.  What I would do to be able to go back and really read Process Philosophy/Theology (I say that because I have been thinking a lot on temporal issues, and how that would impact Christian orthodoxy, and I suspect that the most fruitful synthesis of understanding would include Process Theology features.  Then there were the two classes that I absolutely hated--Logic and Molecular Biology.  I took logic because I thought I might be a philosophy major--again God's grace steered me clear.  Molecular Biology was different.  I really liked the instructor, and in theory, I was very curious about how Molecular Biology worked, but I felt physically sick while doing lab work on rats that had just been killed (I hated dissecting frogs in high school), and the sheer, overwhelming detail of biological minutae just bored me stiff.  I wanted to know how the brain worked.  I didn't give a shit about how acetylcholine converted to dopamine or vice versa or whatever.  If I could take Molecular Biology now, you better believe I would give a shit, and I would be more motivated to pay attention.  But could I pay attention?  I am having the hardest time focussing even on reading familiar authors and favorite topics.  And no, it is NOT that my mind is racing.  Rather, it is that the words on the page are meaningless, and I notice that speed especially impacts my ability to make sense of words on a page.  It is like reading Jabberwocky.  I read but there is no context that signifies or declares meaning in my brain.  Is this because I am so alienated from reality, or is my mind unable to process verbal thought (hmm--could be another side effect of the enhanced autism I am experiencing).  I can write fine (at least I think I am), but I have to say that as I am writing this I feel better than I have all day, (but I still don't feel good--I feel really nauseated and headachy, and have difficulty concentrating).  But does the mind race?  No--it daydreams, not in a racing fashion, but more in a gentle reverie.  How do I daydream?  Read My Friend Flicka, one of my favorite childhood books.  I daydream like young Ken.  When his mother asks him how he failed English, he explained to her step by step of how and why he daydreamed away an entire hour.  I, like Ken, think in images.  It is an extra step for me to write, but normally, a very easy step.  It is not an easy step now.  In addition to "thinking images," I want to drift off into one of my "stressed out" reveries.  When I am stressed out, I think of mountain hikes I have taken (and I am there), blue skies, running barefoot in the KY hills (and I feel the freedom of grass under my bare feet).  One of my favorite images that I replay over and over is from the movie "King David."  Richard Gere (in the only movie in which I can ever stand him), is a decrepit, dying king, who no longer can keep warm without a virgin laying asexually next to his once vigorous virility, and he is informing the room that he is about to "go the way of all flesh," and just by looking at him, you wonder how he gets the breath to get the words out. Then he slips into a reverie, and in his reverie, he is in the prime of young, virile manhood once again, racing with Jonathan, who (begging the question of what transpired sexually), I believe was the true love of his life.  And just as he jump hurdles a fence like an Olympian, the movie ends. I think I see this image over and over because I feel like the dying, impotent David, no longer sovereign over even my own brain, ova, or sexuality, and the only thing I have to remind me of my once free, vital, joyful life are memories.  I used to love to run.  One of my favorite memories of Augusta is racing with her down the call center floor.  Of course, some people thought we were crazy (why don't you apply for employment with the intelligence services, assholes?), but we had a blast.  When I became overweight and could no longer run on a regular basis, I took up aerobics, but now I can no longer do even aerobics.  Dr. Huaman asked me if I could not do something else, and I said yoga, but the truth is I miss the sheer all-out exhiliration of impulse and movement, and nothing, not even yoga, can give me that joy (yoga normally gives me a different kind of joy, but right now, with these psychotropic drugs, there is no body-mind-spirit connection, and it is nothing more than pedestrian exercise, but I do it to try to keep my body in some kind of shape).  To be honest, I am in constant pain with nerve damage to the left leg (caused by the speed) that is worsening to the point where I wonder if soon I am going to be limping on that leg for the rest of my life, so you can see why I love that fantasy.  I also love the scene where he dances naked for God, and his arranged wife despises him, asking him, "what is wrong with you," and he replies, "I do it for God, not for you and not for proper decorum."  Of course David didn't live in an age where religious and political fundamentalists could spy on and control everything.  I keep asking, "what would Jesus do if he knew that powers and forces of evil had implanted  psychotropic drugs and a tracking implant in his brain that tracked his every move, made him ill and unable to pray or relate to others, and denied his free will to choose how to live out his sexuality.  I know Jesus in another realm understands my dilemma, but my brain cannot answer that question with what I know of Jesus from Scripture.  I wish I could pray, but the drugs prevent that. 

I had hoped to have just one person to talk to--Ana Huaman.  Dr. Huaman has true genius of intellect--not because she is an MD (most of whom don't impress me at all), but because she, like me, combines a scientific mind (another secret people don't grasp about me) with an intuitive perception into reality.  The combination of science and intuition is what constitutes genius--not how much information a person carries in their head.  She is heavier on the former while I am stronger on the latter, and I think she could really be helpful to me in figuring out some of these intellectual issues I have been struggling with(sure, she has been briefed by the NSA but I would tell EVERYBODY to take what they say with a grain of salt.  Their MO is lies and disinformation.  They don't know the truth themselves, because they are "disinformed" as well).  I just need one friend to talk to, to keep me from utter despair.  Another image that comes to mind is from the movie, "Notorious."  When Ingrid Bergman is poisoned by her Nazi husband and mother-in-law, she succumbs without a fight, and I don't think it was because the poison was so effective but because she felt no one (namely Cary Grant) loved her, and life is not worth living and struggling for without someone to love you.  That is where I am at--not one person to love me and help free me from the poison, so it is just reallyeasy to lay down and die, especially when I am in such pain all the damned time.  I am not a celibate--I have too much need of another human person to help me navigate life.  I  need a helpmate, a friend, and a lover.  But once again, I feel like I am being forced into celibacy.  I can't stress how hateful that concept is to me.  I hate it.  I am too sick to continue.  It is time to stop.  I don't know if I will ever be intimate again.  For that matter, I don't know if I will ever be a human being again.  I have a bad headache.  Maybe tomorrow I will feel better.