My Me Dreams

[Blackfish64]

As of the last few months, I have had this recurring dream in which I am holding in my hands a small child. It is a boy child, no bigger than the palm of my hand.  I am torturing the child, poking him in the eyes with my fingers, slapping him in the face, and squeezing the breath out of him in a death grip, then releasing him and laughing at him while he gasps for breath, writhes, and tries to recover.  Then I stop what I am doing and start to focus on the child and I realize, much to my surprise, that the child is, I.

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The night before last I had a dream in which I was dressed as a woman.  I looked fantastic!  I was really beautiful!  I was standing on a stage in front of a crowd of people, all of them looking at me, and, I, looking at myself, and I was thinking, 'Wow!  Gorgeous!  What a beauty!  She looks very familiar... who is that?'  I stepped closer and closer to get a better look and realized, once again, it was, I.

I think these two ideas/dreams are closely related.  Though the girl dream is new.  I've never seen anything like that before.  

My dreams have always been macabre.  I actually enjoy them.  The more macabre, the more I like them.  They're only dreams.  I am not afraid of them.  Just as I am not afraid of my own thoughts.  They're only thoughts.  Nothing to be afraid of.


“There are no evil thoughts, Mr. Rearden," Francisco said softly, "except one: the refusal to think.”

― Ayn Rand  

 

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I think the girl dream has something to do with my recent trip to Vietnam, which brought about for me some revelations in my own self-reflection.  I have never thought of myself as beautiful, handsome, or anything of the kind.  Nor ugly, average, or anything of the kind.  I never think of how I look at all, to be honest.  I keep myself happy and healthy and wear good, respectable clothing, and I check myself in the mirror before going out into the world.  And that's about it.  I have no wish to be seen by the rest of the world in any particular way.  I am not insecure about my appearance.  If I am working, for example, I have no need or desire to hide the dirt that got smeared on the front of my shirt.  I am working, after all, and that's what happens to men at work.  They get dirty.  Deal with it.  If I am in dining mode, I wear a nice polo and look most presentable and comfortable.  If I am out stick walking, and getting sweaty, I wear my sporty, athletic clothes and let the sweat gush where it pleases.  If you don't like me, well, what can I say?  You do not understand appearances and body language and what it all means.  You would be doing yourself a favor if you took up that study.       

I walked the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, talking with prostitutes.  I sit in cafes with them and eat with them.  They're the best people to talk to.  They're honest.  They know where everything is, where to go, where not to go, what to wear, what not to wear, who's who, and what's what.  I am more than happy to pay them a little cash for their time and their efforts.  They are, after all, working girls and are there to make money.  I don't waste their time and I don't allow them to waste mine.  Of course, they don't want a trivial amount and a meal for being a companion to me for an hour or half hour; what they want is to take me to their room and get full pay for the full service they will undoubtedly provide.  But I am not in the least bit interested in that.  I am interested in them acting as a shield to ward off any of the alleged "good girls" who might pass by who are looking for a relationship, a visa, a marriage, a one-stop ticket to "freedom".  Sorry, ladies, we're fresh out of that in the West, too.  No, I am not interested in that kind of relationship either.  In fact I am not interested in any kind of relationship at all.  I tell them these things.        

I think that I am an incredibly selfish person who only wants to take care of his own needs.  I have always found it that way in my life.  And I think that is, for me, as it should be.  I have never found anyone who is genuinely interested in me, in my needs and desires, so I have learned to take care of myself.  No one is going to do it for me.  That's for damn sure.  All the women in my past are only interested in getting everything they can from me, trying to control me, and keeping me as their confidante, ruling me, and things of that nature.  My acts of kindness were always, always, always mistaken for weakness.  In my early adulthood, it was true that I was weak and had a hard time saying no.  But it's not true anymore.  That hasn't been true for a long time.  I am only too aware of these facts in my life.  I'm a nice guy.  And I am going to stay that way.  There's no reason to be rude or to be mean-until it's necessary to be rude or mean-or worse.  I see no reason to be bitter about the rotten people who walk around on the planet.  We all have a tough go of it.  There is no point in making it more difficult than it is already.  So, I was abused and battered as a child; that's not your fault or your responsibility, nor will I make it so.  And vice-versa.  We all have to fight to be free.        

I know I am "different", "unique".  I have always known it.  It has only been pointed out to me again and again and again over the years.  But, happily, long, long gone are the days when every girl I parted ways with left me with her stomach and her closet full, and I sitting there footing the bill for it all, wondering why, if I am so wonderful, did I not get some goodies, too, in return for all my kindnesses.  I now remain "nice", "unique", and "different" without being raped, and without wondering why in the world I can never seem to fill that great big empty black hole that runs through the middle of all these women, and why nothing ever comes back out of it for me.         

Even every single one of the prostitutes I met in Vietnam over my long weekend were only too aware of my being nice to them, only too aware of my being "different".  Every single one from which I parted ways was both sorely disappointed she could not convince me to do the kind of business she wanted me to do with her, and at the same time well satisfied with my offering to compensate her for the time she did spend with me, and each one giving me a hug and saying, something to the effect, "You very lovely.  You a very lovely man.  I like you very much.  You look very sharp and you know how to treat a girl.  I hope to see you again soon."

To which I reply, "Thank you", and press on.  I learned to like me more when I learned to give myself the same chances with me as I have given everyone else.            

[villagewisdom]

Thanks for sharing. There is a lot in the situation you describe that relates to the recurring dream even though you did not mention it IMO. I'm going to jump right in and give some feedback here. But first, my disclaimer. It is only one person's opinion created through reasoning but without scientific proof. I'm trying to get better at dream interpretation and will want to hear your thoughts on my thoughts. TIA. 

 

The representation of the baby in your hand that you are crushing and torturing over and over seems clear. It is you self attacking and keeping yourself small. If you think of the baby as a new idea about yourself that could and would grow over time to become a permanent part of your meco system, you can see that the image of it being small and you torturing it would be indicative of your self torture and conscious sabotage of bringing out your best to the world. You will want to look to your childhood to find out the origin of that destructive trait. Also, based on your story above, this is likely a reflection of the fact you are aware you are "different and unique". 

 

A dream recurs because the thoughts surrounding it recur. So I feel pretty safe in saying that you put yourself down on a regular basis. You feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved. The dream will stop recurring when you recognize this and ACT ON IT. It seems that you have recognized your self-attack/self-sabotage or you wouldn't be aware that the baby is you. The missing part is acting on this information and doing something to change it. That takes some courage. Go for it. 

 

The You that dresses up as the woman and then recognizes yourself could actually be you reaching that point of finding motivation to act on changing the self attacks. Persons of the opposite sex in general would represent your inner or subconscious thoughts. So taking that idea into consideration, the woman dressed and looking awesome would be you looking inward and reflecting on who you are and recognizing that you really do have a lot of fantastic qualities that could be displayed in your life. That can be a big motivator to get past the fear illustrated by the self-attack.

 

Focus on the beauty you recognize in yourself. Focus only on that. Focus only on the Fountainhead. If you look outward and try to do it for anyone other than yourself or see that someone might judge you, someone might ridicule your ideas, someone might take advantage of you, etc, that is when you will self-attack and shut down that beautiful butterfly trying to emerge. You will again try to merge into normality and blend with the crowd, crushing, torturing and suffocating your greatness.

 

I say again in another way, don't rely on the prostitutes to tell you what a lovely man you are. Find the loveliness inside yourself, grab onto it, hold onto it for dear life and don't ever give it away to something outside of yourself. Hope this helps and thank you for sharing your beautiful story. 

 

P.S. you might want to read or re-read The Fountainhead. 

[Blackfish64]

What can I say?  You're spot on.  I have always kept my fire to myself. Yes, I have always kept myself small and insignificant, at least as far as the rest of the world is concerned.  And, yes, it stems from childhood, from Mom and Dad doing their wonderful work on me (yes, I'm being facetious).  Dad beating Mom's brains in on a regular basis, screaming and yelling and fighting all the time, and I getting teased, humiliated, and brutalized over and over again.  I never wanted to take any of it seriously.  I mean, I always looked up at Dad and despised him, wanted him dead, and knew all along that he was a nutcase.  But, even so, years and years of this nonsense does have a way of rubbing off on a child.

I don't merely feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved.  I am in fact.  I am currently living in Thailand.  My wife and her family are Thai.  We are all so different from each other that it is safe to say we are completely incompatible.  Her family hates me.  They want me to leave.  But my reasoning is that I didn't marry her family.  I have no use or need for any of them, just as I have no use or need for any of my family.  But that's not how things work in Asian cultures.  Here, the family is everything.  But she does not want to give up her family.  It's unthinkable to her.  So, that leaves me having to give up on her.  This whole mess has become so ridiculous that I can hardly stand it anymore.  I liked it much better when we lived in the United States together, alone.  She was much happier and we got along much better.  But, she deems it her duty to be here and to be taking care of her precious family.  I just laugh at the idea.  Gibberish.  Meantime, we never talk anymore, never have sex, never can be reasonable with one another.  Everything has to do with being centered around the family and doing what her big sister (who's a freakin' stupid whack-job all by herself) says.  

Yes, I always put myself down.  It is such a bad habit that I don't even realize I am doing it sometimes.  But then again, what do I care how the family runs their business?  I don't.  I mention my ideas and make my best effort, and when they get too stupid for me (and they are stupid!), I simply walk away.  I am simply taking advantage of them, just as they are taking advantage of me.  That is the way of the world here.  That is how things are done.  It's the land of the egomaniac.  It's all about me, me, me, me, me, me, me here.

I have always wanted to be in a situation similar to this, but under different circumstances, of course.  When I was a boy, we went to a lake in Minnesota and stayed for summer vacations at a tiny resort.  I immediately became enamored with the idea of having a place like it of my very own.  Dad almost owned the place himself one year.  But his drinking and carousing got the better of him and he screwed it all up.  I was crushed.  Even later on, as I graduated high school, my guidance counselor, who I met only once, two weeks before graduation, informed me that I would be best suited to a job as an overseer in a hotel/resort environment.  Later, I went to Las Vegas and started working in the hotels there.  It's a hostile, authoritarian environment, but I learned the trade just the same.  Then, my wife and I started to invest here in Thailand, in this property, with her family, and here we are after ten long years of struggle.  But it's not to be.  I think I will go back stateside and start my life over again.  It's the only reasonable thing to do anymore.  Besides, I'm good at it.         

As for the prostitutes, I made mention of them only because their reaction to me was spontaneous.  I wasn't looking for approval or acceptance or validation or anything of the kind.  I was simply out walking around and made my trip more interesting with their company.  It just happened that way.  I have always been a solitude seeker and could care less about the approval of others.  But now and again it is nice to be appreciated.  And I was.  As a reward, I treated myself to a fine two and a half hour Thai massage.  Coincidentally, it was the best Thai massage I have ever had in my life, and I've had a thousand of them!  It was a good day!  Na was magnificent!  What technique!  What hands and feet!  She was really amazing!  I wanted to tuck her up under my arm and take her home with me.

Meantime, I have been here for almost a year now, and I have not wasted my time.  I have traveled around Southeast Asia and made a lot of my dreams come true.  I have always wanted to come here and experience this place.  It has interested me intensely ever since I was a boy, since meeting one of my childhood heroes, Bruce Lee, on film.  Dad was a racist, and forbid me having anything to do with Bruce Lee films.  I never got to be a real fan until I was eighteen and out on my own.  I always knew I would come here.  I am taking full advantage of everything I can get my hands on, everything I have contributed to getting myself here over the years.  It's mine.  I've earned it. I'm taking it.  I am writing my story as I write this.  I have wanted to tell my story for a long time now.  It isn't easy, but I am up to the challenge.  I have most of the outline done by now, and even some of the first draft.  I have written tons!  I have no idea what I am doing, but I just keep it coming.  It will all work out eventually.  

Coincidentally, I just finished reading The Fountainhead again.  I've read it many times over the years.  I've always loved Roarke.  That character is amazing.  And I know what you mean.  I keep striving.  In a lot of ways, I am like Roarke already, always have been.  I never did do things for others.  I do things because that's what I want to do.  I never cared whether people liked it or not.  When someone told me a thing could not be done, or I was not to do a thing or two, I went out on my own and did it anyway.  As a boy, I sneaked around and even stole to get what I needed.  I knew no one was going to help me.  So I helped myself.  To hell with all of you.  Not to rub it in their face, but to please myself.  When I joined the martial arts, for example, at first I was terrible at it, and everyone laughed at me.  But their laughter didn't make me quit.  Nor did it spur me on.  I paid no attention.  Violence was a problem I wanted to solve.  And I was going to solve the problem no matter what anyone said or did around me.  And over the years I did just that.  I solved the first part of the problem in the first eighteen months of my training.  I had come a long way very rapidly, and had beat my teacher three times in a row in his own dojo, in front of his own class.  I not only beat him, but beat him badly, humiliated him.  He was furious.  I made him lose his precious "cool".  No, it was not my intention to humiliate him.  It just worked out that way.  I didn't do it to boast or to have others see me as great or anything of the kind.  I had simply been brought up, born and raised, in violence, and I wanted to understand it, to master it, to control it instead of it controlling me, instead of being afraid, inept, and helpless, which I thought was stupid.  And I was right.       

My "greatness", you say.  I've never thought of myself as great.  Perhaps I have it, this "greatness".  But I don't know what it is, really, I don't.  I'm not saying that to be facetious, but I really don't know what that means.  I've got a feeling however that if I ever find out what that is, I will be more effective in my own life and getting my own things done, which is really all that matters to me.  

I think that is what I am trying to do in writing my story.  Get my own things done, and focus on the "greatness" in me.  I am trying to get to something I have not quite grasped yet in my life.  I have found already so many great things in my life through writing, I suppose I will find this thing, too.

Your comments are sincerely appreciated and amazingly accurate.  I thank you.        

     

[villagewisdom]

Thanks for the feedback. You writing style is one of your "great" characteristics. I was engaged through the entire post. 

 

I feel the need to provide additional feedback on your state of mind. It relates directly to the recurring dream. You do not seem to care to change your thoughts about yourself. You have a recurring dream indicating you are torturing yourself endlessly and you are aware of your self torture. Yet you do nothing about it. There is no plan to do anything about your self immolation. Therefore, the dream recurs.

 

I can see you have a plan to change your physical location. I assume there are no children as you did not mention any. A change of location seems prudent based on what you described. And a huge point of interest is that I believe you are actually aware that your self condemnation, sacrifice, torture, etc will follow you. Yet still -- no plan to change that.

 

One quote from above really stands out for me. "I don't merely feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved.  I am in fact. " I see two possibilities for what you actually mean with this statement, but of course there could be some other that you could share. The first possibility I see is that you actually identify with being unworthy, unwanted, and unloved and are comfortable with that identity and therefore you have no intention of changing it. You see it as who you are. The second possibility is that you are in fact unworthy, unwanted, and unloved in the eyes of your wife and her family. In that case you would be unaware of how much you truly do care what others think of you. So that would indicate a lack of awareness. Hmmmm. that sounds like two sides of the same coin. 

 

Anyway, your lack of motivation to change yourself is puzzling to me. I can see no benefit in continuing to torture that child with full awareness that you are doing it. Obviously there is some benefit to you. I don't see it. Care to share more about that?

 

I can't help but see a strong parallel between how you describe your life and how Katy (The Fountainhead) describes herself to her uncle after she perfects selflessness and finds herself completely unhappy. She says she doesn't know a single person who is selfless that is happy. Do you know the passage I am referring to? Ellsworth then proceeds to pound her further into the ground. (That's like you and your dream baby.) What a difference it would have been if Katy had put on Roark's hat and decided to say "Fuck this shit, I'm going to live for myself. I'm just going to enjoy life. Here's what I see as the ideal life for me and I'm going for it. I'm worthy, wanted and loved by myself just because I am alive and aware of my virtues." What a difference that may make in your life. 

 

"Love is the involuntary response to virtue." S. Molyneux And I have always wanted to add to his statement that it includes self-love. 

[villagewisdom]

One other thing. The Life/Health Coach in me is insisting I ask about your dream resort. What is stopping you from just making it happen? You could be a real innovator in the industry if you created a model that was a win-win for all. It might be the kind of place where the "hostile environment" does not exist. 

 

Okay two other things. The curious in me wants to know what is unique about you and your place? Why would I visit your place rather than another?

[Blackfish64]

Thanks for the feedback. You writing style is one of your "great" characteristics. I was engaged through the entire post. 

 

I feel the need to provide additional feedback on your state of mind. It relates directly to the recurring dream. You do not seem to care to change your thoughts about yourself. You have a recurring dream indicating you are torturing yourself endlessly and you are aware of your self torture. Yet you do nothing about it. There is no plan to do anything about your self immolation. Therefore, the dream recurs.

 

I can see you have a plan to change your physical location. I assume there are no children as you did not mention any. A change of location seems prudent based on what you described. And a huge point of interest is that I believe you are actually aware that your self condemnation, sacrifice, torture, etc will follow you. Yet still -- no plan to change that.

 

One quote from above really stands out for me. "I don't merely feel unworthy, unwanted, unloved.  I am in fact. " I see two possibilities for what you actually mean with this statement, but of course there could be some other that you could share. The first possibility I see is that you actually identify with being unworthy, unwanted, and unloved and are comfortable with that identity and therefore you have no intention of changing it. You see it as who you are. The second possibility is that you are in fact unworthy, unwanted, and unloved in the eyes of your wife and her family. In that case you would be unaware of how much you truly do care what others think of you. So that would indicate a lack of awareness. Hmmmm. that sounds like two sides of the same coin. 

 

Anyway, your lack of motivation to change yourself is puzzling to me. I can see no benefit in continuing to torture that child with full awareness that you are doing it. Obviously there is some benefit to you. I don't see it. Care to share more about that?

 

I can't help but see a strong parallel between how you describe your life and how Katy (The Fountainhead) describes herself to her uncle after she perfects selflessness and finds herself completely unhappy. She says she doesn't know a single person who is selfless that is happy. Do you know the passage I am referring to? Ellsworth then proceeds to pound her further into the ground. (That's like you and your dream baby.) What a difference it would have been if Katy had put on Roark's hat and decided to say "Fuck this shit, I'm going to live for myself. I'm just going to enjoy life. Here's what I see as the ideal life for me and I'm going for it. I'm worthy, wanted and loved by myself just because I am alive and aware of my virtues." What a difference that may make in your life. 

 

"Love is the involuntary response to virtue." S. Molyneux And I have always wanted to add to his statement that it includes self-love. 

 

 

Thank you for the kind words on my writing.  I love doing it.  It's funny, when I try to write my book, I can't seem to connect with that active voice.  I had always thought the writing should be more formal, or something entirely different from what I usually do, but I have learned as of late that is not at all the case.  Now, I am writing and rewriting and making that connection and it has started to turn out well for a change.  The truth is, I have no desire to do it any other way.  I only want to write the way I have always written and tell it like it is.  That's just what I'm aiming to do.  Writing is my dream job.  I'd love to do it for a living, but no clue where, how to start.  And this is where I do best.  I do extremely well when prompted, when feeding off questions and ideas.      

 

I have two children.  They are grown and moved on, doing their own thing by now.  I got started early, at age twenty two.  I was divorced early, too.  The children are not from my current/second wife.  There are no children between us save the two from my previous marriage and her son, also from a previous marriage.  Her ex died after they divorced.  She was in a bad financial mess a year before we met and left her son in the care of her family and went to America to help get things straightened up.  That's where we met.     

 

Yes, I identify with being unworthy and unloved, and all the rest of it.  Quite accurate.  If only because I have always been that way.  I am used to it.  I don't know any other way to behave.  I feel like if I stopped doing it, I would be lopping off my right arm.  It is such a part of my identity that might not know who I am without it.  Where you are incorrect is that I don't want to do anything about it.  I do.  But I cannot tell what is to be done.  I've read books and watched videos and listened to tapes galore, and the answer does not come to me.  Therapy is not an option for me.  It is costly, I don't have money to spend, and every therapist I have ever met has proven to be worthless.  They tell me how sorry they are that I have gone through all this and that, and what an admirably powerful man I am for having had to bear all of this and come through in such fine style, then they take my money and tell me the session is over.  I wasn't even warmed up yet.  We hadn't even started to work yet.  And I feel that if I hear another person tell me how sorry they are and/or how strong my back is for having to bear it all, I think I will punch them in the face.  People are lazy, stupid, boring, and not dedicated.  They just want your money.  They need to make another Mercedes payment.  Believe me, if I knew what to do, I would do it.  I was hoping to include a triumph like this in my story.  Maybe that's what's holding me up in finishing the story.  Maybe personally, psychologically I'm not ready to finish it.  

 

Yes, the self-immolation will follow me wherever I go.  However my pecking old hen will not.  That's a start.  It's amazing how someone changes from one place to another.

 

Yes, I am like Katy, and my wife is like Ellsworth Toohey!  Well, something in that order, but not quite.  Katy was obviously not a fighter, but someone who gives up on herself quite easily.  I know for a fact that what I am doing to myself is wrong, and what my wife always tries to do to me is wrong.  I fight it, I fight her, I try to work my way out of it, though without knowing quite what to do.  I lived alone for than a decade before I met her.  These days, I am finding myself wanting to go back to living alone.  She's a narcissist, pure and simple.  She thinks she's some kind of queen.  I just laugh.  She's so stiff it's a wonder she isn't dead from constipation from her attitude and all the garbage she eats.  Her ideas are simply out of this world!  The family business is this resort in the middle of Nowhere, Thailand.  It is a gorgeous place, no doubt about it, but far away from any tourist traffic.  It's all local-yokels around here.  Nothing wrong with that, but... she wanted to have her own restaurant on the property, of all freakin' things, an expensive Italian restaurant.  I thought she'd lost her mind.  Where did she think people were going to come from around here to eat these incredibly expensive Italian dishes?  Where would she find a chef who knew how to create them?  These are farmers and shopkeepers around here, not high powered businessmen and city folk with lots of disposable income and a willingness to try new things just for the hell of it.  Now, it's a good thing she didn't have to spend much to begin with, as the building was already on the property and needed only slight repair and renovation.  But when she finally opened the place in January 2014, she was not even the slightest bit ready for it.  I begged and pleaded with her to have some play days the week before the grand opening, to get all her people in here and have the chef make the meals, the servers place orders and get everything in place, find out where all the glitches are and fix them before the big crowd rolls in on opening day.  I was laughed at and told to sit down and shut up.  But I had both the last the last laugh... and the first cry.  I've done these things before, on many occasion over the years.  I knew the drill.    

 

On opening day it was a complete disaster.  The chef was slow and could not get the food out on time.  There was one customer finishing their meal while the rest of the table hadn't even gotten their appetizers yet.  She was walking around the dining room in her Sunday best, laughing, joking, telling everyone how great this all was, making speeches, teasing people, laughing out loud, like they were all her own private audience, there only for her amusement.  I was embarrassed for her.  Finally, one fellow had the audacity to ask for the steak he had ordered more than forty minutes ago.  She walked over to him, put her arms around his shoulders, put her face right in his face, and said condescendingly, "Now, don't cry.  It will be worth the wait.  My restaurant and my chef are the best in town."  Coulda fooled me.  The man was clearly put off by her actions and turned his head and leaned his body away from her, as if to say, "Lady, get your freakin' hands off me and get your face out of my face!"  She let go of him and turned and walked away, still looking back at him, watching as he snapped himself back into place.  He shook his head, obviously irritated, and mumbled something to his friends at the table.  She stopped in her tracks and stared at him for a moment, as if to say, "How dare you reject me!"  At that, she walked back to him and did it again!  Same thing!  Repeat!  He turns his head and body directly and abruptly away from her as she made some other remarks.  I couldn't believe it.  I-couldn't-believe-it!  I thought, 'This isn't happening!  This is not real!  She didn't just do that-TWICE!-and still not realize what she's done!  This is not happening to me!  I've never seen anything like it!'  And all the while, the customers, sitting there for a long, long time, with nothing in front of their places to show for it, staring helplessly at her, like dumb cows, trying to be polite, and watching the spectacle.  I couldn't take it anymore.  I turned and walked out.  I headed for the office and sat in there the rest of the day and monitored all the nonsense from the surveillance cameras.  

 

The whole thing is a wash.  No one comes to the place.  There are literally no customers.  None.  The place sits there for days and days and no one comes.  Over the last week, I have finally convinced her that the menu must be changed to a more local flavor, she must advertise, and she must drop the holier-higher-better-than-thou attitude and contempt for everyone who tries to walk in the door who isn't a king or a queen.  As far as I know, there is only one king and one queen in all of Thailand, and they're not coming to dinner.  She has taken some of my advice and started to change the menu and put up some new signs.  There are a few customers starting to trickle in.  We'll see.    

 

I cannot reason with her any longer.  Ever since she left the U.S., I have simply lost her.  I talk to her and it's like I'm not even there.  I spill a grain of rice off my spoon and it lands on the table or raise my voice above a whisper, I get a dirty look, I get creamed.  She sits at the same table eating fried chicken feet and guts, talking to everyone but me at the top of her lungs, her mouth wide open and full, waving her arms and hands all over the place, barking orders at the server, and I'm supposed to sit there like a good boy and accept it like she's doing me some kind of favor.  Nothing I do is right anymore.  I can't talk, eat, drive, sit, smile, or do anything correctly.  I'm all wrong.  Everything about me is wrong.  I need constant correction and supervision.  I'm three years old all over again, being shamed into submission.  So she apparently thinks.  What's really happening is I'm taking notes and taking names.  That's the part she hasn't got figured out yet.  She is too busy being all wrapped up in herself, not listening to me, to notice her game us just about over.          

 

Sister has no windows in her hut.  She argues and fights with the customers and tells them to leave if they don't like her rules.  Never mind that there are no rules displayed anywhere for anyone to read.  She's a royal nightmare and a bitch who never speaks a word to me.  If I pass by her on the property, she mumbles nasty insults at me in Thai.

 

Little Brother is an ex-drunk who beats and brow-beats his wife and constantly cries about how Mother didn't love him.  Never mind the fact that Mother was needlessly, stupidly killed in a motorcycle accident over thirty years ago and that no one knows where in the world he gets the idea that he was never loved in the first place.  He was spoiled rotten and slept with mother until he was fifteen years old.  Though that is not unusual for Thai boys.  They all sleep with their mothers well into their teens.  My wife's son slept with his aunt until he went to college this year, at eighteen.  Now, he sleeps in the dorm with his uncle taking care of him, making his meals, washing his clothes, etc.  Anyway, Little Brother doesn't live here and doesn't come around anymore because I am here.  He doesn't like me either.  I've barely spoken two words to this guy in my entire life.  I don't get it.    

 

Other Little Brother is the smart one.  He keeps his distance from this place. He chuckles at the goings on around here.  Whenever he comes for a visit, as he's leaving, he always smiles at me and rolls his eyes, as if to say, "Good luck.  You're gonna need it."  I smile back.  He and I have an understanding.

 

I find it heartbreaking that Mother died so early, suddenly, and tragically.  These children likely would have been so much kinder and much better off than they are had she lived.  Here, they had kind parents who treated them well, and they all turned out rotten mean.  I had rotten mean parents, and I turned out kind.  Go figure.        

 

This place is a freakin' dysfunctional nut-house.  They should put a tall, electrified fence around it and call it what it really is: an insane asylum.  I'm getting the hell out of here.

 

Another dream I had, many years ago... long before I knew my wife or came here, I was standing in a jungle environment.  There were big, tall trees with large leaves, and many of the leaves turning brown on the ground at my feet as I shuffled through them.  It was hot and humid.  I looked down a long trail and noticed a village residing down a long slope in the distance.  I went toward it, hoping for refreshment and maybe a friendly face or two.

 

Upon arrival, I got no friendly faces, but did get refreshment at an outdoor table.  The server was suspicious of me and made me pay cash on delivery for the goods. No one talked to me.  No one cared.  It was clear they didn't want me there.  They preferred to keep to themselves.  Fine by me.  I finished my refreshments, got up, and left.  

 

Fast forward a decade or more... I arrive in Thailand last winter.  I am sitting in an outdoor cafe somewhere in the outskirts of Nakhon Pathom.  The server was awkward toward me, not really knowing what to do or to say, and somewhat rude about it.  It were as though my being there were an imposition for him, instead of my being just another customer and money to be made.  I suppose, to some people, money isn't really important.  I really hate being in places and meeting people to whom money is not important.  After the meal, I get up to walk across the yard to the rest room to wash up and head out.  As I am walking across the yard, it dawns on me... my dream, the big trees, the large brown leaves covering the ground, the unfriendly faces; I was standing in it.  The resemblance was undeniable.  My mind flashed back to the dream in an instant.  The dream flashed back to my mind in an instant.  The dream was made real and the real was made dream all at once.  Amazing.  I had seen the past, present, and future both before and after they happened.  I looked down and deliberately shuffled my feet through the withering brown leaves on the ground before me.  I laughed.  Wouldn't ya know it?  

 

"Like leaves on trees the race of man is found.  Now green in youth, now withering on the ground."  The Iliad  

 

"I returned and saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill, but that time and chance happeneth to them all."  Ecclesiastes

[Blackfish64]

One other thing. The Life/Health Coach in me is insisting I ask about your dream resort. What is stopping you from just making it happen? You could be a real innovator in the industry if you created a model that was a win-win for all. It might be the kind of place where the "hostile environment" does not exist. 

 

Okay two other things. The curious in me wants to know what is unique about you and your place? Why would I visit your place rather than another?

 

 

Nothing is stopping me from making it happen.  I made it happen.  We are here.  We built this place from the ground up, from a half an acre, and it is gorgeous.  It is now over fifteen acres and forty cabins, a golf driving range, a canteen, and the new restaurant.  Unfortunately, I can't own land here in Thailand, so the family owns all the property.  I am part of the business only.  But, when I leave, I will be screwed out of my investment.  Count on it.  I will be walking out of here with nothing when I go.  Back stateside, I will be starting life over again, from scratch, at age fifty.  Yikes.  Trying to get back into it on my own, as an owner, would be a massive undertaking, requiring tons of cash I haven't got.  I can't see anything like that in my future.  I can however see something like being a great Resident Manager somewhere for some small outfit, maybe.  I don't know yet.  Something like that.       

 

The hostile environment I mentioned is centered around Las Vegas, not our little place out here in the sticks.  It is hostile because, as I mentioned, Las Vegas an authoritarian environment to begin with, and the main business is Gaming.  Gaming has very strict rules for both house and player.  It makes the job stiff and rigid.  Mistakes are not tolerated and people are fired left and right.  People quit left and right.  It's a tough racket.  I was in Gaming for over ten years without a single demerit.  But I won't go back into it. I will stay simply in the hotel/resort/hospitality business, non-gaming.  

 

You would visit my place rather than another for obvious reasons, and given the nature of our conversation, it makes it even easier to explain...  I was trained from birth not to think of myself, but of others first and last.  If there's anything left, I might get something.  Maybe.  I simply made a career out of the whole mess.  I turned a twist on my fate, on the brick that was thrown at my head.  I took the bag of lemons thrown at me and made lemonade out of them.  I picked up the brick and threw it back as best I could.  I give people what they want.  I don't stop until they are happy.  

 

Hotels, resorts, hospitality, are all about the guest, i.e., someone else, i.e., those who are non-me.  It's easy and quite natural for me to think of others first.  I'm a good doormat and provider.  I might as well get paid for doing it.  That was my logic way back when.  Everyone is a guest.  Everyone is treated as a guest.  Even the employees.  Again, I give them whatever they want, within reason, obviously, within the rules of the house, within my power to do so.  The mask of performance, of business, of having a job to do conceals my self-immolating nature and gives me a genuine purpose, which, coincidentally, does not require a mask at all.  It is in fact a genuine purpose.  And it's a good purpose.  And I'm good at it, what's more.  After all, who knows more about pleasing people than I?  No one on earth.  Coincidentally, the hotel biz has taught me how to set boundaries, not only for the business, but for my self, personally.  It's not only my job to say yes, but also to say no.  I quickly learned that I must say no sometimes, or nothing will ever work.  That's just the way it is.  I must comply with and enforce the rules of the house, or there will be nothing left of the house.  That was the first thing I learned in the business.  Under-promise, over-deliver.  In my past it was always the opposite.  Or it was over-promise AND over-deliver.  Stupid.    

 

What's really nuts is that when I talked with my high school counselor and he told me the hotel business was for me, I thought he was out in left field.  I had no idea what the hell he was talking about when he told me this.  I had never even heard of such a thing.  I did not know the occupation even existed.  I walked out of his office, laughing at him.  No wonder I didn't bother coming to meet the guy over the entire three years of high school.  Later on, in my early thirties, when I finally did get into the hospitality business, I quickly rose to the position of manager and was walking through the casino one day when the thought of that day and that conversation struck me full in the face.  I had forgotten all about it for more than a decade and suddenly there it was.  Here, I thought he was nuts, and then, there I was, doing precisely what he said I should be doing.  Oh, well.  I just thought that was quite interesting.  I had a good laugh.           

 

But I get bored with all this crap.  It's not what I really wanted out of life.  I wanted to be a guitar player.  I am a guitar player!  I wanted music, writing, philosophy, and story to be my life.  I didn't want to be a doormat.  I've always kept these items on the back-burner, kept in practice, kept up the chops.  But I had to find something that paid the bills after ten years in the masonry business and a messed up, worn out back.  I had to find something that was much easier on the body, else I would end up in a wheelchair.  Music, writing, telling stories, and philosophy doesn't pay the bills.  Well, it does for a few, sometimes.  But it didn't work out that way for me.  Anyway, I can play a mean guitar, I can write, and I can enjoy myself with it all just the same.  That's all I really am in the final analysis, just a sweaty, screaming man with a loud guitar, tearing up the place, bringing the house down in my Blackened 12-bar Blues style in the key of E; a mad-scientist and artist pounding away on the keyboard in solitude; a mad, mortar-slinging rock smasher and builder with a big rock hammer and a trowel in my hand.  I am Thor, the God of Thunder.  It was all I ever wanted.  Being a God isn't too much to ask, is it?  Lol.  

 

Thanks for listening and for your comments.  This is good therapy.       

[villagewisdom]

You are welcome. 

[Blackfish64]

You know, in reading and re-reading your posts over and over again, it occurs to me that this act of accepting my goodness and greatness is merely the act of doing it, of taking it, so to speak.  In other words, instead of keeping the same old inner-dialogue I have kept around since Day 1, it might be beneficial to simply change it.  Instead of putting myself down, stop putting myself down, and bring myself up instead. 

 

It appears there is no magic formula, no pearl of wisdom to dive in for on the matter.  It is simply a matter of doing it, like I do everything else I do.  I just do it.  And when I'm done doing it, I won it, I own it, it's mine for keeps.  So, why keep all the garbage around?  There is no use for it.  It simply stinks up and rots the place.  I'm going to get rid of it, starting now, today.  In fact, I already started a little while ago.  I've been practicing all morning. 

 

I love simple things.  This seems simple enough. 

 

I think that what a great deal of the problem for me has been is that I have been digging for so long,  been in the trenches for so long, focusing on only what's wrong with me, and never on what's right with me, that I have overlooked the most obvious and simple solutions.  I was so determined that I dug right past a lot of the good stuff.  I mean, it's like my car, for example.  When it's broken, I don't hit it with a hammer and make it worse, rather I take it to the shop and get it fixed, or do-it-myself if I know how and have time for it, which is what I prefer to do.  And if it's dirty, I simply wash it and buff it out; I don't throw more dirt at it. 

 

This whole thing might be eaiser than I thought.  And then again, not easy.  Sometimes it gets worse before it gets better.  Sometimes the old tries to hang tough and stick around.  I will have to watch out for that as I go along. 

 

I have been watching John Bradshaw videos on the inner child as of late.  He made mention of a very interesting self-therapy in which the user imagines himself as a child, and himself as he is now as the child's "champion".  The child approaches him with pictures in his hand of things that had been done to him and about which he has questions and concerns and needs answers.  I did this exercise without trying to control my thoughts.  I simply let the boy come to me from a long distance.  I was eager to see who would show up.  And when he appeared he was four years old, with long, wavy, wild hair, big, bright blue eyes, and a big smile.  The child was devoid of fear, self-doubt, or anything of the kind.  I was surprised to see this. 

 

It was I, wearing all the hair Dad used to cut off my head.  I had always wanted to have long hair, and Dad knew this, so he would take me to the barber as soon as my hair started to grow long, and he would sit across from me while I was in the barber chair and make fun of me while my locks were being cut off.  He would be certain every time to give me the dumbest, ugliest bowl-shaped haircut he could give me on top of that.  "Are you a fuckin' sissy, boy?  You wanna have long hair, like a girl?  You wanna be a sissy?  We'll see about that, won't we boy?  Ain't gonna be no sissies in my house.  Uh, uh.  You got another thing comin' to ya, boy."  I could never understand what in the world being a sissy had to do with having long hair.  I was a man.  I enjoyed being masculine.  I opened doors for little old ladies.  I didn't hit girls, or anyone else for that matter, unless they gave me no choice, of course.  I thought my long, wild hair was very manly.  I saw it as a reflection of the wild and free sort of screaming, guitar-slinging, joyful, fun-loving person I had hoped to be when I grew up.  Anyway, I answered all the questions the boy had about the ridiculous haircuts and the ridicluous ideas about being a man.  As it turned out, Dad, the woman-beater, and my two woman-beating brothers,  who followed directly in his footsteps, were the only sissies in the family.  Another thing I never understood was why in the world anyone would want to follow in the footsteps of that idiot.  I was dead-set against it right from the git-go.  Screw you, buddy.  No matter what he did, I did the opposite.  He wanted me to play football.  I wanted to learn the martial arts.  He would laugh and refuse to allow me to attend classes.  I laughed at him and quit the football team.  He wanted me to play baseball.  I wanted to learn to hunt and shoot a bow.  He refused to allow it.  I quit the baseball team.  When he bought horses for himself and forced me to take care of them, I forgot more about his horses than he ever learned.  I never understood how he thought to learn anything about horses while reading cheap paperback detective novels and sleaze instead of horse publications.  What a retard.  I watched him bullshit his way through every horse conversation he ever got himself into.  He had no idea what he was talking about.  It was all just a show for him.  It was all expensive nonsense to feed his empty soul and mind and make him look bigger and badder than he really was.  He was shit.  I was the real thing.  He took my guitar away from me and hid it.  I stole it back from him and taught myself how to play, how to read music, in a dark corner where he could not find me and I where I would not be disturbed.  I had to explain all this to the boy in my lap.  I had to tell him in ways that he could understand.  He understood.  He always understood.  I always understood.  We always understood, right from the very beginning.  When you want something, you take it, you work for it, you earn it.  Liberty is not given, it is taken.  "No" is not acceptable and is not an option.   Why is it OK for him to be like he is, but not OK for me to be who I am?  It is OK for me to be who I am.  The End 

 

I'm going to change all this inner dialogue around and see where that takes me.   

 

And I must add, in all honesty, I have never been motivated to become who I am in spite of what Dad wanted or expected of me.  The plain truth of the matter is, I never cared what he wanted in the first place.  I wanted to do what I wanted to do and that's what I did.  He often accused me of wanting to be different just to spite him.  Nonsense.  I simply knew who I was all along and only wanted to be me.  I was never fighting against him, but always fighting for myself.  I knew it was the only way. 

[villagewisdom]

Sounds like you are on the road to change. Watch your dreams as you go. They will indicate how you are doing and where you are tripping yourself up. The recurring dream should stop or at the very least be altered in a significant way the next time it appears. If it does not, re-examine your method and try again. Although, I believe you will be successful if you are using the Bradshaw method as you described it. I am not familiar with his stuff though it is on my list of "to be read". 

 

On another note, I would like your permission to use your dream in a podcast episode that I am working on regarding dream interpretation. I need an example to illustrate my method and would like to use the dream we have been talking about here. Regarding details about you, I would only say that it is the dream of a 50-year-old male. The details of what you have provided I would leave out and only reference generalities such as that you acknowledged this was true or that was true without the details of your specific life experiences. 

 

My podcast is published every other week. The main target audience is young females but much of the information is appropriate for anyone, and especially any woman of any age. Much like Stef has marketed to young males. I'm working the other side of the equation, though not using so much logic and philosophy as I'm very new to that. My approach is personal experience, common sense and invitations to think outside of the box and to question, question, question everything. Peaceful parenting is and will continue to be a central theme on many podcasts. 

 

Please let me know if using your dream is okay and if you have any questions about the podcast or purpose of using the dream. TIA

[Blackfish64]

Thanks for the tips and the encouragement.

 

Yes, go ahead and use the material for your podcast. I'd love to get a link to it when it's ready.

 

Meantime, on the road to recovery, another day, another new opportunity to work it up!

[Blackfish64]

I am not familiar with the Bradshaw goods until as of late myself.  But I have watched a lot of the YouTube videos on him and he makes a lot of sense and his techniques have worked for me.  That's all I need to know.  His ideas about shame, shaming, toxic shame, and healthy shame have been tremendously helpful and eye-opening, too.  

 

To say I am "rough-around-the-edges", as many do, would be an understatement.  When trying to give myself sweet-talk, sweet self-talk, it doesn't always work.  I'm a rough and tough and I like being that way.  So, as doing as Bradshaw suggests and talking to my child self, it causes me to slow down, way down, and consider the child in the exercise.  You can't be rough and tough with a child until unless it's just play-fighting and wrestling, which children often love to do, even the girls sometimes, and even then one must be careful to not let it get out of hand.  The boy must be handled with care and taken seriously.  The most difficult thing about it as I talk to my child self, is giving answers in a more gentle manner.  As a man, and a rough one at that, I often don't take my method of delilvery into consideration.  I just blurt it out.  People often mistake me for being angry and/or overbearing.  I'm not.  I just want to be heard.  I think that is another reason I try to be concise in my writing.  I want to be understood.  I love things to be clear and I love to make things clear.

 

The boy, the baby, needs a lot of time, but not so much as I thought he would.  I don't think this is going to take a long time.  I have done much of the work already. 

 

He has nothing to fear anymore and he is not afraid.  I am his champion and I am there to protect.  And I am a rough-and-tough, and I like to go-go-go-go-go, just as he does.  And at the same time, he understands that I, too, need my own space, and to be able to go at my own speed and exercise my own strengths, and experience my own capacities, which are greater than most. 

 

I think this is something I will be doing for a long time because, if nothing else, it is enjoyable and productive.  

 

Dad often looms off in the distance.  He is apprehensive and will not approach.  He wants to approach and be a part of the fun, but he knows better.  He wants things his way.  He always has.  But we have tried things his way already.  It doesn't work.  He doesn't realize that it is not he, himself, who is not acceptable, but his ways and means.  He behaves a certain way because he chooses to do so.  The denial, the facade does not work on me anymore.  He isn't fooling anyone anymore, and he can think of no other way to behave, and if he can, he is afraid to do it.  But that's his problem.  He does not want to take a step in another direction.  We've all got to fight to be free.  We've all got to take that first step, no matter how steep, no matter how scary.  There is nothing I can do for him.  He knows better than to approach this man or this child in his old manner because he knows that if he does he will be killed.  The child will step out of the way and steer clear, being the sensible one he has always been.  The man, knowing full well the nature of the foe, will rise and kill him.  In the past, he could simply wait like a vulture until you did some imaginary hurt to him, then he would swoop down in front of you with that big, dumb, ugly, condescending smile on his face and he would own you once again.  Never help or teach, direct, or coach when something is done wrong, but come down like a thunderclap and belittle, smash, wreck destroy, divide, and conquer the little boy.  When something is done right, say nothing, do nothing.  There's no way to get an angle on things there.  There's nothing to use on me there.  And what good is that?  But he no longer has any of his former options as a way in.  I'm a rational man and these games are no longer acceptable in my world.  They never were.  I did what I had to do to get by him and get out.  All that's over now.  And he knows it.  I don't do business that way.  And this leaves him wondering what do to.  "After all", Dad always said, "what good is a friend if you can't use them?" 

 

Years ago, on Dad's seventieth birthday, he treated himself to something he had wanted to return to for a long time: drink.  After forty years of being what many call a "dry drunk", Dad took his first drink and liked it.  He said he had been waiting a long, long time to do that.  I didn't associate with him, but heard about it through another family member.  He said however that Dad was taking care not to let any of his children or grandchildren see him drink.  He said he owed it to himself after all these years.  After all, no one ever comes around to see him anyway.  There is nothing else to do with his time, so he complains.  I don't have to wonder why that is.  None of this surprised me in the least.  Same old coward he always was.    

 

No, Dad won't be joining this party any time soon.  The more he hangs around, the more he fades off into the distance.  His loss.  Not mine.  I have already put my best foot forward.  Your turn, old man.          

 

I love Alice Miller, too.  She helped me make a lot of headway in this journey.  She's a good read and a big help.    

[Blackfish64]

Well, I was advised to pay attention to my dreams...

 

Things have gotten better already.  I have been conscientiously working on telliong myself positive things and when I hear bad things going on in my head, I stop and ask what it means, what it is doing there, and start asking what I need to do to help solve the conflict.  Something along those lines.  And it's working.  I felt light-hearted all day yesterday in my work on controlling my thoughts and feelings better.  I was running away with them instead of them running away with me for a change.   

 

Last night's dream was a light-hearted, funny one.  I dreamed a friend of mine and I were in high school together.  We never actually went to high school together, but there we were in high school just the same.  He was carrying along with him a briefcase, and when I asked him what it was, he opened it up and showed me a combination television set and computer gadget he had slapped together haphazardly.  Though it didn't look like much, it worked beautifully.  I was flabbergasted.  I wanted to own the thing immediately.  Joe said, no problem, I could have it.  He was putting together another one that was going to be even better,  I closed up the case and happily took it with me.  Then I woke up. 

 

Obviously, my negative thoughts make me feel 'heavy'.  And I have been this way for so long that it all feels 'normal' to me.  It's starting to break up.  I have to keep focused.  Focused on the fountainhead!  I want to know what my negative thoughts are telling me, yes, but I want to solve the problems, not just keep on having them.

Now, my friend, Joe, is a comedy nut.  I met him a couple of years ago in a comedy show chat-room I got into by accident.  He's really into comedy.  He's really a light-hearted, fun guy, and not much seems to bother him.  He thinks I'm "really smart", and sometimes when we converse, he tells me to slow down on what I am telling him so to help him understand it. I'm a very serious person.  Joe is never serious.  He finds my seriousness fascinating.  I find his ability to never seem to care about anything and to laugh and have a good time all the time fascinating.  I wish I coud laugh like that.  I wish I could see what is so bloody funny all the time.  I'm so intense.  He's so not intense.  Joe is kind and never laughs at the misfortunes of others.  He jokes about himself a lot.  He's overweight and trying hard to get into shape.  He never has sex with his wife.  I'm fit as a fiddle.  I never have sex with my wife, though, due to my new mood, I could not keep my hands off her last night.  It was great.  I think Joe is hurt inside and wants to heal.  I know I am hurt inside and am healing.         

[villagewisdom]

That's a really positive turn around. Your dream is closely paralleling the changes you have described. I will also want to use this in my dream interp podcast because it illustrates clearly how a dream can provide insight and evidence of success in someone getting the message, making changes and seeing the result in a subsequent dream. 

 

School is a place of learning. Your friend Joe is an aspect of yourself that you are describing as "light-hearted". So these two parts of your meco system are working together to learn something new. So you getting in touch with a lighter side of yourself.

 

The briefcase is carrying valuable information for the work you are doing with your thinking and image of yourself. I think the TV is you looking at yourself as an observer and the computer gadget is perhaps the mechanism for processing and controlling the image. It might also indicate memory as well. So together they are a tool for making the changes. You wanted to own it. Great. That would be taking responsibility for being the one in charge of making the changes.

 

Also, you just sort of haphazardly started trying some things to change your thought patterns. That parallels "though it didn't look like much". But now you may be brewing up an expanded idea to make the changes. This is indicated by Joe putting together an even better tool/gadget. 

 

On another note, did your wife enjoy the night? And if so, it would be important to know how you were acting with her prior to the joyous event. It is key in re-establishing that relationship on a regular basis. 

[Blackfish64]

Yes, very postitive.  I thought some things would come easy.  Like I said, I have done much of the hard work already.  It's about time some of this paid off.  As mentioned earlier, I have read books, journaled, watched videos up the ying yang, sentence completion exercises, and all with important insights and breakthroughs, but never really making a positive, lasting change for the better.  It's about time.  It's about bloody time.  And that's all there is to it.   

 

I loved your interpretation!  Powerful stuff!  Thank you! 

 

Yes, wife enjoyed the night.  Last night, too.  Prior to these events I wasn't doing much acting with her at all.  She's the one who does all the acting.  She really pisses me off most of the time.  I get bored to death with her.  That's the best way to describe her most of the time: a bore.  She's moody and likes to feel sorry for herself when the world doesn't go her way.  She's by far and away the most boring person I have ever had in the sack.  She's not a sexy person at all.  She could care less if she ever had sex again.  And when we do it it's just the same thing over and over again.  If I try to throw anything else in there, try to do something new, she resists and complains and refuses with all her might.  Trying to get her to reciprocate is like trying to push a ton of lead around.  Trying to get her to put her hands on me and do something is like pulling teeth.  It's terribly frustrating.  So, my newfound enthusiasm  and inspiration will go away, will die, soon.  I will get bored and frustrated in trying to deal with her soon enough and stop touching her again.  Then she will lie there like the spoiled brat she really is and cry to herself and wonder why.  I have tried and tried to talk to her about everthing, time and time again, but she is a closed book.  She's a big baby who likes to have everything her way.  She really is an emotional and psychological basket-case.  She's a nut.  If I want to move her emotionally, I just tell her that I am packing my things and leaving today, then she goes absolutely nuts.  After that, I will be able to hold her attention for a whole twenty-four to forty-eight hours.  I really hate this stupid cycle, this stupid game.       

 

This is why I reach for pros and girlfriends.  Wife doesn't mind.  I can do what I like, so long as I don't fall in love and run away with her or get any kind of disease.  Sometimes she will even pick a girl she likes and bring her along and bring her in with us.  Mostly she just watches, but she participates, too, if I want her to.  She goes after the girl a lot more than she goes after me, kissing her and putting her hands all over and inside her (I wish she would handle me the way she handles her!)  Then I laugh with her afterward and tell her she is bi-sexual.  To my surprise, she always emphatically denies it.  Sometimes she asks me, in an apparent, rare moment of mental clarity, "Do you really think so?" 

 

"Well, yes, Hunny.  You always talk about how the woman's body is such a beautiful thing, you make friends with a girl and bring her home and make love to both of us at the same time, turbo-charged and electrified in playing with the girl and watching she and I ravish each other... yeah, I would call that bi-sexual, among other things.  Any further questions?  H-e-l-l-o in there!  Anybody home?" 

 

"Hmmmmmmm...  I don't know if that's right.  I don't think so." 

 

Yikes. 

 

I have always been a very highly sensual and sexual person.  I love massage, sex, reading, writing, creating things, eating good food, and all kinds of sensory stimulation.  I am very highly physically, and spiritually, grounded.  Now, we've built this place with all kinds of ideas in mind, to make it a place where people can come and relax, get a massage, enjoy the incredibly beautiful flora all around us, take a course, learn something, have a seminar, etc.  It really is amazing.  This place has all that potential.  But where are all the customers?  Lots of them are chased away for really stupid reasons.       

 

She appears to me as someone who is deathly afraid of being herself and exploring herself.  I think she has a false image of herself that she feels she needs to live up to.  She's an emotional dolt.  I thought I was abused and maltreated and really bad at this stuff.  I'm a thriving expert compared to her.  She must have this image as a "good girl", while the rest of her suffers and struggles to have an identity that probably her dead mother and her overbearing, asshole sister would never tolerate, never accept.  That's another thing.  She always seeks someone else's advice on where to go and what to do with herself, usually an older person.  We can never be by ourselves.  It can never be just she and I, making our own way in the world, like we did when we lived in America.  There, we had lots of fun.  This place is like being in a really beautiful prison.       

 

The most important thing is that I/we don't do anything that might damage her precious reputation/image in any way.  We live in a small village where everybody talks.  Reputation is everything.  Gossip hounds ruin lives around here. 

 

She sees her narcissistic self as a beautiful, successful business woman.  She is none of the above.  But image is everything to her.  Her "fresh face" is all the daily rage.  She spends hours and hours gazing at herself in the mirror each day, completely obvlious to any of my wants, needs, desires, and is constantly asking me how her face looks.  If I don't respond favorably, she gets really angry and disappointed.  It's all about how the rest of the world sees her, and nothing else. 

 

But things are changing for me now.  And I am not going to stop.  I have been stuck with her and her nonsense for a long time now.  Have had a great deal of time to observe and think about it all.  In a way, I am over her already.  I don't see much hope for us anymore.  She will not help me out.  And the more she stays here, living with the family, the worse it all gets.  And she refuses to go back stateside with me.  Whatever.  I will see where my self-therapy and my own doings take me. 

[villagewisdom]

I gave you the benefit of the doubt the first time you showed a real lack of respect for our online conversation. At this point, I'm going to be perfectly frank with you and then end the conversation.

 

Your lack of respect for me is astounding to say the least. But truly, it is second behind your lack of self-awareness. Sure you may have made one step forward. But I have no doubt you will rebound to poking your eyes out -- and in fact I think you already have.

 

You need some serious therapy. I understand you don't want to pay for it. Your lack of respect for yourself and everyone else around you would testify to that. You find no value in anyone or anything and I see no indication of a desire to change -- as I mentioned before. 

[Blackfish64]

I am very surprised and disappointed to see that you think this way.      

 

Saw wat dee kraap, most excellent dream interpreter!  Buona fortuna!

[Blackfish64]

In another dream night before last, I am in a room with my daughter, who represents my child, me, my inner child, and with my younger sister, and my mother, who represent my old self.

 

In the dream, my daughter, my child, is on the phone with a friend she can't seem to reach.  When she hangs up the telephone, she sits down on the floor in front of my treacherous, manipulative, jealous little sister and asks, "Why won't he talk to me?"  And she starts to cry.  I, also the father of the child, the friend, and protector, can see in her eyes that she is very concerned about this friendship.  It obviously means a great deal to her.  It symbolizes a good part of herself being cut off from her, blocked out, and she wants it, and/or wants it back.  My little sister gives a condescending little smile and begins to open her mouth to work her black magic on the hurt child in front of her.  She loves it when people are down and out and she can slip in and exploit their weaknesses.  She sits on the dirty floor, hiding behind her mask, pretending to offer help and wisdom, but she has none, and what she does attempt to give to the child is an unsolicited "gift", a trojan horse.  I can see the evil about to gush out of her mouth, and also from the mouth of my mother, who is looking on, also with her own little grin, and they are about to say something cheesy, like, "Oh, it will be all right, don't worry about it!"  Or, "Oh!  What do you need him for anway?  We're here!  We're your real friends!  We know you!  Why don't you want to rely on us?"  Guilt.  Shame.  Ridicule.  For wanting to understand a thing for what it really is and be done with it and be well.  As if they were the only ones in the world who could help the child solve any problems.  But really what they want is to keep the wounds open and bleeding.  Makes it easier to exploit their would-be victim. 

 

I can see the hurt in the child's eyes and tears.  This is no superficial, imaginary hurt.  This is real pain.  The relationship means everything to her.  And I stop the garbage from coming out of sister's and mother's mouths by asking a simple, but revealing question about problem she is having, "How long has it been since he last spoke to you?"  

 

The child looks up at me, hopeful, attentive, alert for the first time in the dream.  "It's been a month."  

 

"A month?"  I reply.  My saying that and the tone in which I said it indicated to her there was nothing further to say or to be done.  The child knew as well as I did that was the case.  I simply helped the child to break through the barriers and come to the point.  I cut out all the nonsense and denial and saw what was really going on.  That's the job of the self, the father, and the friend.  We both knew in that instant that it was over between them and that she should stop calling and pretending and hoping for anything to change.  She bows her head in acceptance and begins to weep and let it all out and move on and reconnect with her best friend, who is not someone else, but herself, the one she is truly missing. 

[Blackfish64]

Night before last I dreamed that America had finally fallen.  Everyone was broke, society was collapsed, and there were gangs roving around doing all manner of atrocity.  I was moving through the landscape, collecting what I needed for my survival as I went, taking care of myself, and leaving others I met to themselves or trading with them.   

 

In my travels, I met with two bad men.  They were robbing, raiding, stealing, killing, raping, since there was no police, military, or organized vigilance around to stop them.  I was clearly the better man than they, and had survival know-how (I am actually a survivalist and have had much time in the field), and they pretended to be good men in order to get the benefit of hanging around with me.  I knew where to get food, water, and how to make shelter, where they were running around in raggedy clothing, at the mercy of the elements and other, stronger raiders.  I simply ignored their activities and stupidity and kept to myself as much as possible.  They gained from my activities and know-how.  I knew that if I tried to get away from them, they would try to track me down.  If I tried to run, they would run after me in a frenzy and attack from behind and kill me.  I could have simply murdered them with bare hands, pistol, or knife, but didn't want to take any unnecessary risks, waste any bullets, or have any of it on my conscience, thus compromising my own chances for survival.  I kept my cool and played it out.  They did afford me some extra sleep at night, after all, as we agreed to take turns on the night watch.  Fortunately, they were good for something.  Lol.           

 

I started to build a shelter one night, just before dark.  They refused to help and ordered me to get my ass busy building them some shelter--or else.  While I was struggling to get the shelter built, I built it so that it would collapse on top of whoever was in it.  I planned to get the men inside of the shelter and drop it on them while I was on watch, as they slept that night.  While I was building, I got a better idea that would accomplish my goal much faster.  I pretended to struggle and have an accident while building the shelter, toppling it over on myself, and causing all the rubble and myself to fall over a cliff and land in some tall trees.  I lie on a branch, dangling for the men to see, not moving, on purpose, making them think I was dead.  I knew I would soon be rid of them.  I knew they would not bother scaling the cliff nor climbing the tree to get to me and my goods.  The raiders came runnning to see what had happened, laughed at me, cursed me for being stupid, and ran off.  Then I climbed down and pressed on, unscathed.  Then I woke up.   

[Blackfish64]

My most recurring dream to date... Laughter. I always wake up laughing. I can't always remember what the dream is about, but I wake up laughing out loud enough to wake myself up at least a couple of times a month. Sometimes I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

[Blackfish64]

7 June 2014

I woke up from a dream in which I was playing my guitar to a mighty I IV V blues progression, and I was singing out loud:

 

Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

You can do what you wanna do, but ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

 

 

Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

You can do what you wanna do, but ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

 

*

 

When I woke up, I was still singing the song.  I got out of bed and headed for the rest room for some relief.  I was still singing while I was going.  It woke up my wife.  She got up and followed me and my song to the rest room.  She thought I was sleep walking or had finally gone insane.  When I was finally awake enough to realize what I was doing, I turned to look at her and sang, 'Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

Ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

You can do what you wanna do, but ain't nobody gonna do what a pastor tells them to!

 

I got back into bed, still singing.  Then I started laughing.  Then I fell back to sleep.

 

I wish I would have had a guitar with me that night.  That was a bad-ass jam.   

[Blackfish64]

08.11.2014 08:59:47: Last night's dream was macabre.  The dream was scary, but I liked it.  The dream was me, and I liked it.  The dream had me in an uncomfortable position, but I liked it.  I'm used to that sort of thing.  It keeps me on my toes.

In last night's dream I found myself in the ocean, floating on a tiny skiff.  The skiff was sinking and there was nothing I could do about it.  There were sharks and other big fish in the water investigating me, swimming all around, hoping for a meal.  The skiff finally sank into the water and to the bottom of the ocean, and then the sharks were all around me.  I was frightened to death, waiting for the first bite, the first chunk out of my leg, or to look and see an arm missing all of a sudden, but it didn't come.  I stayed calm and moved slowly in the water, acted like I didn't care one bit about the danger surrounding me, and the animals in the water left me alone.  

I came to a thick weed bed, full of other strange creatures, plants and objects.  Beyond that I could finally see the shore.  I felt a great relief.  I realized I would have to wade through the weed bed to get there, but that would be just fine by me.  

Long before I reached shore, somewhere in about the middle of the weed bed, I was pleasantly surprised to have waded into the far end of a dock made of concrete and steel.  I happily, greedily took hold of the steel support beams and pulled myself up and out of the ocean to plant my feet on the solid decking.  From here, I took stock of my situation.  

I was barefoot, no underwear, and dressed in nothing more than a ragged T-shirt and ragged shorts.  I had no idea where I was.  But in spite of all that, it was warm outside, and I was not weak, sick or injured.  No problem.  I can take it from here.  

I walked forward confidently the entire length of the structure.  As I came to the very end and was only a few yards away from stepping onto the earth and being on my way, it happened that there were two giant snakes coiled and sleeping on the end of the dock.  The one on my left was a Monocled Cobra, the biggest I had ever seen.  I paused for a moment and noted the size, colors, and markings on the skin of this beast.  I had never seen anything like it.  I was quite amazed.  The one on my right was a constrictor, a giant, powerful Anaconda.  

My steps had awoken the snakes and all three of us were startled by each other of a sudden.  I stopped and stood still, wanting to let the animals know that I meant no harm, that I merely wished to pass by them and move on.  There was no other way around them.  They seemed to be calm at first.  It seemed they were going to let me pass. But then the two took notice of each other and threw themselves together, locking into a vicious life and death struggle.  I thought this would be a good time to run past them and make my escape, but just as I started forward, the battling reptiles separated and returned to their respective sides of the dock.  

Now, the cobra was riled and had been injured in the fight, and when he retreated to his spot he turned his attention toward me, even though I stood still and posed no threat to him.  Then he advanced on me rapidly, without warning, surprising me.  Once in front of me, he struck at my legs, faster than lightning, but I dodged him and wasted his effort.  As he recoiled, I came forward and pounced on him, taking his body into my right hand about a foot behind his head in a death grip.  I raised him high into the air and came back down to earth with all my bodyweight and strength, smashing his head against the concrete, once, twice, three times in rapid succession.  The first blow injured and stunned him.  The second blow killed him.  The third blow split his dead skull into several pieces.  

I dropped the corpse on the concrete and turned to face the constrictor, or to walk past him in peace, whichever he preferred.  But the constrictor was gone.  He was traveling through the weeds away from me at a high rate of speed.  He would not return.  

I left the dock and pressed on until I came to a ramshackle old house that was not far away.  There appeared to be someone living there and I went to the place to see what I could see and find what I could find.  

I walked around the house and took in a good look and made mental notes.  I walked around it in plain view, careful to see and to let myself be seen.  There was definitely someone living there.  Every room inside the house was stacked with every manner of sundry item.  There were tools of all kinds, clothing, shoes, boxes full of canned foods, and just about anything else one could think of.  The place looked like a dump, but it became clear to me this shoddy appearance was intended to keep looters and moochers out and away from this wonderful cache.  The aisles between the goods at the place were clean and clear, indicating someone regularly walked through and kept an eye on things.  

I was impressed.  I was also in rags, hungry, destitute, and vulnerable, and wanted to meet with the owner and procure some kind of exchange that would get me some of these goods.  I hoped to improve my condition before moving on.  I envisioned myself first in a hot shower, then with a new pair of socks and shoes, new clean clothes and underwear, a belly full of food, a new backpack full of food, a new kerchief, a new pocketknife, a new cap, and a handful of bills and change.  It was a beautiful, satisfying dream within a dream.  It was delightful.  I smiled.      

Finally, a tall, skinny, very young man appeared walking through one of the aisles between the house and the garage.  He knew I was there, but pretended not to notice me.  He was wearing a grimy old T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes. He had shoulder length, dirty blonde hair.  His face was smeared with all manner of grime and grease.  A pair of welding googles were strapped to his forehead.  I sensed that he was nervous and afraid of me.  I also sensed that he wasn't very bright.  It was plain to see that himself, his place, and everything in it was utterly defenseless.  I knew that I could literally pick up and carry out of the place whatever I wanted and do so completely uncontested.  The young man would simply stand there and pretend it wasn't happening.    

He stopped toward the end of one of the aisles, picked up an acetylene torch, lit it, and was about to start work when I interrupted him,  "Hello there,"  I smiled,  "can a guy maybe find a little work around here in exchange for some of your fine goods?"  

He turned off the torch, pulled the welding goggles away from his eyes, perched them back onto the white spot on his forehead, and spoke to me cheerfully, "Yeah, I could put you to work for a while.  I need a few things done around here that I don't want to do and don't have time for.  I will show you what needs doing and you can decide if you want to do it or not.  Up to you.  When you're done, I will give you all you want, all you can carry on your way out of here, including some cash.  Sound good?"  At that, the youngster picked up the torch, lit it again,  pulled his goggles back down over his eyes and went to work.  

"Yeah, sounds great!"  I stood for a moment and relished the thought of my delightful dream about to come true.  Then I turned my attention back to the young man and watched his work for a moment.  I realized he had no idea what he was doing with that torch.  All of his effort was just wasted time and materials.  But I didn't care.  So long as I could get my assignment and get my goods, he could do as he pleased with his own.  If later he wanted me to show him a few tricks I would be more than happy to do so.    

Then I awoke.