On 2006-04-28 15:04:00, Anonymous wrote:
"So here I sit ready for a supposed great weekend away when out of the blue - I can't function. I can't think straight, nothing makes sence, I don't know what I'm doing. I realize that I'm having a panic attack. I haven't had one in 10+ yrs. It's all from reading crap about Straight. How can that place fuck people up after 20+ years??? How can it suck us back in? All I can think to do is grap a drink and say fuck that place! What did they do to us? What did we allow people to do to us? And why the FUCK can't I get over this?
??"
When I landed up in straight, inc., I thought I had a handle on everything. I had been playing this game for a decade already as all but the oldest of my brothers and sisters went through the Seed. But this was different. This was major league, intense and w/o breaks. I had tried or thought through every other option. I playing along at home/school. But
When I ran up against Algebra and French and had real difficulty, Mom checked off the "slipping grades" item from her little list. When I was a little pup, it had been easy to go along w/ mom to church and conscription as a Seed vulunteer, to never even try having a friend for fear my mom would impose her dark fantasies of druggiedome on them and me. But when adolescence hit, I got a big surprise; I
needed friends and male attention, independence, my own style and taste. And I couldn't have them, too risky. And so I became very frustrated and sad. I couldn't hide my lonliness anymore. That sadistic mindfucker, Art Barker, had redifined all of these things as "signs of drugiedome". I didn't dare confess any of this to anyone in my life; they were all Seed spies whether they knew it or not.
At some point, I realized it was inevitable, I was doomed to the Program, it was only a matter of time. So I decided to go ahead and find out what's so fun about all those crazy things I'd heard about over and over at open meetings and those hundreds of impromptu raps that had replaced spontaneous conversation around our 8 seat dinner table and at those endless clatches at Denney's. I was checking off my own list. Smoke pot, check; steal the family car, check; get laid, check; smoke cigarettes, check (yuck! worst mistake I ever made, I think, or at least the most intractible)
When it finally got to the breaking point, as I knew it would, I made my very vague plans for escape. That was the last item on my list; go hitchhiking around the country to find all kinds of druggie fun and adventure. One piece was missing from that plan, though. I had been so isolated, so cloistered, that I wouldn't know a dead head tribe or congenial get along if it came up and gave me a full on, sloppy, deep throat tongue kiss. So I just stuck w/ the truckers; a culture I knew well enough from my dad and uncle to navigate more-or-less safely.
I thought I was never coming back till I came of age and would be safe from the Seed. I just didn't know enough or have the social skills to find a place to park for two years. So the inevitable happened; I had to go back home. I thought I'd land in the Seed, but for some reason Art wouldn't take me. I think it was a case of heaven doesn't want me and hell's afraid I'll take over.
But then came Str8. Big surprise. So I resigned myself to keep my own thoughts a little further back, way on a back channel while I demonstrated that I was quite straight enough, thanks very much, till I could split, graduate or come of age. I didn't realize that I could be brainwashed or fundamentally changed. Most people don't know it, while it's happening or even years or decades later, even if it's blatantly obvious to anyone who's paying attention.
But I changed. Oh yeah, I did. Where I once was a warrior at need, I became the ice godess full time. Jadedness and distance became an integral part of my personality.
So, I have had panic attacks over the years, and at the oddest times for reasons that are really quite inobvious. One I remember well because it was just so damned funny. I had sort of washed out of lead generation at a telemarketing job, but I was reliable and articulate. So the manager decided to try me as 'assistant manager' (closer). My very first lead was something to remember. It was this nice little old lady who had just been thinking about having her carpet cleaned for some reason anyway. A pushover if ever there was one. But it was also a test before an audience. There I was in the middle of the pit (desks arranged in a square so that all of my peers-up-to-ten-minutes-ago) had nothing to look at but me, trying to carry off my new role as their semi-boss.
I didn't think of it at the time, but it was just way too much like leading a rap. I had done that once or twice, just teaching Group a song or you'll remember those mornings in the intake room when the highest phaser, even 2nd, would lead the 'group' (of humans as sardines) in a 'song rap' till they let us out into the big group room. It would have been an 'on the spot' kind of situation for anyone. But me? I started shaking and hyperventilating. It occured to me that, to this nice old lady, it might sound like an obscene phone call. If that weren't funny enough, I could see my co-workers, some of whom were really cool and interesting people, start to look a bit alarmed; "WTF is going on there! You see this shit?" Oh, and did I mention that, for the purpose of this job, I had reverted to using my given name? Bone headed move, that one! I should have made one up!
So there I am, heart pounding, heavy breating, wondering what the customer thought. I think I told the lady it was an asthma attack. I'm bursting to just fall on the floor laughing my ass off, wondering what my friends must be thinking, which only made me want to laugh harder. I did close the deal, too, damn it!
But it's these unexpected triggers that bring on the dark goonies in my mind. The ones you see coming, well you can brace yourself for those.
What is it about a weekend away? Where you were going? Why? Who you would see? Don't tell me or us. Just try and figure that one out. If you understand why that's a trigger, you might just reclaim some misplaced part of yourself and be better for it.
Good night and good luck!
As your attorney, it is my duty to inform you that it is not important that you understand what I'm doing or why you're paying me so much money. What's important is that you continue to do so.
--Hunter S. Thompson's Samoan Attorney
