Suppressing the Psyche: Self Deceit

Self deception is abundant in Britain. It’s in the media, its in the hospitals, it’s even in the banking system. Usually self deceit arises when there are no positive outcomes in a situation, so people try to trick themselves into a positive frame of mind about the negative results.

The problem is, most people fail. Oh sure they manage it on the surface but we’ve all seen the situation, the false smile of an unwilling soul, people putting on a brave face, etc.

Why do people self-deceive? Fear. Lie to yourself about something your afraid of (or unhappy with) in the hope the fear/(unhappiness) will decrease. That is the goal the people I’ve observed appear to have in mind, so why do they fail? I think its fear, yet again.

Following my previous post, self-deception is a common trait in those who are depressed. They attempt to deceive themselves into believing things are ‘perfect’ or ‘great’ when they are only adequate, or worse, yet they feel cannot change the situation. This is not simply misunderstood speech (the person I have observed/talked to has made this clear to me) it is an actual belief.

Ultimately of course self deception is merely a symptom of extremely low-self esteem and a real lack of personal pride. What’s scary is that it is the hardest symptom of many psychological illnesses to treat.

A strange thing about positive reinforcement is that when depressed or mentally unwell people try to turn it on themselves, a cycle of self-pity, self-loathing, fear and fresh lies seems to develop, though we’ll talk more in that later.

I am but the eyes and hands to write this sort of thing down. I’m attempting to be as unbiased as possible, please correct me if I am.


On The Mind: Change

Everyone, everywhere that I speak to in Britain today, is crying out for change. For improvement. For something positive to happen to the country.

The society here however, is very tolerant and afraid of change. An awful lot of talk goes on, but everyone leaves it to someone else, as if somehow a leader will appear at the collective will of the people.

Interestingly that isn’t far from the truth. However, the people have to really want it, and want it with all their hearts. If people want change in the UK, then they need to band together, to unite. Within such a group a leader can be found, born, or made.

It doesn’t matter if its 10 or 10,000 people that start the ball rolling. If they believe in change, and really want to make a start, they can. We can. You can.


More is yet to come, follow for more On The Mind.

Suppressing the Psyche: Medicine or Madness

Anti-depressants, anti psychotics, sedatives. The scale of their use in the UK is astounding. 

All of them however serve one fundamental function; to alter the mind. The effects may be different but the goal remains the same, to counter or suppress an emotional state.

Bizarrely many studies emphasise the such drugs can’t be used alone to heal a person. Yet how often, really, is a prescription of anti-depressants followed up by therapy, counselling or what-have you? 

That of course is to do with money, society’s ultimate demon and the thing that will one day break it’s back, but that’s for another time. The willy-nilly, almost random distribution of psychological medicine needs to stop. End of.

Over the course of my life I’ve seen the effects of such drugs on people very close to me, my mother, my friends etc. Whilst most users swear by them, simultaneously most users appear to take them incorrectly, or to combine them with another drug, such as marijuana or worse, alcohol. 

It’s important to remember most users walk into these situations looking for help and deeply afraid of themselves, the world at large and everything in it (a symptomatic thought system, usually courtesy of depressive episodes.)

When a doctor acknowledges that someone is depressed, this acknowledgement becomes a fact in their minds, rather than simply a fear. Naturally, they want it solved and solved now, so out comes the medicine.

The truth is the medicine actually solves nothing. Like a crutch it helps a person get about, but, like a crutch, a person becomes dependent on it to do things they could do before without it. Unlike a crutch however, medication is not usually a temporary solution (though it is often meant to be, I’ve seen ‘temporary’ prescriptions last years in some people.)

When does a person stop needing a crutch? When they heal themselves! The body and mind both have a wonderful capacity to regenerate. Sure the mind scars, so does the body. A scar is usually good, serving as a reminder of an injury, therefore a lesson not to make the same mistake twice. Psychological scarring is, usually, no different.

When bodily damage is extreme we go into long periods of R&R. The mind should be treated the same way, I feel. E.g. I suffered a pretty horrible event recently, as did my partner. I socially withdrew. This was my R&R, my healing period for the brain. It has been effective and medicine-free.

While mental illness can be debilitating and as detrimental as two broken legs to normal life, the question has to be asked; is giving that person a badge, a name, going to help them? Every person I’ve met with some form of disability (including myself) would rather be treated as a normal human being.

Finally, these are human minds doctors are playing with, often without in-depth research of the patient, without full understanding or comprehension of the person (obviously, it’s one mind judging another.) Would you hand a crutch to a man with a sprained  ankle? No, you would give him a smaller support bandage or similar.

Finally, drugs often invert or destroy self-made coping mechanisms, like telling an old man his cane is no good and demanding he use a crutch instead. It’ll be uncomfortable, unsettling and ultimately unhelpful.

Psychological medicine is often the same. Uncomfortable, unsettling and ultimately unhelpful.

Land of Sin

velvet glove, no iron fist

for those who join(ed) the dole list

the leaders cried ‘we must abide!

by policy of eurocrat, who lied

‘a policy of freedom, of rights for all will work’

help the wayard, lost, they said, even they who shirk,

pressure grew too great, the people cried ‘an end!’

leaders said ‘we promise’, ’twas only pretend

now the seeds of hatred sown in cramped concrete tomb,

grow into blossoming, fiery-angry bloom

lawman has tied his hands, the judge has given in,

the cure is far away, for this british land of sin.

Crime: The Bad, the Black-Collar and the Rebel

Britain has known crime a long time. Organized crime has been part of the fabric of the country since 1707, when the Acts of Union were passed.

Ancient dates aside its been going strong ever since. So, why? What makes a criminal? Going off the demographics it seems poverty, poor housing and low education are to blame, but is this really true, or is there more?

The answer is yes, because its no. There’s nothing, really, that separate’s a criminal act from a legal one, except its enshrinement in law.  Take for example the production of alcohol (legal, with correct licences) and growing marijuana (illegal in the UK.) Both drugs, the legal more destructive (according to the science) than the illegal.

Enter the two species of criminal, the black-collar businessmen and the bad boys. The businessman will do what he must to protect his business and further its interests…and seeing how that lies outside the law anyway, so will his methods of protection and growth.

A bad boy is usually in the employ of one of these people. Occasionally you have one who works alone, but what they seem to share is a craving for fame, a need to be noticed, so they cause trouble.

Of course any category where human minds are concerned is amorphous and prone to overlap, but the point here is this. The black-collar businessman is just like you, he may well be you, and you might well have been a true rebel, or a bady boy/girl as well at some point.

Those bad boys though, they’re a little different. They usually represent the lost, the struggling, who leap at the opportunities the underworld of crime offers them in a bid to get some notice, some of the attention a great number of them missed as children. The psychologically unstable criminals out there usually fit into this category.

The Rebel

This is the last and most dangerous of all criminals. The Rebel represents the application of logic to the justice system and, upon finding it flawed, rails against it and actively attempts to bring it down. Such people tend to gather the black-collar and the bad boys, organising their efforts, usually with social upheaval in mind.

Are we born to crime? In a word no. Is Crime thrust upon us? No. Is crime a logical, viable option for some? Of course.

We’ll debate the morality of certain crimes later, for now, please like and comment as you see fit. This is only the beginning…:)

Soul’s light

A proud, frosted rose in fresh winter sun. Gods she really was beautiful, set against the cold background of the trees. Gold-green eyes blazed with her souls light, brighter than sun-lit snow. In truth he knew he shouldn’t be seeing her. He should not gaze with animal lust upon her soft white skin. He should be busy working, gathering roots which his master would make into powders and potions to strengthen and invigorate against the winter cold. She cast around, searching eyes scanning the trees before kneeling and digging through the snow with hands, exposing a tiny patch of bare rock.

She could smell the iron in this mountain. She thought this mountain was a little like her, soft and white and pale on the outside, hard and deep inside. Even her own tribe scoffed at her sometimes for her little obsession. She couldn’t really explain to them though, couldn’t really make them see. She knew there was iron in this mountain, enough for her children’s children to make tools and weapons for all their lives, and where there is iron, there are gems. From her belt, a simple rope woven from Frostreed she drew a small pick and chipped away at the bare rock, trilling a light, rapid tune as she did so.

The youngster sat in his trance for a long time then, listening to her sing, punctuated with the tap of her pick. He was well hidden behind one of the wider trees. Once more he caught himself, then submitted to the beauty assailing eyes and ears:

Mountain white, mountain old,

Forgive my work with pick-axe bold,

A tricky one you’ve been to me,

Now must I break you just to see,

Have you wonders?

gems for me?

The tune was unknown to him, but it took his heart with it, carrying it to sit beside her as she worked the stone. He tilted his head back, immersing himself in the pure joy of the moment, a truly untroubled soul amidst the struggling masses.

“By the Ancestors, boy, where have you been?!” Young Tule dared not speak the blissful truth. “Sorry master, I dawdled in the woods…” he studied the earthern floor “dreaming.” he finished. The old master snatched the assorted plant parts from Tule’s belt pouch, picking through them on his small stone table with vicious, rapid hands. “I’ve no patience for dreamers boy…your blood is thin, boy and the Ancestors are not strong within it.” Tule bowed his head and turned to leave, his masters voice fixing him once more. “Nevertheless, I expect you here tomorrow!” Tule continued into the village as a small plume of blue smoke coloured the night above the shaman’s hut. He’d wanted so bad to tell all to his master, to reveal the secret of his lover in the wilderness, but what would the old shaman say?

He’d ask questions for sure, mused Tule as he entered the village proper. A small cluster of houses, many in various states of improvement made up his whole village. But how much did Tule know? Not a lot, he thought suddenly and laughed, attracting strange looks from some children up far too late, scampering up the slope to get at the moonblooms on the higher slopes.

A Cosmic Tale

In a distant part of the universe, far from any planet, in a young galaxy brimming with possibility and the energy of newborn stars, there was one that was special. One star, formed in the heart of a mighty nebula, smaller and brighter than so many, was awake.

Stars don’t ‘see’ like you and I. For a star to even notice something it must exist for eons and be to their scale. Therefore the deaths and births of new stars are their main concern. When this bright new star emerged from the nebula, blazing with immense energy many of its larger, hungry kin pulled at it, their gravity swamping its own, struggling to absorb that awesome ball of energy.

But as we said, this star was awake and fought for his tiny space, a few million square miles of charged particles. Later there came a much mightier pull, a gargantuan star had consumed many others and was set to feast on the bright one. It’s fire was mighty and hot, yet unstable, its surface cool though it’s heart blazed bright. The giant made contact with our bright star, his unstable core churning with greedy hunger for more and more energy to heat that giant form. Our star blazed on amidst the raging, whirling matter, defiant and patient, waiting for his foes core to reach him.

With his contact that core exploded. The huge star ballooned and popped, immense waves of energy sweeping through the galaxy, igniting the nebula anew, birthing fresh new stars. In the aftermath our little star could be seen, a blazing ball amidst the cloud that was his hungry brother.

Eons of time passed on, the little star continued to grow. Around him he perceived his fiery young galaxy cooling and aging, slowing down by fractions over vast periods of time. He too had changed, he was larger now, still small though compared to some. He had learned conjecture and imagination in his long, slow life. He wondered if there were more like him, stars that could understand their galaxy. He sent messages in complex cosmic winds, praying another would answer. Every wave of energy that touched him he frantically tore apart, desperate to find some coherence in their arrangement, some pattern that would tell him there was something out there that knew him. Nothing came.

For long, long eons this was the case until at last he could take no more. But he was a star. Stars cannot will themselves to die. They might be consumed by their kin or the terrible black holes, or their fire will eventually burn out, but they cannot end themselves. So the star lived on, his cosmic songs nought but lament and misery. Even the battles with other stars were all but over, the nebula of his birth near spent.

A star scream. A frantic, fractured burst of energy sweeping through the galaxy. Every star in its path including ours perceived the terrible cry and the fate of the crier as its very being, even its core, was dragged into the mobile void of a black hole. Our star knew fear then, for he was no longer young and charged with vibrant energy. He was settled, near fixed in his patch of galaxy. Easy prey for those roving predators. Another star fell, and another, their cosmic songs snuffed out. Our star learned then to pity, for his kin were worse off than he. They sang he knew without purpose, songs  announcing their existence to the universe at large, celebrations of their blazing selves. It was these songs the hungry void followed, eating up their energy, chasing down the stars that sang them. More and yet more were consumed, the mobile void insatiable.

Our star at last saw his chance for freedom. No longer would he be alone in this galaxy of dumb songs. He would summon the black hole and be consumed by it, a better fate than an ageless eternity of boredom. Rapidly his being flared, directed inter-stellar energy, a calling, challenging song, singing confidence and mockery of the horrid mobile void. He knew it could not understand, but the song was laced with his power and the black hole would follow the trail. Onward it came, that ghost of a star, asteroids and planetoids no match for its hunger. Passing other stars it caught their songs and ate them, but still our star sang on, louder than the rest, a song made of cosmic winds and solar flares, drawing the black hole on. he could not perceive it, for it did not exist as such. Instead he perceived it’s effect, the bending of the universe, the stretching of it. For a moment before it reached him, he wondered what this meant. Then it was upon him.

Light and cosmic energy, ablaze all around. Our stars bright flame re-ignited, lively and hot once more. Somehow he still existed, though in a different patch of night. Gone was the nebula and all his dumb neighbours. Gone was the cooling galaxy he had dwelt in for so long. This new place had many stars, more than he’d ever known. Their songs were many and confusing, a torrent of stellar voices.

Then our star learned joy and peace, for he perceived the pattern. He understood the cosmic winds, the message in the matter. “Welcome lonely Singer, we heard you from afar. For eons you sang alone, yet now here you are. The Darkened One has brought you here to us and to our aid. If it is stars that perceive you need we invite you here to stay.”

The Lonely Singer rejoiced, his cosmic music wild and swift. Around him the clever galaxy listened, bright and wise and true. At last he was not alone, among dumb low stars. Around him blazed mighty brothers, whose songs were complex messages. Many he spoke with had planets or rocks or stranger things in their orbit. He’d never had more than cosmic winds and lesser stars in his, save that one titanic battle he’d fought in his youth. But this galaxy was different and before long he had his own. Rocks were hurled his way by distant friends to make of them what he will. He set them on their paths and more rocks were dawn in. Two swirled with clouds of matter, unstable and mutable. With a flicker of thought he set their hearts ablaze, birthing his two gas giants. A third swirled with energy, but grew cold, for his hold on it was distant. It’s matter had a pattern though, slow and deep and flowing.

Satisfied with his nine adornments, our star threw other rocks back, launching them across the void in cosmic games of catch. Joyous eons followed, for he had friends at last. Then something very special happened on one of his rocks. In a quieter time when silly loud stars had died he heard a strange new song. So quiet he almost missed it, so brief he strained to catch it, he rejoiced still at the words.

We are the growing things, we thank you mighty one. Without your cosmic light our growing could not be done.” Then the songs were confused and many, for new things emerged on that rock. Over yet more eons the mighty star has listened. He has heard the clamour of life and laughed, sometimes a little too loud, cosmic winds buffeting the tiny planet’s life-cloud. For the tiny things had funny ideas and funny names for him. At times they’d thought him like them, at others they’d believed him the lesser, to their tiny rock. But they grew swiftly wiser, faster than he had done, in time deciding on one name for the great disc of light. The Lonely Singer who’d travelled through the infinite night. They venerated and respected his power and his will. In his light they felt his joy, the thrill of one at peace. They could not understand his songs, or see the message in his winds. He knew they were teeny tiny and not for stars to talk to. Nevertheless their talk of him made him proud, and wise. For every day so many things gazed up bathing in light and joy. For he was the bringer of life and love, his light brought growth and fun. For the star of this tale is none other, than our bright old Sun.