This article is a personal labor of love.
It is not like the others that I have written. It doesn’t have some flashy title, and I don’t work hard to get your attention in the first couple paragraphs. There is no technique, tip, or tactic that I am espousing. It is certainly not infotainment – where I try to shock you or give you a few laughs for your day. I’m not trying to get you something useful quickly after the intro to wet your appetite, so I can discuss the finer points with your attention still in tact. And, I’m not trying to sell you anything. I don’t care if it makes my traffic more sticky, or if it gets linked to and increases my search-engine rankings. In short, in terms of the website, I have nothing to gain from this article.
I just have an urge to share with you that I can’t really explain.
I’m about to do something that, as a Darkworker, all my teachers have told me never to do – make myself vulnerable in a sense that is open-access (i.e. to the masses). This isn’t taught out of paranoia, its just common sense, like not publishing your name and social security number in the local newspaper. Of course, I will reserve parts and pieces of my choosing to retain the majority of my anonymity (its amazing how many people try to look me up on whois.com each month). I wish it could be otherwise, honestly, but I have interests that I must preserve. However, I’m going to go ahead and violate the precept. After all, my instructors have also imparted one principal above all others, Honor Thyself. So, I am going to hold true and do that by doing what every Darkworker should be able to do: I’m going to talk about what I have spent a lifetime studying, seeking, deepening, and developing – myself.
I don’t really know why I feel motivated to do this, and I can’t relate to you how strange that is for me, not knowing the source of my desire. I’ve been on this path so long, the idea of having an impetus that I can’t identify or trace back to some central cause is a lot like waking up and being unable to see. Or hear, for that matter. It’s startling to be distant from myself in that way – in a sense like your best friend won’t speak to you or look at you almost overnight. An off-color loneliness and an undiagnosed illness, but there’s no doctor and no conversation that will cure it. On the other hand, there is this sense of growing and becoming, like a seed that’s just about to emerge from the ground, but can’t tell which way to grow. Very strange. If any other Darkworkers have been in this place, I would like to hear from you.
In any case, I’m going to walk you up to and through my polarization, and take a stroll of my stages along the Darkworking path. I’ll also throw in any other threads of my personal tapestry that my intuition tells me to sew in. I’m going to do this in parts, with this part being the first. I sense that this is going to take time and reflection – and besides, I doubt you would read the entire thing in one sitting. This one will cover my birth, because it had a profound effect on shaping my mind and perspective. Before you start to think that I have too much ground to cover, let me say that one of the things that makes me uncommon among the Darkworkers I have met is that I polarized very young. While I do take a personal pride in this fact, it’s more of a survivor pride than anything else. As you will see, I paid quite a price for it. And, I have found others, as rare as it is, but when it does happen, we share certain characteristics of our early experiences, which I will explain at the end.
As a final note here in the introduction, I’d like to say that unlike my other articles, I get the overwhelming feeling that I’m talking to someone specific with this piece. To explain that, let me say that this website gets about 3,000 unique visitors per month. It’s a small number compared to some sites, but a little over a month ago, it was only a little over a hundred. Given my lapse in posting, the traffic is growing by leaps and bounds. So, I know people are watching and reading. But, aside from the occasional question or pat-on-the-back that goes into my email inbox, the forums sit largely dead. It gives me this feeling when I’m writing that I think is a lot like being a DJ at 3 o’clock in the morning. It’s like the internet is out there like a still, quiet world where everyone is sleeping, and my little zeroes and one’s are transmitting out like that DJ’s voice vibrating into the silent night. This feeling has shaped my writing habits, and now I have a tendency to write by moonlight, when the world is sleeping, and there is this feeling when I write, like I am whispering into the cold night air and the buildings and streetlights are soaking up my voice. Thus, there’s always this echoing sensation, like I’m talking to no one, or rather, talking to everyone indiscriminately.
But, not with this post.
I don’t know who or why, but if you’re out there, I hope you hear this – perhaps you can see something I can’t.
And, for the rest, thank you for your time and continued support. We are the Experiment.
Love Yourself, Be Mighty.
Bring on the Circus:
I can’t really tell my story without telling our story.
It was a March morning, and a stormy one at that. A young girl sat in the stirrups, approximately 16 and doing what no person that young should be doing — making really grown up decisions about life, death, and the future for two little babies. That’s right folks, it’s a double-decker tonight. Step right up, step right up, step into the identical twin tent and see what mysteries await. Also, a young man, though slightly older, stood at her side. He was a member of the Miami tribe, a group of Native Americans that was split in two long ago by the U.S. Federal Government, under proper authority, with one part remaining in Florida and another part arbitrarily moved to Indiana. Ironically, this same authority would also refuse to recognize the same tribe it had forcibly relocated as actually existing as a tribe, so they just kind of float around the Midwest, like Gypsies with actual houses. He was also doing what no young man should be doing – attempting to do the stand-up thing and stand-by the woman he knocked-up, while everyone else involved was very up-front about wanting him to shut-up and get the hell out of Indiana and go back to Florida, post-haste.
Her father was also there, a young Air Force officer – who, like me, would have an almost inherent love for being part of and yet bucking the system at every opportunity. An inner have-to that dares you to push the envelope as far as possible without breaking anything beyond repair. Of course, like me, at some point he would mis-judge that line, and his career would end quite abruptly. And, he was quite unhappy with this young man who had put his daughter in these stirrups, although, his daughter had fallen from grace in his eyes long ago. Likewise, her mother had also come, a somewhat frumpy woman who had also bucked more than just the system, turning her back on her old-money roots so she could knock-boots with said Air Force officer. She was also unhappy with her daughter, but mostly because this was the second time being through this ordeal, and my birth mother lacked at that time what society required when the legs went up and the breathing became labored, a ring on the finger. Not to mention – the twin’s daddy wasn’t of the right cloth, and even if unrecognized, a stain is still a stain on any kind of fabric.
Both of them were watching a little tyke in the reception area while their daughter gave birth. I would learn about him later, in a gigantic oh-didn’t-we-mention-that sort of post-script from my adopted parents, but be unable to locate him at all – my slightly older half-brother. When asking questions about him, there would be rumors and whispers and half-spoken hushed mentionings of self-mutilation and criminal mischief. And, from multiple sources I would hear the same eloquent summation, “He was messed up”.
Big shock there.
I see this whole affair as a gigantic circus, where the curtain goes up and the music starts playing and the strongman starts dancing with the bearded lady and everyone starts pointing fingers at everyone else. Often, I wonder how awful that must have been for them. She being so young and having to go through all the pain of labor with loathing in the hall and hatred for the one beside her. He being so young and conflicted about what he was even supposed to be doing, probably just wanting so bad to throw in the towel, but being piss-drunk on a double-shot of guilt and pride. Prideful about rejecting her parents racism; guilty because he pretty much walked away from her after he found out she was pregnant and magically showed up on the day we arrived. I know at some point she tried to self-abort us, and when that didn’t work, she started on with the drugs. What love-juice my brother and I were flying on, I have no idea, but I know rehab-center records aren’t created for pregnant ladies because they drink too much coffee.
Of course, this is why the ringmaster, I mean the Doctor, was called to start the show three months ahead of schedule…
There is a problem during our delivery, and it has nothing to do with our premature low-birth-weight. The umbilical cord has become wrapped around our necks, due to our small size, we are both wedged in the vaginal canal, and as the topper on this hat-trick, we are not breathing but we do have pulses. The Ringmaster realizes that we are indeed choking, and decides he has to get us out fast. My understanding is that he had to “extract us manually”, one at a time. I’m not precisely sure how that was accomplished, but I doubt it was pretty. Mainly, I feel sorry for my birth mother, but, and I mean this respectfully, I feel sorry for her vagina too.
Unfortunately, it created another issue. When the Ringmaster extracted one of us, it put tug on the cord. So the other had their airway effectively squeezed shut. For whatever reason, the Ringmaster chose me first. Perhaps it was how we were positioned and I was for that reason the natural selection, or perhaps there was a moment of selection and choice, meaning I was deliberately first. Hell, maybe the guy flipped a coin for all I know. In either case, my twin did not survive.
Which, when I learned all this, it explained this mystery that haunted me my entire childhood. I always had this feeling of missing someone and had no idea why. I would do really strange things as a kid, like set an extra place at the dinner table for no reason, without really realizing I was doing it. When playing with toys, I always made two piles, and played with one and left the other, then put them all back in the toy box at the same time. And, if my mother tried to put the other pile away ahead of time, I would get really upset but not be able to say what I was mad about. There was this constant feeling like something was just missing, and I would mis-read this feeling and waste a lot of time looking around thinking I had misplaced or forgotten something and not remember what it was I was looking for. Often, I would have dreams where I would have long, drawn-out conversations with a person that looked exactly like myself, and the reason I remember these dreams is because that is when, for a little while, that feeling would go away. Now, I’m not saying I was having an inner-séance with my long-lost twin – I am saying that my brain was deep-wired to expect the presence of the other, and couldn’t quite catch up to reality. In fact, reality had taken a gigantic cognitive-dissonance-crap right on my forehead. It wasn’t until I was around 10 years old that I stopped doing all the expectant behaviors, and it wasn’t until I was in my late teens that the “missing” feeling completely dissipated.
But, back to the show…
So now we have a situation that is already socially awkward to say the least, and now it has become covered in tragedy. That is a whole lot of anger and pain for a teenager to deal with. Luckily, the old frumpy lady (my biological grandmother), is in familiar territory. Old money covers things like this up all the time, and she knows just how to handle it. She works with a woman, (who I will later call mom), that desperately wants a child. This woman had cervical cancer and had to have a hysterectomy, thus, no hope of ever having a baby on her own. So, frumpy old-money figures she can match the parties and presto-chango, the problem is solved. Air Force officer is willing to go along with it, because the husband in this adoptive couple is in the Army, so it is still Hoorah-city, which is fine with him. Together, the two pressured her to sign the papers, there is some money involved, and like a commodity on the stock exchange, I change hands with no say as to my final destination.
Now, I know she was pressured, for two reasons. …
First, she came to see my mother at some point to wish her happy mothers day, and I suspect, to discuss reversion to an open-adoption stance, and this discussion did not go well, because my adoptive parents moved out of town, spuriously, within a week of that. These are not the actions of someone who was completely ok with the adoption in the first place.
Second, my mother was always afraid someone was going to take me away. When I was in third grade, I wrote a short story about a little kid who defends his house from robbers. I still have it, and for my age, it is really good. It was “Home Alone” a little ahead of its time. My teacher wanted to send it off to have it published and my mother told her no. When I asked her why she was afraid someone would take me away. I tried to get her to elaborate, but she wouldn’t go further into it than that. So, I know something was up, and unfortunately, I can’t find any court records to substantiate this, but I know something wasn’t quite right, because…
I also have a memory from when I was two years old, where a man comes to the house in a suit. We were poor, living off base at that time on E-4 pay, so I didn’t see suits often, which is why this sticks out to me. I know my mother is very nervous and he has a clip-board and keeps asking her questions. Of course, I don’t know who he is or why he is there. At some point, he keeps talking to her, but picks up my big rubber bouncy ball and throws it to me. I throw it back to him. He then proceeds to keep talking to her, but spins the ball in-between his hands. I wait for a while, but then I start to get shitty. This is a well defined game. It is based on reciprocation. I throw, you throw back. Clearly, this jackass is making my mom freak out and has either rudely forgotten me, or is so stupid as to not know how the game works. In either case, my course of action is clear – this man is in need of an awakening. So I run up and smack him on the leg as hard as I can, look into his eyes, and slowly yell, “Fro…it…man!”. He winces and doubles over a bit and my mom sucks in air the way people do when they spill lemon juice on an open cut. He says some brief things I don’t understand and abruptly leaves. I am immediately beaten to crap for my protective troubles.
As an adult, I learn he was from the original agency that handled the adoption. This brings me to the fatal flaw in the “adoption is better for everyone” plan. Unfortunately, my adoptive mother, aka hysterectomy lady also has what is a natural side-effect of that procedure – massive hormonal problems. And, hysterectomy lady refuses to take her hormonal treatments on any sort of regular basis, creating wild hormonal shifts. As we all know, hormones control behavior, and I’m in for quite the little ride. After all, I am really just a walking reminder that she could never have children of her own.
Compared to my brother and my half-brother, I’m still getting the better end of the deal, gratitude all around, but not by much.
While my dead brother is being carted away, I’m being flown by chopper to emergency care at a special hospital dedicated to children’s medicine. I’m having a difficult time breathing on my own, as my lungs and some of my other organs aren’t quite fully developed yet. Since my ability to fight off any infection at this point is practically null and void, the solution is to create a protective bubble, in the form of a plastic box, and stick me in it. For months, the only way to touch me is with rubber gloves that attach to the sides of the box, similar to what you see infectious disease people use on television. What’s more, I stop breathing several times, for long stretches of time. I don’t know if they had me on a respirator of some kind or not, but I do know that in an effort to get me to breathe on my own, they would prick my head and feet with needles to make me cry. The crying is eventually what strengthened my lungs so I could breathe on my own. Amazingly, I have no respiratory problems as an adult, not even asthma, and in spite of smoking for quite a while in the past.
And, I would like to add – had it not been for the charity funds of this hospital, I would not have received the extensive care I needed. To this end, I make an anonymous donation to that institution every year (that which funds emergency child medicine for needy families). I only say this to rebuff the notion that Darkworkers only give when they receive some direct, tangible, tactical benefit from it. I hate to burst the bubble, but we sometimes do it out of pure gratitude, honoring what we feel. We just don’t have any self-imposed obligation to do it. And, I needed that box…
I stayed in the box for several months, until my adoptive parents were cleared to take me home.
In the interim, my mother was warned several times by detached doctors to not become too attached. They felt that my chances for survival were low. And, they noted that even if I did survive, I would more than likely suffer brain damage, have incomplete use of my senses (blind, deaf, etc), have developmental problems, or worse. The sum total of my life has proved them wrong, each and every day, with each and every achievement.
Now, I know what the experts say about human beings and memory – that I should have no valid memories from that time period. The problem is, I do have one, and it is crystal clear. I remember laying in the box. I’m hot, really hot, and my chest is heavy. The lights overhead are bright, they hurt my eyes, from what I think now is track lighting, and I want them to go away. I’m wrapped in this blanket, which I now know is fleece, and I hate the way it feels. There is this stuffed giraffe that is wedged in there with me too, and the problem is, it’s somewhat on top of my right side, and its making me more hot. My feet hurt. And, I want to cry, but I’m just too tired. There is a slick feeling on my cheek, I think now that one of the nurses is stroking my cheek with the gloves, and saying my name. I also have a feeling that isn’t like lonliness, or missing someone, I can only conclude that it must be me wanting my birth mother. Yes, I know. There is no way. But, I stand by it.
Of course, at this point we can wrap it up, and I can make an observation. The beginning of my life was marked by these 5 key characteristics:
Abandonment (…which is positively translated into self-reliance)
Pain (…which is a positive force for growth aka self-determination)
Isolation (…which is a pre-cursor for self-knowledge)
Loss (…which drives us to self-complete, and thus increase self-love)
Death (…which is the unifying force of personal liberation)
I will remark more on this at a later time, but I wanted to point it out here as a little bit of prep work for future postings.
Of course, I am not polarized at this point in my life, but the framework has already been established. As I said before, I think this is why I was able to polarize so young, because of this starting point.
In my next post in this series, I will take you through my early childhood, and into my polarization. As a preparation for that, in my next post to the blog itself, I will be going into more of an explanation of polarization and the mechanism behind it, something which I feel is lacking up to this point.
Again, this was a pleasure, thank you for reading.