What Is Cancer?

Cancer is simply an "overgrowth" of mutated cells.  Everyone has cancerous cells in their body at all times and free radicals are necessarily generated as a function of metabolism.  This is unavoidable, but the body also has very effective built-in mechanisms to control the proliferation of cancerous cells.  It's only when the body can no longer keep up with the rate of cell mutation that we say "this person has cancer". 

Chemotherapy focuses on destroying cancerous cells (along with healthy cells) whereas nutrition focuses on giving the body what it needs to make healthy cells again.  You don't necessarily have to kill cancer cells with drugs or radiation if you can:
1- get the body to start making healthy cells again by giving it the nutrients it lacks and
2- rebuild the mechanisms in the body that destroy cancerous cells but have been disabled due to malnutrition. 

We can say that cancer is generally caused by putting lots of toxins into the body while depriving the body of the nutrients it needs to run the systems that neutralize these toxins.  This is exactly what the Standard American Diet does.  Stress and other less tangible factors are also toxic to the body and can incapacitate and destroy, sometimes beyond repair, crucial protective mechanisms and even entire glands. 

The body literally makes millions of cells every hour.  Every single cell in the GI tract is replaced every 3-5 days and most cells in the body are replaced at least every three weeks!  And as you might imagine, replicating a million healthy cells every hour requires a constant supply of many nutrients.  Cell replication is impaired when the nutrients necessary for healthy cell replication are absent, which in turn leads to mutations and cancer.

Cancer is one possible end result of chronic malnutrition.  There are many others, but they are all "lifestyle diseases" caused by what is often very treatable and preventable malnutrition.  Give the body what it needs to protect itself and the odds you'll ever need cancer treatment - natural, drug-based, or otherwise - become very low. 

An Anniversary on a High Note

Last night Holly and I celebrated our fourth anniversary by going to see the Colorado Symphony at Red Rocks, an incredible outdoor music venue outside of Denver.  It was a great night and the icing on the cake was that tickets were only $20!

How could this be possible, to see the symphony perform at a venue where tickets are often three times what we paid?

:-)

The event was sponsored by marijuana industry companies. 

My hat's off to the state of Colorado for passing Amendment 64, which made all this possible.  Instead of arresting people for possessing a plant, we pumped $12 million in tax revenue from recreational marijuana sales into the state's coffers in the first half of 2014.

Even more than that, a thousand people and many families went to see the symphony last night, people who might not have been able or willing to afford it otherwise.  A good, wholesome time was had by many, and it was made possible by money contributed by the marijuana companies.

Of course, there's nothing especially noble about sponsoring an event as a way of promoting one's own business, but it's nice that we're finally allowing the marijuana industry a chance to become legitimate, pay taxes, and be a part of the community and above-ground market.

It's win-win.

The marijuana industry gets to be a legitimate part of society and business, and we get their innovative ideas, like making a symphony performance available at a price that many can afford.

There are plenty of things that are not right in this world, but I take some solace in the turning tide marking the end of marijuana prohibition.  I take solace in events like the one I went to last night.

It is one of the many positive side-effects of ending marijuana prohibition.

Thank you, reason, for finding your way into Colorado's approach to regulating marijuana.  It made for a lovely anniversary!

A Modest Proposal

For argument’s sake, let’s all agree that the gender wage gap is objectively valid and that the data indicating that women make 77 cents for every dollar a man makes are correct.  Assuming we agree on that, what if we decided to think of part of that disparity as compensation paid to men in return for signing up for the selective service?  Think of it as a way to compensate men for pledging to defend our country with their very lives, should it come down to that.  This is a service that is not and has never been expected of women, but men are required by law to provide this service or risk up to five years in jail and fines up to $250,000.  It is a service for which men are not directly compensated in any other way.  I don’t know that it’s worth paying men 23% more than women, but isn’t it worth something?

The Dubious Merits of Scientific Consensus

I recently got into a discussion on facebook regarding the safety of GMOs, which quickly (and perhaps somewhat predictably) devolved into a pointless argument.  I was primarily talking with two musicians, friends of a friend, who insisted that the overwhelming scientific consensus on GMOs was that they were safe and there was really no room for conversation on the subject.  I was told that the question of GMO safety boils down to ”whether you accept the validity of scientific consensus or whether you're plugged into one of the AltMed quasi-cults.”  All this from a musician!  (I should mention for any who don’t know that I’m a nutrition student.)  I like musicians, and I like music, but I don’t usually seek out musicians’ professional opinions on health-related questions. 

Arguably one of the biggest take-home messages I’ve received from studying nutrition so far is that the human body is extremely complicated.  Everyone is different and each person is different depending on time of day, what they just ate, and a hundred other factors.  Anybody who’s ever studied organic chemistry can attest to how complex the human body and metabolic pathways are.  It’s appealing to think that when you eat 8oz of broccoli, predictable and consistent effects on the body will occur for everyone.  It’s appealing, but it’s just not true.  The human body is made up of complex, sophisticated mechanisms that take significant study to understand.  And it’s really a beautiful thing, because these mechanisms serve to protect the body in a multitude of circumstances.

This brings me back to the arrogant musicians on facebook.  There is a false sense of being objective, scientific, and knowledgeable that comes from blindly accepting the majority opinion.  One of these guys argued that it would be illogical for him to stray from the “scientific consensus” opinion that GMOs are safe because, as he is a layman in this subject, all he can do is listen to what experts say.  Funny that being a layman doesn’t also preclude him from telling me, someone who is actually studying the subject, that I’m wrong before even hearing my arguments.  Even if GMOs are safe, I still say that his logic is flawed:

It’s not unscientific to disagree with the majority opinion if you’ve studied the subject and reached a differing conclusion that you can back up.  In fact, I would argue that this kind of dissent embodies what science is at its core.  However, agreeing with the majority opinion simply because it is the majority opinion makes one a blind follower with no understanding of the subject, and vulnerable to becoming a patsy in someone else’s scam.  The musician doesn’t understand the issue himself but is content to parrot what he has read, and does not hesitate to tell anyone who disagrees that they’re wrong, even if they might be more knowledgeable than he is.

I agree that it is at least somewhat logical for a layman to subscribe to the majority opinion.  I understand this reasoning.  But what is not logical is to fiercely argue a point of view on an issue that one really doesn’t understand.  This is not scientific; this is dangerous and ignorant.  One good and recent example of the dangers of widely accepted misinformation in the arena of health is the recent debunking of the myth that saturated fat causes heart disease.  The recent well-publicized cover of Time about the merits of dietary fat is a testament to this struggle.  Mainstream science and medicine has only recently come around on this myth, just ahead of Time magazine.  Until very recently, the idea that saturated fat causes heart disease was completely embraced by the medical community for 60 years – but why?

One guy, Ancel Keys, came up with a theory which he first presented in the 1950s that sought to establish a causal link between saturated fat and heart disease.  He cherry–picked data to support his theory and pushed it hard, hard enough that it came to be regarded as scientific fact, despite the significant flaws in his data.  The musicians from facebook would have been satisfied – “scientific consensus” had been reached, but that didn’t make Keys’ theory true.  However, that didn’t stop his theory from being quickly embraced with very little scrutiny, and the medically accepted recommendation for heart health given to nearly everyone for decades became to replace healthy saturated fats with vegetable oils and margarine. 

It has only been in the last few years that this has begun to change, even though the “AltMed quasi-cults” had been trying to warn us.  It turns out that saturated fat is much healthier for most people than the vegetable oils that margarine is made from.  In fact, heart disease has skyrocketed since the switch to margarine and vegetable oils, and we now understand that widespread consumption of low quality vegetable oils is largely responsible for the modern epidemic of heart disease we currently face. 

We must live with the fact that we let one man so drastically influence medical consensus without properly reviewing his flimsy data.  We must also live with the fact that it took 60 years and the prodding of the AltMed quasi-cults to get the medical community to wake up and notice, to put it bluntly, that anybody had done any research since Keys.  In the case of saturated fat, scientific consensus let ignorance reign and people died because of it.  We would be wise to learn from this mistake and do our best not to repeat it.

I personally don’t have much reverence for scientific consensus.  Some people get really turned on by it, but I don’t understand the appeal.  If everybody agrees about something it means we’re on the cusp of a new understanding of that subject, not that we’ve finally got it figured out!  When has that ever happened?  Never!  No, instead it means it’s time to question everything and to be ready to make that next quantum leap to the next level of understanding, even if doing so illuminates how wrong we’ve been about some things.  I firmly believe that almost every scientific consensus that has ever existed will eventually be proven wrong, and that revering them serves only to slow progress. 

Getting back to Keys and his hijacking of the scientific consensus, it’s absolutely amazing and terrifying that one person was able to singlehandedly derail medicine’s understanding of heart disease and saturated fat for 60 years.  It gives me goose bumps, and I think it’s worth reflecting on the weight of this for a few moments.  It’s not difficult to see the dangers of blindly following the consensus on anything, especially an area as important, complex, and as quickly evolving as health and medicine. 

Neither is it hard to see the parallels between the saturated fat debate and the current debate about GMOs.  At their core, both are about the food industry which is, in turn, about money.  The margarine industry years ago needed a scientific consensus to declare margarine “the heart-healthy alternative to saturated fat” in order to convince consumers to buy its margarine, and capitalized on Keys’ flawed research to market their products.  And Keys, of course, was happy to receive free publicity for his theory.

Fast-forward back to current day and the story is much the same, but with different players:  Companies like Monsanto want to patent and sell their GMO products and make money.  Making money is what businesses do, after all, and I don’t think it’s a bad thing.  But we need to make sure that we’re not repeating the mistake of blindly following what we’re told is scientific consensus, as we did with saturated fat.  We need to make sure that private interests are not rushing the availability and sale of dangerous products that have not been adequately tested for safety.

Maybe GMOs are safe.  That’s really not what this about.  I have gone out of my way to make this not be about that.  

This is about the perils of blindly following popular opinion, the so-called scientific consensus, a practice and mindset that are decidedly unscientific.  It’s about being aware that for many of the people involved, this is just a business decision, and that “scientific consensus” is a commodity to be purchased.  It’s about being aware that real science questions everything all the time, and that constant, meticulous and unrelenting self-scrutiny is what makes science such an incredibly powerful tool that is worthy of our respect.  But judging the merits of a scientific theory based on its popularity is just that – a popularity contest, and something that bears little resemblance to science as I understand it.

Rape Culture: Female Chauvanism In Action

This is a response to an essay called "A letter to the guy who harassed me outside the bar".  The link to that article is listed at the end of my essay, but I don't think reading it is vital to understanding the points I hope to make. 

I simply cannot stand rape culture theory, for one specific reason: It is guilty of all the legitimately reprehensible behaviors it claims to denounce. 

Like men who harass and intimidate women, women who espouse rape culture rhetoric do so in an attempt to dominate, subjugate and control the opposite sex.

This essay claims to address a man who harassed the author outside a bar, however this is clearly not true.  The author acknowledges this in a concluding sentence that's littered with unnecessary commas: "So, to you, the man on the sidewalk [outside the bar], I’m quite sure you will never read this essay."

Then why are you writing it, and who is your audience?  Though at first glance these questions may seem somewhat trivial, they warrant some serious consideration.

Rape culture theory tells us that when a man harasses a woman, it makes her fear that she may be assaulted.  Many fears pass through a woman's mind in a situation like this - fear of being assaulted, fear of being labeled a whore or a slut, whether by herself or by society at large...  Genuine terror and a multitude of other emotions can spontaneously erupt in a split second, this much is certainly true.

But let's try the shoe on the other foot.  Similar to a man who harasses women, this essay makes men feel they must act a certain way around women.  How might an assertion like that make an individual man feel?  Certainly, some men wouldn't give it much thought.  But like a rape victim who internalizes her assault (why did this happen to me? what did I do to deserve this?) some men may worry:

Am I threatening to women?  What is it about me that makes me threatening?  I didn't know I was a source of fear for other people.  Am I making half the population fear for their safety?!?  What's wrong with me?!  How do I know if I am even guilty of this?  I think of myself as friendly and approachable; I don't want to be a source of worry and fear for other people! 

You can see how this thought process may easily snowball into a chain reaction of worry and self-reproach, much like the target of unwanted harassment or sexual advances might question herself and what she did to make herself the target of such abuse.  And rape culture theory is right there, waiting to allay these mens' apprehension with specific instructions on just how to act so as not to be a source of fear for women.

Rape culture doesn't consider how its assertions may make men feel because in rape culture theory, men are not people.  They are only relevant and worth discussing in terms of how they relate to women: Is this man conscientious towards women?  How does he make them feel? 

Everything is secondary to how women feel, and how a man feels about being told how to behave just doesn't come up. 

Behind a veil of addressing the man outside the bar, the author writes to all men as if they were that terrible man.  She lumps all men into the same boat.  Because to her, what's the difference?  Men exist to her as either threats or non-threats, but rarely as people.  And it's easy to ignore the feelings of a potential threat.

She is entitled to dismiss my feelings.  This is not sarcasm or insincere rhetoric, but merely a statement of fact: She is under no obligation to look out for my feelings or well-being.  But by the same token, neither am I obligated in any way to her, and that is exactly my point:

It is not anyone's responsibility to make sure that anyone else feels any certain way.  Period.

If you feel threatened, do something about it.  Fight fire with fire and beat him at his own game.  Make his interaction with you so incredibly unpleasant that he shudders any time he thinks of you for the rest of his life.

Rape culture tells you that you don't have control over that situation, but you do.  Be empowered.  Make him the victim.  And if you can't, move to a safer neighborhood, buy pepper spray, get into therapy, or take a self-defense class.  Do what you gotta do to address the issue.

Fight your own fucking battles and stop telling half the population to act a certain way so that you may feel safe, if for no other reason than this:

Harassment and rape don't really have much to do with each other.  Even if we're all super polite and respectful towards women, rape won't magically cease to exist.  Society will just look like we went back in time several hundred years, with rigid rules of acceptable social interaction and decorum around women.

Feeling safe and secure - and indeed, feeling any certain way, comes from within. The responsibility to manage these feelings lies with the individual experiencing them, not the rest of the world. 

It's your responsibility.  Own your shit.

The original essay: http://www.rolereboot.org/culture-and-politics/details/2012-12-a-letter-to-the-guy-who-harrassed-me-outside-the-bar

Walking a Mile in Someone Else's Shoes

This is a response to a tumblr post by UnWinona, entitled "I debated whether or not to share this story".

As she says in her closing remarks, UnWinona wants men “to be forced to feel, for even one minute, what it feels like to have so much verbal hatred and physical intimidation thrown at them for nothing more than being female and not wanting to share.“

Well UnWinona, in the spirit of putting oneself in someone else’s shoes:

I want you to appreciate that other people experience difficult, painful situations too, even men. 

I want you to know what it feels like to be expected to defend your country with your life, should it come to that, simply because you’re a man. 

I want you to recognize that a man who harasses you on the train might well be a veteran who was drafted and forced to murder, a duty from which you are exempt as a woman.  I want you to develop some appreciation for the men who suffer for the rest of their lives because of what they were required to do as men. 

You seem to think that men should walk a mile in your shoes.  I encourage you to take your own advice and put yourself in someone else’s shoes.  You might be surprised how your perspective changes.  You might find that being the attractive woman who gets harassed on the train isn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things.

Then again, you might not.  I have no idea.  And my point is not to say that your life isn’t really so hard, because I don’t know anything about you or what your life is like.  I am only trying to convey that everyone has their difficulties.  Everyone faces hardships and truly trying situations, and I genuinely believe that you might be happier in the end if you garnered more of an appreciation for that fact.

Fever Pitch

I never did measure up to my potential.
Adults always made sure to tell me so.
Why would I want to? I never understood.
Everything was always about the future.

Well the future is here and now,
And the adults were right to warn me.

But I can't help but think:

Learning how to be happy in the moment seems
Like a valuable skill for me to have learned,
More important than citing references properly,
And more relevant than calculus.

I'm still young, and yet it's already nearly over.
Fates are sealed so early.

There are people who follow their dreams.
I know, I've met some of them.
But dreams are impractical.
Once I accomplish lots of things, maybe I'll have time for dreams.

But without dreams, who gives a shit
About accomplishing anything?
It's another Catch-22.
Oh well, no time for that: it's time for work.

Those dreams will one day become another stack of drawings
Gathering dust in the closet.
Those dreams will be something to remind me about my limitless potential
That I'm still not measuring up to.

Sorry, “to which I'm still not measuring up”,
Not that anybody under thirty knows the difference.

A good job that was, taking AP English:
Learning how not to end a sentence with a preposition.
That's been tremendously useful knowledge.
Many people I know can barely read, much less identify a preposition.

But the people who can read are generally intolerable.
Don't get me wrong, I hang out with the illiterates for a reason.
I made my choice; I guess I shouldn't complain.
But to be fair, I think my options were a bit limited.

The fool asks:

What is my place in this world?
There must be something I have to offer,
Some balance I can achieve.
I've no more patience for this life.

I get up in the morning because
It's better than getting fired
From a job I hate.
This is not good enough.

Mindreader

PART ONE

I'm a young boy in a nice backyard with a soft, green lawn. There are dogs running around, and puppies. There must have been a new litter recently. It's a beautiful day. A man says “Look -” and shoots one of the puppies. It collapses and dies. He says, “Feel how soft the fur is, but now it's all bloody”. I rub the soft fur and my hand comes back red. It seems like the man is trying to teach me something, but I have no idea what it could be. I try to hide my horror because I figure I must be missing the point and I must not be smart enough to figure it out.

PART TWO

I'm driving north up 75 through Dallas late at night, after having some drinks. I'm feeling a little swervy, and I notice a cluster of police cars in front of me when I get up the ramp and merge onto the highway. I try to drive slowly to put some distance between us, but they keep going slower and slower. I feel very aware that I'm swerving a bit, and the swerving is only made worse by my anxiety.

This scene transforms into me walking down the hallway of a hospital, behind a group of nurses in training. They're wandering around aimlessly, stopping and starting in a swarming chaotic mess. I feel the need to get past them, like I'm in a hurry, though I don't know why. I keep trying to, only to get stuck behind a cluster of them that stops for no apparent reason and blocks my way. I still don't know why I need to get past them, but that need keeps feeling increasingly urgent. I break through and make my way through a labyrinth of hallways and finally find a nurse, who I ask “Where the hell is the reception desk?” and she points me in the right direction.

PART THREE

I'm out in the country in a beautiful, tranquil wooded area. There are soft padded benches under the trees. My mom, sister, and grandmom are sitting on one and I'm sitting on another, facing them. There's also another person I can't identify sitting with them. This place feels like some kind of rehab or psych hospital getaway. I become aware that the reason we're there is that there's something wrong with my mom, but I don't know what. She's sitting there with an empty, expressionless look on her face, and my grandmom is saying “Give her a Xanax. She'll feel better.” I say, “She's not anxious. She doesn't need Xanax”.

Suddenly my mom jumps up and gets in the driver side seat of my truck. I'm stricken with panic, and I jump into the passenger seat. She puts the truck in reverse and starts winding around the wooded field, not looking where she's going. She has a crazed look on her face and is mashing on the gas.  She's yanking on the wheel and swerving violently, going backwards but still looking forward. I alternate between trying to keep us from plowing into a tree and trying to figure out what's going on, and I yank up on the parking brake.

My truck suddenly transforms into a school bus, big and creaky, and we're still just flying. I don't know how we haven't hit a tree yet. I finally get the brake pulled hard enough that the bus stops. I reach over and grab for the keys, but my fingers won't cooperate. My mom doesn't really fight me, but it takes me awhile to get the keys out of the ignition. I finally do, but then have even more difficulty getting the keys into my pocket. I keep thinking, “just get the keys in your pocket and then you can go around to get her out and try to find out what the hell is going on”.

Then I wake up.

Holly wakes up too, and I tell her about the third part of my dream, because that's the only part I remember. I'm crying. When I get to the end, I remember the second part, and tell her that part of the story. It's not until the end of the second part that I remember the first part and finish the story in reverse.

The man in the third part who I can't identify, it's not that I don't recognize him. It's that I can't see him. I almost didn't notice he was there. He's a ghost. He's just the silhouette of a man, filled in solid gray. I realize he's the same man from the first part, who shoots the dog. He's my granddad. We were in his backyard on North Park. I should have known. The immaculate lawn was a dead giveaway.

The Source of a Warrior's Power

I like knives.  It's hard to feel complete without a good, sharp knife
in my pocket.

Though it's arguably a less practical matter for my generation than it
was for my father's or grandfather's, carrying a knife is a symbol.
It's a reminder that we're capable of reshaping the world with our
bare hands.  It's a reminder of the importance of keeping ready
certain skills and tools.  It's a reminder to remain vigilant.

The vigilant man is prepared for the unforeseen and keeps his affairs
in order.  He keeps his blade sharp and slices through obstacles
without effort.  He thinks before he acts and then acts with
confidence.  He is resilient because he is aware and self-reliant.  He
is slave to nothing and no one.

A knife is a weapon.  It is a sign of power, of strength, and
independence.  Sometimes a weapon may be turned on oneself, but the
warrior must learn to wield his weapon.  The blade is the source of
his power, and to strip him of it for his own safety is to sabotage
him.

Without a sword, the warrior is powerless.  He can't as easily hurt
himself, but neither is he equipped to protect himself.

The warrior must learn to trust himself.  Trust him and he will trust himself.

Domestic Violence

The Texas summer is an abusive partner
Wherever I go, it's
Screaming at me, belittling me
Making sure I stay small and powerless

And I can't leave
A hundred miles makes no difference
Even two or three hundred miles away
It's still there, beating me down

Everyone wants to know,
Why can't I see it's a beautiful sunny day today?
It's because I can't see anything
It's too god damn bright to see anything

In the winter, we have coats
To protect us from the cold
But in the summer I have only sunglasses

So I cry, I sleep, and I drink
I avoid being conscious
It's just too much to handle

The woman I love, she doesn't understand
It's not enough for her to just enjoy summer
And I'm glad she does, but
She makes me feel bad if I don't

Soon though, relief will come
Abject misery will transform into ecstatic joy
Let's go outside! I couldn't be happier
And all you assholes who gave me shit all summer

You suddenly disappear, saying
"It's too cold - it's freezing!" But
This is Texas, and you have no perspective
There's no such thing as cold in Texas

Despite my best efforts not to be,
I'm sure I was a negative Nancy
All summer long, and you made sure
To make me feel bad about it

But now, where are you?
Huddled indoors against
The biting fifty degree cool breeze
Who's the negative Nancy now?

Oh, that's right - it's still me
Because I'm in the minority
And in a system of majority rule
The minority is always wrong

Through the Darkness and Into the Light

My name is Aaron.  I have bipolar depression.  I have taken more psych meds that I can count, and I'm here today to share my story, and most importantly, to say that there's always hope.  The reason I feel confident in saying something I always thought was so trite is that I know now that we never run out of things to try.  Like many stories worth telling, mine is one of going through the darkness and into the light.

There is about a five year period of time that I don't really remember.  While my friends went to college and did all the fun things that you can only really get away with when you're that age, I went to psychiatrists.  I firmly believed that I had a terminal disease and that I was fighting a losing battle.  It certainly seemed that way, too.  I just got worse and worse, and I was a topic of discussion for my whole family.  To be the problem everyone is talking about is a most unsettling feeling.

Over time, most of my family became convinced that I was lazy and that I wasn't trying.  I didn't really disagree.  But my mom tackled my depression head on, and over time I think she became nearly as depressed as I was.  I remember her lying on the couch, staring at the wall, with a look of utter hopelessness and defeat on her face.  I knew it was because of me and I remember feeling so sad and powerless that I couldn't seem to keep from destroying her life.  That was the worst part, feeling like I was to blame for her despair.

I tried to kill myself twice.  After the second time I was hospitalized.  I felt hopeless, largely because I felt I had already tried everything and that nothing was working.  I had learned a fair amount about psych meds over the course of taking so many of them, because I wanted to be knowledgeable about what I was taking.  I learned about SSRIs, tricyclics, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and so forth.  I knew I had tried many of the drugs in each of these categories, and others, and that I was running out of drugs to try.  But what I didn't know was that there is a whole world of options out there, and that psych meds make up only a small number of the options available.

When I was in the hospital I agreed to try Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT), because I felt like I'd already tried everything else.  The point of ECT, as you may already know, is to induce a short seizure, which supposedly realigns something in your brain.  Well I didn't get my brain realigned, and instead of one short seizure, I had a series of long seizures the doctors had trouble stopping.  I spent that weekend in the ICU and don't remember any of it.  My psychiatrist was never able to figure out why that happened, but he did suggest that I try again.  Fortunately, I declined.

I'd been taken off my meds for the ECT and after that failed, I was put back on them.  I was still in the hospital and was having uncontrollable crying spells.  I wasn't allowed to go outside and all there was to do was to sit for hours in front of the TV (which I despise) or to read, in between the various sessions they held.  Much of the material they presented in these sessions was good, but was a repeat of another outpatient program I'd been to previously.  I wasn't allowed to leave until my psychiatrist decided I was ready.

I was still depressed, and the hospital was only making things worse.  I hid my crying spells and feelings, and manufactured what I hoped would be a believable story of feeling a little better each day.  Talking to my doctor, I felt like a prisoner talking to his parole board.  I guess I'm a good liar because they eventually let me out.  I remember the day I got out, driving to buy new strings for my guitar, with the windows down and the wind in my hair.  It was one of the best days of my life.

The hospital was my rock bottom - I was determined to never go back to a psych hospital, and resolved to either get better or find a better way to kill myself.  I spent a lot of time working on both.  I got out of the hospital in February of 2005, and over the course of that year I quit taking my psych meds and starting getting acupuncture.  I started paying more attention to what I ate and I started exercising.  I had some mind expanding experiences, and I really grew up a lot. 

I gave up on psychiatry as a solution for my problems.  And I'll admit, I had gone into it with an immature attitude, expecting the doctor to fix me instead of working to fix myself.  I know psych meds help some people and I am not suggesting that anyone quit taking their meds if they work.  There is no uniform treatment that works for everyone, and that is one point I wish to make:  Everyone is different and gets better in their own way.

Treatment has such a narrow scope in many people's minds - it means doctors and pills.  But treatment and recovery encompass everything from what drugs you take to whether you like your job, to what you do with your free time, to where you live and the people you surround yourself with, and much, much more.  It's about being happy, and everyone has factors that affect their happiness, whether or not they have ever felt depressed or been to a psychiatrist.

By far, the biggest and most important thing I've learned is that you're never out of options.  You never run out of things to try, and any time you feel like you've tried it all it just means you're not looking hard enough.  It means it's time to branch out and investigate a totally new aspect or approach.  I let doctors give me a seizure before I had tried things as simple as exercise, nutrition, or acupuncture.  It's really crazy, looking back. 

The few years following my release from the hospital were far from perfect and I experienced plenty of dark times and what I guess you could call relapses.  But the overall trend was a positive one, and I have made a long uphill battle to where I am today.

Nowadays I work in IT, working on computers, and I live in an apartment I like on the east side.  I have a wonderful girlfriend, and I spend a lot of time on creative endeavors.  These creative outlets have been very important to my recovery.  I play guitar and sing, and I draw.  I write on a blog.  I still get acupuncture, and I trade guitar lessons for my treatments.  I take Lithium, which I've been back on for a few years, and it helps keep me on an even keel.  I'm working on saving money to move out of Texas, which has been a dream of mine for years.  I love Austin, but I really want to live someplace with cooler weather.

I still have times when I feel depressed and I'm by no means magically cured and happy all the time, but who is?  That's unrealistic.  I am happy overall and I would consider myself to have recovered.  I have a good support system in place of people I can talk to when I need to.  I look forward to the future and am glad I have persevered and made it this far. 

I value openness and welcome any questions anyone has.  I am here because I want to share, and would rather someone ask me something they feel awkward about than hesitate out of fear of either asking something too personal or me judging them.  I also have business cards for the acupuncturist I see at South Austin Community Acupuncture.  His name is Mike Sobin and he works on a sliding scale, with prices as low as $15 per treatment.  It's been an effective, affordable treatment that has made a big difference in my life.

Finally, it doesn't matter who you are, where you've been, or what you've done.  The past is the past, and all you can change about it is how you view it.  It can either be a situation that's depressingly similar to the present, or it can be that period in your life when you were just crazy screwed up.  It's up to you.  All that matters is that you continue to try, because giving up is the only way anyone really loses.

I Was an Asshole, But She Was a Bitch First

Sure, I was crude, but the thing I don't think she understands is that I don't act that way towards people who DON'T say things like “you have a God-shaped hole in your heart”. I'm not lewd to people who DON'T introduce their sermon by saying “I swear I'm not preaching, but...”. I don't do that to people who say “this is what I believe, what do you believe?”. But to the arrogant stranger who said my heart has a God shaped hole in it, I replied “I have a God-shaped hole in my heart like a lesbian has a dick shaped hole between her legs”.

And yes, that was crude. I'll admit that freely. And this was on Facebook, so it's not like the woman was talking directly to me. I didn't say what I did to offend her, but I didn't refrain in order not to offend her. I figured she'd be offended by what I said, but I don't generally feel obligated to be that considerate to a person who I feel is being disrespectful to others. And I'm sure she didn't intend to offend me either, but I stand by what I said, which I think was an accurate, even clever analogy.

I feel that when an evangelical type engages me in a conversation like that, telling me in such a friendly, personable way that I'm inherently flawed, I have two options. I can either hold my tongue and be polite in the face of their unintentional attacks, or I can be an asshole. Mind you, I don't feel like I'm being an asshole, but they do. And I don't even like being an asshole, but then I'm not the one going around imposing my beliefs on other people. I'm just reacting, defending myself against personal attacks from a person who often times knows nothing about me.

They're just telling me what they believe, and I understand that. And I understand that doing so is important to them. But if I tell them what I believe, my goodness how offensive! I don't even say I think that they as a specific individual are performing the ultimate sin by trying to shirk responsibility for their own sins onto the shoulders of Jesus. I'm not as tacky as they are when they tell me that I, Rhomboid specifically, am a sinner. I say to them that I think Christianity is a fable that manipulates people into feeling guilty for things they can't change, and then bends people to the will of the church by exploiting that guilt. And if that makes me an asshole, I'll wear the crown. But it's one size fits all, and is equally at home atop the head of the Evangelical.

1. I find Evangelism to be very offensive.
2. But, I don't expect Evangelicals to stop proselytizing.
3. I don't demand that they take their programs off the TV or radio.
4. I'm polite when they knock on my door and try to convert me.
5. I'm nicer than they would be if I knocked on their door and told them in the nicest possible way that their beliefs are flawed, and the truth is that going to church is a waste of time at best and simple brainwashing at worst.
6. We heathens need to quit feeling bad about standing up for ourselves.
7. We need to feel as comfortable and justified telling them what we believe as they do.
8. Being honest is not the same thing as being hateful.

I didn't have to be crude, but I was. She's right about that. But by the same token, she could have just said that her belief in God has made a big difference in her life, but she didn't. She said that everyone needs God in their heart or they'll be forever incomplete. And that's okay too, it's just the hypocrisy that bothers me. Honestly, mostly I just wonder if she understood what I meant about heart and dick holes.

Antithesis

Have you ever yelled or screamed to express an emotion other than anger?  Have you ever cheered on a sports team or screamed in sheer excitement, or maybe sheer terror?  Me too.

When you hear a father screaming "Go, go go!" at his kid's Little League game, do either you or the child conclude that his dad is mad at him?  Well maybe if the kid is autistic, but - yeah, me either.

Of course, screaming is usually a reflection of intense emotion, but the specific emotion itself can result from any number of different feelings - some good and some bad.  We all understand this, at least most of the time.

But when you hear music with someone screaming the lyrics at you, what is your initial reaction?  Many people find it disconcerting and unpleasant, and interpret it as anger.  And though it certainly can come out of anger, the yelling is more a reflection of intense emotion than any specific feeling.  It's conveying something too packed with emotion to sing in a gentle three part harmony, the same way you wouldn't whisper "This is the best day of my life!  I'm the king of the world!" or "I can't stand this job another day - I quit!".

Take the screaming however you want.  Art is in the eye (or ear) of the beholder.  And if you don't like heavy metal, that's cool. This really isn't about taste.  I'm just very confused as to why so many people take this certain sound to mean anger every time, when in other areas of life we all understand it is a way of expressing a multitude of different emotions.

The ironic part is that metal is the most inclusive genre of music I know, and yet it's arguably the most shunned by the rest of the music world.  Personally, I like music with variety - bands who mix many different influences and genres together.  Some of my favorites are "metal" bands who play a little bit of everything - jazz, southern rock, pop, dance, R & B, blues, and folk to name a few.  I wish the the jazz bands, pop groups, and all the rest would mix in some metal every once in awhile.  Now that's a show I'd go to!

But many people contend that metal is very static - always loud, heavy, and fast.  And maybe they've never heard metal with a wide dynamic range, music that transitions from gentle instrumentals to funky abstract jazz, to grinding electric guitar, to doowop.  Like any other genre of music, there's plenty of bad metal out there, and most of it makes its way onto the radio.  But I would argue that pop, jazz, and the rest are far more static styles of music, genres that bind musicians to a certain style and dynamic range.

The metal I'm talking about runs the gamut from soft and gentle to loud and heavy and everything in between, but chances are you're not going to hear pop artists break into a hardcore breakdown.  Singer-songwriters may make it down to the soft and gentle end of the dynamic range, but aren't going reach the top of the energy spectrum.  They're bound by convention and are basically prohibited from venturing that far.

But metal bands are free to go anywhere they want because they've already broken convention.  They're already running around like crazy people, banging out what is often quite complex, technical music and screaming "BRING ME THE HEAD OF ANDY WARHOL!" in one song and then following it up with an R & B tune.  And that is precisely where their true freedom and power lies - in their lack of inhibition.

Like I said, it doesn't really concern me whether you like metal or not.  That's not what this is about.  I'm just so very perplexed as to why most people have this uniform reaction to screaming in the context of heavy metal, a sound they understand can have any number of different meanings in different situations.  I find it very strange how something which seems so simple could be a mystery to so many.

Parabolic Hearts

The bull moose in rutting season knows not what he does;
A thousand pounds of raw power, pointless without direction.
The unfocused beam of the brightest light is outdone
By a mere candle and a parabola, just ask the sun.

Despite my best efforts not to, I've learned that
Rage is draining, and there'll be no more giving myself away.
So come revel with me in the power of intertwined hearts,
For lives lived in stereo are more than the sum of their parts.

Penance

Repent, you slime! But not for your sins,
Just for what you've done with them.
Repent, you saint! They belong to you
And no one else can shoulder them.

Repent! You worship a false god,
Whichever one it happens to be.
Repent, if you want, but in the end
Only you can set yourself free.

The one true god is the one within,
Beneath one's clothes and pretense.
The one true god is everyone, and
Every thing that makes up existence.

The one true god, what a fallacy!
An ideology for minds still in infancy.
The one true blade of grass, can't you see?
You must all bow down to it and me.
You must all bow down to my humility.

The Psychogenetic Birthular Attachment

After a woman gives birth, it's not entirely uncommon for her to go through a period of serious depression.  We all know this.  In fact, it's so common it has a name – post-pardum depression.  By and large, we view it simply as what it is – a possible consequence or aftermath of childbirth.  It is something we watch out for and treat when it comes up, but it's not something we view as terrifying and mysterious.  There is no movement (at least I hope there's not) that is encouraging women to stop having babies because of the risks of post-pardum depression.  This would be silly; lots of women describe the day they gave birth as the best day of their life and having babies obviously isn't a problem.

And from what I understand, mothers frequently describe giving birth as a life-changing event and the greatest accomplishment of their lives.  Indeed, the moment a mother delivers her baby she successfully overcomes what is likely the biggest obstacle she has ever faced – an obstacle that, for the hours leading up to that moment, seemed completely overwhelming.  Many women experience an altered state of consciousness while in labor, which science tells us is due to naturally occurring chemicals that are released in the brain.  After giving birth, she returns to waking life with a sense of overwhelming joy, accomplishment, and a strong instinct to protect and care for her newborn child.

And interestingly enough, this description of childbirth is very similar to what many people experience when they take psychedelic drugs.  Oh man, I got you!  This essay is really about drugs!  I lulled you in with two paragraphs about childbirth, and now I have the gall to compare eating filthy, illegal drugs I bought on the street to the natural beauty of childbirth.  But let me explain – this essay isn't that long and I swear there's truth to this...

The psychedelic experience is indeed very similar to what I have described in the second paragraph.  Upon taking the drug, the space cadet is likely presented with some sort of obstacle.  This obstacle often involves first being confronted with a skeleton in the closet, and then being made to decide whether to deal with said skeleton or to be plagued by it for what seems like an eternity.  This situation is akin to that of the mother-to-be in the throes of labor, who is presented with the option of either giving birth or staying pregnant forever.  In the case of the either the space cadet or the woman in labor, both of their options seem pretty terrible.

Yes, the space cadet is also transported to an altered state of consciousness, one in which time seems to stand still and his demons seem more patient than he ever could be.  This can be a very uncomfortable place to be, and having all this thrust upon him in an unpleasant setting will only make matters worse.  Examples of unpleasant environments include a loud party full of strangers, a jail cell, an expanse of wilderness in which he finds himself lost, or any place with his parents or some other authority figure yelling at him.  Some environments are equally unpleasant and potentially dangerous to a woman in labor, most notably hospitals.  Both his and her environments have a dramatic impact on their experiences because he and she are both so vulnerable at the time they take place.  It's not any more unreasonable or unlikely that he may end up in some way scarred from his experience than she may from hers, if they take place in a bad environment.

Taking psychedelics at a party is often about like having intensive psychotherapy on a crowded subway.  Both psychedelics and psychotherapy tend to bring about personal, emotional moments that deserve some tender respect and privacy.  No one would choose to finally deal with a childhood trauma or their guilt over something they've done in a loud room full of strangers.  Of course – it doesn't make any sense, and if attempted it's entirely likely that the experience will make things worse and bury those feelings the patient was struggling to uncover even deeper.  I think we all can agree how ludicrous this situation would be.  But when we substitute "psychedelic" for "psychotherapist" and the same thing happens, everything changes somehow.  It must be that there's something wrong with the drug itself, we conclude.  But in reality there are many, many people who benefit from psychedelics and whose stories don't make the gossip circle or the TV news, just as there are countless women who are forever changed for the better the day they give birth.

So why would anyone want to take a psychedelic and be confronted by painful memories anyway?  Well, for the same reason anyone would want to have psychotherapy, and even for some of the same reasons they'd want to have a baby, I think.  The initial hours of agony in any case are really not the point; the end result in the time that follows is.  I tend to think that the agony itself is often a kind of sacrifice, one necessary to make the ecstasy that follows it truly meaningful.  But in any event, no one talks endlessly about the day he finally came to terms with some painful issue any more than a mother endlessly talks about the hours she spent in labor.  No, the patient talks about his new interests and opportunities now that he's feeling better, and the mother talks about her baby's current goings-on – not about the day the kid got there.

And so it is with a person who takes psychedelics responsibly – anyone who has benefited from them will tell you how much brighter their lives are for the days, months, and even years AFTER a trip, not necessarily during.  Not that there's no such thing as a beautiful, happy, peaceful trip – in fact, I should clarify and add that I think beautiful experiences are the norm among people who have some awareness of what they're doing.  I can say with confidence that the vast majority of my experiences have been very pleasant both during and after, and even the more turbulent times have ended well and benefited me in one way or another.  I definitely don't believe the hellish or “bad” trips are the majority; they're just the subject of the most publicity, and so garner the most attention. 

If we ignore the sensationalism surrounding psychedelics and focus instead on these similarities between childbirth and the psychedelic experience, we can see that these drugs give us a way to be reborn, in a pretty literal sense.  I believe this is their core purpose, and it comprises the final and most significant similarity between childbirth and the psychedelic experience.  After childbirth, if everything goes right, the mother is left with an overwhelming instinct to protect and care for her baby.  This is obviously very important if the child his going to survive and flourish.  And similarly, after a psychedelic trip, if everything goes right the space cadet is left with renewed self-confidence and interest in nurturing himself.  He is left with renewed faith in his abilities, his self-worth, and his goals. 

He is now free to look upon himself as a parent looks at a child – with awe, wonder, and unconditional love.  Through the psychedelic experience he gives birth to a new incarnation of himself, and by doing so strengthens his resolve to nurture himself, much as a mother cements her instinct to nurture during the process of giving birth.  Indeed, this is where the true power of psychedelics lies – they can help us to recognize three very important things:  One, that we are each beautiful, special, and have limitless potential for joy; two, that it is our own individual responsibility and no one else's to nurture and protect those qualities in ourselves; and three, that we are completely capable of handling this responsibility.  This is how psychedelics allow us to be reborn as our own capable, loving parents – and frequently, as adults.

Mirror Image

I remember a time when I liked you more
And all the world could see
That my bad taste and faith in you
Would soon be the death of me

Problem Adult (for Andrew)

You can incarcerate a child and call his jail a school.
You can call his protests a deficit but that's just ignorant and cruel.
From this arrogant prespective you can be sure you're always right,
But you can suck my dick and blame yourself when the kid bolts in the night.

You're doing these kids a real disservice.
They're not as dumb and helpless as you'd like to believe.
Just because they don't buy into your bullshit
Doesn't mean they all have ADD.

Diagnosis Dissatisfaction

Lithium please rescue me from this ecstatic joy I feel-
What a pesky sense of elation, it must be an aberration.
Singing, how strange it is to be loved by you. Truly,
What an alienating blessing it is to make nonsense.

The greatest times I'll ever medicate
Are those spent alone in outer space.
With no one around to interfere, no longer
Do the two eyes distract from the third.

People are such an oppressive distraction.
I suppose they're grounding, like an injury-
Something nagging, reminding me I'm still here,
But all the more reason to escape.

Why Going Green Makes Me See Red

As zealous fervor continues to stampede its way over critical thinking, we are rapidly turning into a nation of consumers who are afraid of chemicals and any product whose packaging doesn't reassure us that it is doing its part to help save the planet.  Please, manufacturers of consumer goods, please help guide and educate me on how best to care for the environment.  You must certainly be knowledgeable and unbiased sources of information, and I am confident that you have the environment's best interest in mind.  Tell me what purchases I can make to help, and I'll listen.  I don't have time to actually research what will help save the planet, but I sure do want to feel like I'm part of the solution.

Yeah!  Go me! 

Thankfully, the very notion that we could destroy the planet or possibly harm nature is a complete fallacy, one based entirely in arrogance.  It is as an idea as self-centered as presuming that the sun rotates around the earth because that's how things appear to us.  But on the contrary, nature is all-encompassing and we are just one part of it.  Indeed, there is nothing that is not nature – not even atom bombs, synthetic fibers or your iPhone, and nature will still be here long after we are gone.  The current oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is not hurting nature; the oil gushing out into the water is nature.  And although it's making a huge mess all over the nature in and along the Gulf, it's just one part of nature affecting another.  This spill may threaten our own existence by disrupting the ecosystem in the Gulf, but nature is in no way “under attack”. 

Indeed, we are merely one part of nature, and we are not the only ones known to drive a species to the point of extinction.  If a flood wipes out a species, the lesson isn't to prevent floods at all costs in the future.  No, the real lesson is that Darwin was right – circumstances change and the species that fail to adapt don't survive.  It's really disappointingly simple:  Nature is constantly changing and evolving; some species change and mutate to form entirely new ones, and others die out.  And as a part of nature ourselves, we sometimes wipe out other parts.  But we are no different than a flood or a volcano and there is no arbitrary point in time we can point to as “perfect” and insist that it be preserved by all means necessary.  This is a fool's errand, a task as impossible as it is pointless.  However, it is precisely what the environmental movement at large is insisting we do. 

I work in a wood shop that makes furniture and cabinets, mostly for customers who have a lot of money to spend on “eco-friendly” products that help them feel good about themselves.  But what's so noble about buying new furniture?  Even making something out of reclaimed lumber is an energy-intensive endeavor and buying a “green” dresser or table isn't as green as simply being content with what one already has, or buying a smaller house that requires less furniture to furnish.  And because most of our furniture is custom, I burn tremendous amounts of diesel driving the shop truck around town looking for the particular lumber and hardware our customers want.  But that's not what they'll tell their friends about; they'll talk about the furniture's low-VOC finish and the sustainable materials used in its construction.  The truth is that our customers just want a new piece of nice furniture, and that's fine.  And besides, they pay my rent.  But they're deluding themselves by taking credit for any more than that – getting new furniture and paying my rent.

In addition to our self-declared responsibility to “buy green”, we now feel obligated to protect and manage other species.  Now we may feel sad that something we did wiped out a species, and we can try to save a species on the brink of extinction, but this emotion should not be confused with environmentalism.  The real task at hand from an environmental standpoint is to maintain a hospitable, life-sustaining environment that will provide us with adequate food, water, and shelter.  But we must be honest with ourselves – we are NOT saving the planet.  We pose absolutely no threat to the planet, and this is not some altruistic or selfless act.  It is simply a matter of self-preservation: we like being alive and living in at least relative comfort, and we want the same for our children.  Indeed, we are concerned with the environment for two reasons – one, because of the guilt we feel for running over cute little bunnies with our cars – and two, because we want to protect our species and quality of life.  We want to feel better about the impact we have on other parts of nature, but we definitely don't want to give up our cars or air conditioners.  And who could blame us?

Besides, there really is no reason to feel guilty; we should instead foster an appreciation for the extremely high quality of life we enjoy and work to maintain it.  Even a person working a menial job for little money has a high quality of life compared to many people throughout history.  There is no reason to feel guilty for enjoying the bounty we have created for ourselves, but there are plenty of reasons to foster an appreciation for it.  We are extremely lucky to be alive here and now, to have shoes and dentists, and freedom from a king or slave owner.  For our own sake and the sake of our children we want to maintain a hospitable environment in which a person would want to live.  But the dead bunnies don't hold roadkill against us any more than they resent the storm that causes a flood, or the wolves that hunt them for food. 

However, this is not the story we hear.  We are bombarded both by stories of our greed-driven atrocities worldwide, and by products that make us feel like we're making a difference.  Understandably, there is a lot of emotion wrapped up in all this and it's easy to let those feelings get the better of us, but that passionate emotion can push us to make impulsive decisions that may not turn out to be so helpful.  Environmental issues can be best solved by objective, scientific research and carefully calculated figures and plans.  But how many of us know how much energy it takes to recycle a plastic bottle rather than make a new one, or what makes the “green” dishwashing liquid superior to the conventional version? 

What most of us do know is that we live very comfortable lives, that our lifestyles have negatively affected some other species, and that we feel bad about that.  However, this information is not adequate to make decisions that will help other species or ourselves.  There are no black-and-white absolutes, and different methods and products each have advantages and disadvantages.  For example, buying a Prius is a really attractive option because I get a new car out of the deal, which is something I want already, and on top of that I get to feel like I'm literally helping to save the planet.  It seems that as long as I have the money, I've got nothing to lose and everything to gain.

But that's emotion talking, along with my own material desire.  Buying a Prius is probably a better option than buying a full-size truck, but there are many factors that go into evaluating the most environmentally friendly option.  What kind of car do I drive now?  Does it get decent gas mileage?  Do I maintain it well to maximize that mileage?  How much of an improvement in gas mileage will I get from a hybrid car?  How much energy does it take to manufacture a hybrid car as compared to a conventional small car like a Civic or a Corolla?  What is the environmental toll from disposing of the toxic batteries in a hybrid car when they have to be replaced?  What kind of driving do I do?  Do I do more in-town driving, or is it mostly long-distance highway driving?  Are there a lot of hills to take advantage of the energy-generating ability of the brakes in the hybrid or do I drive on mostly flat terrain?  These are just a few things I must consider if I am truly looking after the environment and not just my own self-interest.

There are many things I can do that cost little or nothing and offer significant benefits to the environment.  Many environmentally conscious people ignore the less exciting ways to go green like performing routine maintenance on their car and changing the filter for the air conditioner in their house regularly.  They stand in the doorway discussing sustainable materials while the cold air pours out around them.  These conservation practices aren't sexy, but they make a big difference.  So this is my environmental war cry: Keeping the front door closed when possible is going green!  Keeping your car tires properly inflated is going green!  Parking in the shade in the summer and turning the AC off when you leave the house is going green!  Knowing where you're going and planning an efficient route so as not to drive in circles is going green!  None of it is very exciting or fun, and you're not going to get a hot date or anyone's praise because you change your air filter regularly.  Frankly, no one will care, but praise and approval can't be our goal.

Well, that's not strictly true – I will give you a most emphatic high-five if you tell me about the rather dull but significant ways in which you've gone green.  There must be more critical thinkers out there, and we are poised to make a real difference.  We can take the environmental movement back from the insincere who are involved for self-serving reasons.  We can reclaim environmentalism as a legitimate movement that operates based on scientific data instead of marketing campaigns, half-truths, and eco-guilt.  And if you don't care to help, that's totally fine.  I certainly don't do nearly as much as I could, but let's call a spade a spade:  Buying furniture and participating in an environmental protest aren't going to determine how to make decisions that will benefit the environment; critical review of hard data will, and it's time to stop playing, start thinking, and make that happen.