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The Girl with the Sad Eyes The Girl with the Sad Eyes
by Abigail George
2015-05-31 12:16:36
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The last time I spoke to him (the love of my life) the conversation went something like this.

‘I have forgiven myself now. Can you forgive me? I want to apologise.’ (Please let me apologise, I was thinking. Let me just get through this.)

‘Of course. It is in the past but look here I have to go now. I am working.’ (Life mirrors art. The loneliness of the Outsider. I think of the Mona Lisa. Was she really smiling? I think of Jackson Pollock.)

‘Oh, I understand.’ (There was a thudding in my chest. I had done what I had thought was the impossible.)

‘Goodbye.’ He said.

‘Goodbye Jerome.’ I heard the footsteps of my father in the passage as I hung up the telephone. I knew that he would catch me if I decided (or my ego or my consciousness) to fall.

I only cried later on. In the early hours of the morning when there was no sunlight hitting the leaves of the garden. Not when the fractured wind would blow through the grass that would still have to be mown in my childhood garden. I would try and feel nothing for Jerome and there were some days when I succeeded and others I did not. I would lie on my bed in the hot afternoons in a half-meditative state of mind. I lost myself. I fell in love with that feeling.

I emptied out all the longing I felt for a Johannesburg home I no longer had or wanted. I was a child again and my parents were taking care of me again even though I was in my twenties. Those were the days when Jerome was like an x-ray to me. I saw Jerome the way I saw myself. At night I would stand outside on the steps of our house and look at the moon wanting to see God amongst all of those stars, asking myself if this is what madness felt like.

I wanted God to look at me reading and writing.  I am a latecomer. I am a late bloomer. I am an ancient believer of papyrus and hieroglyphics, the human voice, the ancestors of the Johannesburg people and my Port Elizabeth family. Instead of adjusting to society again when I came out of the hospital I changed my mind. All I could think about in the hospital was the supernatural. Seeing and being. Art, its discontents and reforming my behaviour.

Beauty and truth. Keats, Italy and the romantics. I always thought of men being rather profound. Women were doers in their world and the men were the thinkers. The men were the gender with the intellect. I never disguised myself when the ‘war’ that I had internalised for so long finally ended. I was a little bird at their table. The table of leaders. I thought I was a good woman but at the end of the day I was a bad woman.

sad01_400_01I knew at the heart of me I was emotional (was that because I was a woman or an artist?) Everything is temporary. Love is perhaps the most profound feeling we can ever experience. I sat in darkness at home. I liked the dark rooms. I felt as if I was part of an artist’s installation. I wanted people, my people to look at me but there was not even a telephone call. The only visitors I received at the hospital were my longsuffering parents.

They would bring me biltong, bottles of flavoured mineral water and packets of crisps. My father knew the drill. My mother walked to the beat of her own drum. She was always walking to the beat of her own drum. And inside after I had made the telephone call to Jerome I felt the same-old me. Inside it feels as if I have lost a beloved. Let down and slightly foolish but I had done it.

I had got the apology out of the way when I realised that I had fooled myself into thinking we were equals and in the end I did not matter. For months I had been turning reality into slick celluloid melodrama. When I came home to Port Elizabeth for months I did not budge from in front of the television. I am sorry but I just cannot cope anymore. I am angry. I am resentful. On the subject of my sister I had this to say once.

I have a lot to say about my sister. I can bend your ear off on our relationship. Love is what it is. I only knew how much I had hurt my mother later on. Discovered it in my thirties. Only then I realised what she and my father had sacrificed for me and when it comes to my sister, when it comes to her. Even though she is far away from me, my twin flame, part of my soul group, my soul mate that will never change.

We will continue to learn breathing lessons from each other in this lifetime. I will learn from her and she will learn from me. We will give each other the maternal love that we never received as children. The maternal love that my mother locked down and put away out of sight. We are both adults and what we feel for each other is sunk. It is treasure. It is a gold plate like many things (trust, loyalty, respect, integrity it can easily be broken).

Here is it. I know how to replenish my courage now. A page lost then found. Ripped apart by the violent hands of an insomniac, from a storyteller to her audience. It was tragic when I woke up after I came home after the hallucinations and the hearing of voices. I would see lights flashing in front me and all around me. I would hear music that other people could not hear. I could ‘see’ people. Shadow people. Spirits. I called them the Magi. They looked like children.

I never spoke about the psychosis to my sister. She was finishing high school. She never came to see me in the hospital. I never saw my brother either. He was learning how to cope with a myriad of things one of them being loneliness. In my thirties I would discover many things. That I had set a bad example. On my journey home I spoke a great deal to strangers. A lot of them were kind. I saw them as angels.

I thought that the people around me were gods and gurus with a wealth of information inside their heads and thought to myself that they were only there waiting for me in Johannesburg to guide me home and guide me home they did. Somehow I got on to a bus and arrived home one morning when everyone was still asleep. Doctors have a name for everything. I found myself in Johannesburg. All the places that I went looking for myself were terrifying.

Of course some were normal but the rest were pretty terrifying to say the least. All I wanted to read was poetry and immerse myself in literature but in Johannesburg I was a girl who the best way I know how to describe it is that I had many personalities. I could really act if I wanted too. People warmed to me but they were not really open or giving or trusting as I was and I trusted everybody.

Young people are always saying ‘that they are in the gathering stages’. Now Jerome is a fraud. Now Jerome is a stranger to me and I think to myself he always was in a way anyhow. Young people are always saying ‘that they have to find themselves’. At twenty I already understood that I could never be a part of the living world and think and behave as they did. All I wanted was literature. First it was a dream world for me.

To imagine an existence where I would just be surrounded by books all day, every day and then it became an exciting reality. It is difficult for love to be forgotten. My Jerome is not really my Jerome. He was never a friend to me or real in any way. He was an enigma. If it is at all difficult for love to be forgotten I write about it. It fills up days, hours. I have imagined a hundred different scenes of my Jerome. We were fortunately just playing parts in stories.

Whether or not people are angels or that there really are beings in this world who are angels I do not know. People cannot help thinking that a spiritual awakening is akin to psychosis and having a nervous breakdown. The doctors sounded quite genuine. The caregivers would go through the patients stuff in high care while they slept at night and steal their underwear and anything else they could disguise in their fancy handbags.

Hard to believe that there are angels in post-apartheid Africa after all of that. After all of that experience. It was kind of like The Great Depression meeting war. I think that the promulgation of the Group Areas Act has a lot to answer for. The establishment of the different districts for all the races. Displacing hundreds of people and their families across a history wilderness. I write to be reminded of the betrayals in my family life.

There have been many. I write to remind myself that the only two people I can ever be co-dependent on are my parents. The nurses are angels in disguise at the hospital. At least I think they are. I had to stop myself sometimes from thinking of asking them where their wings were. When a man says that a woman is crazy he can mean many things but most of all he wants out. He wants out of the relationship.

Now even as I write this nobody remembers the forced removals. Nobody wants to discuss or debate the land question. They turn their heads away. It is the government that decides what is put in the school curriculum. Warning bells are going off inside journalists, artists, poets and writers’ heads but not the followers who blindly believe what they are told in the media. People need to eat but instead they go hungry and live in spiritual poverty.

The elite tucked safely away behind their high walls and their gated communities. People say that Zuma has a lot to answer for. That he is running a police state. People talk about politics to death but what they do not realise is that they are part of the problem and not the solution the more they glorify politics. It is simple. If you do not want someone who is corrupt on many levels in power then vote somebody into power who is not corrupt.

‘Do you believe in angels, doctor? I think I am living in a kind of hell, I told the psychologist.’

‘Yes, quite. It must have been quite hectic for you, she said, this Afrikaner doctor. I really am quite sorry that you had to go through all of that. Do you still want to fall in love?’

I waited for her to ask me that but she did not and then our time was nearly up anyway. I knew what was important now. Writing was important. The doctor called this, the hallucinations, the voices psychoses. She told my mother first. When I came home from the hospital I did nothing. I wrote in Croxley notebooks in great detail about the love affairs I had which I gave to my father to read. He would look at what I wrote, gave my books back to me and asked me in a sad voice what I expected from him.

What did I want him to say? I wrote in my diary religiously. I had already forgotten Jerome. I had already forgotten the nervous breakdown. I had already forgotten the argument but I remember the light I saw. The white light. I was surrounded by people who were sad and of course I became convinced that words that blurred my vision was a prayer. All children who experienced trauma in childhood want to think that their imaginary friends were angels in disguise somehow.

I write about my vulnerabilities, anxieties in the voice of a half-woman formed and whose education was informed by pain. I wrote this for my sister. I found it in a box in my wardrobe. The letters were typed. I soon discovered. Mental illness was like a creative writing workshop to me. I find I had something new to learn. New people to meet. Faces that I had to memorise. Aldous Huxley spoke about perception and I liked what he had to say about that subject matter.

‘Something like anchors or something of value, you see I only find the failure to communicate with her. It is very hard for me to understand the drama and walls she has put up around her. I journal and she lives. I am a thinker. I think there are also contents of vulnerability in that. We are both watching television (but are we seeing the same thing, the same perspective eye to eye) and eating crisps. Our parents are sleeping. More and more I am thinking that to inspire the creative and artistic expression in others is always a useful exercise. To inspire the light to burn even when in despair or in the cold. Never overlook the passion that you are overwhelmed by and that directs and navigates you towards the cerebral, away from human drama. Christmas day has been a day of placid human drama. Yet from bleeding memory, the turning point of that day feels as if something from that day was on edge, like ballet as if the dancer was standing on their pointes. I know this will be written in memory as if something was burning an imprint and yet not burning one, as if the day was as bright as the sun, as if we are standing with our bare feet on a frozen wasteland or have been catapulted into wonderland, a realm exploding into stardom. What terrifies me so is that I do not feel driven by other people’s personal motives and emotional anxieties anymore? This must mean that I have finally become significant in the way that maybe I do not have to tap dance my way through life. One day when people pass this house they will say a writer, a tortured poet lived there once. I do not feel tortured anymore, running from truths with a scissors in my hand.’

Johannesburg again. There were days when I lived to see his face. Bringing him endless steaming cups of herbal tea, making photocopies and phone calls for him. All I wanted to do was to please him. All I wanted was to be loved and now beautifully grown I realise just what I felt for him, the extent of it which were the aspects and certainties of love. Of course, he being a grown man with a child in the picture did not see it that way.

In the end, I deserved his behaviour, the women in the office if they had been brave enough to tell me this I would have listened. I worshiped him. I put him on a pedestal. I made a god and a guru out of him and I paid a terrible price for thinking like a child. That I had won over the admiration of a father figure. What I wanted was the picturesque. What I wanted was marriage and a house.

Yes, I wanted that ring on the finger. Yes, I wanted the children in the photograph. Yes, I wanted a man but even more than that I wanted a husband. I ask you plaintively. What was so wrong with that? It is bittersweet squalor that is the sign of an abnormal society. What a woman always looks for in the mirror is that she always is putting her best foot forward, that she is always looking her best. She is always looking for true grandeur.

It is the origins of ashes and smoke from her cigarette. Her rouge pot. Her creamy lipstick. Her brassieres and stockings tell a man what kind of woman she is. If she is a girl, the marring kind or a beautiful little fool. A man can tell if a woman is crazy whether she is standing right in front of him or if he is looking at her from a distance. It is harder for a woman to understand if a man is a phony. There are more crazy people in the world today than ever.

Are women crazier than men? Women are emotional. It is just part of our makeup. The psychological framework of what makes our bones hum, our psyche and our intellect. Yes, of course women have a psyche and an intellect even though we are homemakers and mothers, lovers and wives, confessional writers. Is trauma experienced by a boy child different than it is for a girl child? We play by different rules of engagement in our relationships.

I wrote about my own sexuality in my diary as if I was writing a political essay which means that I wrote about it as seriously as if I was talking about Bosnia or Buddhism. It became important to me. Became something of a ballad to me. Jerome was always handsome. Over the years Jerome never grew old. The child in the photograph on his desk never grew old. In childhood I knew of a frightened lonely girl once upon a time ago who always stood alone at the swings.

There was nobody to push her swing. Nobody to play tea parties with. There was nobody to play tennis with until her siblings came along. She was boring. She just was not as interesting enough as the other girls were and for a long time she thought it had everything to do with the texture of her hair. She never spoke to anyone who came to her birthday parties. Always opened up her birthday presents alone. She always remembered to say please and thank you but that was never enough.

She had already failed. Her reflection stares back at me defiantly in the mirror as if to say project me or hate me. Her mother had lost faith in her as a child. She thought that every mother loved her child in the same way that her own mother had. Her mother had loved her by pushing her away. By howling with laughing at her when she fell down and hurt herself by scraping her knee or elbow.

She also thought that every mother abused her child in the same way by showing her a lack of mother love, by not clapping when she won anything, when she stood beneath the spotlight on the stage. Her mother had known something was wrong with her long before the psychiatrists did. Push this weakling of a child of her own making away she did with all her powers of persuasion.

You brat get out of my life. If you were beautiful I could love you. Perhaps I could but I do not. This girl grew up hearing all kinds of crazy things. Instead of being worshiped and cradled the opposite happened to her. She worked hard as a child for all the wrong reasons. To be admired by men before she understood what admiration was for. To become a wife the same way her mother had become one.

To become a mother the same way her own mother had become one. These same men who had wives and children. In childhood she was abused in all sorts of ways by men and women before she knew or even understood what the word abused was. I look in the mirror and I am thirty-five. I look in the mirror and I see the playing fields of youth behind me yet I still see the sea of my childhood.

Its bloodlines shark teeth roars in my face. It is not asleep. It mocks me. Its pale throne. It says it is tired of writing short stories. It wants to write novels now. It wants to write erotica because that is the only language that it understands now. Years of promiscuity can do that to an educated girl. Johannesburg. The sky is blue and inside I am feeling it too but he says I am beautiful.

I think you are beautiful too I want to say. If this was high school he would not even look at me so why is he looking at me now. Why does he care now? Of course I do not believe him. All I want to do is to look at him, smoke a joint with him, and get high with him. I know what he really wants and I am about to give it to him. He looked like a Viking guru. He looked like a Norse God and in bed he behaved as one did as well.

To tell you the truth I am afraid of him so I do everything he tells me to do. For him it is a triumph. Getting this educated girl to act like a fool. This educated girl who does not assert herself or think that she is beautiful in anyway. I did not think that I would write this story using flashbacks. I am writing it because in a way I feel responsible to. There are millions of people living in this society in their own reality. Unfortunately for some it is abnormal.

He feels it. He feels superior to her in every way. He tells her secrets. He tells her lies. He feeds them to her like fish. He tells her he will marry her when the child comes. I said nothing when he said that. I did not smile. I could hear the lie in his voice and then I felt shame. I knew then we were not really boyfriend and girlfriend. He was just playing a game. He plays the race card.

He is white and she is coloured. All the while she is risking it all for love, she is risking her heart, most of all her reputation he is playing her for a fool. She knows what will happen if she risks everything. That perhaps a child will be born. She will not have it within her to have an abortion or to give up the child for adoption. I am flawed. He is flawed.  I am her. She is me. What I am writing here is what the villagers saw and heard. I write about the reality I live in.

I write about how abnormal it is. I am not following the crowd of villagers. I live in a world of my own making. After all of that they, the villagers of Johannesburg went about their business as if nothing had ever happened. He molests me. He ripped desire out of my heart, out of my head before I could even think it or of it you know in such a way that I was left in a happy little state of happiness that was both a mess and a confused flux. I wrote him pages and pages.

What he made of it I do not know. When I asked it back from him he returned it without saying anything. All he said was he did not write letters so I should not expect any from him. Write to me, she wanted to say. You are my boyfriend, so write to me. No, he said. I just do not have it in me to write letters. He did not want to make a fuss. In the end she could not help but make a fuss. I want to know that I am your girl, she wrote. Murder she wrote.

You are killing me, I wrote. You are killing the romanticism within me. I never felt fire like this before. When I close my eyes all I see is you. All I see is the flames of love, pleasure, fear, pain, vulnerability, frustration and the psychology behind it all. You have eaten other people and discarded them for me. I cannot believe that you, a Nordic God would have chosen me to make a life with.

You are art. I imagine you in old age. I imagine you at work. I imagine you with our children, our life, our life, our life. Well, I wrote to him along those lines. Always along those lines. You are my safety pin. You are my safety net. All I want is to be devoured by those dark zoo pretty eyes of yours and rest there. Call it my Cairo. Call it my New York. You are an animal. I am an animal when both of us cast our vulnerabilities aside.

He had blonde good looks, pale white skin, dark eyes filled with vast issues cast aside and half-truths and lies on his tongue. Desire means the time of death for me. There was nobody to protect me from him. No mother. No father. I was young and this is how the story took shape like a tattoo. The tattoos on his skin which meant that he had spent his time in a prison of his own making.

His eyes kept returning to me and there was nothing I could do about it but meet his gaze. I knew what he wanted and I did not care. I had no money. I had no car. Most of all I had no or little self-worth. I had left behind the rich father. I did not know what rich, the establishment, to be a part of the system, to be a cog or wheel or a guru in the system, what that meant. Do you know, I wanted to ask him? I knew he sold drugs.

This made me want him even more. To feel him inside of me. To still feel composed, calm as he entered me and to forget about the past. About the mother who did not love me. About the father whose affection and admiration I had to work so effortlessly for. He wanted an excellent daughter. A trophy daughter if trophy daughters existed. Go ahead and study filmmaking he said if that will please you but I could see I had let him down.

In the end I had let him down badly. Do you know how profound you are, I wrote? I was always writing even in those days barely hitting my twenties. Do you know how you make me feel? I feel extraordinary. I was stupid enough to think that this was love. For men it is always different. They do not always feel love. Making love for them was just for fun while women took it much more seriously.

I thought that it would mean marriage, intimacy and that my letters to him would mean something, even children and now I can see it was all madness. I was mad. I was ill or it was all a part of the illness. It would take me over a decade to realise that men do not mean what they say or that women should rather not listen to the words that come out of their mouth but read their behaviour. He had dirt under his fingernails (from working all day).

His hands were so rough as if he was a bricklayer or a carpenter who worked with wood all day long but I got used to their roughness the same way I got used to his mouth. I was a zombie then and I am a zombie now. I was unwell. I learnt to play a part, act it well until it became an aspect of myself. Mental illness was the turning point. It will give perspective on how people live their lives. There are doors to the lessons of history. Some doors you want to leave ajar.

Some are exit doors and outside your getaway car will be waiting to take you to the places where you want to go. An abstract part of my soul and spirit withered away into a history wilderness, into violence and histrionics. I needed something to love. To keep me afloat. I needed something to make me feel magical and coy. You are my healer I whispered into his body with my fingernails and my lips. Sweet nothings. Sweet nothings.

Post-apartheid South Africa was killing me. This blonde boy was killing me on hot afternoons. He might as well have said you are a very clever girl but you are also stupid at the same time. Why would you let me do this to you? Hurt you. Hurt you badly. Why would you let me touch you like this and let me get away with it? Are you not ashamed of yourself? Go back to your mother. Why are you crying like a little girl? Why do you write me letters like a little girl?

Go back to your mother’s house and do not come back until you are a woman and are ready to face a man’s world on your own terms not on mine. I am not your healer, provider, caretaker or nurturer. Your mother should have been responsible for that. He said all of that through his body language. Somehow he had committed himself to those words. Of course we will get married I read in his eyes.

I drowned in his eyes. He had emotional baggage. I had emotional baggage. We were perfect for each other I surmised. When like meets like, right? He was my Buddha. He was my oil on canvas. He was my pomegranate soup. In the light of the day, dawn breaking, he never ever disappointed me. It was always my iron-fisted lungs filled with expectations that could never reach him.

Of course I was damaged now. I was damaged goods. Now I would never see myself settling down and having those kids with that husband. I did not think yet that I was an artist. Artists are responsible for two things in this world. They are responsible for ‘truth’ and ‘beauty’. It started with the Romantics. It started with Shakespeare. It ended with Hanif Kureishi. In the end I became the illness. How strange. Illness is not something that I want to erase anymore.

In the end I became promiscuous. In the end promiscuity masked the illness. If you are willing to hate me then at the same time half of you must be willing to make love to me at the same time because we are always living with the ifs, ands or buts that at the end of the day will leave us with only one thing. Love. To love. We have to love in order to nurture the systems of flora, fauna and humanity that we want to be part of in this world.

I do not believe in the world as much as I should have. Nordic Gods have taught me that. I do not see myself as smart and educated anymore. What is the use of that if you are already part of the privileged elite since birth? Mental illness made me brave. Braver than I ever thought possible. In the beginning, artists are never paid well enough, never thanked for the sacrifices that they have made in their lifetime.

When the Nordic God wanted pleasure I gave it to him freely without expecting anything in return but I forgave myself at the same time for thinking so little of myself. For giving away so much of myself, for thinking so little of myself. In the end I told myself repeatedly that it was the illness so I already had a reason to forgive myself. I can live with pain. Enthusiasm teaches. Soon I found an enthusiasm for the games that he liked to play.

I had taught myself from a young age already how to live with pain. The Nordic God never turned me on. I never loved him. I loved the thought of him more. The thought of giving up something that was not completely mine ever really. He took such pleasure in humiliating me. I was educated. He was not. I was proper English. He was not. I think of the drugs. How that had excited me.

The fact that he had been in prison. How he had ‘lived’ there. How in the end he had survived. That excited me. It did not frighten me. It excited me. In this wasteland of wastelands I was his only cheerleader so in a way perhaps that turned me on. I loved all my men in the end really. You cannot hate everything about them if they have taught you something about pain. Proper sadness is never insignificant and you should never forget that. I hope to often be alone.

I lived in self-imposed exile in Johannesburg for a want of mother love, mother affection, mother adoration and mother admiration. I had lived a childhood, an adolescence, a young adult life affected by them all and survived but was it a triumph? The Nordic God was a beast but even a proper girl can have a conversation with a beast. I was the reflection I decided that in the end was the best of him. Now I hope to often write. I hope to often live alongside solitude.

He projected all the sexual bravado and talent that he had onto me. He held a mirror up to his handsome face and all I could see was grace and mercy, Keats’s romanticism, intimacies and beauty. In the end after sunset and I was in his arms all I could see was my insanity. I forgot to tell you as I was writing this that I forgot childhood when I was with the Nordic God. I forgot my childhood. Now in childhood town I find myself at the hairdressers. Inside my head writing.

I forgot to tell you the most important thing. Forgot to tell you why I started to write this in the first place. Not to bring up painful memories. The Nordic God’s bullying attitude that I would always say yes, sir to, his laughter that made me feel anxious at the end of the day, his name calling that terrified me because now I could see how he really saw unstable me and that now he could see the mental illness, he could see my race too and the fact that he had done the possible. Only later did I realise that my aunts were angels. They hovered to protect me.

He had broken the history of my spirit. All I could feel was frozen and numb all over. He was like the words ‘corporate America’ and ‘capitalism’. I could not understand.  I need textbooks for that. I think that is when I began my long journey home. With the long succession of men and the backseat of cars and money. I had an altered state of mind when living in Johannesburg. I was falling slowly backwards into an abyss. Aunts would always make things better.

I called every man I met a friend. I get it now. In the process of this late oncoming of adulthood I forgot my childhood. I forgot how empty it was of a child’s angst, Christmas presents, birthday parties, childhood friends, of mud pies, of colour, of siblings. All I knew of childhood was consenting adults. I have this conscious (no longer self-conscious) need to write now. To write down all my thoughts, my feelings in order to bring order and routine to my world.

I have a lot of stories in me I feel. I have a lot to say that is worth telling. Perhaps someone out there can learn something from it. I tell my reflection in the mirror all day and all night long how much I hate it. I know I am causing self-injury to my consciousness, to the whole setup in my head, to my own self-worth but I just cannot help myself. Please do not speak to me of love. Only literature made me happy. Only going to the library made me happy.

As a writer it is enough for me to be turned on by the general population, their modern society, their mad dance, my mad dance. I want to live without love. It is best that way. The best stories come out of me that way, pouring out of me like rain. I go by many names now. Protagonists in my stories. Heroines in other books. The feminist. When death meets earth then you are finished and it usually comes for you when you least expect it.

There is death knocking at the door and you say well I have plenty to do still today maybe I can pencil you in somewhere on my itinerary in a few years’ time. There is still so much for me to do like work out the nervous breakdown I had in Johannesburg but death is still there. Knocking for what seems forever. Determined not to let go unless I am coming with him.

 


     
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Emanuel Paparella2015-05-31 15:54:04
As I read the above poignant confessional story, sundry queries surfaced to my mind. Let me list some of them, for whatever their worth:

What did Pascal mean by “the heart has reasons that reason knows not.” He was a man. Did he in any way employ the gender card in expressing such an insight? Did he employ the education card employed? What about the intellectual card?

What did Christ mean by the profound psychological insight that in order to find one’s Self one has to lose one’s Self? How does such an insight translate into psychological and mental health?

When Socrates said “the unexamined life is not worth living” why did he not place a possessive adjective next to life?

Are the insights of those men less valuable because they proceed from the mind and brain of a man?

Why did not Socrates or Christ ever write anything? Were they intellectually poorer because of it?

How did Socrates and Christ conceive of writing within the context of “intellectual and/or spiritual poverty’?

Was never writing anything a sign of spiritual or psychological poverty for Socrates and Christ?

Why did Plato include “Goodness” to “Beauty” and “Truth” and consider them interrelated with goodness being the highest overarching transcendental idea?

Why are we fascinated by others’ stories when our own stories are just as, if not more, interesting?

What is the role of narcissism here? What exactly is the nexus between mental health, story telling and therapeutic writing?


Leah Sellers2015-05-31 18:45:43
Ms. Abigail,
This Thought Art is Brilliant ! You are Btilliant ! Thank you for the Gifts you bring to so many !


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