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DefenestratedDildo


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Posted Tue Feb 5th, 2013 12:14pm Post subject: Made this fucking account to say thanks

No idea wtf I'm doing; I wanted some way of thanking Stephen Fry, googled his name, and was brought here. Even if he doesn't read this, at least it's here, I've thanked him and the Oxford comma, and some of you are witnesses.

Thank him for what?

For pretty much changing my fucking life. For the better. And all of this, just by making sounds with his mouth, recording them, and putting them on the Internet so I could discover them, be fascinated by the sounds, and start feeling comfortable making my own sounds. Quite literally--since I watched some of his videos on youtube, I've been swearing at everyone.

Background story:

As long as one could remember, I'd felt uncomfortable in my own body. Depressed. Confused. Pissed off. Just Fucking miserable for unknown, mysterious, yet intriguing reasons. In my early teens, I was sent away to a "developed" country--with the hope that there I would be "fixed".

To my astonishment and surprise, I was diagnosed. Perhaps I wasn't as strange as I felt. My entire life long struggle was summed up in two words: Tourettes Syndrome. I was told numbers and figures, huge meaningless words I had no way of knowing--barely knowing English at this time--and fucking retarded names of drugs; none of this information ever penetrated through the fog that I feared was my lifelong misery. It never felt real.

My spasms, grunts, twitches, and grimaces that were the only relief from discomfort and also very much the source, were divided into motor tics and vocal tics. I was told this was normal in patients with Tourettes. The drugs ruined me. They fucking killed me. They told me what they were going to put me on, listed the side-effects I WOULD experience, and I'd just nod, swallow, and try to make some sound that let them know I agreed. But really I just wanted them to stop looking at me, and continue talking about me like I wasn't even present.

That's what I was. A fucking pussy. That's what adults had turned me into and I took everything. I took all their shit. And the more I felt like shit. And then people just poured more of their fucking poison into me. I was the broken one, and they were normal. What they did and said was right.

Fuck them. They didn't know what a clever bastard I was, even then. Maybe if I'd let on, they would have given a second thought before killing me with those fucking drugs. One after the other. As soon as one became unbearable or I became incapable of cognitive functioning, onto the next. I barely remember; it's all a thick fog. I didn't experience much of anything during those 5 or 6 years. Where the fuck did all that time go? Thinking about that period now, it just feels like I have the corrupted memories of stranger planted inside my head. I should mention that I'm alive now; I came back.

The other thing being a miserable pussyfooted worm allowed me to do was suppress my vocal tics. I was scared shitless to offend anyone or draw attention to myself. I held it in. And channeled all of that hate through inner screaming and motor tics. Sometimes, very, rarely, I snapped, but always when I was far away from anyone. These were the scariest of times and are the only "experiences" that are vivid from that period. Maybe because that's when I would decide I didn't want to live. Of course, I was too fucking scared to even end my life. Ironically, the bravest thing that I did during this time was punishing myself for having suicidal thoughts, because I was scared of what would happen if others found out. This small "courage" would grow into something horribly disgusting--aided by alcohol--in my late teens and allow me to justify harming others as well, resulting in regretful fights I still find it hard to believe I took part in.

This is what I was. It was not by choice, or so I believed. I fucking hated it. I hated me. I hated you. I hated the world. But most of all, I hated that I was too much of a pussy to do anything about any of it.

Fast forward a couple of years:

I began to learn a bit more about myself. For the first time, I acknowledged a lot of my problems stemmed from loneliness. Since I was so hateful, I was destined to be lonely. I began experimenting with drugs--all but alcohol, and this was important. I began reading. I began to discover people that I didn't hate. Most of them seemed to be long dead, only adding to my loneliness.

Now where the fuck does Stephen Fry fit in any of this?

Fuck you. Be patient. I'm venting here. Venting years of hate. I'll quantify it for you. In fucking bagfuls. You know how much you hate the villain in a film the moment it becomes clear he genuinely enjoys doing something really destructive and bad? Say, raping someone for example. That's one bag of hate. I have thousands of those mother fuckers stockpiled and am trying to slowly and patiently dispose of them, for your sake. I have enough to build a fucking hate nuke.

But here is where Mr. Fry fits in. A few months ago, I came across a film on youtube. It was a documentary detailing his experience with depression. Can't remember the name. It's not important. What is important is that this man exists. Because for the first bloody time in so fucking long, my loneliness began to fade, after watching that. It was quite subtle at first, and not an instant happening or epiphany of any sort. But it definitely triggered a subtle change in me that only grew as I watched more videos, read books, interacted with people and went about my life.

It is only now, months later, that I can say with certainty, that some funny looking British guy making some sounds, gave me the perspective and courage to begin fixing my life. It's truly laughable how much my attitude towards myself and others has changed. While I always had this queer inner confidence in myself that I even thought irrational at times, I now am able to exert that confidence out of my head and into my life. And it's fucking great. It's like waking up from a nightmare. I wake up with smile and jokingly asking myself out loud "What the fuck were you doing all of this time"?

That's comfort; that's joy to me. I've never experienced it before, only wondered about. And maybe I never would have, had Mr. Fry never been arrested for stealing money from rich people, or had SOPA been passed, or had Apple bought youtube instead of Google, or had I been more interested in pornography than British comedy. That's the beauty of life to me: Crazy, awesome, terrible, unpredictable shit is happening all the time everywhere, and for better or worse, every tiny decision on a individual level is a part of that whole. From this awareness, I am reborn.

I've risen from the very grave that those fucking ludicrous medical professionals with their fancy drugs had dug for me, and quite literally feel like a new person. I've discovered that marijuana is curiously effective for treating my so called "condition". There have been studies that back this up. I was never told about it, though, and I doubt others with brains similar to mine are. All it took was for me to become comfortable in this body, society, and life. Marijuana simply provided the state of silence, focus, and relaxation that allowed to me observe what triggered anxiety and fear. Then I systematically attacked each of these triggers using psychological--top-down--techniques or bottom-up conditioning such as breathing exercises. Not only do I recall how I used to feel prior to the drugs, but I feel even better than that.

I've actually stopped swearing at people. That didn't last long. It was just fun because I could get away with it.

Fuck all of you.

Just kidding, I'm sure you're all nice people here. Maybe I'll use this account to actually read and post things.

tl;dr : Thank you, Stephen Fry.


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