Psychic Friends Network

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychic# 

Certain generations develop a type of "groupthink" that transcends their immediate presence, to become indicative of a much deeper action taking place than that which it would openly appear to be. Because me and my classmates were forced into extraordinarily difficult life situations coupled with extreme stress, we had to communicate without exposing it to the very people supposed to protect us, our parents, who would retaliate any action they could perceive or stump as a threat while in their delusional states. I know it's as intense as it reads.

I have never (NEVER) met a GenX'er who was not physically, emotionally, mentally, and sometimes sexually, abused to the extreme. Under our parents bigger and often stronger hands, we had to make quick life-changing decisions "on the fly", though it is not something we wish to replicate in any other generation. Sanity and hindsight will do that to you. It left us to contemplate just what the fuck went wrong with the sick people around us, when we had the time and space to do so, which, for me and my friends, meant our successful escape to an away college, as a time period of such happiness and fulfillment that it ever marked in severe contrast those later times when we felt just as unfulfilled as we had during our entrapped childhoods.

We had been tasked, as children and teens, to heal every serious adult woe that existed including, but not limited to: alcoholism and addiction, sexual dysfunction, homosexuality, their media-touted "mid-life crisis", adultery, divorce, joblessness and homelessness, extreme over- and under-spending, bad healthcare systems and the medicated side effects of their genetic disorders like madness and dementia combined with schizophrenia and a bevy of scientifically complex mood/identity/personality disorders with a lack of available and appropriate treatments that threatened immediate bankruptcies, foreclosures, and debt, along with not-so-handy alternatives like debtor prisons and/or incarcerations (or foster care) through corruptly inept social services and justice departments. Like, everything that the world has to offer us as severely marginalized individuals.

As a really small generation, we found that our dire circumstances necessitated an unforeseen sophistication to our brief interactions, squeezed as we were by our parent's (and/or grandparents) acute paranoia, which meant that all of our household communiques were strictly monitored for any signs of advanced thought or problem-solving abilities that would conflict with an illness that took on biblical proportions, in direct contrast to our religious ethics. We were "wrong" for simply existing in the covering chaos that evil thrives in, susceptible as our families were to it, in their sicknesses. We became adept at "reading" our emotions well with just a glance or a look, which often only increased the paranoia of the less adept around us.

Survivors of bipolar families like ours often describe in alarming detail (to them, not us) the "rock-and-a-hard-place" space that the severely mentally ill impose on the people around them, as a boxed-in corner where you can either choose death or their abuse. I'm not kidding or using an arty metaphor, either. We had death-defying car rides with stoned drunks as children trapped in their back seats, or rocky water rides down spring-filled rivers that became ego-driven contests with parents hellbent on destruction in the face of our greater gifts that were designed for service but refused through wanton pride.

It's a hard thing to prove as a child, and even harder to describe without the evidence that our families would just as wantonly destroy, in fear of prosecution or exposure. That's how entrenched their untreated sickness became. They'd rather die or kill us, or at the very least hurt us badly, than admit to any wrong-doing or making of mistakes. It was an incredibly selfish and spoiled thing to do, and I remain aghast at my parent's immaturity, as I am in awe of our relative composure in the face of their extreme carelessness. I've been told that I am extremely "lucky" to be alive, but I know it's not luck. It's me, and my extraordinary band of "freaks" that you call "superheroes" or "X-Men", if and when the mood or the money strikes you. Try living it.

Because I said I would.

Over the years I've worked with just about every type of person on the planet; such is the range of my widely dispersed gifts that are given generously, in a city known for its cosmopolitan ways in the utmost. So welcoming are we (and sympathetic) to the world's woes, that our fair city has been vulnerable to attack after attack—in the name of freedom and liberty—but such is the price we pay for opening our hearts and our world to anyone who seeks peace from war-torn lands ravaged by societal woes like avarice, greed, hatred, and bias. It's no coincidence that the biggest gift from our French allies is a lady dressed in the robes of Ancient Greece, the first serious culture to live by laws; not as it applied to everyone, but it was the beginning of our shared longings for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I am not immune to suffering, which stands almost equal in strength (and often surpasses) the wealth of my gifts, which is not something I often talk about at length, because I encounter such great weaknesses and suffering as I go about my day that my own needs are pushed aside for another day, when (like any good mother) I have the time to cry in private while I nurse my own wounds alone, in some form of a solitary peace that's coupled with great longing. There's nothing quite like the pain of a mother's anguish, and because of the fractured and severely dysfunctional nature of my upbringing, it's sharpened my empathy and compassion to a fine point that's still surprising to me, so often am I perceived as just an average single white woman. But nothing could be further than the truth. Rough childhoods make for scrappy fighters who live very adult lives very early on, making me far more mature than most retirees I meet, and I've met many older seniors during my time here on earth.

It's in this capacity as a great listener—tolerant of hearing about the most violent extremes—that attracts the troubled to me in droves, most often the seriously mentally ill, which is also present in my immediate family. I grew up with it and survived it, which makes me sort of like a snake charmer to a sick person's demons. I've learned when not to take on the woes of the world, because like many Americans, I am also facing the most harsh state of bankrupt finances I've ever encountered in my life, and I officially entered the working world at age 15, which is evidenced in my long storied past with Social Security. I've also worked technically "off the books" much earlier than that (to escape those pesky child labor laws), something which I've referenced before, when I mentioned a worker's permit that I got from the principal of our elementary school at Chestnut Grove, so I could help my brothers with their paper routes.

My experiences, education, background, and natural prowess have shocked the most seasoned con artist, to the point that I felt driven to record such life stories here with you, the reader, so often am I accused of "making it up". It's unusual, and I know that, because I've seen the looks on countless faces, but the most interesting responses are from the sick people who think we are engaged in a lying contest about who can make up the greatest "fish tale", which is kind of innocent and sweet; it tickles a mother's fancy to be lied to by someone who is incompetent. It's mostly harmless gobbledygook, but one woman with BPD was honest enough to try and delve deeper with this walking talking encyclopedia (me) that somehow mysteriously showed up at her job one day, seemingly out of nowhere. No matter how many times we told her that I was a very advanced art director—widely known for my publishing expertise—she couldn't quite wrap her mind around it. It troubled her, and it also made me a magnet to her, like a shiny object she couldn't put down. I fascinated her, and she used me as a source of entertainment and engagement so she could check out of her disassociated reality for awhile.

Most often she was confused and foggy, especially when she went off her medication. She surveyed the office almost every day about something unrelated to books, like petty boy troubles or minor incidents with girlfriends that baffled her as a woman of 40+. It was as unbelievable to me as I was to her. How? She asked me a wide variety of questions that covered an enormous range of topics, but that's my job, just like it is in my family: to have the answer, and so I did. One day she asked me covertly about what it felt like to be me, a common thing for people with serious identity disorders. I must have felt like a Rubix Cube in human form to her, so many times did she ask me "Why this?" or "Why that?" I can recall one conversation like it was yesterday, so profound were (and are) the depth to her needs. What is being trustworthy and why did I seem to have it? She questioned the very nature of my authority over her and the other people in our office, so I broke it down like this: 1) Did she trust me? She said that she did. OK, great. 2) Why was that? She had a frown on her face. Oh. That was a much harder question, but like any gifted mom, I already knew the answer, so once I led her down the right road, I set her up to be receptive to the information when I gave it to her.

She trusted me because I made it that way. Oh! Right! She brightened up a bit, after I fed her the answer in bits. She, and the other employees, trusted me at my word because I laid down a pattern immediately upon the start of my employment there, like a background rhythm to all my business dealings: I said I would do something, and then I did it. I said it, then I did it, over and over again (providing proof when necessary), so that my honesty and integrity never really came into question or under fire, so quickly could I provide evidence of it. Their reliance on me was understood like a second nature, and it allowed me to serve them more easily, without argument or discord. My opinion was asked and the right answer was given, over and over, as many times as they needed it, in as many forms as I could provide.

Just as I am now under fire for having the audacity to become a publisher in one of the worst economies since "The Great Depression", by borrowing against the future of my own success. I will continue to provide you with the highest quality content I can give you, free of charge, because such is the fierceness that I attach to my vocation. And just like the pattern I establish everywhere I go, I made a promise to myself many years ago that I would give back as soon as I could, if I ever found myself in a position of power and authority, with as much as I had, until there was nothing left to give. So, that's what I will continue to do: publish however I can, for however long I can, despite the battles I face. Because I said I would.

www.becausisaidiwould.com