To Friends Behind A Frontier

Reflections On Cracking The Healing Code (With Digressions)

I woke around 6:30 am, and Lewis was at his post, on my legs. When he detects I have woken up, he moves to my chest and sits on me like a hen, purring. We say our morning prayer of thanks and then once I am up and robed, we go out the back door.

The air felt so clean and brisk, the sun was rising behind the trees, and the birds were chirping like I’d never heard them before. The world seemed beautiful and full of hope. This is my new morning news—the early morning birdsong.

We have to find things that thrill us, or else we will be left with a spirit of oppression.

Bill Gates has not yet blocked the sun for Climate Safety. Nor has 5G killed all the birds. Nor have I myself been killed, or you, if you are reading this. How much of our fear is “warranted?” Probably quite a bit. But still, every morning, there is the sun, there are the birds.

Lewis did his habitual morning pee against the lilac bush right outside the door, which has the effect of making me extremely happy. “Good boy,” I say, in the tone I once used for my son before he could talk. Then Lewis trots off and I look toward the light. The idea is to get sunlight into your eyes, for a few minutes as soon as you wake up. I’m getting more and more interested in circadian rhythms. Sleep has eluded me for most of my life, but it’s something I am overcoming. Two nights ago I slept 13 hours.

The Quest To Be Normal

I’m working my way toward telling you what I now know, about how to get well if you are sick, or more well if you are already well. Now that you know what I eat and still have not unsubscribed.

I’ve come to feel that the only truly interesting subject is nature.

Morning sunlight (5 mins or so) in the eyes is wonderful. It took me over 25 years to overcome “depression,” “PTSD,” and extremely rocky states of mind, every diagnosis you can list, and two hospitalizations—so I speak from hard earned knowledge—only to those who have similar afflictions as I had. I’m coming out of the closet as a) formerly very sick and b) suddenly healed.

I think it’s important to get radically honest about these things. Shameless, you might say.

Getting well rarely requires expensive experts, (with some exceptions) but it does require discipline.

Food is everything.

I conclude now that I am getting well that I was chronically malnourished my entire life, because I was attacked by sugar, and rarely eating deeply nourishing foods, even when I was “paleo.” I could never straighten out.

Sugar is a companion to trauma, and it distorts your natural personality.

Flshback:

Circa 1970, I can remember having Lucky Charms for breakfast, and it shocks me to this day. Marshmallows with excito-toxins, for breakfast! And what did my son have for breakfast? I shudder to think. American cereals are a weapon of mass destruction.

Here’s some science:

”Evidence is reviewed pertaining to excitatory neurotoxins (excitotoxins) encountered in human food supply. The most frequently encountered food excitotoxin is glutamate (Glu) which is commercially added to many foods despite evidence that it can freely penetrate certain brain regions and rapidly destroy neurons by hyperactivating the NMDA subtype of Glu receptor. Hypersensitivity of NMDA receptors during development makes the immature nervous system especially sensitive to Glu excitotoxicity.”

PubMed

By the age of six I was a sugar (candy) addict and emaciated, eventually hospitalized with clinical malnutrition; I had eczema, asthma, double pneumonia, often, (much of this kicked in the year my mother was disappeared to a hospital in Sweden.) My memories of childhood, so called, are memories of 70s candy and 70s popsicles in pink and orange hues.

My mother took us to Sweden when I was 11 and my sister Bibi was 13 and said we were not returning to the States until we were 18.

(This was her way to resolve the ghastly divorce war, which was all from, the way I now see it, stachybotris, (turn of century NYC building) alcohol, carbs and sugar. And lack of religious structure.) And kids back then were not little princes and princesses. Nothing whatsoever “revolved” around us. I kind of appreciate this boot-camp aspect. At least we didn’t grow up to think we were entitled to anything. I am not being facetious.

Sweden 1976-1977—A Very Different Kind Of Place

Sweden had a ban on certain excitotoxins (dull colors in the candy, I noted with despair) and they only ate candy on Saturdays (the whole nation, “Saturday Candy”) but tragically—they put 11 mercury fillings in my teeth in 4 months as soon as we got there, and I went down in flames. Blisters under eyelids, almost blind from allergic rhinitis, cystic acne, chronic exhaustion—nobody thought: “Maybe it was the mercury.” Instead the theory was that because our three cats had been in quarantine for 4 months, being reunited with them had caused all this. I’m still angry at Sweden about this catastrophe. (Hi Rebecca! :) )

(Yes the filling all came out, more than 10 years ago.)

My mother said: “I’m going to work. One of you will cook, one of you will clean.” I said: “I’ll cook.” I recall a weekly food budget of 100 skr. About $11. I began, not knowing any Swedish, with a dictionary in the supermarket, translating recipes, crunching numbers. I remember leaning heavily on macaroni, rice, eggs, some sausages. White cabbage. No meat—too expensive. In the beginning all I knew how to do in terms of flavoring was boil rice and put soy sauce in it. My mother and sister tolerated my meals and eventually I learned now to cook, by trial and error.

In the beginning we had only furniture donated by the government from a dental office waiting room that was being renovated. (How symbolic.) I had wild shame over this bleak socialist-realist furniture, and tried to improvise curtains that looked “normal,” in our working class housing complex called Varberga. We were told this was where the dark haired people lived in Örebro.

Literally. That meant immigrants from countries where they had dark hair. (Turkey, former Yugoslavia, etc.) Also some Swedish and Finnish alcoholics lived there, as well as ladies who kept begonias on their balconies. After a few months we had saved up money to go to IKEA and buy furniture, which would be the envy of Paige Wassel if I had taken photos. (A young, hip interior designer wants to persuade IKEA to bring back 1970s items.)

Once the IKEA furniture was in place, my house-shame lessened and we could allow people to come into our apartment. The walls were made of concrete, with brown wallpaper, and the doors were hollow, I learned the first time I punched a hole in one. We were living in one of the engineering triumphs of the Social Democrats, called “Miljon-Programmet,” (the one million program) which was the post 50s commitment to making sure all Swedes had proper plumbing and housing. Every single apartment looked the same, and each kitchen had a cutting board that pulled out from beneath the stainless steel counter top. I can’t say I have no love for the Social Democrats.

We were told we were now “arbetar klass” (working class) based on where we lived and did we understand that? We did not. We had no idea what social class we were, but certainly, divorce had caused us to go into an economic and social free-fall.

In New York we had lived in aforementioned stachybotris apartment on the Upper West Side, but it had 7 rooms, hand laid mosaic tiles, a courtyard, fountains with goldfish (that never made it) and eventually became a super status building that attracted Al Pacino, Cyndi Lauper, and various international billionaires. I used to say Rosemary’s Baby was filmed there but I later learned it was only one or two scenes. It was that kind of building though. Very Tartaria. You can see it here if you are interested. Joseph Heller lived in our wing and wrote Catch-22 in there. I remember his hair was exactly the same as his large poodle, and he didn’t let his children play with us because he said my father was a “fascist.” (That just means he was not, as Jews are supposed to be, On The Left. At least I was spared that.)

His daughter, (who inexplicably turned against me, once we met as adults, and were briefly friends) wrote a fantastic, hilarious book called Yossarian Slept Here. She referred to her father as “diabolical.” She, like me, never made it through Catch-22. I think she might be a “better writer” than her father, but I suppose that is blasphemous.

If Joe Heller was “diabolical” I’m prepared to blame the building.

Because it had stachybotris. That’s my new theory.

Everybody got divorced in that place. In fact, Nora Ephron wrote Heartbreak there, after Carl Bernstein moved out. Generally the men moved out, and left the wives to live there. The wives were very glamorous, as my mother was.

L-R, Bibi, Ulla, Barry, Celia, Central Park, circa 1968. What could go wrong?

My father moved back in and lived there until a few weeks before his death in May of 2020.

When we returned to New York, people assumed we were wealthy because of that building. We certainly had many great parties and dinners, before the world ended.

I’m writing this because Mark (Crispin Miller) always says I have to write about all of it.

“Why?” I say.

He says because it’s an interesting and strange story, but what is the story?

If I can find humor and incongruity, maybe it’s a good idea. If I can tell the truth and not worry about how it comes across.

I started this morning, writing a post the USSR, and the trouble with history, and some clips I found, but this is what suddenly emerged. Writing must be intentional, and purposeful. But it has to take risks, also.

Switching Rails—Present Day Insights About How To Heal From Chronic Illness Induced By Chronic Stress, Trauma, Toxins, Mold and Sugar

2023

Here are a few things that have worked wonders for me, on my “healing journey,” the slowest train imaginable but it finally reached the station. Here is part of my protocol:

1. Thank God, out loud, precisely at moments when the sadness or pain sets in. Or fear. If it’s raining hard and you are driving and you can’t see the road at all, as happened to me the other night, thank him for the rain. This habit will make you more resilient no matter what comes at us, and it probably will. We have to become as resilient as possible before their grand finale, whatever it may be. I often say: “They can’t stop the river of life.” I suppose this is what infuriates them so much.

2. Apologize to God for countless sins and promise to try to stop and ask for his help understanding what they were. Rebuke unclean spirits, in Jesus’ name. (That’s just me.) It’s so hard to understand what we have done to others and so easy to understand what others have done to us. Stick with friends who tell you what is going on, who verbalize. You have to trust your friends or they are not your friends, and they have to trust you. (This is a big one for people who identify as having “had” C-PTSD, CIRS, Lyme, Mercury) and all the other afflictions of forgetting and disassociating. You simply have to ask your friends to trust that you are not ignoring them, you’re just struggling immensely to find things, get things, done, retrieve and complete, get your life together. My dear, late friend Richard Kotlarz used to say: “Getting angry is a sign of self-importance.” Sobering idea. He also said: “When people get angry they are always saying the same thing, and that thing is: “Do you love me?” I have found that anger goes away when you quit sugar. I had a glass of wine other other night, after driving home from visiting my stepmother in torrential rain in the dark. I thought it would be ok. I wound up laying awake half the night angrily writing mental letters to people who I felt had wronged me. I even wrote and sent one, and now I have to clean up the mess. Yesterday I had a cup of water from boiled onion and apple, and my hands became crippled with pain. So, no more “cheats.”

   Nostalgia For Lost Worlds We Never Knew:

   Why can’t we all live in one village, as God intended? Anatevka. Imagine seeing all your people naturally, without electronic webbing blocking everything. I would have done well being born centuries ago. I’m a very slow person— a human turtle. I need tons of time just to think. I used to take trains clear across this country, and through Europe and Eastern Europe long ago. I also took a train once from Stockholm to Lapland and when we arrived at the arctic circle, it was all snow and birch trees, and an understated sign that said simply: “Arctic Circle” (in Swedish.) I was ecstatic. (Can’t do paragraph breaks because of the numerals. Ignore the “3.”)

3. One day you will see me turn up in Lapland, and only write about that. This is my masterplan how to return to my (sort of) homeland of Sweden without having to deal with all the Sweden-ness of it. I just have to figure out how to do it. But then I will miss everybody here, and miss America. It’s a dilemma. The pattern of my mother was: Leave Sweden, come to America, experience wild and unthinkable events, get “destroyed” because you didn't understand America. Return to Sweden. Complain about Sweden. Experience inferiority complex in Sweden. Return to America. More surprises. Return again to Sweden, contrite. Try to fit in. Appreciate the great things. Stop bashing Sweden. Sweden is where we go to piece ourselves back together after America. Their language is small and compact and people mean what they say. No phony. But also, not much encouragement. (Not even for Anders Tegnell.) I want to write his autobiography, but he doesn’t know who I am. Ok let’s get back on track here, things that worked for me, to resurrect myself from Hell Brain. All joking aside.

4. In my own personal experience, eliminating carbs and sugar was the Exit Visa, the big breakthrough. Only eating eggs, fish, oysters, butter, various fats, meats, salt and water—nothing else. Occasionally liver. And Lewis, for his part, “loves” raw liver. But he can’t have it too often. I put “loves” in quotes because I believe he wolfs it down because he craves it. He too is malnourished from the insanity known as “cat food.”

5. Ice baths, and or cold showers—just amazing. Especially if you need immediate relief from some kind of psychic, demonic attack or melancholia. It also gives you instant relief from low self esteem. I find 3.5 minute ice baths easier than cold showers. After about 20 seconds, you’re fine.

6. Methylene blue, CD (some abbreviations to escape the censors) Turps, Iver—ectin in small doses, (the kind that comes in a tube,) coffee enemas, “structured” or living water (ideally from a stream,) bare feet on the ground, electrolytes, (can be good salt and water,) music you love, poetry you love, Bible verses read out loud, or listened to, (that’s just me) Gregorian chants, classical music, ethnic folk music (in my case, Karelian/Kantele makes me happy) and having plants that thrive and that you interact with. (“Green thumb” is a myth. We all have green thumbs.) Turn off computer at sundown if you can. Going to sleep and rising early is very good. Birds at sun rise sing their hearts out, even in New York City. Maybe they are also thanking God. We run a bird and squirrel paradise out here, (as we did from the fire escape in NYC)—they are well fed. Sometimes the bear comes and bends the bird feeder pole and smashes the feeders. The primordial world pays a visit. Meanwhile, the birds tell me all is not lost, and 5G has not yet done us in. Pushkin the rooster, for his part, chases all the animals up and down the backyard hill, wings fluffed, like he owns the place. He walks into the house precisely at sundown, and listens to peculiar music with Doug, before he has to go to his dog kennel overnight. Last week, the first batch of worms were liberated, into a hole I dug in front of the house. I’d poured out all my experimental fertilizers, from rotten fish and black strap molasses. (Learn to make fertilizer.) I hope they made it. The rest are still in the bin, having all their material needs met like in a welfare state, but lacking freedom. This was precisely the problem with Sweden—they didn't factor in freedom, or the importance of suffering. Good book on the subject: “The New Totalitarians.” (I am not bashing Sweden, I am bashing social engineering.)

7. Here is a piece I wrote in memory of my very colorful and fun mother, whose brutality I learned not to take at face value. I have to go now so this piece has no ending.

How about one of our favorite Tranströmer poems:

To Friends Behind A Frontier

1

I wrote so meagerly to you. But what I couldn’t write

swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship

and drifted away at last through the night sky.

2

The letter is now at the censor’s. He lights his lamp.

In the glare my words fly up like monkeys on a grille,

rattle it, stop, and bare their teeth.

3

Read between the lines. We’ll meet in 200 years

when the microphones in the hotel walls are forgotten

and can at last sleep, become trilobites.

Paths, 1973