Walking

The weather turned warm and I’m out walking to the store and coffee shop. Takes me 45 min to go the five blocks. Thinking of the intrusive things people say to a total stranger in order to either signify their virtue and thereby subconsciously signal their intent to victimize when you walk slow with a cane.
Possible responses.
Can I assist you across the street? is the most common one, How ya doing? is #2. As I’m 6’2″ 180 lbs and I work out daily I don’t require assistance, but folks think others should walk briskly and not impede. So there must be a problem, they would like it if I went faster in other words.
I like to stroll I always have. I have been on first dates where the woman starts speed walking and doesn’t even look to see if I keep up, to which I just turn around and head back to the car. I know she is signifying her virtue, keeping the rules of sidewalk social order, but I prefer a less authoritarian lover.
Can I assist you across the street?
1. Why? (Said to guy trying to impress his date, she rolled her eyes and smiled, she knew he was creepy but it was a free meal.)
2. How? Are you going to carry me? (said with a smile to a nice young church going lady)
3. You just want to cop a feel, I know what goes on…(Said to an attractive to me woman as a banter ice breaker, she looked at me funny…no social skills…)
4. Look at them funny (to the standard religious virtue signaller who is probably raping kids and wants to hide the fact.)
5. Ya,you just want to steal my purse (said with a smile)
6. That’s very kind, I’m good thanks…(said to most folks as that’s why they offered, to hear that they are very kind. I watch them puff their chests with renewed self esteem, and think, man they are more handicapped than I am, panhandling on the street to get their self esteem fix.)

Street survival skills, if they can’t get close to you, they can’t harm you. Predators look for victims that they perceive can’t fight back or defend themselves, because they are cowards, they perceive boundaries as abuse.

They ask if they can help, how are you, and they talk softly so you invite them in close to hear, just like politicians and ministers.They are the reason my Irish walking stick comes with a manual of cane fighting techniques…

How ya doing? said softly by the street junkie person, slithering close, no one else around
7. Take one step closer cocksucker and this cane goes right up your ass…cop voice, cop eyes…

Ah yes, just nice Sunday stroll in the inner city. I love it. It’s my home.

The Model

Why don’t you get model releases? Well it’s collaborative, so they get half. I get verbal permission to use their image, how they have chosen to present themselves to the world after my work is finished, if they don’t approve I destroy it. Two artists working together. Some people like to be nude, but not painted blues and nude. *shrug*

30 Years…

From across the restaurant, “I hear Jerry Blackstock was arrested for sodomy!”

“You got me pregnant ya bastard, I had to have an abortion because of your herpes!” I yelled back

Lunch with a poet…

Murdock Burnett and I met at poor kids summer camp, we were age 6. His Dad was a drunk and his Mom a codependent abandoning her 11 or so kids for a life in AA. The kids were entirely fucked by their parents narcissism. Murd’s oldest brother became my dearest friend, we had keys to each others homes, shared a place a few times, consoled each other through the repeated loss of our mothers that we kept finding for girlfriends. Addicted to the sun (kids of alcoholics are always cold) and cigarettes, 2 packs a day of comfort for anxiety, he died of skin cancer, living in my camper, my guest room, till he moved to the hospice where he lived without skin, on morphine for months.

Murdock and I shared the Edinburgh abandoned street kid sense of outrageous sexual imagery humour, learned on the streets of Calgary, it was still a Scottish immigrant working class town while we were growing up. ‘Cunt’ wasn’t a negative word describing a female body part, it was everything from a term of endearment to a password of inclusion and acceptance on the street.

Murd lived off various women, using the narcissists charm, and writing really awful poetry, for which his various women got him gigs in the Calgary art scene.

When he got throat cancer from his 2 pack a day habit, he married his publishers daughter. His publisher was a former high school teacher at my school, who got punted for sleeping with his students. He started a book store and imported The Georgia Straight from Vancouver, which I sold on the streets of Calgary, for food, while living alone in a boarding house, trying to complete high school. His publishers daughter inherited, then moved them to the Caribbean, so he’d be warm, where he died.

He was a lot of fun.

In 1988 we had the Olympics in Calgary, my personal Olympics started the following New Years eve, I quietly had my last drink and toke of booze and pot.

I started to search for other ways to manage lifelong over-anxiety to be able to learn to be alone in comfort without mind freezing shame and embarrassment of over-worry.

I tried yoga, meditation, living ‘in community’ aka an ashram cult in the Kootenays, Taoist Tai Chi.. even living with a woman and lots of great sex and though all were nice distractions, nothing was a cure until I went to the hospital, where it took them 10 minutes to diagnose and treat me.

Very common condition.

A lot and I mean a lot of kids are emotionally abandoned, essentially orphans, used  like bargaining chips in a business deal, in order to get welfare money or hang on to a partner, or generate self esteem, conservative family values, whatever, for parents who are no more than dependant life long children themselves.

The hospital suggested cognitive therapy, now I use the original form REBT. Relief from life long over-worry is like being given a million dollars, simply knowing the evidence of  ‘I’ll figure it out, whatever it is, eventually’.

19 years ago I quit cigarettes.

10 years ago I quit sugar.

8 years ago I quit grains and over use of carbs.

All are self comfort strategies with negative consequences that are so self defeating they cause slow miserable squalid death.

So I tolerated short term pain for long term gain.

That’s what adults do.

They do this in order to care for children, by caring for themselves, staying strong and healthy and keep the species going.

It’s an evolutionary imperative.

It takes a lot of over-indulgence in feel good behaviors to suppress an evolutionary imperative.

An incredible force of will, to kill yourself slowly.

Or the same force of will to tolerate short term pain for long term gain…





Slavery

why

I feel like I have paid off a huge mortgage. Dumping guilt when it has been used for a lifetime, to manipulate me is like that.

Guilt is the result of feeling responsible for things we aren’t responsible for, Dr. David Burns, Feeling Good the New Mood Therapy.

When you have had a narcissistic parent, or have belonged to a religion, or have been groomed by cult recruiters, they all used guilt. Backed up and reinforced with obligation and fear.
Authoritarian in the extreme, which is another way of describing fascism, living in a world of black and white, all or nothing, should and must.
For the purposes of Slavery. Very simply, you exist to give your life for another’s satisfaction, not your own.

Emotional consequences of being a slave of should and must are: guilt, shame, embarrassment, rage, depression and anxiety. Dr. Albert Ellis, The Myth of Self Esteem.

Musts and shoulds are a programmed belief system. They are deprogrammed by one simple question: where is the evidence for my belief?

There never is any. Ever. Period.

The slavery programming beliefs all boil down to this:

I must do well and win the approval of others or else I am no good.

Other people must do “the right thing” or else they are no good and deserve to be punished.

Life must be easy, without discomfort or inconvenience.

The dispute to being a slave goes like this:

Others likes and dislikes only describe them, never me. The fact someone prefers chocolate over strawberry doesn’t describe me one bit. Since the purpose of my life is satisfaction, even if I lose an arm and a leg, I can deal with it as best I can, then ignore it, and create some form of satisfaction for myself using my free will and power of choice. I may not have as many choices as I had before, but I still have some.
Slaves have no free will and power of choice. There is no evidence that I am a slave.

I am not the ruler of the universe, there is no evidence that I know what is ‘the right thing’ for anyone or often even myself. I use my preferred satisfactions, sometimes get professional help, like when my car needs work or I require medical or legal advice, then use my best guess to guide my decisions. The evidence is I am human so I am often mistaken and so is everyone else. We often need to make adjustments to our thinking and actions. This is called creativity and problem solving. We are very very good at this. This is normal.

When life is not easy, uncomfortable and inconvenient there is no evidence that I can’t stand it. Saying I can’t stand it, it’s terrible and awful, is saying I will die from this. There is no evidence that I am dead.
There is evidence that this is a royal pain and very inconvenient, and I should feel motivating disappointment and sadness, grief and a sense of loss because something uncomfortable and inconvenient just happened. This is a healthy negative response which motivates me to do something, take some action to deal with it., suchs talking to strangers and asking for what I want. The best love affairs and biggest business deals were all created starting with small talk between strangers asking for what they want.

Q: What are you doing since having a stroke, just sitting on the couch? I actually had a doc who said this to me.
A: Well, if I found that satisfying I would certainly do that, since the purpose of my life is my satisfaction. Since it’s in my best interests to exercise daily, and at the gym 3 times a week, write and publish 2 artbooks, working on a third, apply to do public art in Calgary and Banff, apply for project grants and provincial acquisition of my work and start dating again since I really like sex with interesting strange women and that’s the best way to meet them and do that, start driving again and do road trips with my camera, all the while learning French, Spanish and Italian from posts by beautiful and talented self portrait artist friends, because life is too short to learn German, while learning publishing creation tools like Illustrator and Indesign, yes, when I’m not doing those things I love just sitting on the couch. Going for walks to the coffee shop is fun too…

Empathy in the Genius of Art and Art Criticism


Rembrandt van Rijn
Dutch Painter, Draftsman, Printmaker
Movements and Styles: The BaroqueDutch Golden Age
Born: July 15, 1607 – Leiden, the Dutch Republic
Died: October 4, 1669 – Amsterdam

The writer says Emanuela Cau has a lot of empathy, and she’s right.

This lifetime light came on then for me, I realized it’s why I prefer artists like Rembrandt and Cliff Eyland. Empathy.

Others who are good technicians, of any discipline, learned a technique and practised it, like anyone can, and that’s their work for life, some get incredibly good at it.

Based on the criteria of art is a record of the human experience, valuing the beauty of the handmade mark for instance, the technician is lost, all he values is technique, which anyone can learn.
He is likened to a recording where all trace of the human hand on the strings is removed, like photoshopped breasts, the ‘blemishes’ removed.

The technicians are crafty, clever and manipulative. Con-men.
Banksy is a good example for me. An amusing well executed one off. I have no interest in seeing his cartoons more than once.

I could look at Rembrandt’s feathers for days and have. “An innovative and prolific master in three media, he is generally considered one of the greatest visual artists in the history of art and the most important in Dutch art history.” – wiki.

Rembrandt never travelled in search of technique to copy. Lastman, Caravaggio and Rubens came to him. Why? Empathy, that made him the real deal, genuine, not a trickster not a scam artist.
His personal tragedy was great, losing several children and his wife, eventually all his money as well. This informed his art and his audience with humanity.
We have never seen Banksy, that’s part of his scam, like a bank robber we only see an effect.

Why do I value empathy? It’s those who don’t have it who have hurt me. The defining characteristic of sociopaths is their lack of empathy.
Narcissists are good at the technique of appearance of empathy, but they hate me for mine.
I make them look bad when I call them on the bullshit they use to make themselves appear special, usually by removing any evidence of themselves in their guilt and shame.

I hate bullies who try to make themselves look better by making others look bad. The art critics without empathy specializes in that technique and are my special disgust.

Art critics who care deeply about the human condition, like Paddy Johnson, are my special love, and when they call bullshit, I get a great feeling of satisfaction, and appreciation for the cost of their sacrifice.

People with empathy, like Rembrandt, don’t have what it takes to fuck people over, to be true capitalists and they often die in the poorhouse. I was born there and learned survival there. I’m used to it, so I have less risk in calling bullshit and being alone, and ill without funds. It ain’t pleasant but it ain’t terrible neither.
I am not dependant, and overly scared, using people with the technique of charm.
I have a very few friends and a few acquaintances, all with empathy, so I am rich beyond measure. It’s like having Rembrandt and his feathers to hang around with.
I would rather see the pain in the eyes of his self portraits or the love in those of Emanuela Cau, than the stone coldness of the words of a faked empathy used by a manipulator and a con man.

Everybody Looks At Their Poop

The nurses at the hospital where I lived for 6 months, recovering from a stroke asked sordid and squalid questions.
How are your bowels dear?
Did you have a bowel movement today dear?
Do you need a laxative dear?

Fine, Yes, No. The next person to call me ‘dear’ in that condescending fashion while speaking too loudly….were my thoughts on the subject.
Still I managed my frustration with humour, at least humour to me; nurses have none, zero, zip.

Fine how are yours? Said with a sweet smile…invoking the lewd and lascivious innuendo of anal intercourse. I could see the thought bubble ‘creepy old man’.

I did, it was monstrous, like giving birth…the female nurses hated that metaphor.

And finally the one they most disliked that invoked the most jealousy and competitive rivalry: no thanks I’m regular as clockwork. They detested that, because they weren’t. I was given stoney looks, the glare of envy.

Why? Because everyone in medicine is concerned with money. So they cheap out on food, low fibre prefabricated crap carbs that sit in the intestines like cement bridgework. AKA hospital food. They eat at work, they think laxatives are normal, stools need to be softened as a lifestyle. Hoarders all, money and poop.

The first month I was there, with little control over my food choices, I was plugged like the Hoover dam. As I gained control over my income through a grant from an artists relief association (pun intended) and a purchase of my work by Cliff Eyland, I was able to avoid the pizza and pasta and add broccoli and green beans. It was similar to being in a Mexican prison, no money no food kind of thing. I ate in the public cafeteria, 10 slices of bacon and a tomato please. They thought I was brain damaged.

The dietician, when I finally got a consult, knew exactly what I was doing, very familiar with wheat belly, grain brain lifestyle of low carb.
I mean the dietician was trying to get diabetics to simply reduce salt, and here I was, her star patient dumping sugar and carbs like grains, and not diabetic or overweight or constipated, her diet dream come true.
She ordered changes to my menu, eggs for breakfast, chicken thighs and green beans for lunch, beef and broccoli for dinner, sugar free yogurt 3 times a day. I still had tomatoes and bacon for an afternoon snack in the cafeteria. Of course the dietician was roundly ignored by the kitchen, and the food servers. You can’t live on that! as they dumped pizza and pasta on my plate. They thought, like many patients, I had stroke induced dementia.

Ever try to argue with a nurse from Nigeria, 6 feet tall, with a strong accent, a poor grasp of English and clogged bowels? She is boss with a capital B for bowel movement. It ain’t gonna happen, not from a wheelchair. Finally I got the kitchen supervisor and asked her why were they ignoring the dietician? I mean these people are conservatives, would vote for Trump, hate authority, they think they know best, that kind of loading dock mentality.

She gave me a survey to fill out, to complete with a pencil with not much lead, with my left hand, the dominant right being flaccid. One of my heroes, Lord Nelson, commanded a large sea battle of sail rigged war ships while tied to a chair and only his left arm to use, at sea, in a storm. All I had to do was describe my lack of satisfaction 3 times a day for a week . Easy peasy.

I once lived with a nurse, bat shit crazy hated the sight of blood. We would drive by a motorcycle collision, those are alway life threatening requiring immediate treatment, saying to herself, “I’m not a nurse, I’m not a nurse…” She worked on the psych ward and ate at the hospital for free. One of her colleagues went home every night got into bed and ate a can of cake frosting. She was skinny as a rail with a large belly, apparently.
While I knew my nurse/lover she had three operations for hemorrhoids, couldn’t understand why I ate from my garden in Victoria where we lived. She thought I was growing pot and screwing the neighbors. Eventually she met a rich abusive engineer just like her Dad and quit coming home at night, so I insisted she move out. I saw her and the engineer 20 years later, both looked bitter and hateful and plugged up. A good match.

I once dated a female engineer, met her in Starbucks, that bastion of dispensed diuretics and laxatives in grande form. She was dealing with ‘a depression’ as she called it, on medical leave. She was smart and loved sex, could talk about things other than oil refineries which she built, but bored easily and played with her poop. We didn’t last, the 50 shades of poop was a deal breaker. I decided I would wait for the movie, then avoid the void. She decided to hate me for cause: poop rejection. Love me love my poop kind of thing.

People obsessed with their poop do that.They hate everybody. You can spot them a mile away by their gait, walking like their buttplut is in a little too tight. They really got perturbed, those butt-plugged nurses, when they would grab my boiled eggs to peel them, unasked, and I would say, “did you wash your hands?” Guilt ridden they assumed I knew their shame secrets, and they were right, who wants fecal matter on their boiled eggs?

I was really glad to get a new home 6 months later and move in…still am…what a shitty experience that was.




Art as Choice

A professional artist (visual) after 6 years of 12 to 18 hours a day training, looking at images, the genius of art history, and a further say 20 years of practice, understands every pictorial element they choose to place in an image and why they made those choices. A composer knows every note on the page, a writer every word, of conscious choice.
Those who don’t are called amateurs.
The notions of subconscious theory of art making were made popular in modernity by Clement Greenberg, a non art maker wanting to keep his status as godlike critic, gatekeeper for the galleries, like Jerry Saltz is struggling to do today. Greenberg was against artist education famously saying ‘keep them stupid’.
The psychotherapeutic notions of subconscious and ego are from the early 1900’s, and have been long replaced by evidence based cognitive therapies. 
The evidence is I placed these visual elements together using educated free will and power of choice, based on the 800 years of history and tradition of western European Art History. I favour the use of the golden mean from ancient Greece as a composition technique for example. I choose not to use the history and traditions of Indigenous culture, or the cultures thousands of years older than mine of India, China or the Middle East.
That there are secret motivations (my subconscious sexual attraction to my mother and my ego wanting to kill my father to replace him) with secret mind powers that control my choices is not supported by known evidence.
Free will and the power of choice, grant me responsibility and authorship of my work, no one else.

Plenty of Fish

It’s not much to go on, my little profile. Quick decisions and a desire for perfection are a desire for loneliness and staying single. Also, to say that you can know me without getting to knowing me, is pretty offensive not to mention grandiose in your god like power to reduce a very complicated thing like a human to a few lines on a screen. It displays a lot of anxiety, and probably depression, if not full blown narcissism.
This is good information and your preferences describe you of course and not me. I would prefer someone who is not a perfectionist, who sees all humans without condition, who doesn’t see age or skin colour or religion or ability to walk fast or slow. Someone like me, and probably not you. I’m patient, my partner is rare as am I.

I am living the life, in a place I love, in the city I love. This is a choice and I choose to love myself and my life, and given half a chance, you as well. These are good choices. I’m a professional artist, documenting and commenting on what I love.
I don’t see age, once folks are an adult, or colour or ‘disability’ whatever that is, we all deal with challenges. That’s why I don’t prefer religion, new age woo woo and yoga cults. I tried them all and found them to be overly-authoritarian creating anxiety and depression.
I am not looking for a lifeline, someone to get me away from all this, and neither are you. We are where we want to be with goals for future satisfactions.
I am self sufficient, even while recovering from injuries, the part of life that happens to all of us, from time to time.
I remember when I first had a stroke, and in a wheelchair, some friends and colleagues wouldn’t be seen with me in public, even the coffee shop at the hospital, afraid of standing out in public, being exposed by being with a freak, a gimp. They were more handicapped than I was at the time.
Now I can walk, and drive a car, live not in hospital, that was 6 months of hell; it was full of damaged perfectionists, hating themselves and each other.
I am happy I exist and with my ability to create satisfaction in my life. I’m not waiting to have a life somewhere else at some future time, I’m doing it now, dealing with the hardships everyone has, then ignoring them and creating enjoyment. (www.jeraldblackstock.ca) This my self care and my responsibility, I take it seriously. Besides it’s fun. Care to share my enjoyment? I hope you brought your sense of humour, you are going to need it. 🙂

My artists statement, it says a lot about me:

I was born in the Kananaskis, Alberta, Canada, my grandfather was a homesteader near Blue Rock, west of Turner Valley. The Bow Valley has been my life.

After working as the art director at Chinook Plastics, where I supervised and produced the architectural signage for large projects such as the Cave and Basin in Banff and the University of Calgary I moved on to a career at Art School (Alberta University for the Arts) where after 6 years of study I taught painting and drawing. (c.v. attached)

By editing to create fleeting moments of exaggerated light, colour and pattern, my contemporary approach to digital painting has created a body of work that is brimming with nostalgia for my first homes (after the loss of parents): the streets of Calgary, and the mountains of the Bow Valley

The works are similar in spirit to Nouvelle Vague:

“From this passion for art they developed a belief in the theory of the auteur: that is, a conviction that the best works are the product of a personal artistic expression and should bear the stamp of personal authorship, much as great works of literature bear the stamp of the writer.” © 2008 Simon Hitchman

“(An artist) makes liberal use of artistic license to significantly embellish or change the circumstances of real-life incidents by any means possible” – Rosalind E. Krauss – Wiki.

With my emphasis on feeling, I’m a personal history expressionist. I relate to Alice Neel, who as “A successor to the expressionism of Chaim Soutine, Edward Munch, and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Neel used distorted drawing and invented color to reveal the character beneath each sitter’s physical appearance. (© Artsy)”

I use the camera, editing software, a formal education in painting aesthetics and a lifetime of fine art practice to reveal what lies beneath; the poetry of existence.

How Do You Keep Them Down On The Farm?

My uncle “was a safe man, a jugger, a man whose specialty was opening safes by whatever means was most appropriate. He was comfortable with liquid nitro and with plastic explosive, he was expert at peeling, he could drill out a combination lock or cut a circular hole in the top of a solid steel safe. He had helped to tunnel into vaults, to by-pass time locks and to remove wall safes entirely, so they could be worked on at leisure somewhere else.” Butcher’s Moon – Richard Stark.
My uncle was a skilled craftsman, as devoted to his work as any fine jeweler. My Uncle Harvey was a hard case criminal, often addicted to heroin and a dealer, a famous guy, the first Canadian to be put in jail forever under the new incorrigible prisoners act. This, I believe, was a law instituted at the behest of Senator Patrick Burns, whose Burns meat packing safe was blown up regularly by my uncle, using nitro he made a few blocks away on Prince’s Island, a local lumber magnate.
I had my first painting and drawing lessons in the Burn’s building when it was run down and infested with artists.
My uncle shipped heroin from Vancouver via the Royal Mail (Canada Post) to my grandmother in Turner Valley, a micro town in Alberta, famous for the first oil well, where I was born into poverty.
The Mounties, who often got it wrong, raided my Mom’s house a few blocks away instead, ripping open the furniture while watched by 4 small kids, as my Dad, a former soldier and coal miner, lay dying of lung cancer in a Calgary military hospital.
My uncle, while languishing in his fame/shame in Canada’s toughest prison, Kingston penitentiary, as Canada’s first incorrigible, got a BA, an English degree, in prison in the 1950’s, wrote a book, Bitter Humour by Harvey Blackstock. He was released to Toronto upon publication, as evidence of his rehabilitation, where like a lot of career criminals and artists, he drove cab.
His book is a series of anecdotes about how crime doesn’t pay, reminding of the Coen brothers movies, in that it details a series of fuck ups and lost profits, a description made for the parole board to demonstrate his penance learned in penitentiary. I suspect it was a total fabrication
In no way, for example, does it describe how much fun he had, with the drugs, the sex workers, the excitement of making nitro and subsequent, explosions.
He was a sociopath narcissist, which he learned at his mother’s knee. Passed on from generation to generation, the reason why my father married one. Typically, he liked change, commitments weren’t for him.
He started riding the rails during the Depression, when my Irish Catholic grandmother sent half of his 17 younger brothers and sisters to the Salvation Army, for lack of food on the farm, to end up as 3 meetings a day AA cult recruiters.
According to his book, his drug of choice was codeine which medicated his chronic lung disease, a gateway drug to heroin. He rode the rails and was a small time criminal, breaking into drugstores for cough syrup, leading to prison time and higher education as a safe cracker and artist.
This was, and remains today in police circles, the current theory of gateway drugs and activities, controlling our free will and power of choice by some form of magic.
Personally, because I’ve met a lot of artists and similar convicts driving cab, I think he had a lot of fun, with like minded souls, prison as an artist colony.
Sex drugs, rock and roll, how can you keep them down on the farm?


https://www.amazon.com/Bitter-Humour-About-Cracking-Prisons/dp/B000XV5VV4

Taking Back My Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships

REBT Self-Help Form

What is the situation that you are upset about?
     Answer: I put it together. Devastated by narcissist dumping, by a live in partner a business deal I made when I was preyed upon and vulnerable, followed by a fiancé business deal I made when I was preyed upon and vulnerable, followed by an art director dumping me a deal I made when preyed upon and vulnerable, followed by Ashram fiends that I made when I was preyed upon and vulnerable. Followed by being dumped by my minister at the church when I sought evidenced based medical help for the consequential loss. The vulnerability was in times of loss, transition, and I was their prime target, intelligent, and hurting, unassertive. Serial narcs all in a row. I was extremely susceptible to their love bombing. Source: Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships

What are the unhealthy negative emotions that you are experiencing?
     Answer: depression rage anxiety shame embarrassment hurt guilt jealousy

What self-defeating behaviors would you like to change?
     Answer: withdrawing, avoiding art work and social contact, I dropped art, went driving courier, procrastination about art and exercise then overindulged in feel good behaviors by overeating. It took several years to recover from the devastation, and become more self helping, with diet and exercise and learing a new art form that wasn’t a trigger, years of creative development.

What demand are you making about the situation?
     Answer: I MUST be liked and accepted, loved by significant others, perform well, or else I am an inadequate worthless person. This notion I was indoctrinated in since birth, reinforced by physical and emotional beatings.
     Dispute: Why must I? Is there any evidence that I am inadequate and worthless?
     Rational Belief: No there is no evidence that I am a useless unworthy person, that conclusion just loops back to the original self abusive statement and is self defeating, that I must do as others say or they won’t like me, and if they don’t like me I am a shit. That’s just slavery. Others likes and dislikes describe only their likes and dislikes. Not me, ever. This is motivating to make new public art and risk, actually guarantee, the displeasure of millions.

What are your new healthy negative emotions?
     Answer: sadness concern disappointment, regret about getting manipulated, even though it was hard to see it coming. I have learned recently that setting boundaries is my best protection, even though I will be disliked and called abusive for stating my preferences.


Warning: This form should not be considered a substitute for individualized treatment with a mental health professional. If you are seeing a counselor or a therapist, it is recommended that you print this page and discuss your responses with him or her.

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