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Phobia, go away!

Published by
abraxus
 in void space. 0 Comments

OK, many people write here about their memories and dreams.
I would like to tap in subject of fears or phobias. Most of the phobias can’t be really traced. Some are probably imprinted in us. Let’s say, we don’t like snakes. I saw a snake first time when I was about 20, for instance, but remember, what when I was a kid, I always tried to sit in an armchair with legs up on the seat, as I was afraid what a snake would bite me from under. Even then I thought it can’t be possible what a snake would be on the 7th floor of our block of flats in a harsh winter, 20 Celsius below zero. But I couldn’t bring myself to put my feet down. I could spend a whole evening imagining scenarios of how a snake could sneak under my armchair.

Anyway, I suppose most of phobias are triggered by something in remote past, early childhood and long time forgotten memories. I can trace one my phobia though, as I can recall what happened to me.

I travelled to one remote city hitchhiking. I was very young, completely broke and wanted to see a girl I was in love with. To cut it short, she did not fancy me much and her boyfriend did even less. They lived in a massive hostel inhabited with hundreds students at that time. She had a kind heart, so instead of kicking me out I was fed and passed to a friend of hers who happened to live alone in a spacious room in that hostel. This friend of her was a girl of enormous size. She spoke in a deep low voice which could shake a glass and was torturing me all the way down along endless staircases and corridors with tales about her romantic adventures.
To be honest, my mind was occupied in that moment so I couldn’t remember what they were about even the next day, do not mention years later.

Eventually I found myself in her room. It was filled with hundreds of little objects. Everything was of dwarfs’ size. The girl obviously tried her best to fit in that space as many tiny objects as possible. Everything there was organized by a principle “the smaller is the better”. She had dolls’ furniture and cutlery, small carpets, miniature stereo and lots of stupid useless toy objects which she apparently was collecting.
It was too much… Simply beyond my capability to digest it. I left her place at once with a splitting headache.
That’s how I recognized that I have a psychological trauma about everything little.
Small things are just freaking me out; I don’t like dwarf pets, dogs and ponies either.

I wonder what I can do with it. Well, some people could say that phobias and fixations are the integral part of our individuality. Phobium ergo est. I’m scared, therefore I exist. Johnny Depp is afraid of clowns for instance. They are freaking him out, he said in his recent interview. I’ve met a girl while ago who confessed she is afraid of balloons. What’s wrong with clowns? What’s wrong with fucking balloons? Why do I have to feel uneasy surrounded by small objects? I tried to google my phobia, but couldn’t find even a specific name for it, so there was no way to find out how I can deal with it.
It’s not a serious problem though, just a little annoyance.
I have learnt anyway what one of the best ways to deal with phobias is to talk about them. That’s what this post is about actually, so you know.

abraxus

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Days We Won’t Forget

Published by
Traverse
 in memory. 0 Comments

Everyone has those days that they’ll never forget. Those days that have had such a large impact on someone that it changes them for the rest of their life.

I know I’ll never forget the happiest day of my life- the day that I got married to Alyssa, the kind of girl that every guy dreams of. I also know I’ll never forget the day that she was torn from my life.

I still remember hearing the phone ring, her voice whispering over the line. “I need help” she said, barely audible.

I remember getting to the scene of the accident. I remember her car being in the ditch, I remember the truck being on its side in the middle of the road. I remember all of the flashing lights and police officers and EMT’s. It all seems like a bad dream to me now. But the sun was shining by the time I got there. The sun doesn’t shine in bad dreams.

“You need to stop,” said a police officer as he held his hand to my chest in an attempt to restrain me.

That’s my wife!” I shouted as I saw her being lifted into the back of the ambulance.
I remember riding in the back of the ambulance, holding her small, cold hand in mine as she drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering “I love you” and “hang in there” to her, not even caring if she heard me or not. I remember the gash in her forehead. I remember the blood running down her arms. I remember the bloodstains in her shirt.

The worst part of this ordeal was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, and the doctors coming out, telling me there were no improvements, hour after hour. Eventually they told me I needed to go home. I refused.

I was allowed into her room on the morning of the second day. I sat on the edge of her bed. Her hand found mine and held it weakly.

I love you,” she whispered, her eyes barely open.

“I love you too” was the last thing I said before I heard her heart monitor flatline. I held her hand in mine, tears running down my face, as doctors rushed in and pushed me out of the room.

I’ll never forget that day. It’s a recurring dream that haunts me every night I lay alone in bed. I’ll never forget that day.

Traverse

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Is it reincarnation or memory retained in DNA?

Published by
Hazel
 in memory. 0 Comments

About 14 years ago I was regressed to a previous life. I firmly believed that I had lived before at least once and the experience was so real that I still remember all of it. However, recently I discovered that one of my ancestors had done things very similar to what I experienced in my regression session. This lead me wonder if DNA could possibly carry memory as well as physical and personality traits.

I did not think about reincarnation or have any strong views either way, before the above happened. Apart from thinking I must have done something really awful in a previous life to be lumbered with my present one. as for the first part of my life I was abused and depressed.

In regression I was a young man (I said my name was Tom Brown) I was taking a horse to market , walking along a unmade road, dressed in drab brown with my feet wrapped in some sort of crudely made leather boots. The horse it appears belonged to my master, he was not aware that I was going to sell it. Moved on, a few weeks later I was taking a crop of wheat to the mill. I had harvested it the previous night without the owners permission. The final uncovered memory found me in a jail in York. I clearly remember seeing wagon wheels from a barred window below ground level. I also remember feet, wrapped in leather of variou colours with ties around the ankles, going past the window. I did not go on with regression and did not think very much about the above again. I had visited York on several occasions, and loved the city but had not other connection with it in this life time.

About 5 years ago I began researching my family history. I was fascinated and got real pleasure from discovering new ancestors and every new bit of information exited me. None of my family were rich. My mothers father’s family (Chapelow) were very interesting. I traced them back to Yorkshire and discovered that in 1792 a my grandfather’s many times great grandparents married in Seaton Ross and moved to York where they raised a family. I got no further with this line and explored other branches instead.

Through genes reunited on the Internet I contacted someone who had the same ancestry but who had managed to take the trail further back. She told me that a John Chapelow stole a horse in Yarm in Yorkshire, he appears several times before that in the Goal book but the last entry said he was executed on 12th March 1730, for horse theft.

I know that the stories do not exactly match. I said my name in regression was Tom Brown, not John Chapelow. I could have been using a false name as I was in the act of stealing a horse when asked. I always felt an affinity with York when visiting the city, long before I was aware that my ancestors lived there. I also was in awe of London and loved to visit the city. (My Dad’s ancestors lived in London for a few generations.) Another place I felt the same affinity for was the Isle of Wight another place that my ancestors were traced back to.

As we are all aware DNA carries all of what we are made of. Does it also carry memory? I would love to know if anyone else has considered the possibility or has similar experiences to myself that would support my theory.

Hazel

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My life as a tiger

Published by
boris kislitsin
 in memory. 5 Comments

Once there was a Bengal tiger in Russian zoo. It was born and spent most of his life in a small cage. He had just enough space to make a couple of steps, jump, make a couple of steps and jump again. Then the tiger had to turn around and repeat the same routine in opposite direction. I have read somewhere that usually in wild a grown up tiger needs something like 16 to 20 sq.km of habitat, otherwise it get stressed. I wonder how much space a human being needs. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, that particular tiger lived in a cage the size of 16 or 20 sq.m, and, obviously, was very stressed. When such an animal as tiger get stressed, it feels uneasy, and can’t rest. That tiger was restless. All it did from dusk till down is pacing the cage. 2 steps, jump, 2 more steps, another jump, turn, 2 steps, jump, 2 more steps, jump, turn around, 2 steps, jump… You have the picture. Naturally, tiger’s living conditions had to be improved. The story goes in the time just after the collapse of the Soviet Union and total collapse of everything on the 1/8th of planet’s landmass, circa middle 1990’s. As it happens in times like this, some people used the situation to the full, and made crazy fortunes. If you ever tried to get from 0 to 100 in just above 3 sec., let’s say on a powerful motobike, you can figure out how it is. Somebody, let’s call him Mr.S., made it from living in a shared with few our families run down apartment in sleepy suburbs to amassing a fortune Imelda Markos could only dream of, comparing to each a budget of a middle size African country is just a pocket money, in a couple of years time. So one day this Mr.S. visited zoo by chance. He spent a good deal of time in front of this cage with Bengal tiger, watching it moves. Maybe he was in nostalgic mood, maybe this cage reminded him the apartment he grown up in, or probably deep down he was a very sensitive person. Some say he was bored, some he was drunk. Whatever the reason, Mr.S. was touched. He went to the zoo director straight away, and asked him, how much money zoo needs to improve tiger’s living conditions. I know this story from the first hands, as a friend of mine, non compromise poet and alcoholic, worked there as a zookeeper, as it was one of very few jobs he could fit himself in. Next day the construction has begun, and soon everything was ready for the grand opening. They set an artificial landscape, so tiger could have a little lake to bath, a cave for him to hide and a little forest resembling jungle; that small provincial zoo somethat tripled in size. In attendance of TV crew, press and Mr.S., they brought in crane and lifted the cage.

Continue reading ‘My life as a tiger’

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