Don's Review: Law, Politics, Science, Philosophy

'Ego Tunnel': Is There Free Will Or Are We Machines With Neuron Parts, by Garland DeGreeff

Aug. 1, 2009

[Garland DeGreef is a veteran journalist with a J.D. from the University of Minnesota Law School and an M.S. in Mass Communication from the same university.]

One main obstacle blocked my conversion to atheism in 2006:

How could consciousnessand thereby free will, a sense of ownership or self, have developed from carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen and other elements.

The first question is answeredin my mindby Thomas Metzinger, author of "The Ego Tunnel: The Science of the Mind and the Myth of the Self," (Basic Books, 2009)--although, he early on punts on the question of free will and, by the end of the book, seems to take a firm stand that there is NOT free will, but never says so in those exact words.

He goes about the subject bit by bit, just as evolution went about itbit by bit:

The stronger and more stable your self-model, the less susceptible you are to the affordances surrounding you, he writes. Autonomy comes in degrees; it has to do with immunization, with shielding yourself from infection by potential goal-states in the environment.

The phenomenal experience of ownership and of agency are thus intimately related and important aspects of the conscious self. If you lose control over your actions, your sense of self is greatly diminishedas when you suddenly become a quadraplegic like Christopher Reeve.

There is solid empirical evidence that the hand is represented in Brocas area, a part of our brain that is of recent evolution, distinguishes from monkeys, and has to do with language comprehension and meaning. The thinking self would then have grown out of the bodily self, by simulating bodily movements in an abstract, mental space. This would show how aq thinking thing could have evolved out of an extended thing. This a theme running through recent research on agency and self: In its origin, the Ego is a neurocomputational device for appropriating and controlling the bodyfirst the physical one and then the virtual one.

There is a kind of agency even more subtle than the ability to experience yourself as a coherent acting self. It is called attentional agency, which is the experience of being the entity that controls the "ray of attention" As an attentional agent, you can initiate a shift in attention and direct , as it were, your inner flashlight at targets. Many times people lose attentional agency and their sense of self is weakened, such as in the dream state. Others like severe drunkeness or senile dementia, you may lose the ability to direct your attention, and feel like "yourself is falling apart."

What is the neural correlate of the sense of effort? Imagine we knew this neural correlate (we will soon) and we also had the precise model common to all three kinds of experienceing effort.If you had the correlates, and you introspect your own sense of effort, would it still appear as something personal, something that belongs to you? The Alien Hand syndrome forces us to conclude that what we CALL the will can be OUTSIDE our self model as well as inside it. Such goal-directed movements might not be consc experienced at all.

Many of our best empirical theories suggest that the special sense of self associated with agency has to do both with the cons experience of having an intention and with the experience of motor feedback. The exp of selecting a goal-state must be integrated with the subseq exp of bodily movement. The selfmodel achieves just that. It BINDS THE PROCESS by which the mind creates compares alternatives with feedback. This binding turns the exp of the movement into the exp of action. But note that neither the "mind" nor the self model is a little man in the head; there is no one doing the creating, the comparing and the deciding. If the dynamical systems theory is correct then all of this is a case of dynamical self organization in the brain. If they are not bound yyou may feel like a schizophrenic, that they are controlled by someone else.

So selfhood is something independent, because one can retain the sense of ownership yet lose the sense of agency. But one can also hallucinate agency. You can have the robust conscious experience of having intended an action even if this wasnt the case. By directly stimulating the brain, we can trigger not only the execution of a bodily movement, but also the conscious experience of having the urge to performn that movement.

We can experimentally induce the conscious experience of will. Whatever the conscious experience of will may be, it seems to be something that can be turned off and on with the help of a small electrical current from an electrode in the brain.

The social context and the long-term experience of being an agent of course contribute to creating the sense of agency. One might suspect that the sense of agency is only a subjective appearance, a swift reconstruction after the act; still, todays best cognitive neuroscience of the will shows that it is also a preconstruction. It is similar to introspectively peeping into the middle of a long processing chain in your brain. Patrick Haggard of the University College of London has demonstrated that our conscious awareness of movement is NOT generated by the execution of ready-made motor commands; instead, it is shaped by preparatory processes in the premotor system of the brain. Our awareness of intention is closely related to the specification of which movements we want to make. When the brain simulates ALTERNATIVE possibilities, the conscious experience of intention SEEMS to be directly related to the selection. That is, the awareness of movement is associated not so much with the actual execution as with an earlier brain stage: the process of preparing a movement by assembling parts into a coherent whole.

Our access to the ongoing motor processing is extremely restricted; awareness is limited to a very narrow window of premotor activity. If Haggard is right, then the sense of agency, the conscious experience of BEING SOMEONE WHO ACTS results from the process of binding the awarenes of intention with the representation of ones actual movements. This suggests that subjective awareness of intention can detect potentia mismatches with events.

We are now beginning to see what the conscious experience of agency is and how to explain its evolutionary function. The conscious experience of will and of agency allows an organism to OWN the subpersonal processes in its brain responsible for the selection of goals, the construction of movement patterns, and the feedback from the body.

When this sense of agency evolved in human beings, some of the stages were raised to the level of global availability. NOW, we could attend to them, think about them, and possibly even interrupt them. For the FIRST time, we could experience ourselves as beings with goals. For the first time, we could FORM and INTERNAL IMAGE OF OURSELVES as able to fulfill certain needs. CONCEIVING of ourselves as autonomous agents, enabled us to discover that OTHER beings in our environment probably were agents too.

He says, "Determinism and free will are compatible. However, I take no position on free will, here, because I am interested [in other points]." However, he does say quickly that the widely shared scientific view is that the current state of the physical universe always determines the next state of the universe, and your brain is a part of this universe.

We clearly experience ourselves as beings that CAN initiate new causal chains out of the blueas beings that COULD have acted otherwise in the same situation. The "unsettling point," he says, "is that a final theory may CONTRADICT the way we have been subjectively experiencing ourselves for millenia. There will likely be a conflict between the scientific view and the phenomenal narrative, the subjective STORY our brains tell us about what happens when we decide to act.

When certain processing stages are elevated to the level of conscious experience and bound into the self-model active in your brain, the become available for ALL your mental capacities. Now you experience them as your OWN thoughts or urges to actas properties that BELONG to you. They appear spontaneous because they are the first link in the chain to cross the border from unconscious to conscious brain processes; you have the IMPRESSION that they appeared in your mind "out of the blue," so to speak. The unconsious precursor is invisible, but the link exists. The fact that the conscious experience is just a SLIVER of the process in the brain, and since THIS fact does NOT appear to us, we have the robust experience of being able to spontaneously initiate causal chains. This is the appearance of an agent. The brain is blind to its own inner workings.

The science of the mind is now beginning to reintroduce those hidden facts into our ego tunnels. There will be a CONFLICT between the biological reality tunnel in our heads and the neuroscientific image ojf humankind, and many people sense that this image might present a danger to our mental health. He goes on to write, "I think the irritation and deep sense of resentment surrounding debates on the freedom of the will have little to do with the actual options on the table. These reactions have to do with the perfectly sensible INTUITION that certain types of answers will not only be emotionally disturbing, but ultimately impossible to integrate into our conscious self-models.

The idea of free will does not exist in our minds aloneit is also a social institution. It is a window connecting us with social practice around us. The assumption that something like free agency exists is a concept fundamental to our legal system and the rules governing societiesrules built on accountability and guilt. These rules are mirrored deep in the structure of our self-model and this incessant mirroring, created complex social networks. If one day, we must tell an entirely different story about what human will is this will affect our societies in an unprecedented way. For example, it would be meaningless to punish people (as opposed to rehabilitating them). RETRIBUTION would then appear to be a STONE AGE concept, something we inherited from animals.

When neuroscience discovers the sufficient neural correlates for willing, desiring, and executing an action, we will be able to cause, amplify and modulate the conscious experience of will. It will become clear that the ACTUAL causes of our actions often have very little to do with what the conscious self tells us.

We now have an information jungle that is increasing each day. It already is reconfiguring our brain. Perhaps our body perception will change as we learn to control multiple avatars in multiple virtual realities, embedding our conscious self into entirely new kinds of senorimotor loopos. A growing number of social interactions may be avatar-to-avatar and we already know that social interactions in cyberspace increase the sense of presence more strongly than higher-resolution graphics ever could. We may finallly come to understand that a lot of our conscious social life has been all along-and interaction between images, a highly mediated process in which mental MODELS of persons begin to causally influence one another.

We already use the the Internet as part of our self-model. We use it for exernal memory storage , as a cognitive prosthesis and for emotional autoregulation. We are learning to multitask, our attention span is shorter and our social rels have a disembodied character.

A related problem is management of our attention. The ability to attend to our environment, to our own feelings to those of others as naturally evolved feature of the human braing. Attention is a finaite commodity. Our brains can generate only a limited amount of attention each day.

The advertisement and entertainment industries are attacking our foundations for experience and trying to rob us of our scarce attention. New insight s into the human mind by cognitive and brain science "neuromarketing" is one of the ugly new buzzwords. If I am right that consciousness is the space of attentional agency and if it is also true that the experience of controling and sustaining your focus of attention is one of the deeper layers of phenomenal (experience) selfhood, then we are witnessing not only an organized attack on the space of consciousness per se, but a form of depersonalization. New media may create a new form of waking consciousness that resembles weakly subjective statesa mixture of dreaming, dementia, intoxication and infantilization.

Lives can be ruined because we have not done our homework. The price of denial may rise. Many new psychoactive substances of the hallucinogen-typesuch as 2C-B ("Venus" or "Nexus") or 2C-T-7 (Blue Mystic" or "T7"0 are out on the illegal market without any clinical testing; their numbers will continue to increase.

And thats just the old problems the homework we never did. In our ultrafast, ever more competitive and RUTHLESS modern societies, very few people are seeking deeper spritual experience. They want alterness, concentration, emotional stability, and charismathings thatr lead to success. In the rich societies of the world, people are growing older than ever beforeand they want not just quantity but QUALITY of life. BIG PHARMA knows this. Everybody has heard of modafinil, and perhaps that is already with us in the Iraq war; but there are at least 40 new molecules in the pipeline. There is hope and alarmism is not the right attitude, but the technology is not going away.

Big Pharma, circumventing the border between legal and illegal substances is quietly developing new compounds; they know that cognitive enhancers will reap them hefty future profits from "nonmedical use." For instance, Cephalon, maker of modafinil has said that 90 percent of prescriptions currently are for off-label used. The spread of Internet pharmacies has given them new ways for distribution and new tools for mass testing potential long-term effects.

Modern neuroethics will have to careat a new approach to drug policy: The key question is: Which brain states should be legal?

U.S.: Billions Shunted Into Stem-Cell Research, Neuroscience Weapons? by Steve Homan

Nov. 11, 2009

I AM a progressive, despite what I plan to write next. The Houses health care plan is insane, especially in the face of polls indicating that most Americans favor a single-payor, womens-choice-in-reproductive-rights plan, instead.

It is insane because it breaks down Jeffersons hallowed wall between church and state. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., kissed the wrinkled behinds of a mostly white, 60-something, male-dominated U.S. Catholic Bishops Conference and took out any federal funding for ANY abortions.

This was a back-door reversal of Roe v. Wade. In baseball parlance, a backdoor slider is a pitch to the batter that looks unhittable, but, at the last second, curves into the strike zone. At the last second, to get this 3,900-page monstrosity passed, Pelosi, President Barack Obama (The Great Compromiser or The Corporate Brand) agreed with those Catholic stewards of fairy tales. This resulted in the nonjudicial reversal of Roe v. Wade.

However, Mr. Jefferson, in his brilliance (likely while musing as he lay in bed one morning with his black mistress) thought that times were likely to change; life would not be like it was in 1789 forever, and, thus, the quote found on his Memorial in D.C.:

"I am not an advocate for frequent changes in laws and constitutions, but laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind. As that becomes more developed, more enlightened, as new discoveries are made, new truths discovered and manners and opinions change, with the change of circumstances, institutions must advance also to keep pace with the times. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors."

Thomas Jefferson, Panel Four within the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, D.C.

So, the backdoor breakdown of the wall between religion and state.

And, so, the continued gigantic profits for Big Pharma and Big Bio. Weapons have changed since Jeffersons day, as have communications, as has the possible infiltration of enemies within the actual homeland of the United States. In Jeffersons day, the U.S. was virtually a fortress, impossible to attack because of the two oceans on either side.

Now, weaponwise, we have within easy reach the ability to attack and conquer entire countries with drugs; we can nearly map each area of the brain and determine what its function is; and we are in stiff competition, even with Britain, to build biological weapons, using stem-cell technology that also could wipe out entire populationsmillions or even billions of people within days. This would be worse than a nuclear war during the heyday of the Cold War. Yes, worse.

Unfortunately, human beings have remained immersed in self-loving tribalistic blindness laced with a pathological refusal to accept responsibility for ones actions. Thus, the latest fairy tale, mainly since 9/11, that sees human history as a war between Islam on one side and Christianity and Judaism on the other. This causes participants to think of others as not fully human. They start to believe that others outside their tribe can be mangled, tortured, and killed blamelessly and that it is ADMIRABLE to do so.

Heres the tricky partthe part where you may leave this website and never return: I believe Pelosi, Obama, the complicit Democrats, and those abhorrent Republicans, behind the sceneswhich is quite easy given todays Fawning Corporate Mediaagreed with the Bush-Cheney analysis that billions should go into Big Pharma and Big Bio offensive and defensive R&D as fast as possible---not for health care, which in its current and near-future form kills about 40,000 people a year. Yes, because of the cowardly-named War on Terror, our leaders are willing to sacrifice thousands of people INSIDE America. A war means sacrificing lives in defense of the homeland, doesnt it?

This windfall to insurance and Big Pharma is different than the one to Wall Street. Afterall, we never hear derogatory remarks about all that money from The Commoners (The Masses)(Main Street) going toward bonuses for health insurance or pharma executives, as we do about the millions for Wall Street bonuses.

This is more like the fantastical area in Nevada where the federal government supposedly stores and researches UFOs. Its something that Obama, Pelosi and the feds cant tell us, or we, the teeming, unschooled masses, will panic. And society would end. As if it isnt hanging by a thread anyway.

How can I back up such fantastical statements? Am I a kooky conspiracy junkie? Maybe. But I doubt it.

It is well-addressed in two new books that in easy-reading-style describe the coming power of stem-cell and neuroscience weapons.

One book is called The Stem Cell Dilemma: Beacons of Hope or Harbingers of Doom? by Leo Furcht and William Hoffman (Arcade Publishing, 2009). It shows how the world of science, including biomedical science, is racing ahead of the world of law.

It also is racing ahead of good-old economics. However, the man or woman on the street has no idea of this ongoing and accelerating arms race. The connection of research to economic growth is not as well-appreciated as its connection to public health and national defense.

Science involving deadly pathogens, stem cells, and cloning has disturbed deeply embedded core beliefs. The culture of life championed by religious conservatives can be a formidable barrier to research. But the U.S.s prudishness may not last long as it loses money. England not only permits but also promotes embryonic stem cell research and research cloning.

To put this in perspective, the global market for just ONE drug that makes more red blood cells from blood-forming stem cellserythropoietinis approximately $4 billion annually. Imagine the value of a drug that could regenerate heart muscle for people who have had heart atttacks?

The era of bioterrorism also leaves no room for apathy or ignorance, the authors write.

Big Pharma is connected with Defense, which is where all money goes. No new health care system will be devised that lowers the amount of money that can be channeled into Big Pharma, because of the weapons (both offensive and defensive) it will have to produce regarding the human mind and stem cells in the very near future.

The U.S. economy depends on continual warfare now, which means money goes to any kind of weapon production--in this case, drugs or stem cell-related products, that could be more devastating than nuclear weapons. That is why we will not have single-payor or "government-payor" care anytime soon. This is a hot area because of recent discoveries in neuroscience. Check out the other new book mentioned above, Thomas Metzinger's The Ego Tunnel: The Science of the Mind and the Myth of the Self, (Basic Books, 2009):

When neuroscience discovers the sufficient neural correlates for willing, desiring, and executing an action, we will be able to cause, amplify and modulate the conscious experience of will. It will become clear that the ACTUAL causes of our actions will be proved to often have very little to do with what the conscious self tells us.

We now have an information jungle that is increasing each day. It already is reconfiguring our brain. Perhaps our body perception will change as we learn to control multiple avatars in multiple virtual realities, embedding our conscious self into entirely new kinds of sensorimotor loops. A growing number of social interactions may be avatar-to-avatar and we already know that social interactions in cyberspace increase the sense of presence more strongly than higher-resolution graphics ever could. We may finally come to understand that a lot of our conscious social life has been all along-and interaction between images, a highly mediated process in which mental MODELS of persons begin to causally influence one another.

We already use the the Internet as part of our self-model. We use it for exernal memory storage , as a cognitive prosthesis and for emotional autoregulation. We are learning to multitask, our attention span is shorter and our social rels have a disembodied character.

A related problem is management of our attention. The ability to attend to our environment, to our own feelings to those of others as naturally evolved feature of the human braing. Attention is a finite commodity. Our brains can generate only a limited amount of attention each day.

The advertisement and entertainment industries are attacking our foundations for experience and trying to rob us of our scarce attention.

New insights into the human mind by cognitive and brain science neuromarketing is one of the ugly new buzzwords. The author writes, If I am right that consciousness is the space of attentional agency and if it is also true that the experience of controlling and sustaining your focus of attention is one of the deeper layers of phenomenal (experience) selfhood, then we are witnessing not only an organized attack on the space of consciousness per se, but a form of depersonalization. New media may create a new form of waking consciousness that resembles weakly subjective statesa mixture of dreaming, dementia, intoxication and infantilization.

The author continues: Lives can be ruined because we have not done our homework. The price of denial may rise. Many new psychoactive substances of the hallucinogen-typesuch as 2C-B (Venus or Nexus) or 2C-T-7 (Blue Mystic or T70 are out on the illegal market without any clinical testing; their numbers will continue to increase.

And thats just the old homework we never did. In our ultrafast, ever more competitive and RUTHLESS modern societies, very few people are seeking deeper spritual experience. They want altered concentration, emotional stability, and charismathings that lead to success. In the rich societies of the world, people are growing older than ever beforeand they want not just quantity but QUALITY of life.

BIG PHARMA knows this, he writes. Everybody has heard of modafinil, and perhaps that it is already with us in the Iraq war; but there are at least 40 new molecules in the pipeline. There is hope and alarmism is not the right attitude, but the technology is not going away.

Big Pharma, circumventing the border between legal and illegal substances is quietly developing new compounds; they know that cognitive enhancers will reap them hefty future profits from nonmedical use. For instance, Cephalon, maker of modafinil has said that 90 percent of prescriptions currently are for off-label used. The spread of Internet pharmacies has given them new ways for distribution and new tools for mass testing potential long-term effects.

Modern neuroethics will have to create a new approach to drug policy: The key question is: Which brain states should be legal?

In The Stem Cell Dilemma: Beacons of Hope or Harbingers of Doom? the writers say that the fate of all societies in the face of bioterrorism and epidemic onslaughts will hinge on the health of the human immune system. Advances in stem cell technology, as well as biotechnology and nanotechnology have revealed both the strengths and the vulnerabilities of this system.

The human immune system is perhaps the greatest marvel of biological complexity ranking far ahead of our other physiology. Its workings have been described as cognitivethat is, having an ability to perceive, reason, decide, learn and remember.

Stem cell biology has accelerated our ability not only to follow the development of the immune system, but also to create a replica of the system in a three-dimensional matrix, such as a portable cell growth cassette or laptop system.

Stem cells wield undeniable potential in two fateful arenas: emerging microbial threats and biowarfare. That knowledge is putting humanity in an unprecendented position. Whoever possesses that knowledge possesses the power to destroy that is potentially more pervasive and more sinister than its 20^th-century thermonuclear counterpart.

The concept of defense has pushed immuniology into the forefront of todays basic research and applied techonology, according to the authors. Among the government agencies that fund applied research in immunology is the one that brought us the Internet, Stealth technology, and satellite-enabled global postioning systems. Its the Department of Defense research arm know as DARPA. DARPA along with many, many centers around the world are eyeing stem cells for use in bioprotection through the construction of an artificial, yet interactive and functional, human immune system in the laboratory from a common stem cell source using tissue-engineering technologies. A main first usage would be to test new vaccines.

For these attempts and this genomics research to succeed, strange as it may seem, commercial inkjet printers have become a staple. They actually print LIVING cells. The printers can deposit cells in precise positions in a 3-D matrix of highly specialized bioactive materials that would convert the 3-D space into a bioreactor. A bioreactor can serve as an artifical organ that mimics what occurs in the body.

Researchers at Carnegie-Mellon University have printed a bio-ink of stem cells and growth factors that direct their differentiation into specialized cells.

All of this means that the behavior of these powerful tissue-forming cells is increasingly something that can be CONTROLLED for the first time in a 3-D artificial environment. The next step is to attempt to re-create the stem cell microenvironment, the wellspring of regenerative medicine, in bioreactors.

DARPA and academic collaborators have formed a consortium that is borrowing from the architectural genius of bees to build an artificial environment to foster the growth of cells and development of tissue. They used nanotechnology to create a honeycomb scaffold similar to the internal structure of bone marrow that supports stem cells. The scientists found the scaffold stimulated stem cell interactions and that they were able to control stem cell specialization into the different cells that make up the immune system.

The fate of all societies is very close at hand.

Mental Health Consumers Still Battle Stigma, Ignorance, by Steve Homan

Jan. 16, 2010

Tipper Gore (Als wife), when in the public eye in the 1990s, started a campaign to alleviate the stigma attached to having a mental state different from the normal mental state accepted by society.

Als loss to W. in 2000 dampened her cause.

I would like to renew it, but have no national recognition factor . However, there is one thing I have a testimony about:

Mental health stigma is deadly

Stigma is having your girlfriend not help you with a minor mental-block sexual dysfunction because she equates you with the scum (as TV shows like Criminal Minds describe their suspects) and is afraid of youor doesnt want to be contaminated by a dirtbag (another Criminal Minds noun for mental health consumer).

Stigma is having your boss speak kindly and sweetly to you when you reveal you have trouble with public speaking as found within company meetings of eight or more people. And you tell her youre taking xanax and prozac, which help, but you ask to be allowed to skip meetings or just sit and observe. Then, when the parent company begins layoffs, she signs off on your being one of three laid off from the 100 or so in her division.

Stigma is when your girlfriend not only doesnt help you with sex, but whines to close friends about her enduring you. Then, when you need a favor from those friends, they send you self-righteous, arrogant emails worded in a way Hitlerr may have worded memos to field commanders in World War II.

Stigma is when you try to share your troubles with your family and the family, understandably ignorant of mental health issues, refuses to educate themselves and, disdainfully, stop speaking to you, calling youas did your girlfriendin effect, defective or morally or constitutionally weak.

They place the blame on you because mental health is not considered an illness similar to cancer or even a cold. Because of ignorance, it is termed a poor choice that you made, a weakness, or a sign that the devilyes, the devil (believe in fairy tales and Santa Claus anyone?)is influencing you.

Where Tipper Gore left off, actress Glenn Close, appears to be beginning. Because she declined to write a piece for this website or comment for this article, I publish (below) an article posted on BringChange2Mind.org by herr on Oct. 21, 2009:

Mental Illness: The Stigma of Silence

Mental illness and I are no strangers.

From Alex Forrest in Fatal Attraction to Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire to Norma Desmond in Andrew Lloyd Weber's Sunset Boulevard, I've had the challenge -- and the privilege -- of playing characters who have deep psychological wounds. Some people think that Alex is a borderline personality. I think Blanche suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and everyone knows that Norma is delusional.

I also have the challenge of confronting the far less entertaining reality of mental illness in my own family. As I've written and spoken about before, my sister suffers from a bipolar disorder and my nephew from schizoaffective disorder. There has, in fact, been a lot of depression and alcoholism in my family and, traditionally, no one ever spoke about it. It just wasn't done. The stigma is toxic. And, like millions of others who live with mental illness in their families, I've seen what they endure: the struggle of just getting through the day, and the hurt caused every time someone casually describes someone as "crazy," "nuts," or "psycho".

Even as the medicine and therapy for mental health disorders have made remarkable progress, the ancient social stigma of psychological illness remains largely intact. Families are loath to talk about it and, in movies and the media, stereotypes about the mentally ill still reign.

Whether it is Norman Bates in Psycho, Jack Torrance in The Shining, or Kathy Bates' portrayal of Annie Wilkes in Misery, scriptwriters invariably tell us that the mentally ill are dangerous threats who must be contained, if not destroyed. It makes for thrilling entertainment.

There are some notable exceptions, of course -- Dustin Hoffman in Rainman, or Russell Crowe's portrayal of John Nash in A Beautiful Mind. But more often than not, the movie or TV version of someone suffering from a mental disorder is a sociopath who must be stopped.

Alex Forrest is considered by most people to be evil incarnate. People still come up to me saying how much she terrified them. Yet in my research into her behavior, I only ended up empathizing with her. She was a human being in great psychological pain who definitely needed meds. I consulted with several psychiatrists to better understand the "whys" of what she did and learned that she was far more dangerous to herself than to others.

The original ending of Fatal Attraction actually had Alex commit suicide. But that didn't "test" well. Alex had terrified the audiences and they wanted her punished for it. A tortured and self-destructive Alex was too upsetting. She had to be blown away.

So, we went back and shot the now famous bathroom scene. A knife was put into Alex's hand, making her a dangerous psychopath. When the wife shot her in self-defense, the audience was given catharsis through bloodshed -- Alex's blood. And everyone felt safe again.

The ending worked. It was thrilling and the movie was a big hit. But it sent a misleading message about the reality of mental illness.

It is an odd paradox that a society, which can now speak openly and unabashedly about topics that were once unspeakable, still remains largely silent when it comes to mental illness. This month, for example, NFL players are rumbling onto the field in pink cleats and sweatbands to raise awareness about breast cancer. On December 1st, World AIDS Day will engage political and health care leaders from every part of the globe. Illnesses that were once discussed only in hushed tones are now part of healthy conversation and activism.

Yet when it comes to bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress, schizophrenia or depression, an uncharacteristic coyness takes over. We often say nothing. The mentally ill frighten and embarrass us. And so we marginalize the people who most need our acceptance.

What mental health needs is more sunlight, more candor, more unashamed conversation about illnesses that affect not only individuals, but their families as well. Our society ought to understand that many people with mental illness, given the right treatment, can be full participants in our society. Anyone who doubts it ought to listen to Kay Redfield Jamison, a psychiatry professor at Johns Hopkins, vividly describe her own battles with bipolar disorder.

Over the last year, I have worked with some visionary groups to start BringChange2Mind.org, an organization that strives to inspire people to start talking openly about mental illness, to break through the silence and fear. We have the support of every major, American mental health organization and numerous others.

I have no illusions that BringChange2Mind.org is a cure for mental illness. Yet I am sure it will help us along the road to understanding and constructive dialogue. It will help deconstruct and eliminate stigma.

The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that by the year 2020 mental illness will be the second leading cause of death and disability. Every society will have to confront the issue. The question is, will we face it with open honesty or silence?

Sexual Surrogate Therapy: Still Hidden Because of Stigma, Ethics, and Prostitution Laws, by Steve Homan

It is very difficult to sidestep stigma. Evolution took centuries to make humans as they appear in 2009 after their first mutation off the chimpanizee chain about 57 million years ago

However, in a mere 140 years since the Industrial Revolutionin which mass-produced machines via carbon-based fuel were lauded as miracleswe have taken over this planet and probably brought it past the tipping point towards the end of life as we know it. It hasnt just been physiological mutations. Cultural evolution has become equally importantbut sometimes, extremely slow. For example, in an affluent section of the Bronx young African-American kids are still called names by their counterpart white kids, as in: But I said, Im sorry to the blackie. I know those words were very popular in America in the 1930s and into the 1960s, but thought they had finally faded away. Especially with a black president now, Barack Obama. But no.

Another friend of mine suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. He wants to meet me for lunch. Someone advised that I not do so. That I phase him out of my circle of friends because he could be dangerous. And people like him should do what thenbe killed? Or kill themselves? I asked. Id rather have lunch with someone like him who has fought mental illness all his life than with some so-called normal capitalist pig on Wall Street who was bailed out with my taxes.

I had another friend, Zeb, who was neglected by his dominant mother when he was born and during the first four or so years growing up. She only touched him when cutting his toenails. His diffident father took the easy way out, by not fighting with her and being effectively absent from the boys life. The boy got the wrong rulebook for how men and women relate, especially if they want sex and children. Sex and intersexual relations are not instinctual; they are formed 99 percent from parent models.

The friend went through 20 years of therapy for his sexual inhibitions and ended up playing by the only rules etched in his brain by his parents dysfunction via the constant tension, lack of affection or touching, and outright verbal abuse of his dad--that men should fear women and jump when they call and that women should treat men like doormats. Despite his years of therapy and thousands of dollars in costs, the women he ended up dating and living with were just like his mother and he was in danger of becoming just like his father.

Previously, most of Zebs girlfriends, when they found out he had potency problems, promptly dumped him. When I last knew him, his current one did not. She and Zeb were re-creating Zebs parents marriage. Because she also was abused as a young child, she mistrusted Zeb and therapists, she did nearly nothing to help their relationship become sexual. Zeb couldnt focus in a sexual situation and had to masturbate to erection. She wouldnt put up with that.

Zeb, during his 20 years of therapy DID come very close to being sexually active. When he finally got totally erect at age 36 after FOUR years of surrogate therapy, he realized that hed lost over 20 years of sexual experience and enjoyment and that other boys had had full intercourse at age 18 or 20 and had masturbated at age 12 or before.

Zeb and his girl friend are victims of sexual abuse and child abuse. They should be sympathetic to each other. Instead, neither trusts each other or any therapists. Zeb pays. The wife pays. People they come into contact with pay.

One therapist told me that if a client enters treatment for sex dysfunction of any sort, he asks about childhood sexual abuse and keeps alert for signs of abuse in his history. Whatever form it takes, he is convinced the source of dysfunction lies in a childhood sexual trauma. The childhood destruction of trust in adults, which is all a child has to cling to, turns adult sex into an encounter fraught with anxiety. To release himself, he has to realize he (or she) is NOT dealing with an issue of sex attraction or orientation: The issue is abuse. He or she didnt bring it on themselves. It got confused with sex because the abuse wasnt limited to physical violence or emotional exploitation. It also had a sexual component. But the real issues are trust, intimacy and self-esteem.

More R&D is needed on male-female relations and sexual relations. People like Zeb shouldnt go through 20 years of therapy only to possibly pass on the lousy cultural memes of his parents to any children he may have, all the while suffering more abuse from his wife as she pouts and glowers around the house.

One cutting-edge attempt to reach people like Zeb is sexual surrogate therapy. It started as small, hidden businesses in the mid-1990s, but has been refined to the point where most experts say it is the only way to reach many men and allow them to express their sexuality. However, it remains hidden and stigmatized. Just as Zeb is stigmatized by his girl friend and was hurt by previous girl friends. As mentioned above, some cultural evolution is slow.

After 10 years of trying to cure himself or using hypnosis or regular talk therapy, Zeb tried sexual surrogates. His first nonsexual therapist, Sue, once said that recovery comes by building a more positive self image, most effectively by building TRUST in others. But her program,both at the beginning of Zebs nine-year involvement with her had built-in booby-traps for any hard-earned trust. Zeb loved his first surrogate, Sondra, and his 10^th, Suzette, and his most productive one, Margo, with whom he had intercourse without injections, just with masturbation, about 8-10 times, often for 10 minutes or more. But Sondra, Suzette, and Margo all left Sues program suddenly, without warning or excuse, thus setting Zeb back tremendously.

Sex surrogates are therapists who will actually have physical intimacy up to and including sexual intercourse with their clients. Real sex surrogates have gone through extensive training and are not at all the same as prostitutes. Unfortunately, sex surrogate treatment is expensive (typically totaling at least $2,000 to $3,000) and only available in a few select cities. A quality sex surrogate therapy will incorporate an additional therapist who oversees the treatment.

Sex surrogates commonly treat adult virginal males and should help significantly with the phobic aspects related to physical intimacy. For many patients, its the only way to break a vicious circle: They have problems that need to be solved in a relationship, but cant get into a relationship until theyve solved the problems. Premature ejaculation and erection difficulties are common, but so are dating and communication skills, fear of intimacy, shame and anxiety, oral sex techniques (the lack thereof), low-level desire, and plain old inexperience.

Patients are predominantly men and surrogates women, but male surrogates report great success with female patients too.

Sex surrogates use sensate focus. Surrogate and sensate focus therapies were first developed and supported by sex researchers Masters and Johnson. Sensate focus usually is associated with a set of specific sexual exercises for couples or for individuals. The term was aimed at increasing personal and interpersonal awareness of self and the other's needs. Each participant is encouraged to focus on their own varied sense experience, rather than to see orgasm as the sole goal of sex. Further stages include the gradual introduction of genitals and then full intercourse. Orgasm is never the focus. This is also used as a treatment for impotence in males, and arousal difficulties especially where anxiety is involved. Because of performance anxiety in men, the obsessional focus on the penis can result in impotence. The therapist will encourage the man to forget about his penis, and forget about his partner's genitals, and instead concentrate on the sensual possibilities available in the feel of his own and his partner's skin, hair, mouth, body, (breasts), etc.

Zebs sex therapist, was named Sue; she guided the timing and technique of the sensate focusing with a different woman, the surrogate. The theory of this experimental therapy was that experiences and torment he had had with his own mother and sister, would be replaced by nurturing, sexual experiences with his surrogates, at 45-minute sessions once or twice a week.

These were sessions in which both he and the surrogate became totally nude. At first they would talk a bit. Then they would undress and massage each other. Then the massaging would get more and more sexual, usually with the objective being intercourse (with a condom), if possible.

Since Zebs problem was impotence, his first sessions were just to see what would happen.

His first surrogates stage name was Sondra. She was gorgeous and let him kiss her on the mouth, with tongue. Within two or three sessions, he had ejaculated while kissing her and with her handling his penis.

Sue was ecstatic. She thought it was a real breakthrough. In fact, it was only a chip off the iceberg. Things were, in fact, looking good for Zeb. For four straight sessions, he ejaculated with Sondra. However, Sondra had been under instructions from Sue not to attempt intercourse.

Then Sondra quit. This is a huge problem with surrogate therapy. A surrogate can feel too much pressure and leave. So poor Zebs lifesaver, without warning, was gone.

But Sue brought in another surrogate, about 38, and less attractive, but very gentle and with an hourglass figure. She too was able to bring Zeb to climax, and one day, against Sues instructions, got on top of Zeb. He came inside her. Sue, despite the breach, was ecstatic. But then that surrogate too had to leave. No reason given. Probably, because she had a social disease or was taking money as a prostitute on the side.

Now, poor Zebone of the most sensitive people in the worldgot no discount from Sue, for her workers quick exits, and no sympathy. All he got was another surrogate, named Ellie. She was tall, blonde, and thin, not his type at that time. And she didnt like to kiss, for fear of germs. Zeb didnt get too far with her. However, he did make great progress using her as a fantasy woman when he masturbated at home. For the first time in his life, at age 36, he totally erect when he masturbated.

However, soon Ellie had to leave and Sue brought in a beautiful blonde. But she couldnt understand why Zeb didnt get erect, so she left. Then Sue brought in an older woman, who could take the failuresupposedlyand be gentle with Zebs fragile ego. But Sue was wrong. This surrogate, named Debbie, soon said, bullshit, when he didnt get erect during the 45-minute time span. Sue, however, was proud that Zeb decided to stay with Debbie, despite those setbacks. In Sues eyes, this proved that he was beginning to empathize with women and not be so self-absorbed.

However, about seven months had now passed since he had had successful intercourse with the second surrogate. The costs were mounting and the progress had slipped backwards, except for his masturbation, which continued to be excellent.

But bankruptcy loomed. He pressured Sue for some progress, gently reminding her of his success during the first month of therapy, which now was about a year ago. Sue was a tough woman in a tough business. She was willing to experiment with her clients money and physical well-being, so she suggested another form of therapy that was to delay, if not permanently damage, Zebs ability to have joyous sex. She suggested injections, into the penis, of a papaverine solution that would pull blood into the penis. The trick, of course, was to not inject too much or inject into the wrong area of the penis.

But Sue seemed oblivious to those dangers, pooh-poohing them, whenever Zeb mentioned them. In his mind, the proper therapy would have been to allow him to try for intercourse with a surrogate by masturbation. The surrogate would have had to lay there for 15 minutes and be ready for sex when he grew perfectly hard. That way he could have experienced how full intercourse felt, felt good about himself, and not have had to endanger a perfectly healthy penis. It undoubtedly would have broken down barriers that were still there. They included:

* No woman would ever let me do that to her;

* Women dont enjoy sex;

* My penis is too small;

* Im never going to be able to do this;

* Something is going to go wrong. Ill get hit by a truck if I have good or perfect intercourse and finally consider myself cured; Ill die the next day by some means, or Ill be disfigured or handicapped for the rest of my life.

But this would have endangered Sues business. It would have meant loaning Zeb about $1,000 so he could stay with a surrogate until he had perfect intercourse with her. Since he was nearing bankruptcy, he couldnt find that kind of money. And even if he did, what if he lost? What if the pressure to have perfect intercourse, pushed back success, until the $1,000 was spent. Then he would be totally bankrupt, and out of hope for success with the increasing number of women that he was gaining skill in bringing to bed (His outside therapyreal-life therapy, which Sue also monitored, was going quite well. His communication akills had greatly improved.)

Sexual Surrogate Therapy: Still Hidden Because of Stigma, Ethics, and Prostitution Laws, by Steve Homan

Despite the high success rate--never mind Zebs problems--the therapy remains cutting edge in that no sexual surrogate office is advertized on TV or can be seen on a Manhattan or L.A. streets or in bold ads. Years after Masters and Johnson suggested that engaging patients physically rather than verbally would have greater therapeutic benefits, sex surrogacy remains a murky field both ethically and legally. Health insurance plans never cover the sexual part of the session and usually only cover half the cost of the pure discussion between psychologist and patient. Therapists are obligated by medical ethics not to have sex with their patients, but surrogate partners are supposed to and that simple but loaded dichotomy goes to the heart of the legal and ethical issues.

Sex surrogacy still elicits reactions ranging from vague titillation to moral condemnation. Surrogates are reluctant to speak on the record, giving reasons such as getting burned by moralizing journalists in the past, or fear of jeopardizing the reputations of referring therapists. Other surrogates prefer to remain under the radar rather than risk running afoul of various state prostitution laws, which prohibit the exchange of money for sexual activities.

A potential patient needs to be careful. No respectable surrogate will take on a patient without the active and ongoing participation of the patients therapist, who provides the clinical information necessary for the surrogate to work effectively, and can offer better therapy by learning from the surrogate in return. The therapist can also provide a reality check if the patient and/or surrogate get too emotionally attached. This triad arrangement is essential for successful treatment.

The International Professional Surrogates Association provides referrals to surrogates, but about 90 percent of known surrogates work in California, mostly the San Francisco or L.A. areas, or in Manhattan. To keep the profession honest, since surrogates are not licensed or regulated by any government body, IPSA also provides training for surrogates and publishes a code of ethics. Surrogates are responsible for birth control, and usually will require from you and provide proof of a negative HIV test. Not surprisingly, AIDS seems to have cast a shadow of fear over the profession, but the American Association of Sex Educators, Counselors and Therapists, reportedly says it gets a lot of calls from people seeking surrogate partners, especially from parts of the country where their services arent available; they have to travel to New York or California.

However, since child abuse involves loss of control over your own body, many patients like Zeb MUST be completely in charge of when, how and by whom they are touched. This may have been where Sue failed with Zeb. She used her position of power to accuse him of avoiding intercourse; so, he gave in and used the injections.

The same is true of abused girls. Because touch was sexualized, even casual touching can feel threatening. In surrogate therapy, having the freedom to decide helps provide an atmosphere of safety. Under no circumstances, should a surrogate engage in a physical exchange that robs that patient of control over his or her body (such as tickling, bear hugs, pinning you down or hugging you from behind. The greater the degree of communication the more helpful the therapy is. Learning to communicate (not being afraid to use every word this author can imagine) in relationships contradicts isolation and leads to insight.

Chances are that Zeb would have succeeded, especially with the three or four surrogates out of the 20 or more that he met, who really understood his problem. Some surrogates literally forced his penis inside their vaginas, because they instinctively knew how important this was to him. Other surrogates, their minds more on themselves, would not force it in on the theory that they would somehow hurt themselves. How? Sue sided with her surrogates at all times.

The tipping point for Zeb was when he learned to get a perfect erection and hold it indefinitely. He was ready to be cured. If he would have had a surrogate and about five to 10 experiences with perfect intercourse, he would have been cured. Instead, he repeatedly--via bad luck (a good surrogate quitting), bad surrogates (the self-absorbed ones), bad finances (his being unable to finance a solid two weeks of therapy or willing to gamble his entire savings on that), and misguided tough-business tactics by Suefailed when the time was right.

This crushed him. He was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He faced bankruptcy without being cured. He was approaching 40 without children, and so the possible loss of descendents. He was putting a needle into what had been a healthy penis and breaking out in hives every time he did it. Still he wasnt cured.

He also had to decide whether to quit Sue. Another impossible choice. She had gotten him some intercourse, showed him that a lot of women liked sex (unlike his mother and sister), and had gotten him his first full erection via masturbation. It HAD been progress, albeit slow, expensive, and dangerous. So he stuck with her until he broke mentally during one session. Then he went it alone, figuring he would be creative therapeutically instead of financially, which he had been up to that point.

The session in which he broke took place with about his 40^th surrogate. She was a Russian immigrant, after the fall of communism. She was nice, but didnt understand his need for intercourse, and would yawn while waiting for him to get erect.

Sex surrogacy isnt for everyone, but it seems that trying to resolve serious sexual dysfunctions just by talking about them is like learning to drive a car by reading about the history of automobiles. You have to practice.

Elephant Man, by Steve Homan

Members of a society usually are unaware that their ideas of masculine/feminine are CHOICES. We ASSUME that the system by which we view the world is the ONLY LOGICAL and NORMAL WAY. This ethnocentrism, a limited vision, fails to recognize that our ideas are NOT NATURAL BUT LEARNED.

Our culture provides no room for a man as victim. Men are not supposed to be victimized. A real man is expected to protect himself in any situation; to solve any problem and recover from any shock; and to deal with it like a man--usually interpreted as avenging it and forgetting it. When he cannot or is unwilling to use this mode he is called a coward and scorned as unmanly. Men are supposed to be in control of their feelings at all times. The ongoing feelings of a male survivor of emotional, physical or sexual abuse of confusion, frustration, anger, and fear mostly are taken by others as further evidence of his failings as a man.

Because men are not allowed to be victims abuse, especially sexual abuse, becomes demasculation (or emasculation). If he is a victim, then he is not a man. The victimized man wonders and worries about what the abuse has turned him into. Believing he is no longer a man, he may see himself as a child, a woman, gay, or LESS THAN HUMANAN IRREPARABLY DAMAGED FREAK. Thus, I saw myself as the Elephant Man until surrogate therapy finally cleaned that away.

Some survivors resort to broad parodies of acceptably masculine behavior to counteract. Including daredevil acts, violent behavior, promiscuity, law breaking, or joining the military. Others have given up. Often a survivor feels he must CONCEAL the abuse for fear that he will be rejected or exposed to ridicule. Having internalized his familys and societys view of victims as LESS THAN MEN, he is certain that others would view him the same way.

The lack of information about sex abuse of male children leads him to imagine that he must face his difficulties ALONE. So, at age 18, when the St. Johns professor commanded me to see the colleges counselor, I felt my only success lay in keeping others from discovering the extent of my shortcomings.

The survivor lives in continual anxiety, certain that exposure is a matter of time. He DISCOUNTS any success he achieves as temporary at bestsince its based on deception. He devalues his strength because only he knows how weak he feels. Whatever his strengths are , he finds cause to write them off. NO PICTURE OF REALITY VOICED OR DRAWN BY ANYONE IS ABLE TO PENETRATE HIS WALL OF SELF-NEGATION.

Alternatively, the survivor may exert himself BEYOND ALL REASON TO PROVE himself a MAN. Feeling he must CONCEAL his shortcomings through WORLDLY SUCCESS he strives for wealth, fame, ower.

This is why I studied 24/7 in college and law school, with only one evening off per week. I needed that GPA to get into med school or that law degree to keep my mothers approval.

But even MASSIVE ACHIEVEMENTS LEAVE HIM FEELING UNCERTAIN. There is always the possibility of discovery and humiliation. He fears that if anyone found out he is a fraud and a victim of abuse ALL ACCOMPLISHMENTS would mean nothing. The NO-WIN SITUATION appears again. The male survivor is certain that his knowledge, skill, strength, courage, personality and aptitude ARE DIFFERENT FROM AND INFERIOR to those of other people.

When the med school at Marquette called me in for a second interview, a key question to me was: Do you feel you are different from other people? Naively, I answered Yes, because it was logical: several experts in psychology had told me I was different. Yet, of course, my answer sealed my fate with Marquette.

Heres the main point to remember: male survivors did NOT RECEIVE THE SAME INFORMATION or RULE BOOK as other children about how to survive. And, because there is no got and not enough scientific research or cures, they are likely to spend the rest of their lives figuring out how to achieve success or power. OBSESSED with hiding his faults and pretending to be normal, he is UNABLE to appreciate OR EVEN NOTICE his successes. If he recognizes hes succeeded he must PROTECT what he has built. No matter how the world views him, he knows the truth. HE IS A VICTIM and his only hope is hiding that information. It is EXHAUSTING to maintain his image. If anyone gets INTIMATE with him there is a danger they will see through the act. So, he keeps everyone at a distance.

The PRICE is exhaustion and ISOLATION. It never occurs to him that other people might admire him DESPITE his act, rather than because of it. HE IS SO UNCERTAIN HE IS UNACCEPTABLE that the idea of someone liking him FOR HIMSELF IS ALIEN BEYOND CONSIDERATION.

This was true for me, until cracks formed during surrogate therapy. I remember one crack. While on xanax and Prozac, at my editing job, I felt freer to just approach people without defenses and without prepared speeches. I found they didnt care if I mangled my words. Because they recognized I was being open and natural, they RETURNED the visit and would come over to MY desk. This I reported to Eve. She nodded her head. I was totally shocked that people would like me, just for being me!

Old Battles, by Steve Homan

Joe felt like the bottom of a chicken coop. He had been getting better in many ways, but was still fighting many of the old battles. Because of his age, 44, he often felt he would run out of time to win the remaining battles. For example, because of his nongregarious and antiestablishment personality, he now was in hot water with management at his publishing company. He had sent a few emails above a few sensitive heads and they were in the ongoing process of punishing him. He now had no one to supervise, and the one person most suited for him to supervise was under the guidance of a bitch transplant from Texas. A corporate kiss-ass pig, whom he hated.

He had had a barnburner of a fight with his wife less than a week ago. And he was still feeling the ramifications of it. For example, he didnt know when the next one would flare up. She had a temper like a rat caught between a closed garbage bin and the A train going uptown. Last Sunday, on the way home from six hours of church, yet, she started to tease him about how supper was going to cut into his Cowboys football game that night. He said something he could no longer remember, she released her hand from his in a fit of temper, triggering a fit of temper on his part. He had started to walk faster and faster toward their apartment, away from her. She finally said, Im going for a walk. And he said, Good.

He had rushed upstairs, formulating plans for his own supper and as to which bar he would go to watch the full game, when she caught up. She said, You can watch the game here. He said, No fucking way. You go to church six hours a day and then come home and bite your husbands head off. How can that be? What sense is that? He then referred to her coming home at noon from another church meeting and immediately criticizing his use of some leftover rice for lunch, rice she had earmarked for supper. He said, Couldnt you have just kept your damn mouth shut about the rice this noon? So fucking what if I had some rice. We have other things for supper. But, no, you come home from a church meeting and bite your fucking husbands head off. Im going out NOW to eat supper OUT. And then Im going to watch the game at the Pipers Quilt so I can enjoy it, the ENTIRE game.

But I said you can watch it here.

Im not watching it here. Youll want to come into the bedroom or living room, wherever Im watching it and discuss our fight. I know youll find some way to keep me from watching that demon TV and demon football.

Joe slammed the door shut and locked it, but not before grabbing the book he was reading. The Cowboys game didnt start for another three hours. In fact, he ended up reading that book on a bench under a streetlight, just to get some fresh air before the Boys game started.

So, now, five days later, he was in the midst of the Friday afternoon blahs. His supervisors were trying to freeze him out, his wife hadnt called back to confirm that she would go to the marriage counselor she had demanded that previous Monday morning, and it seemed the more he tried, the more he stayed the same, with just enough tantalizing advances to keep him from giving up. For example, last Monday, at about 4 p.m. in the mens room, he had masturbated to a complete erectionalthough he still hadnt with Jackie. And yesterday, he had given a 12-minute speech on How to Supervise, a tough topic, and had injected (appropriate, intentional) humor, improvisation, gestures, and clarity. He was pleased with that speech, even though Xanax had helped him a lot. He was extra bored today, because he felt he could be a managing editor or politician and doing a hell of a lot more than sitting around some World War II-relic corporation being punished for running his superiors underwear up the flagpole at dawn.

The end is nigh.

The Stick, by Steve Homan

Joes mother and father were well-respected in his small home town. They had been born and raised within 30 miles of each other, meeting at a farm outing, and settling down in his mothers hometown, Torrington.

His mother grew up in family of five kids with a prideful, intelligent mother and an easygoing father. She grew up prideful and independent, often the leader of her group of girlfriends as they explored Minneapolis and Denver, both cities being at the ends of their world for them from 1945 to 1950 as car travel in U.S. exploded and Mary and her friends hadnt the money for air travel, yet.

His father was a simple farm boy, with basic desires: sex, family, eating and watching the weather, as most farmers did.

The two struck sparks at first, because the independent 25-year-old young lady had gotten her fathers turkey-neck and hooked nose, while the dependent, shy, 8th-grade educated 26-year-old man had gotten the best parts of his good-looking parents features. She felt lucky to have him.

They had two kids right off the bat, a girl and then Joe. With the pressure of two tiny mouths to feed on his Dads $1.75 per hour wages, his mother quickly took over and his father withdrew, just giving all his wages and control over to his quicker wife. Later, after she died at 79, he was to admit that he took her orders, but said, She was good for me. Yet, Joe often wondered about this before his dad died. His dads Army photos reveal a cocky, handsome man leaning against a jeep, hat jauntily laid upon his head.

His decision to give control to her with its rationale that she was good for me turned out to be the wrong decisionnot logically, but emotionally. His wife, Joes mother, over-ran the bounds of rationality and, before he knew it, Joes dad was being timed while pooping in the bathroom and being accused of everything that went wrong in the household, from letting the pipes freeze when it was a warm 25 degrees above zero on a February day to changing after their marriage.

And Joe heard all of this as his mother humiliated his dad in front of him and his two younger brothersthe nuclear family, but kept up appearances when relatives or friends came to the door. She brainwashed Joe between ages five (when he rode his dads shoulders and back, horsey-back style) and age 10 (when he had joined in on the unrelenting verbal abuse (keep your elbows off the table dont talk with your mouth full dont stuff your cheeks, you look like a squirrel). At 10, Joes mother told him she would divorce his dad, if she had a chance. And that he changed since our marriage.

For his part, Joes dad put Joe square in the middle, often saying Youre on my side arent you, Joe? When his Dad came home from four days in the hospital for a bleeding ulcer, he asked Joe Did you miss me? Joe had lied and said yes. The truth was that it had been quieter and calmer with his dad gone.

But the worst result of his dads decision to follow her orders occurred when she said Doug, get the stick when Joe and his sister wouldnt eat the foul-tasting canned peas she had bought for pennies. The peas stuck in his throat. Joe would try to swallow them without chewing, but often gagged that way too.

So Joe and his sister would be dragged into the bathroom by his Dad, with his mom supervising like an imperious Auschwitz guard. Joed get beat on his bare butt while his mom and sister looked on. Hed try to block his dads blows but the yardstick would come down on his wrist until it made its way through to his butt. He didnt remember pooping during the beatings; he was only four after all, but he remembered his blood running cold whenever his mother said, Doug, get the stick. (Eve asked him whether he had pooped, because little boys at that ages 0-6 often confuse the loss of feces with the loss of their penis. She thought these beatings may have been the main reason for his emasculation.)

His mothers brainwashing of both Joe and his dad was complete. Joe would do anything to please her and had her interest on his mind 24 hours a day. When watching TV with her reading on the other side of the room, he wondered if she found the show funny, not caring whether he himself found it funny. When he listened to records, he imagined himself as the singer and his mother in the audience. Sometimes her sister, his aunt, and her mother, his grandmother, would also be in the audience. When he studied in grade school, he burst with pride to report he got As. When he got on the A-honor roll in 9th grade without trying, he became obsessed with getting good grades in the 10th grade. He knew his mother would be pleased and he firmly believed his GPA was essential for him to get girls. He studied nearly every night. In college, it was to get even worse24/7, except for one evening a week, either a Friday or a Saturday evening--as he shot for medical school and the near 4.0 grade-point average required.

He thought he was the ugliest boy in school, obsessing about how big his head was since third grade when a bully teased him about his head (he had inherited his mothers turkey neck from ancient Scottish ancestors and his fathers big head from his mothers ancient western German ancestors).

Prom Night, by Steve Homan

Joe felt the queasiness in his stomach like someones fist was in there punching each side and scratching the sides with dirty fingernails.

He was alone in his room, as usual, waiting to meet Laurie. It was prom night. For Joe, however, the smells in his basement lair drenched his nostrilsmustiness from the houses 60 years on planet Earth, water damage from a flood two years before, and general bugginess that comes from daddy longlegs and centipedes sharing your quarters and leaving their droppings somewhere, invisibly, on your floor.

Joe tried some Beatles, some soft music. He played Julia, Lennons lullaby to his mother; he tried Good Night, Lennons lullaby to his son. Both helped in the way that boarding up windows helps against a hurricane.

He was nervous and excited all at once. Anticipating and dreading. This was the night hed thought of since Laurie spoke to him in journalism class two years before and hed caught a glimpse of her panties when she crossed her legs on one of those 1940s stools the high school never got rid of.

He sprawled onto his bed, face up. He pictured her in that classroom, her white panties showing between finely shaped legs. Her freckles dancing across a face that looked both tom-boyish and coquettish. Hed been love from afar for two years now. Tonight, he was going to hold her close to him.

He grabbed for his stomach and breathed deeply. Nothing took away the shimmering giddiness he felt from head to toe.

Are you ready? his mother called down the stairway. Yeah, Im ready, he called back, just loud enough so she wouldnt repeat her inquiry. He detested his mother even though he admitted to himself that Laurie, beautiful Laurie, looked a lot like his mother. Mostly in the shape of their legs.

Did you remember her corsage? his mother asked as he got to the top of the stairs. Yeah. Are you sure youre supposed to meet her at 7:15? Yeah. What color is her dress? I couldnt tell you. Well what if her dress matches your tux? What then?

I guess Ill just have to quit school, go to Vietnam, and fly one of those big B-52s.

Well, I was just trying to help, his mother said. Stop trying to help, he said out loud. Then he thought to himself. Stop your fucking helping.

Doug, are you ready? Mary said to her husband. Are you wearing that? Put on your new blazer. This is prom night. People dont wear old, dirty pants theyve had for years. Doug shuffled off to the bedroom to change.

Joe was nearly shaking visibly now. His nervousness had turned to yawning. He yawned one after another as he waited for his father to change. He remembered, with a bit of a laugh, how hed yawned backstage whiling preparing for his entrance in the school play only weeks before. Everyone thought he was cool as a cucumber. Joe, this doesnt bother you at all, does it? one black-haired stunner had asked him. Nope, hed replied in his best John Wayne.

Now his queasiness was getting the better of him. Dad! Hurry up, he yelled towards the back of the house. Just a minute, his dad said back. Hurry up, Doug Mary said as she rushed to the back bedroom. This is prom night! What are you doing in there? I cant find my black belt, Doug said, with a bit of gruffness in his voice. Its where it always is, under your ties. For Petes sake. MOVE IT!

Doug moved it. He came into the living room at a trot. This always reminded Joe of a puppet on a string, or a tiger coming out from a cage at the point of a an electric prod.

He and his father climbed into the green sedan and backed out of the driveway. Joe said to himself, The wait is worse than the actual game. This had been his motto as hed trudged through many an anxiety-inducing baseball game or school exam. Once he got going at the damn game or on the damn exam, he always did fine.

There was one difference tonight. Hed never gone out with a girl before, never slept with one, never kissed one, never talked with one. Hed managed to talk with Laurie about two months before, when theyd gone on a school outing, and shed spent most of her time walking with Dave, the school track star. A few days later, hed asked her if she was seeing Dave. Shed blushed and said they were just friends. Hed known then that it would be alright to ask her to the prom. He hadnt pursued that talk in the hallway. He had asked her out on a few dates before the prom, but the conversation never went anywhere. Mostly, a quick one-liner during a movie.

Tonight he wasnt so sure that the wait was going to be worse than the game.

He wanted so badly to kiss her, touch her. He never got so far as to imagine making love to her. Just to touch her lips would be enough.

Doug pulled into Lauries driveway and her father opened the screen door. Howdy, he yelled. We were beginning to wonder if youd show up! Oh, hed show up alright, Doug said. Joe blanched. Thanks a lot do-do bird. Do you have a brain at all, idiot?

They entered the living room as fast as they could. Laurie came out of the back rooms, radiant in a red dress that matched her earrings, lipstick and the blush on her cheeks. Wow! Joe said. Whew, Laurie replied coolly, That was worth the wait.

Pictures! Pictures everybody! Lauries mom said, the mother-hen in her oozing out. Joe accidentally touched Lauries bare, soft arm. He felt like every eye in the place was on him. He already had the fever, he told himself. God, shes beautiful.

The night breeze felt good as they walked up to the high school. Joe still hadnt taken Lauries hand. At least I can say I went to the prom, Joe told himself. I got this far.

Her thighs felt as full and warm as they brushed against his legs during the slow dances. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. Her hair smelled like nothing hed smelled before. His nervousness remained, but he was in heaven. They talked much as they had during the moviesa quip here, a quip there. Nothing intimate, nothing longer than 30 seconds.

She ranked third in school academics, while he ranked 13th. He told himself that 13 was a lucky number. Combined with his shyness, his silences to most girls in the school meant deepness. Little did they know that he was scared stiff, as scared as any speaker before any audience, as scared as any knock-kneed soloist before any symphony orchestra. He just plugged along, like his dad. Plug, plug, plug. Never giving up. Fighting through the nerves. Hed gained many a victory along the way, using a strange, unearthly, magical mix of his fathers stoic doggedness and his mothers edge-of-sanity, push-the-envelope risk-taking. Hed gained a reputation through his success in test-taking, debating, and acting.

He was hoping his doggedness would earn him success with a girl now. He couldnt define what success would mean on prom night. His fantasy was to kiss her, touch her tongue with his, maybe slip his hand under her bra.

As they slowly moved around the dance floor several more times, and their partners, Jan and Jerry, smooched at their table, they both became nervous at what was expected of them that night. Laurie laughed when Jerry sucked on Jans face. Joe stayed quiet.

Joe didnt dare pull Laurie towards him. If she turned away, he would be devastated. The rest of the night would be ruined. He retreated into silence and doggedness. She still accepted him. He was happy so far; that was all he cared about..

..Their chaperone told them all to behave, and laughed, as he shut the door on their car. All four now stared at the 30 by 15 foot blank screen of the towns drive-in movie theater. Jerry chirped in with What can I get you two lovebirds? Jane laughed. Joe looked at Laurie. She said, Popcorn and a coke. Ill have the same. Jane and Jerry teetered as they walked towards the concession stand.

Laurie sat back in the front seat of the car, her head on the benchs back. Joe froze. His silence deepened. Finally, Lets check out that merry-go-round. (The drive-in had a playground under the screen for toddlers not interested in whatever B-grade movie was playing, or thrown out by their parents who wanted to relive their lurid past in the backseat.)

Laurie laughed at Joes weak joke. Jane and Jerry returned, goodies in hand. They quickly handed over the sodas and popcorn and liplocked in the backseat. Laurie put her hand lightly on Joes knee, slid down further into the seat, and rested her head on his shoulder. He froze again. Thrilled, he thought to himself, At least I can say I had a gorgeous woman like Laurie lean against me. He didnt know what to do, so he did nothing.

He handed her the popcorn and they both dipped from the same bag. He passed her a soda when she asked for it. She nuzzled his shoulder trying to find a soft spot at its bony point. The movie began--Twiggy in The Nightclub. Jane and Jerry stopped smooching to watch. Oohh, look at them, Jane giggled. Those devils! Oh shut up, Laurie said, laughing.

Joe, relieved that Laurie was still with him, not expecting or caring whether they kissed quite yet, rested his head on the back of the bench seat also.

Joe and Laurie watched the movie, one of historys worst, until the last credit. No kiss, no handholding, no breast touching. Jane and Jerry had given even Laurie stage fright. Otherwise, Joe might have had his knock-knees blown apart..

Daydream Believer, by Steve Homan

He felt he had endured enough from this world. At age 8, a close acquaintance jessentially, a friend, -- in the halls of their Catholic grade school, had ridiculed the size of his head in front of a dozen classmates. They had exchanged words: Your head is so big you could park a truck in it. Your head is big and pointed, like a mountain.

He had endured spankings on his bare butt by his father when he was three just because hed hadnt finished bland canned peas at supper.

H e had endured 13 years of verbal abuse mostly secondhand, when his hysterical mother berated his fathers existence and deeds everything. His dad ate with his cheeks bulging out. His dad spent too much time in the bathroom hatching. What are you doing in there, hatching??!! his mother would yell from the kitchen. Youre just trying to hide.

Joe was restless jthat he knew. And bored silly, out here where the land was flat as a pancake and stretched to the horizon like some never-ending grass-covered parking lot. Escape was impossible. You just clung on like a Titanic survivor praying for rescue.

Joe! Come say goodbye to your Grandma!

He rose slowly from his bed, like an old man, like his grandpa used to rise from his old, stuffed rocking chair.

OK.

What?

Im comin

Oh, Betty. Dont bother the boy.

Its no trouble, Grandma, Joe said as he bounded up the steps two, three and four at a time. Anything for you. He gave his grandmother a peck on the cheek almost an air kiss, like rich or famous people gave each other on TV. But His lips caught her roughed cheek.

Thank you dear. I hardly se you any more!

Grandma, you know young adults have their minds on a million things.

Dont tell me, dear! His grandma laughed an old womans high-pitched, Hoo-hoo, and she started her slow stroll to the front door.

The old woman left, trailing a whiff of cheap perfume. Joe was left jalonewith his josher. Neither one looked at the other. The humidity oozed in through the screen door to take the place of his Grandmas odor and the gap she had left in the room and in their lives.

So, how was Match Game, his mother asked.

Fine.

He swiftly headed toward the basement steps.

Why dont you go play with some of your friends?

What friends? I only have two and ones on vacation with his family and the other is helping his dad. He pushed toward the basement.

Suppers in one hour.

Ugh, he grunted, purposefully making his answer unintelligible. He slammed the kitchen door shut and bounded down the steps. IT crossed his mind that his Grandma may have been able to take those steps three and four at a time at some point in her youth. But the thought vanished as quickly as it had come. He once again sucked in the air of his lair, as he thought of it. The Jim Morrison poster on the bedroom door fluttered as he slammed that chunk of paneling and two-by-fours shut.

He flopped backward onto this bed. His head landed squarely at the back edge of the black-dyed bed spread. The bed posts were cast-iron painted white. He had painted a lampshade black and white, with the lettering Blind Faith, the title of Eric Claptons latest band. He and his cousin two years before had painted the permanently locked door that led to the familys junk room, black and white with a peace symbol in the center panel.

He started at the ceiling. Slowly, he closed his eyes and tried to cry. Nothing came out. No sound. No tears. He put Good Night by the Beatles on the stereo and vegged out to the strings and beautiful melody.

But, after entering college, he had only dreams and the endless blurry expectations of youth. He knew hed have to maintain his intellectual image, if he expected, one day, to marry, have rapturous sex, and three kids, succeed as a surgeon, and join the network of his aunts, uncles, friends, cousins - t he mainstream.

He pressed his eyelids tightly closed and pulled himself up off the bed.

It was time to shoot baskets, alone, at the junior highs outdoor hoops.

The cool breeze of nightfall was just upon the town.

Mechanical Sex, by Steve Homan

Joe had spent the Thanksgiving Day holidays better than most people would in their dreams. He had had a beautiful wife join him at his parents, her sisters, and, finally, with her mother at their place. Three hearty meals surrounded by people who loved him, or thought they did but didnt know how, or tried to love him, but were waiting for the final results (of his relationship with Jackie) to come in.

Things at the office were closing in on him, largely because he had taken the editorial managers position two years ago, knowing that they would expect him to have a photographic mind, presidential-candidate personality, and the work ethic of a Protestant during the Great Depression. He also knew they would not accept anything added to those three elements. Even if he had all three, which he certainly didnt, they would not accept his maverick personality (gained from his mothers paranoia and his fathers insecurity) and his tendency to stretch beyond the boundaries allowed by whatever quantities of the Big Three he had.

He had failed to complete the Insurance Ratings Criteria book project, because he refused to attend a third meeting and be chewed out a third time by a crazy financial analyst. He had failed because he then sent an e-mail to that analysts boss in an attempt to have his side of the story told. He had failed because, after being told to send no more e-mails he had sent an update on his quality control programit had been his project until he failedto his superiors, bypassing his managing editor, who had given the program to his former managing editor without telling him. He also had failed because he had asked for an update on the staff retention committee consensus report and had carbon-copied a vice president of the whole shebang of Standard & Poors.

When he got his poor job review, his managing editor told him They were really pissed at you. He had told himself repeatedly over his five years there, that S&P was a military establishment, but he had forgotten his own insight.

Now, during Thanksgiving vacation, with Jackie at her job, he had returned to his old ways, going out for a greasy breakfast, buying a paper, and bringing it back to read while listening to the Beatles or Sinatra.

He thought of Jackies coming home later that day. He didnt regret marrying her, except for her personality. She had turned out to be a bitchthere was no other way to put it. He had seen the tendencies on their second or third date, and had tried to pull out, but she had called and called him and cried, so he came back. He had told himself at the time I cant turn down another woman who is crying over me. As outlandish as that sounds, he was thinking of Liza when he thought that.

He didnt want to pass up a chance with another woman in his life who was crying over him, and he thought she too had a Protestant work ethic and maybe could help him finally become fully sexual.

He hadnt counted on her mimicking his mothers Hitlerian tendencies so much. She couldnt either totally reject him or totally help him. That decision lay thick in the air over their heads and their marriage.

She already could have been pregnant, if shed been like Liza. Liza was free and wanton. She instinctively knew that to have good sex, she had better do as he directed, much the way he would be trapped into doing what Jackie told him if he were helping to treat a diabetic attack or asthmatic attack.

But Jackie, more and more a control freak, thought she knew all the answers, and directed their sexual attempts like everything else: Relax, just relax, shed say. Just try it my way once, Joe would plead in desperation. Then after seven months, when hed finally persuaded her to let him masturbate during their attempts at sex while she was ovulating, shed touch him just as he was about to get completely hard and hed come too soon, leaving much of the sperm near the outer edges of her vagina.

If shed only shut her damn trap, Joe would say to himself. God, dont people in their 30s know anything here in the 1990s. People used to have families and rule whole countries while in their teens centuries ago. Now, in the so-called modern age, people search 30 years to find themselves, all the while having the arrogance to think they have all the answers.

Meanwhile, they chase the dreams dredged up by capitalism and the high-flying 80sa Beamer, a house in the suburbs, and private school for their kids, all the while giving themselves or their spouses ulcers or early graves, instead of focusing totally on having two , three, or four kids, and being happy to be alive on Gods green Earth. Jackie was driving Joe toward ulcers, because he knew she wanted him to make at least the $50,000 he made now, she constantly criticized everything he did, except for sex, so he now cared not a whit about her as even a friend. Sometimes she was tender, and her patience during sex, was beginning to help him, but their fights portended an end to this relationship too.

They no longer said, I love you. He, because she badgered him every step of the way, and she, had married him for his money, so-called intelligence, height, and ability to give her a family. He had married her for her ability to give him a family, what-he-thought-was intelligence, beautiful faces on their childrern, and what-he-thought-was ability to solve problemsmainly his!

He thanked God for his ability to be patient and for his faith that he would do OK in the next life. He was determined to work hard at his job and his marriage, hoping that, if they had kids, the kids wouldnt have to suffer too much, and hoping that he wasnt on the road to a firing or laying-off at the office. Because of all of that, he had been casually searching for another job and casually searching for another woman to either have sex with or have a baby with. He longed for the days, that short eight-month period with Liza, when he still could get as hard as a rock nearly every time and come in a burst of semen.

Now, he was so screwed up mentally, that release only happened every 10th time he masturbated. Yet, he was thankful he had had those eight months and that he was married to Jackie. He reasoned that many millions of men had walked this Earth without having either of those two wonderful experiences. As he was fond of saying, I cant complain.

It was a hellish day at the office for Joe. He had masturbated three times since he and Jackie had had a pretty good sexual experience on Tuesday night while waiting for her Homemaking group to come to the apartment. She had been home sick all day and was feeling horny. So she rushed him to get washed up and eat his supper. Then she hit him with the idea that they make love during the 45-60 minutes left before her guests would arrive.

He said, Sure. Then she surprised him. As he was sitting in bed wearing nothing but a Minnesota Vikings cap, she came dancing into the bedroom, stripping sensually to the music of Bolero. That song, for those of you not familiar, starts out very quietly and neither Joe nor Jackie was sure of their stereo set-up at that time. So Joe told her to crank it up. She did.

Then she performed a belly-dance strip as well as any professional as the strains of Bolero got louder and louder. Finally, she was naked, after hearing Ethan hoot his approval each step of the way. She jumped under the covers, and they started to touch each other. Ethan grew his usual half or two-thirds erect and climbed on top of her. Bolero was reaching higher and higher. There now was an added element of danger. The neighbors, stodgy old-money Yalies, might knock on the door at any time. Meanwhile, the music and its intoxicating beat grew almost unbearably loud. But Joe was inside her her now, or at least what she considered as being inside her, and he began thrusting. He didnt come much, but the excitement was thrilling for both of them and a good try at sexual experimentation out of the ordinary.

At the office the following Friday, Joe had a desire for another sexual encounter by himself in the mens room, this very much of the routine kind and designed to prove to himself that he still could get as erect as he could before Eve and her needles. That was happening only one in 10 times. The tension would build until finally it overwhelmed his negative thought processes and he finally got completely erect.

Trouble was, after four or five times, it got tedious, especially when you had to dodge your boss AND your wife. If you did it during office hours, your boss might wonder where you were for half an hour. If you did it after work, your wife may wonder why you got home a half hour later than usual.

And the process itself became less enjoyableagony, in fact, because Joe never could tell whether his sexual desires would finally overcome his brain-clog, and it was very tiring mentally to have to do this for a week until he finally got completely erect.

It was depressing also. Having to do it in the mens room because his wife was a virgin and didnt know about mens problems, and didnt even know that his partially erect penis wasnt ever going to make her pregnant. It was depressing having to rush it to avoid being seen.

But on this particular day. He did it again. He went in there, thought about any kind of sexy thought he could, skipping from one to the other until he felt the blood begin to flow towards his penis. Then, the negative thoughts would pour in, and he had to fight to find another sexy thought, and his penis would get a little bit bigger.

But he had to be careful not to ejaculate too fast. This was the mechanical form of therapy. The patient wasnt able to enjoy it. He had to practice mind control, and thats tiring. Joes mind slipped onto a negative thought: he had ejaculated too fast the night before. He tried to stop it, by feeling how big his penis had gotten and by remembering that he had gotten completely erect about eight masturbations ago.

Then, as he got nearer and nearer to a complete erection, things got scarier and scarier. His mind flitted from one sexy thought to another, looking for that one thought that would carry him all the way to complete sexual fulfillment (by himself). His old standbys, fantasies that hed used during therapy, had long since passed out of his mind. His latest success story--success fantasy--for some reason had been Bette at the office. He didnt even like her, but she was blonde and had thinned out so that her derriere was thin. He would imagine himself sitting next to her in her office, going over something on her screen. Then he would imagine his penis lying on or pushing against her pubic hair or into her butt. This had worked well, even though he hardly knew her and didnt like her as a person. But he was desperately looking for some reliable fantasy to use with Jackie, especially when she was ovulating. He needed to get bone-hard insider her before shooting his wad. She still was in denial, apparently, about that, and was happy when he came insider her only two-thirds erect (although the doctors they had spoken too, including her doctor, didnt seem to care that Joe wasnt completely erect).

The mechanical therapy Eve had taught Ethan was back-breaking. It required a lot of concentration. Sometimes he would be sweating like a butcher when he had finished, because he couldnt stand the thought of coming too soon once again. And fighting off those negative thoughts took as much energy as climbing 110 steps to his apartment. He often hated Eve because he had seemed to have been healthier BEFORE he had therapy with her than afterwards.

Now, he still was making love terribly difficult for all of his partners, he was succeeding about 10 percent of the time, and he was still fighting the bankruptcy Eve had pushed him into with her teasing method of therapy: Youre AVOIDING sex. He couldnt stop trying to figure out how much was Eves fault and how much was his fault.

He just prayed and tried as hard as he could. He prayed that Jackie would benefit from having known him. He didnt care if he died AFTER he had given her the one or two children she wanted, as long as she was happy. He just prayed that the people around him felt BETTER for having known him, and didnt regret having known him. If he died knowing that his wife, family, and friends and God and Jesus were saying, That Joe, he was OK, he would be happy dying tomorrow. He no longer cared about himself, just Jackie and others who came into his life. He hoped that it wasnt too late. He felt he had wasted the first 44 years of his life.

Impingement-Induced Coma, by Steve Homan

Joe had survived the ordeal by the skin of his teeth. He had approached the edge of sanity many times after waking up without the ability to move his arms, legs, or vocal cords. He had become a quadriplegic, unable to communicate except by mouthing words. If his nurse, doctor, nurses aide, or relative or friend couldnt read lips as they stood by his bedside, he was out of luck. It struck him as funny how some people had a skill for reading his two-word sentences that were inaudible. He would mouth change diaper or water or change channel (the TV had only two main channels) and only three or four people would understand. Gradually, his left hand and arm came back and he was able to point to his mouth (indicating water) or to his diaper (indicating change it. One of his few pleasures was the ability to control when he would pee. Peeing itself felt numb and tingly at the same time, but at least he could initiate it. He could do nothing else except form two-word silent sentences and slightly move his left hand and right big toe.).

But he had awoken with despair on his mind. He had two doctors who came by most often. One was a long-haired beautiful Indian woman who looked about 30. She could read his lips and did give him water. His mouth was caked with gunk and deposits from the oxygen they blew into his throat via the tracheotomy. At one point, he mouthed the words poison me, let me die to her, but she only smiled. Nevertheless, he thought she understood, but just wouldnt comply.

Everyone who visited made sure to tell him it was a long road ahead or youve got a lot of work ahead before you get better. But no one had told him how he had gotten there. The last thing he remembered clearly was driving his rental car away from his dying mothers hospital. No one told him that his paralysis and inability to talk were nearly 100 percent temporary. His girl friend, Alma, told him that on that fateful night he had jumped into a cab and hissed the ER to the driver as his dry cough grew worse and worse. All he heard during the three weeks after his awakening was bits and pieces: nursing home aspirated a vegetable, probably a piece of broccoli funeral its in his head what do you want sweetie. I cant read lips be sure to sleep on one side or the other, your butt bedsore is horrible, we wouldnt want to infect that would we?

He finally could make the motions, mainly with his left hand and his mouth, that he wanted a nurse call button. His pneumonia was so terrible that his trach and mouth filled with saliva and secretions about twice an hour. He had been suctioned so much that the inside of his trachea was ultra-sensitive. Yet it had to be done. He heard rumors that the rehab hospital wouldnt take him, because he had to be suctioned so much and they werent in that business. He knew hed be drugged up at a nursing home, but decided that he would prefer that to this environment, in which no one came for hours on end, especially at 3 a.m., when he often had laid there thinking he would drown in his own saliva. He had to turn his head to the left and spit out saliva onto his pillow; he had to let the build-up of solid-like formations in his mouth nearly cover his esophagus before mustering the energy to clear his throat; he had to tell God several times Here I come, please be merciful on a jerk like me.

First Tipping Point for Joes Parents, by Steve Homan

At no time, since they met on the Walters farm, had he foreseen this reality; nothing had warned him when hed glanced across the yard full of friends and workers all drinking lemonade or beer and had been overwhelmed by the child-bearing hips of a young woman, who looked to be about 25, who made his heart beat faster, and that then, two years later, after their marriage, before his eyes, would change into the whining, preening, suffering creature whose existence he tried to everyday to deny. A skinnier woman, still with curvaceous legs however, but a constricted, repressed woman whose eyes blazed every moment with reproach, mostly for him, but ostensibly for every living person, whose false smile was as ugly as his bunioned feet after 10 and one-half hours of lifting 50-pound bags of cattle feed, his own damp underwear, and his own smell of grain dust.

It happened soon after their marriage. They had plans to go out with their new neighbors on their side-street, single-story, white-slab house in a new tract of cheap homes in Torrington. She was alone, sitting very straight at the mirror and trying hard to apply her make up. Her eyes were still red and blinking, but she gave him a small smile before turning back to the mirror. Hi, You ready to leave? He closed the door and started toward her with a look that he hoped would be full of love and compassion; what he planned to do was bend down and kiss her. But an almost imperceptible recoil of her shoulders told him that she didnt want to be touched, which left him uncertain what to do with his hands.

Will you do me a favor? The thing is, will you tell the Bumpers we cant go out? Its going to look rude isnt it? I dont think much of them and would rather go to the movies just with you.

You mean you wont tell them.

She closed her eyes. OK, I will then. Thanks a lot.

Her face in the mirror, shining with cold cream looked 40 years old, instead of 26, and as haggard as if it were set for root canal.

They are going to think its rude. I cant help that.

All right, you go along with them, if you want to and give me the car keys

Oh, shit. Dont start with the car keys. Why do you always have to

Look, Doug. Her eyes were still shut. Im not going out with those people. I dont happen to feel very well and I

OK. He was backing away, holding out trembling hands like a man waiting for a mugger to get close enough to club him. OK. Im sorry. Ill call them. Ill be right back. Im sorry.

He didnt realize it at the time, but she had won a battle and already was prepping to win the war. Many more times he would fight a rearguard action until he no longer fought, but just jumped, like a nervous cat.

The floor rolled under his feet like the deck of a moving ship as he made his way to the living room phone and dialed. No, no shes OK. Really. Its just a scratchy throat.

She was waiting for him by living room door, ready with a pleasant social face for anyone they might meet in town but they avoided them all. She led him through the back door of their house, out of sight of the Bumpers place two doors down. Their back yard opened onto 50 yards of empty, whispering soybean fields. They walked without touching each other and without speaking, moving in and out of the oblongs of street lights that lay on the sidewalks leading to downtown.

Walking now through the same farmyard smells in which he had first met her three years ago, he allowed his rising sense of poignance to encompass her as well as the sadness of her own childhood. He wasnt often able to do this. She, like him, crisply told of her memories and didnt allow for sentimentality.

I always knew nobody cared about me and I always let everybody know I knew it. She had entered the towns junior college after graduating high school with honors. But her folks had pushed her into marriage when Doug proposed. She secretly also had had a pending long-distance marriage proposal from Jack, who was still stationed in the Navy in Japan. In her heart, she had wanted to wait for him and finish college. Jack was dashing and ambitious and smart. Doug was movie-star handsome also, but had only an eighth-grade education and no ambitions other than having kids. And she had done what she had always done, given into what she thought her parents wanted.

He had hoped she would sit close to him in the theater--he wanted to hold her shoulders while they watchedbut she made herself very small and pressed against side of her seat, turning away to watch the to make sure the Bumpers werent at the same movie. This caused his eyes to water and his mouth tighten as he watched, until finally, licking his lips, he thought of something to say:

You are the only person that matters to me.

All right, could we stop talking about it now?

Sure we can. He tried to pat her thigh but she stiffened again, just enough that he noticed. His eyes watered up again. He felt like a kid waiting for his mothers tanning.

Exchange Between Emasculated Man and Therapist

Eve crossed her legs and looked into Joes eyes: You have to realize that your mother, and your father, took all of your self understanding away from you. She lied to you when she told you that you were bad. She perverted your need for human love and physical nurturing. You lost perspective on your childs world. Now, you owe that child a lot. If not for your courage and survival skills, you wouldnt be here.

What do you mean? Joe said, trying to keep from staring at her legs and pert mouth. She couldnt have been more than 10 years older than him, about 45 to his 36. He wondered if shed ever been a prostitute or a surrogate lover. Naw, I guess not, he thought. She has three kids and had to study a lot. But she MUST have been a free-lover during the hippie years.

Joe. Are you still with me? Eve was not one to be taken lightly. He needed that directness and needed orders on what to do next. But he also hated her business-like manner. She never relaxed.

You explain to yourself, whenever you get a free moment, that you were ALWAYS good. What was done to you was bad. You did the best you could to figure out what was going on. But you were faced with situations no kid should have to handle.

Youve lost about 20 years of sexuality, but you can at least put the losses into perspective and stop beating yourself up. By drilling into your own mind the honest facts--your courage, intelligence, insight and goodness, you can rediscover those qualities in yourself.

Joe started to shift on the sofa. He was well aware that she monitored his every move, but, with her, he didnt care. He wanted her to.

You look upset.

Its hard, Joe said. Mom and Dad did their best. I bet they thought they were making the right decisions. I doubt that anything was done with conscious malice.

Thats where youre wrong, Eve shot back. You dont think your mother thought once, Doug is a nice guy. Why am I doing this? She sure as hell did. But she never went to a psychologist. Or if they couldnt afford one, a priest. Did she?

No. She never did. She did tell me once that her medical doctor wanted to prescribe tranquilizers for her, but she couldnt take them, couldnt be falling asleep with four kids running around.

There you go, Eve retorted. She was giving you responsibilities you couldnt handle then. What were you, 8, 10? 10. At the same time, she should have been either talking about the tranquilizers with her real husband or with a priest, NOT with you. She entangled you. Used you. She was too chicken about what the town would say if she saw the priest or took tranquilizers, right?

Yeah. Youre right.

And the same thing with your dad. Never did anything with malice. Baloney. You dont think he disagreen with her when he caned you with that yardstick? You know he did. Yet, he wanted to keep his marriage, the sex, the place in society and with his own mom and dad. He sacrificed you, rather than show some backbone and take her on in a fight or divorce her.

Yeah. I think I told you that he once said, Youre on my side, arent you, Joe?

Thats it. Thats the point when he knew in the back of his mind that you were just a baby and it flashed through his mind that a fight with Mary could mean a divorce and he would lose the sex, the place in society. He dumped on you, Joe.

Its really hard to believe. Because he was so proud of me all the time. But she did brainwash me sometime between age 5 and 10. At five I adored him. At 10, I wanted him to stay in the hospital when he had a bleeding ulcer. I didnt want the tension to return.

Im so sorry, Joe.

Thanks.

This is painful, I know. You still have to deal with them, at least by phone every week, right?

Right.

But this pain is needed. By returning to your childhood, you may feel a sense of hopelessness. But youll move out of despair. As you acknowledge your losses, youll begin to mourn them. Directing your anger against the perpetrator instead of yourself leads to determination. Right?

Right, Joe said. He thought, but what about the pain of bankruptcy? You must know that Im approaching bankruptcy, yet youd let me walk out of here uncured, not like a surgeon or medical doctor, right?

Instead of sitting in pain, you will evoke it to move through it.

I sure hope so, Joe said, his eyes gleaming.

Dont worry.

Yeah. Easy for you to say. You have three kids and probably a husband that would support you. You dont face todays women who want to be fulfilled sexually, ask to see your paystub, and dont give a shit about the importance of having kids to their parents. The family line thing.

Free Will, Neurons, and the Best of Intentions, by Steve Homan

At age 18, my life was changed forever when a professor in December 1972 said "youll never make it" into medical school unless "you see our school counselor."

I did that. During the ensuing 37 years, I saw many counselors while trying to break free of the little voice replaying and replaying inside my head: "This wont work," "You arent in their league," "Shed never go out with you." The essence of my mothers words to myself and my dad during my youth, 24/7.

I imitated both parents via my "mirror neurons," which all humans have. They are tiny patches of neurons on the upper right and left sides of your brain. They imitate everythingand record it. We learn primarly by imitation. Our brains create representations of actions that can be replayed forever. If we see a man pick up a baseball, certain cells in our brains, via the mirror neurons, fire up, getting us ready to also pick up a baseball. The imitations really are cemented in there by age four. I still find myself standing in the exact posture and tilt that my dad often stood in 40 years ago. Those delicate years of childhood are very nearly unchangeable.

But I have changed quite a bit, via medical and tutorial actions. However, sometimes I feel Ive changed only a small percentage, as I fight the same battles now in my new family as my dad did in his.

Certainly, the stigma of being a mental health consumer contributes to this. Tipper Gore tried to work on that when Al was vice president of the U.S. The expense of a good psychiatrist or good psychologist also contribute. Our terrible health insurance system in the U.S., during my 37-year ongoing fight, NEVER paid 100 percent of costs that often ran as high as $100-$250 per hour. The number of paid-for sessions was limited also, because, after all, the mental health consumers arent REALLY sick, now, are they? Theyre just choosing to be nervous in front of audiences or when its time to have sex.

Perhaps a single-payor universal health care systemshould Obama and his so-called Democratic cohorts ever break free from the need for campaign contributions from Big Pharma and big insurance companieswill provide the research and medicines needed to help others like me WIN their battles to become sexual beings, instead of recreating their parents relationships all over again.

The MOST interesting thing about all of this is that my parents did what they did honestly thinking it was in the best interests of me and their family. And my friends and family also do what they do with the best of intentions. I do what I do with the best of intentions.

Doesnt say much for the concept of free will so wholeheartedly backed by all churches of all faiths everywhere, does it?

Emotional Incest So Bad That Son Wants to Die Instead of Mother, by Steve Homan

Do you believe an abused child still loves his abusive mother? Of course, he does. Especially when he is still young: Where else can he go for food, shelter and medicine? His father either is earning a living at the office at least 40 hours a week, wasnt ever schooled in those things, or is absent for any number of reasons, even though he adores the son.

Do you believe a mother can hate her husband so much that she tells her 4-8-10-year-old son about her problems with his dad, as though he were an adult familiar with sex and all of its complicationsburdening him with problems he has no answers for?

Can she steal his soul? By that I mean, does his mind focus only on how she views his every move and he is only concerned whether his moves please her? Not whether he is pleased? That it gets so bad that, eventually, he doesnt even KNOW what pleases him or what he likes?

Yes. Of course.

Later, when she is ill or suffers from actions by that so-called worthless husband, can you believe the son, now a bit older, from age 10 to his late 40s, feels guilty that she is suffering, responsible for it, impotent that he cant relieve it, oras Bill Clinton famously said--the son "feels her pain."? Literally?

Yes.

Disappointed, trapped women emotionally (sometimes called covertly) commit incest with their sons all the time, even though it may not include actual fondling or intercourse.

Thats what happened to--lets call him Joe--who, when his mother contracted myelofibrosis and had only 1-2 months to live, felt guilty enough about his inability to cure her, that he subconsciously tried to take her place or to join her, by, again, subconsiously weakening his bodys defenses, which allowed pneumonia and then ARDS (acute respiratory distress syndrome) to nearly take his life at nearly the exact time that she expired. As it happened, he awoke from his coma a few minutes before she died.

Earlier, after his mothers diagnosis, Joe had come to visit her in his home town. He walked into his mothers hospital room with fearwould he betray his fears, undercutting her confidence and ability to be strong? Would he cry in front of his brothers, both based in Minneapolis and closer to their mother?

He wasnt shocked at how his mother lookedas one sister in law had said he would be. He knew from Googling in the Internet and from the number of blood transfusions she already had had that she had only 1-2 months to live Her disheveled hair, sticking almost straight up, her thinness didnt shock him. He leaned over and kissed her.

"How are you Joe?" she said cheerfully. He sensed that her cheerfulness was genuine. He said "Fine. How are you?" "Well they tell me its incurable" He wondered at her cheerfulness.

A nurse came in to help his mother go to the bathroomshe and his dad held both arms as his mother was essentially carried to the bathroom 10 feet away.

This was odd, Joe thought. He chatted with his brothers with whom hed played backyard wiffleball, football, and basketball since they were 3 years old. Then his mother was carried back to her bed.

Joe looked at all the faces. None were as gloomy as his was. He tried to brighten up, but a bit later an older nurse saw him and asked if he was the law school graduate from out of town. He nodded. She asked to see him for a moment.

Outside the room, she said "Youve graduated college, right? And post-graduate?" He said "Yes." She said, "Does your family know just how sick your mother is?" He said, "I dont think so." "Do you know?" "Id gues she has 1-2 months at best." "Id like you to meet with myself and her doctor this afternoon about 1, in that room over there. OK?" "Sure."

Joe walked back in his mothers room after pausing to try to erase the emotions from his face. The room was similar to family gatherings over the past 30 years, the boys talking baseball and his mother ordering his dad around.

Joe was the only college and post-grad scholar. He had suspected envy on the part of his less-schooled siblings, but the degree of hostility was just beginning to show itself.

Joe just shook his head and said nothing. He knew what was coming at the 1 p.m. meeting. When he arrived, the nurse shut the door on the three of them. "Joe, we need your help," she said . "Yes said the doctor . Ive told your family that myelofibrosis was incurable and that so many transfusions are not a good sign, but you know how hope springs eternal and how strong denial is in humans." "Yes, I sure do" Joe said, his fingers opening and closing on the desktop. "What do you want me to do?"

"Joe, if you would, could you get through to your family that your mother needs to be getting her affairs in order?" "You know shes going t die in 1-2 months" "More like 1month." We cant do a marrow transfer because of her advanced age. Insurance wont pay for it."

That was a tipping point, as Joe latered realized. He said hed tell his family that she needed hospice care right away and to scuttle the home-care plans. Later, he would say to himself, "I should have said, No, you overpaid chicken shit. You tell them! Thats why you get paid four times what I make. But he didnt. He later realized that his mind was already overflowing with the chaos of his mothers sudden demise--only three months before she had visited him and only one month before she had reported a cold and hoarsness that wouldnt go away--and his ego, which pushed him to get back at his siblings for having ignored him about their mothers care plans.

He left the meeting and walked for a short while before entering his mothers room and asking about the plans for care. He said, "I think she needs hospice care." "Oh, Im not THAT sick," she said, "I dont want to take a bed from someone who really needs it. Ive got a lot of years left." "I really think hospice care would be best for allyoud live longer and could seee your grandchildren longer. And dad wouldnt have to carry you to the bathroom each night" "Oh, Joe Im not that sick, am I every one?" "No!" "No!" Everyone said consentially. "Besides they just drug you up in hospice care and watch you turn into a vegetable" she said.

Joe came back to his mom and dads home the next day to watch the trafficking of his mother into their bed and the hooking up of an oxygen production machine the size of an ottoman.

The process was painful to watch. His mother unable to move from the bed and his sister running around like an earnest, but scared, rabbit, furiously taking notes on how to work the oxygen machine.

Joe knew all of this was a waste of time. He knew that this way would bring the most pain upon his family. (And he was right, about two weeks later his dad had to ask his sister in law at 3 a.m. to come over and pick up his mother off the floor where she lay in her own urine and feces. He heard that all three of them broke down and cried that night. Perhaps his mother finally realized then that she would dieand soon.)

But denial raged on as Joe gave up and didnt want to be part of the mess. He headed back to upstate to his job. He later heard that when the doctors finally stopped coming around his mother, she buttonholed one and asked, "Am I dying?" That doctor finally said the magic words, "Get your affairs in order." She said, "Thank you."

Joe was kept in the loop sporadically by his brothers after that. Caught up in fightin with Maggie, he skipped a weekend visit. His brothers and sister never called to say she could go any second. He found this inexcusable. He found out too late to make it to his home town again before his mother died. He never said good-bye or participated in rubbing her back and comforting her and receiving her "I love yous" or her "take care of dad." He never got to tell her he loved her or resolve their differences and he never heard her say she loved him. She never dictated a note to him to say that she loved him.

The last thing he clearly remembered was getting into his rental car and pulling out of the driveway to head back to his job.

A mere two weeks later, Joe awoke to the glare of bright lights overhead and dingy yellow walls before him. To his right were two windows, which let in the reflected light of the wall of another building apparently only six feet away, at the most.

Joe heard voices and saw a few blue-clad nurses scurry around him. One grabbed his right hand and pressed and prodded for a vein to take some blood. One on his left refilled the IV with liquid food. Then, another, a burly, big-boned black woman came to his side. He moved to address herbut couldnt . He was paralyzed from the neck down except for tingling in his toes and an ache in his right shoulder.

The burly woman gently held him up, away from the bed with one hand while sponge-bathing him with the other. It was then that he realized his ability to turn toward her was imaginary She unabashedly pulled down his bed shirt and washed his chest. Then, she moved to his diaperDiaper!! "God. God. God. This cannot be true. How could this happen?" She expertly bunched his poop into the diaper and tossed it into a hamper. She then washed his genitals and buttocks and the ease of a nanny washing a baby while chatting with her friends at a play-date. A new diaper was taped on, and they were finished.

Joe gazed fuzzily at the TV monitor above his right leg, but could not reach it. The tug of an oxygen tube to a tracheotomya hole in his neckalso restrained him.

"Youve been through a lot," said a male voice to his left. "Youve got a long road ahead of you. Lots of hard work."

He could just make out the figure of a friend from church. He tried to talk, but couldnt. The air escaped out the trach tube and he couldnt use his vocal cords, which were slack from a month-long atrophy. He had no idea what had happened.

He knew it, however, but she didnt He had to leave her thinking she could live like this, an invalid, for another five-10 years. It apparently had broken him. Something had happened since and here he was perhaps on his own death bed or, perhaps, paralyzed for the rest of his life, voicelessa vegetable.