Learning to Live

I have been practicing caring for my inner child for many months now, focusing on providing it with the basic emotional needs I knew it needed but had never gotten. A sense of being held, of being ok, of feeling contained in compassion, of validation and safety.

As I grapple with a newfound exploration of my latest self-diagnoses of ADHD, I am beginning to understand that an entire new layer of intervention is needed – and may be very helpful.

My inner child must learn to live in the world. All action can only come through our inner child. Our inner parent may have all the clarity, and all the vision, but the inner child is the executor. And it was never taught to act. In my case, it was sent to prison from a young age, and taught neither how to regulate its emotions, or its schedule.

Most of what I have achieved so far has been through sheer willpower and brute force. like the adult self reaching in to the child like one might into a puppet, and grotesquely executing actions through him. The child is left violated and the results are grotesque at best.

I am inspired by the Montessori system, and the way my own children are learning. Processes are explained to them. Trial and error are encouraged. Slowly slowly, grade by grade, they learn to manage themselves in the world. It starts with scooping rice and dusting shelves and continues to deadlines and communal responsibilities.

I hope to teach my inner child to live in the world. Things that are obvious to my inner parent, but which it usually completely overestimates the inner child’s ability to execute. We’re starting from scratch here.

The inner child must learn to do unappealing things on his own instead of through force – whether externally applied, as it was in the beginning, or internally perpetuated, as my conscious brain continues to try to apply.

Chances are it can do a lot less, for a lot less time, in the beginning. The expectations the inner parent has on him are overwhelming and paralyzing. He needs to learn to cook and clean and do laundry all on its own, because until now it has never lived on its own. He’s lived in the inner parent’s basement and suffered continued abuse and resentment.

There are eight distinct areas it needs to learn to exercise, some of which it may have more experience with already, some with less.

My inner child needs to learn how time works, because no one entrusted it with time; how prioritizing works, because everything was always defined for him; and how to adapt and leave things unfinished, because until now all change felt threatening and unfished business felt like a gaping void.

(We can start by gently re-reading this draft I just wrote, which is no fun at all. What’s creative about editing?

And we can continue with “It’s ok not to finish, you can trust yourself to continue later.”)

I hope to bring the same core compassion I brought to the inner child’s core existence, to this new stage of learning to interact with the world. It will take time, and goodness knows it feels like I don’t have any and I want it all to be done right now.

That itself is a lesson. Actually, contrary to what I have told you in the past child, there is no rush.

There is no rush.

A thank you to Jessica for brining my attention to this hot mess, and to Gabor Mate’s book Scattered Minds for helping me understand the environmental influences behind ADHD and what can be done about it.

How Fucking Convenient

Aish_Gala_2019-7+-+Copy — A table setting from an Aish gala. You know, because holocaust.

It’s a holocaust out there. Thus was the Aish narrative.

A spiritual holocaust, much worse than any physical one. Because Hitler is taking bodies and Assimilation is taking souls.

And if you take it face value, that’s a fucking convenient narrative to have.

Need me to parent my kids? Sorry, spiritual holocaust.

Need me to be around on weekends? Nope, I’m saving lives.

Need me to treat my employees with respect and not work them into the ground? No can do, it’s a war out there.

That’s right, war is such a good analogy. Because soldiers still need breaks, which is why you still get to spend some time with your family.

It’s also why we sometimes have gala dinners. For the war effort.

But then it’s back to the frontlines; and it’s definitely not in any way an excuse to be a workaholic or to deal with less exciting things in life like changing diapers.

It’s time to invoke the imagery of that diplomat who spent months just signing papers so that the Jews could escape. He locked himself in his hotel room and just ate chocolate and signed. We too lock ourselves in our office and eat chocolate and create seminars.

Except.

What do you do when the holocaust lasts 70 years? How much chocolate do you eat? What if it actually has been lasting for 150 years, since the reform and enlightenment movement? How do you handle a “holocaust” with no perceivable end?

And if it really was a holocaust out there, is that really the time to have a bazillion kids? Maybe you shouldn’t be fucking around and instead should be signing more papers? (and if you say that having more children is a key part of your anti-assimilation war efforts, shouldn’t, like, parenting them be part of that plan?)

And surely there are distinctions?

Is there no difference between actively killing people and the absence of Jewish babies being born because their father married his college sweetheart name Christina?

Could we possibly make a distinction between people being lead at gunpoint to a gas chamber versus someone choosing to not follow a lifestyle that they see as outdated and irrelevant, even if that’s supposedly out of “ignorance”?

I doubt you’re reading this, because you’re still at war. Flailing violently into thin air like a person who’s walked through a cobweb.

But maybe, just maybe, comparing anything in our cushy freedom-filled world to the holocaust is a gross insult to the people who actually died in it, and possibly a fucking convenient excuse for you to do whatever it is you pleased, real-life responsibilities be damned.

Pew Pew

Gedlya Goldfinger holstered his PsalmRay.

Whereas the rest of the Goyishe Velt used neutron chips and nanotechnology to power their zappers, the psalm ray, engineered by The Conglomeration of Rabbis Against Advanced Technology, had been constructed mechanically.

It was very steampunk, if Gedlaya had only known what that was, or how cool.

For a mechanical zapper, the PsalmRay did a very decent job. Those folks at The Conglomeration sure knew what they weren’t doing.

Bodies were strewn all over the saloon, an underground speakeasy where gays and other unsavory sinners congregated in secret.

It hadn’t always been this way. Gedalya’s grandfather had regaled him with tales of “despicability parades” that “those people” used to throw. Back then, you were limited to just an angry protest on the sidelines while the Zionist police protected “the others”.

Or maybe the occasional zealous stabbing.

You didn’t have the rights that Gedalya had today, as a member of The Purity Protection Police, to step into a crowded bar, abuzz with silent murmurs, and open fire on everyone in sight.

“The zelots may strike him,” permitted the Mishna, regarding people who married non-Jews, or served a blemished animal offering to God. But for so many years, over 2,500 in fact, all you could do was dream of the day when you could walk in the footsteps of Phineas, the original fanatic who shoved a spear right into that Midianite woman’s cunt.

It had all changed one bright morning when the Messiah actually showed up on an actual fucking donkey. The people, actively praying for just that exact scenario, looked up in surprise. Their prayers had come true, but, as is so often the case, it was difficult to believe considering how rare such a scenario was. “We’re supposed to just want you to come, you’re not supposed to actually be here.”

Yet here he was.

Security at the Western Wall gave him a real hard time. Between the donkey, the long white beard, and the dark compassionless look in his eyes, it was only fair that they thought him a terrorist.

But he was no terrorist, similar though he might have looked to those Taliban you used to see on TV, if you owned a TV, which you didn’t. He wasn’t a terrorist because he was a freedom fighter on the right side of the only correct religion.

Muslims are terrorists.

One of the first things he did, obviously, was blow up the Dome of the Rock, erecting the Jewish temple there instead. It was pretty magnificent, as Jewish buildings go, funded by Jews all over the world. Chrystal chandeliers, extravagant marble. It was built to be fancier than any Chassidish Rebbe’s tish, even Viznitz’s. It was so flashy, so full of bling, you just knew it was God’s House you were strolling through.

At first, there was a great unification, as promised by the Late Prophets. He fought wars with merciless vengeance. Even the US backed down when he reminded them he slept with one finger on the big black nuclear launch button (Inscripted with the word “Givald!” in block white letters). Jews made Aliyah in droves, inspired by the temple and the unification and the putting America in its place and all.

But then Messiah grew old. He started needing people to lean in close and shout the latest tactical briefings in his ear. His responses became more garbled, more frequently punctuated by recurring calls to “kill them all in the name of The Almighty Merciful One”.

Along with this deterioration, and eventual death, of the Messiah, came the usual fragmentation, the default chemical reaction of any two Jews left to their own devices on the same continent. Opposing powers began vying to shout in his ear and misquote his responses. Factions broke out based on their ethnic origins – first just Middle Eastern vs. European, then segmented by country, region, and village.

This of course then manifested in the running of the entire country.

It fragmented governmental offices: the Chalabies overtook the Ministry of Marriages and Abominations, while the Grodetzkers assumed control of the Ministry of Fences and Limitations.

It fragmented the government itself: There were now 72 parties in a 120 member parliament, resulting in the Zayin “no fucks given” party and the Triple Daled “Boobs Begone” consortium.

The Purity Protection Police, to which Gedalya belonged, was itself widely supported by some (“give them what they deserve!”) and deeply condemned by others (“You’re killing people to painlessly!”).

The temple itself fractured, with each faction taking over their own little corner, customizing it, embellishing it with crude architectural add-ons. Gur took over the public bathrooms, charging 10 shekels a shit and 5 shekel a piss. Satmar created an intricate drink dispensing system, distributing 7 different flavors of Super Drink via a vast network of crisscrossing metal pipes screwed to the outside of the formerly glorious marble walls.

The temple lost its luster beneath an ever-growing hodgepodge of modifications, customizations, and egos. Even the animals slaughtered there were second-rate, much like Kain’s original biblical offering – thin, gaunt, malnourished. It used to be you would wade in blood up to your knees during the time of the Passover offering. Now it was up to your ankles at best.

“Still,” Gedalya mused, rebuttoning his Fast-draw Kapote while stepping over a still-smoking body. He could see the sunlight streaming through the half open saloon door. “What a time to be alive.”

Meaning’s Search for Man

When I left religion, I lost the reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Aish had the only reason, and I left it behind. No longer was I doing God’s work. No longer was I saving the Jewish people, keeping the world afloat with every word of Torah I spoke.

Another day, another pointless existence.

There was no point in staying in Israel. So I left. There was no point in staying alive, but I did, because I had responsibilities towards others. But responsibility does not equal meaning.

And so it went, on and on, day after day. I processed trauma, I dealt with shit. Everything still pointless.

I used to find meaning in helping others, but it was harder to do that now. Volunteering opportunities are surprisingly menial – want to drive people to the hospital? Want to take a random kid to a park every week? That wasn’t my jam.

After four years, I finally found enough strength to start doing hypnotherapy again. I had trained in it while still relgious, and it was deeply intertwined with God. I had to extract God from the core hypnotic techniques, and I had to find the strength to be there for other people when my own energetic world was flimsy at best.

For the longest time, I had nothing left over to give, the ultimate paradox when you think that there is nothing more energizing to me than helping others. I couldn’t get the cycle started.

I learned to stare pointlessness in the face. To understand that meaning could be subjective, and did not need to involve other people or saving the world. In therapy, I found that I derive meaning from learning new things. From being creative for its own sake. Who knew.

And then one day, it hit me. After nine months of micro dosing to help counteract my anxiety. After three years of therapy to deal with complex trauma. After five doses of MDMA, monthly mushroom trips, and an Ayahuasca retreat, each laden with more shit than I could possibly have fathomed.

An idea.

It combined so many of talents and passions – technology, mental health, marketing, generosity. Everything is meaningless and we’re all gonna die, but this is what I want to do while I’m still alive.

Meaning from the inside out. Who would have thought?

And for the first time, it lasted. Aligned with who I am, it stuck around, instead of fleeing into the night like almost anything else I’ve ever gotten excited about. Six months later, and it’s still here.

A reason to live. A cause I can get behind. Something where, if I stop to feel it, I can actually appreciate the process of where I have come and where I still want to go.

I did not find meaning.

Meaning found me.

All And Nothing

“Judaism is not all or nothing,” they preached at Aish Essentials. “Do what you can, God appreciates it all, every bit counts.

Except, word on the street was that when you entered Intermediate I, Motty Berger had a class where he explained that it was all or nothing. Sorry, we lied, lol. Definitely the only time we’ve done that.

I do not know what secret laws Motty Berger revealed in Intermediate I, because I was too advanced to ever attend it.

But I do know that Judaism is full of alls and nothings.

Jews are the be all and end all. Non-Jews are accessories, the dirt under our feet in the world to come.

We had the secret of of true meaning and real happiness. Everything else was hopelessness and despair.

‘Here, want to hear my story of how I was depressed before I found religion? Of how I was looking for “something more” and found it in religion?’

“Do not believe in yourself until the day you die.” You could be 80 years old and ruin it all with a single blasphemy.

Kares. 36 ways for you to lose your place in the world to come, which is the purpose of all existence. And what do you get it for? Eating unleavened bread. Sex with a menstruating women. You’re one step away from a fate worse than hell, boy. It used to be that public lashes would atone for Kores. But we no longer have that option, unfortunately, so you’re fucked.

But don’t worry, this only applies if you do it on purpose. If it’s an accident, it’s just a grave sin.

Phew.

Shabbat comes in at 5:56. It ends at 6:32. You need 3.2 ounces on Matza on Passover, to fulfill your obligation. And 5.2 ounces of wine per cup.

Whip out your kitchen scale. Ignore your body weight.

So much for gradients. So much for God getting the bigger picture.

Seems like the law is in human hands, as well as our ability to predict how God will treat the sinners. Human judges exercise judgment, God treats everyone the same.

All and Nothing. Mostly nothing.

Consider Death

Everybody should —in their lifetime consider death, To wonder what it will be like to go to sleep and never wake up. the contemplation of death, and the acceptance of death, is very highly generative of creative life.

– Alan Watts

In my hypnotherapy practice, I tend to attract a certain kind of client.

These clients and I share a strong propensity for laughing at the darker sides of life – finding humor in death, suffering, and absurd voices that live in our head.

My sessions tend to be highly existential, and my approach makes little attempt at whitewashing what I like to call the Incredible Darkness of Being. This is often called a pessimistic world view, usually by people who, in my opinion, are afraid to call it realism.

Or maybe I have an overly large negativity bias, that’s definitely an option as well.

The clients I tend to get along best with share the same world view. Life is overrated, now let’s make the best of it. Or not. Because if you’re looking for someone to convince you to stick around, that is not gonna be me.

Louis C.K. jokes that he’d kill himself just to win an argument. I think there are many arguments people can make for killing themselves. People often invoke the anecdotal stories of attempted suicides who, at the last minute, regret their attempt. What you don’t hear about as often is the people who try to kill themselves over and over again.

My point being, I believe the choice is yours, and I am glad not to be bound to any external ethical code of conduct that commands me to save lives at all costs or report suicidality to the authorities.

(One client of mine works in mental health and is quick to remind me that she knows exactly what to tell the authorities so they leave her alone and let her die in peace.) You had no choice about coming into this world, but you sure as hell should have the option to leave it, if you so choose.

But while you’re still around, examining death, dancing with it, can have some real advantages, and I employ them in work with others.

It gives perspective. I sometimes do guided end-of-life mediations with clients where they simulate their own deaths in their minds. It helps them remember their priorities, reconnect with the people who are most important to them, and keep their daily challenges in perspective.

It gives relief and restores choice. If your life is miserable enough, which it is for many people, just knowing that you have a way out can be a big consolation. A client of mine has amassed enough opioids to kill herself, and she sleeps with them by her side to comfort her.

Knowing you don’t have to be here is often what you need to actually continue sticking around. To quote the legendary Louis C.K again, “no one can make you do anything, because you can always kill yourself.” It’s the ultimate freedom.

You can use it as a catalyst for growth. Very often when we try to grow or change, there’s a voice that whispers to us that if we make this change, we will literally die. Core changes to how we operate, letting go of deeply ingrained beliefs that shape how we perceive ourselves, can be so threatening to our psyche that if feels like we’ll cease to exist if we change.

When these situations come up, I use our shared blasé attitude towards death to my advantage. “You say that if you change this pattern you’ll die? Well, what’s so bad about that.” By pitting the part of yourself that fears death against another part that craves it, you can find the strength to go further, dive deeper, and explore what lies on the other side of the darkness that inevitably lies within.

I invite to die a little inside. It’ll do you good.

Systemic Trauma

Why must drag our next generation through the dregs of the holocaust?

So that it doesn’t happen again? Baloney.

It’s happening right now. It could happen again in a heartbeat. And if it happened to anyone else but your own ethnic kin, you’d be a lot less bothered.

So let’s take 17 years old to a concentration camp.

I am of the opinion that the world is shit enough as it is. That innocence doesn’t need to be systemically eradicated by a visit to Auschwitz. Let it die its natural death.

The people who will be most impacted, read: traumatized, by the experience, least needed it in the first place. Do you think you or I need a reminder that at the turn of a moment we can because sadistic minions at the mercy of a megalomaniac? We either are or aren’t ready to run towards that electric fence.

Let us get through the day. We are all trying to be the best people we can be. The nicest. The kindness.

But trauma begets trauma. And scarcity begets animosity. And fear, well, fear is on the insignia on the SS and on the mission statement of any holocaust remembrance program.

Holy Shmita

The Bible: And every seven years, leave your land fallow and do not farm it. And I promise I shall give you such blessing on the sixth year that it will suffice you for the the sixth, seventh and eighth years. For I am the lord God, and I always do as I sayeth.

Aish: This is totally a proof of God, because it is so dumb and preposterous that no one would have agreed to such an outlandish claim unless God himself had revealed Himself to the entire nation in a mountain of smoke.

The local charity organization: Please support our fund to help impoverished farmers who have decided not to farm for an entire year to fulfill God’s word and have definitely not benefited from a bumper crop on the sixth year. May God bless you for your kindness.

Aish (having been quiet for over 5 seconds): Look at all the biblical prophecies that have come true!

The national religious court of law: See that Jewish farm? We actually sold it to a non-Jew this year, so those cucumbers are good to go. Farm away.

The charedi court of law: What a preposterous claim. Y’all are a bunch of heathens. You can’t just sell your land to a non Jew and then farm it. What you can do, however, is sell you whisky to a non Jew and drink it after Passover.

This shit writes itself.

Well, Take Care Then: A Polyamorous Journey to Nowhere

“I’m poly,” I wrote her. “So it’s complicated.”

“How come I’m only finding out now?” She wanted to know. “Most poly people put it in their profile. I am not poly.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot to add it.”

“Well, take care then.”

—

We had hit off unusually well. Most of my conversations on dating apps are dead on arrival.

I have slightly better luck on Jswipe than on Tinder: apparently not being blond and six foot two disqualifies me from most Canadians; being five foot six with a massive nose makes me a total Jewish catch.

She divulged to me that she’d had some past trauma. I asked her if there was anything I should avoid saying or doing that might trigger her. She said no one had ever asked her that before.

We were making plans for a call, maybe even a date. Those milestones that seem miles away through the endless swiping, swiping, swiping. “I have 36 new likes, would I like to pay to see who liked me?” I would not.

Then polyamory came up, and it was over.

“You are capable of loving more than one person, of navigating the emotional complexities inherent in multiple romantic relationships? I want nothing more to do with you.”

Here’s what could have been. I could have been a total bro. Chad McGoldberg. Met up, divulged nothing, kept her around for a few months, slept with multiple women, keepin’ it casual. Then moved on on a whim. As long as nothing gets too serious, and there’s no reason why it should, this can go on for years. Tell me that the person you’re seeing tonight hasn’t slept with someone else last night and another person tomorrow?

But it’s not official. There’s theoretical monogamy on the theoretical horizon. We might settle down and have kids one day. Who knows? We’re still feeling it out.

Give yourself a title, make it formal, and you’re out on the streets. Poly.

I once had a woman refuse to date me because I called myself a libertarian. I thought it meant believing in minimal government intervention. I didn’t realize it came with an assumption that I was a gun toting asshole.

Similarly, I recognize that Poly also comes with its own associations. With militant evangelists who tout it as the only way to be, and who vilify jealousy; with people just using it as an excuse to sleep around, with hippy communes. Like vegans, but with relationships.

But still, it seems unfair. Why is that the one thing I’m expected to put in my 400 character bio? Do other people put in their commitment levels, their desire to have kids, their fucked up relationships with sex and intimacy?

What if I’m actually single right now? What if she’s slept with more people in the last month than I have in the last year?

Well, take care then.

God forbid there should be something in my life that is normal, conventional, the easy route. I am destined to always be forging my own path, while glancing to the side as the rest of the world takes the high road.

There’s no app for that.

In No Way Are You Absolved

After my last post went Shalom Tzvi level viral (as defined by the odds in which someone shared it with my grandparents), lots of people emerged from the woodwork. And they had a lot to say, being people and all.

They wanted me to know that they were happy for me, that they’d known I’d come around, that they were glad to see I was finally over it, had healed myself, and recognized that Aish wasn’t so bad after all.

Also, do I still live in Toronto and let’s catch up sometime.

I did not take this well. It is clear to me that people will use my current post to whitewash some of the older stuff I’ve said. This, even though the gist of everything I’ve said until now still stands and my detailed criticism of the Kiruv movement, Orthodox Judaism, and religion in general, still stands.

In sharing my own personal healing, a transformation from emotional pain to just intellectual criticism, a lot of the punch will get lost. With less ‘fuck you’’s, my points will be just intellectual musings and debates, and we all have plenty of those on the internet.

I also didn’t appreciate only hearing from people when I was supposedly doing well. (As an aside, you can’t always tell how well I’m doing by what I write about. Stay tuned for an upcoming post on suicide.)

I can understand some of the places this can come from – people may have thought I was angry at them in particular, even though this was largely untrue. And people often don’t feel comfortable around the messiness of raw emotions – anger and grief. We don’t quite know what to say when paying condolences, and the more tragic the situation the less the clichés in our back pocket can serve us.

So here are some things I’d like to say:

The fact that I have healed in no way absolves you of your responsibilities towards the thousands you have hurt. The ruined marriages, the stifled psyches, the falsehoods and the whitewashing, these are all real and you played a part in it. It’s as basic as Richard Dawkin’s point that there is no such thing as a religious child – there are only your opinions indoctrinated into an unsuspecting human.

I can't think of many people who deserve to go to hell, but the people who teach of its existence to vulnerable children are prime candidates. - Richard Dawkins

This is happening around us all the time, and while Aish has millions of dollars to prop up its image, I am one dude with a keyboard making a point. Even if Aish is a mixture of good and bad, as my last article concurs, there is still a lot more garbage that goes unmentioned in the day to day narrative.

I am also grateful to the few individuals who stood by me throughout it all. A few key people (one of them is a Rabbi) did not give a shit about the fact that I was covered in emotional shit and stuck around, doggedly, persistently, regardless of what I said or did. These are the people who stand out in my mind, if not as better friends, at least as more emotionally capable ones. Their support of me then meant much more than the hand clapping I’m receiving now.

A part of me did not want to write this. “Why shit on the parade?” it asks. “You’re finally on people’s good side again, don’t you want people to like you? Don’t you want people to see you as someone who adds positivity to the world, who will support your future projects to do good (Tikun Olam, bitches)?”

To which I reply, I most definitely do want everyone to like me. But I didn’t get this far by always saying the right thing that I or everyone else wanted to hear.

No matter what I say or do, some people still seem to think that I’m the shit. When I’m dating, 90% of women don’t notice I exist and 10% are crazy about me. I would like to keep throwing mud at walls, western and otherwise, and let stick what may.

1...8910...20 Page 9 of 20

Current Weather in Hell

Hell

overcast clouds

enter location

49.7 ° F

49.7 °

47.8 °

77 %

2mph

100 %

Thu

50 °

Fri

46 °

Sat

42 °

Sun

43 °

Mon

37 °

Even More Freidom

Suffering: Understanding the Ununderstandable

Spot the meme. Also, double negatives are so not not cool.

"Never was there as happy a time," the Mishna says, "than Tu B’av. Because on that day...

My partner and I recently attended a retreat organized by Footsteps, the organization that supports (mostly) Orthodox...

In this episode of Beyond Belief: Tales of Religious Exodus, we sit down with Jennie, who shares...

This was a post I wrote in my teens, while I was still very much religious. As...

Freidom Fighter – Mockery Will Set you Free