When I was being born they had to wrench me out of my biological mother with forceps.
I guess if one is to do a self-analysis one should, really, begin at the beginning.
I have been estranged from my human mother for several years now, for reasons which I may go into at a later date. But shortly before that happened, which was during my mid-forties, I asked her about my birth and she responded with something like ‘oh, it was fine.’
Hmm. Having to wrench something out of you with forceps is not ‘oh, it was fine.’ It must have been a seriously traumatic experience for her. And one about which, clearly, she is still in denial.
Although I have no memories of the incident (why would I want to remember?), I can well imagine it. ‘Get it out of me! Get this monster out of me!’ probably entered into it somewhere.
This would also explain why my human mother reacted against her husband, my human father. He died about ten years ago now, but if I was to say he had Marfan’s syndrome that might aid understanding. My emotional memories of him from my early years were one of rejection and, well, not exactly terror as such, but certainly ‘get this monster away from me’, that kind of thing. To say he was not exactly handsome is something of an understatement. Part of me thinks that people like that should take the responsibility and not have offspring. To inflict that on a child – for their entire life – is nothing short of cruelty. It’s selfish, aside from anything else – I can have children so I will. No thought for what the child might feel. Being a good parent starts even before conception.
And my human parents were absolutely not good parents.
Of course, the unfortunate thing is that a child doesn’t have the tools to fully comprehend that at the time.
For those unaware of Marfan’s syndrome, it’s characterised mainly by skeletal deformities, which can in turn lead to problems with internal organs (the heart in particular). Sufferers of the condition are easily recognised – they are quite tall and thin, with elongated wrists and very osseous facial structures. Students of Egyptology will recognise this condition when thinking of the Pharoah Akhenaten (who, interestingly enough, does indeed feature in the historical story of Paschats on this planet during human times – more on that another time, perhaps).
Thankfully, I only have it in a milder form, so you can only vaguely discern it in me. Still, suffice to say my physical appearance is absolutely not what I look like on the inside. It bears little, if any, resemblance to my soul.
Maybe, I tell myself in moments of acceptance, there’s a reason for that – namely it made it easier for me to reject the human and achieve self-realisation.
I can understand what a psychologist would say, though. It’s somewhat obvious and logical. ‘So that’s why you think you’re an alien, eh?’
‘Are you suggesting this is all just some kind of compensation mechanism, doctor?’
‘Exactly! Now you’re gaining insight into your condition! Well done, you’re making progress!’
‘Oh I’m so very grateful, doctor, I was so dumb and stupid and ignorant before that it really never occurred to me! May I have a sweet and get off the couch now?’
‘By all means!’
Naturally, I’ve had my fair share of experiences with human psychologists, most of them negative. I often think they’re the ones with the compensatory tendencies. Being able to pontificate and essentially pass judgement on others makes them feel superior – it makes up for some, I don’t know, inferiority or lack they may once have felt. You can usually tell the difference – such psychologists tend to develop their own pet theories about their subjects and fit the facts accordingly, and nothing you or anyone else says will change their opinions. Freud was a bit like this – there’s that famous anecdote about some woman who was afraid of horses and Freud said it was some unresolved thing to do with her father, when it turns out she just had a bad experience with a horse when she was young.
The other kind of psychologist – fortunately I’ve met them too (after the bad ones) – you can easily tell because their clear priority is helping the other person. They think nothing of themselves, they genuinely care and you can sense that. They listen. They don’t treat you like you’re stupid, and they often ask you what you think.
I’ve had two experiences with psychologists like this. The first decided to introduce me to the concept of ‘transactional analysis’ in a totally non-condescending way. I found it fascinating – she clearly and correctly guessed I would go away and think about it and work stuff out for myself (which I did).
The second was the aforementioned caring and compassionate type. She easily, straightaway discerned that I wasn’t stupid or ignorant and only needed some kind of reassurance. Like ‘actually, no – you don’t have any disorder. You’re not the problem, they are.’
And it was simple as that. I already knew it, of course, but sometimes we need to hear it from someone else for whom we have respect.
Another psychologist might say ‘ah, so your mother must’ve thought you a monster and emotionally disowned you – you’re picking up on her projection and that’s why you think you’re an alien.’
‘Goodbye, doctor. Don’t expect any payment, eh?’
These kinds of pet psychological theories are very easy to produce. They have an internal logic to them. Unfortunately, if they come from people who are viewed as ‘key opinion leaders’ then these stupid theories tend to get accepted and become mainstream.
Like that atrocious, and obscene, ‘autogynephilia’ idea about transwomen. The idea that being a transwoman is some kind of sexuality disorder. That flies in the face of what neuroscience tells us – namely that sexuality and gender are determined by two distinct and different parts of the brain.
And as if ‘self-love’ was a bad thing!
Of course if I also slipped in the fact that I, too, happen to be a transwoman then the psychologists would have another field day. Something like ‘you thinking you’re an alien is a sublimation of your rejection of the male. Produced by suppression, obviously. You couldn’t accept your transgenderism so you decided to express it via alienism instead.’
‘Sorry doctor, wrong again. I’m both. I thought of that one myself as it happens.’
‘What? You mean you have insight into your own condition?’
‘You mean am I self-aware? Have I meditated honestly with myself? Of course I have. It’s called emotional maturity. You humans should try it sometime.’
Do I have a low opinion of human psychologists? Hmm, not all of them. Like I said, I’ve met some brilliant ones. Those are the ones I care about. And those are the ones who would understand every word I say.
Anyway, the next thing that happened to me, after I was born, was indeed total rejection by my human mother, who proceeded to develop post-natal depression. Understandable, really. So, whilst she and her husband tried to ‘work things out’ (‘you put that monster in me’ ‘you allowed it’ etc.) I was sent off to be looked after by my maternal grandparents. And for that, I am eternally grateful. As far as I am concerned, from an emotional attachment point of view (which is the crucial point), they were my real parents. They genuinely loved me and I knew it. It was as obvious as it could be. So all these psychologists citing ‘compensation’ for lack of parental love really don’t know what they’re talking about. I had parents who loved me and who I loved back. They just weren’t my biological ones.
And that’s why I didn’t shed a single tear whatsoever when my biological father died. In fact, truth is, I didn’t feel a damn thing. And indeed I was even pretty resentful about having to go all the way back to England for the funeral.
Likewise with my biological mother. She might still be alive, but I don’t know and, quite frankly, I don’t care.
The worst thing, arguably, was having to be taken away from my (emotional/real) parents and sent back to my biological parents after my first year. They were strangers to me. And not pleasant strangers either. They were frightening and I didn’t like their emotions or their physical gestures towards me and all the rest of it.
And that was just the start of my troubles.
Just one more thing about that first year of life. At some point – I don’t remember exactly when – I got really, really ill. I don’t even know what with. I don’t think my parents did either. But apparently it really was touch and go and I was hovering on death’s door for a while.
But, obviously, I survived.
I think of this as a kind of post-xenotransplant rejection syndrome. I am, after all, a non-human soul in a human body. Apparently this sort of thing happens habitually with us Visitors/Starseeds.
I guess the question is, however, was it the human rejecting me, or me rejecting the human?
So, as I mentioned elsewhere, I was born in Southend on sea in England. For reasons I’ve also mentioned elsewhere I had to be born at a very precise time, and I often wonder whether my accuracy was off. Like maybe there was another baby being born at precisely that time in precisely that place and I was supposed to be in her body, not mine. I haven’t looked into that, however. Aside from anything else I’d have to invade people’s privacy and trawl through birth records and so on, and I don’t really have access to that kind of thing. It is an interesting thought though. On the other hand, clearly that initial ‘welcome’ period of this incarnation did have a purpose to it.
At least, that’s what I tell myself, anyway. Truth is I don’t think I’d want to know if some other baby was born then who turned out to be beautiful and have parents who loved her and all the rest of it. I think that would hurt.
Anyway, this is part of the reason why you won’t be seeing me post any pictures of myself, and I will be reluctant in the extreme to make public appearances and so on. I like my obscurity and withdrawal from the world. It’s painful for a Paschat, this is true, because we are such sociable creatures, but I do, at the very least, have other companions, most of whom are not human.
Well, that’s it for part one of me being personal, and wanting people to know and understand the real me. I do not expect sympathy, by any means. I don’t expect insults or spite either, however. I was just hoping my dearest readers might appreciate it.
If I am ‘oversharing’ then don’t tell me about it. Just don’t read any more of it.
Everybody has a choice.