aww ~ 11/18/13
non-subject: familiar feeling
*****
November, 2013. This morning I read the story of Adam and Eve and Jehovah Elohim and the serpent. I read it aloud, though only my ears were listening. I read as if I were reading a Cherokee tale about creation, or a Greek god tale.
My mind still tries to find ways to interpret and make the Genesis tale "accurate" and "true." As my mind ventures in that direction, I pull myself outside the story and peer into the story as if I had never been an indoctrinated true believer. When I enter that never-a-Bible-believer-fly-on-the-wall position, I am free to fly from one side to another; observing, listening, being. I don't have to make the story "fit." The story is what it is, a tale being told by an ancient human trying to make sense of the suffering and the blessing.
There was a time, before my Bible believing days, when I didn't believe the Bible to be any more special than any other religious book. At that time I didn't have to become the fly on the wall; I was the fly on the wall. At that time I didn't have to step outside myself from a recent-past decades-indoctrination of a boxed-in inerrant interpretation of scripture. At that time, in order to believe, I had to squelch my worldly senses; I had to reign in my doubt if I was going to be one with God.
November, 1977. I drove down the one way street in Hickory in route to The Way's Foundational Class, Power for Abundant Living, PFAL. I wanted to believe. I wanted to know God's will for my life. The "green card," which every PFAL student signed when the student committed to and paid for "The Class," promised I'd be able to discern truth from error. Then I would know God's will for my life.
"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me."
As I drove alone in my five-speed silver-gray Mercury Capri I recited those words aloud over and over and over crucifying my doubt. Those were Jesus' words. The feeling of uncertainty in my gut was just the adversary trying to trick me out of the Word.
"If ye continue in my Word, then are ye my disciples in deed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
There was only one way to know God, and that was through Jesus Christ.
"Submit yourselves therefore to God and resist the devil and he will flee from you."
When Jesus was tempted by the devil, he responded with "It is written." I had to train my mind to think the Word, the Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word.
"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "It is written."
Hadn't God led me to these people, Bill and Dan, who had moved to Hickory in August setting up a Way Home to move the Word? And the WOWs, Word Over the World Ambassadors, had also arrived in Hickory in August. "The Class" was being run at the WOW's apartment on 2nd Avenue.
What about the love of God I felt at that first Twig fellowship? I was uneasy at first when Bill called on people to speak in tongues and interpret, but it was decent and in order like Corinthians said speaking in tongues should be. I had experienced the harried Charismatic and Pentecostal meetings; Twig fellowship with The Way was calm. It was like God was speaking directly to Bill when Bill would run the meeting and teach.
What about how I had met Bill and Dan at the health food store when they were witnessing there to my friend Gretta? Wasn't that an answer to prayer? Gretta and I had been truth seekers together. And here we were in the PFAL class. And Janet too. One night at the bar Fast Company, I told Janet I had found the truth. She listened intently and then flushed her dope down a toilet and went to Bill and Dan's house telling them, "Carol told me about ya'll." And now we were sitting through PFAL together.
Yes; The Class, The Way, Twig Fellowships, the Way Home, WOW Ambassadors. It all had to be answers to prayer. This had to be the way back to the garden. This had to be the truth. I would not let my doubts or feelings get in the way. After all God honors believing, not feelings.
"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "It is written."
November 18, 2013
November 15, 2013
Meandering Orbits
Since the incidents beginning in 2010 with my former cult-recovery therapist, John Knapp, I have changed...not necessarily for the better. I trust myself less (again); I trust others (especially strangers) less. I endeavor to glean the lessons learned from the Knapp encounters and from Knapp's attempted public smearing of my character. I have questioned whether or not I deserved Knapp's wrath filled with falsehoods; after all, I brought it upon myself by coming forward. But, I didn't lie. Knapp outright lied making up fantasies.
I wonder if I will ever blow another whistle if I am in a position to do so? I've paid a personal price with the little whistle I blew regarding Knapp. About the only reasons I find worth that price are the couple other ex-clients who have come out of the woodwork since latter 2011. Recently in a phone conversation, a friend who is an activist regarding mental health practitioner abuse, stated, "Carol, it wasn't a small thing. Just think how many people you stopped from being injured by that man." Well, maybe.
Yet, the ordeal (as small as it was/is) has had a dampening affect on me that I've found hard to shake off.
Changed. It's not just what happened with Knapp; there are also the unpleasant incidents with health professionals in 2012 and 2013, and then I question if I am the problem. Do I not communicate well? But then, I've read story after story of others with peripheral neuropathy who have gone through similar (and much worse) medical roller coasters trying to get a proper diagnosis and help. I'm fortunate that I found a good neurologist (at least so far) after only one who turned me away telling me I didn't have nerve damage sending me out his door in pain with no remedy and suggesting I might want to try acupuncture. I hit bottom at that point...BAM! The event did catalyze some creative ways to maneuver the circumstances...and I did maneuver.
Then there was the incident with a cat, when I misread the cat's insulin syringe and he died. How could I be so stupid? My heart still droops and my head hangs in shame. I handled it as best I could; I owned my error and I did all I could to save his life.
For decades I have struggled with thinking I'm unintelligent. I've struggled with self-confidence. Yet, when I have mentioned this to others, they've been surprised. The responses are that I come across self-assured and they would never have thought I had such doubts about myself. I used to think everyone had such doubts. I've since learned that isn't so.
These days, I'm much less open than I once was, less likely to wear my heart on my sleeve. I find myself avoiding close relationships with others. I'm tired. Maybe it's part of aging. Perhaps I've grown relationship lazy.
I've wondered if I prefer,for the most part, the company of dogs and cats and trees and plants rather than people because there are no facades with the four-legged and leaved; there is nothing to prove. I don't feel the perceived need to explain myself for whatever season or reason.
Two great equalizers that help me through the storms of self-doubt are gratitude and paying life forward. They take my focus off my own vulnerabilities and onto a wider horizon of humanity and history. Surely the small deeds appropriated in the quiet of our hearts and closets have an impact that reverberates, however small.
I wonder if I will ever blow another whistle if I am in a position to do so? I've paid a personal price with the little whistle I blew regarding Knapp. About the only reasons I find worth that price are the couple other ex-clients who have come out of the woodwork since latter 2011. Recently in a phone conversation, a friend who is an activist regarding mental health practitioner abuse, stated, "Carol, it wasn't a small thing. Just think how many people you stopped from being injured by that man." Well, maybe.
Yet, the ordeal (as small as it was/is) has had a dampening affect on me that I've found hard to shake off.
Changed. It's not just what happened with Knapp; there are also the unpleasant incidents with health professionals in 2012 and 2013, and then I question if I am the problem. Do I not communicate well? But then, I've read story after story of others with peripheral neuropathy who have gone through similar (and much worse) medical roller coasters trying to get a proper diagnosis and help. I'm fortunate that I found a good neurologist (at least so far) after only one who turned me away telling me I didn't have nerve damage sending me out his door in pain with no remedy and suggesting I might want to try acupuncture. I hit bottom at that point...BAM! The event did catalyze some creative ways to maneuver the circumstances...and I did maneuver.
Then there was the incident with a cat, when I misread the cat's insulin syringe and he died. How could I be so stupid? My heart still droops and my head hangs in shame. I handled it as best I could; I owned my error and I did all I could to save his life.
For decades I have struggled with thinking I'm unintelligent. I've struggled with self-confidence. Yet, when I have mentioned this to others, they've been surprised. The responses are that I come across self-assured and they would never have thought I had such doubts about myself. I used to think everyone had such doubts. I've since learned that isn't so.
These days, I'm much less open than I once was, less likely to wear my heart on my sleeve. I find myself avoiding close relationships with others. I'm tired. Maybe it's part of aging. Perhaps I've grown relationship lazy.
I've wondered if I prefer,for the most part, the company of dogs and cats and trees and plants rather than people because there are no facades with the four-legged and leaved; there is nothing to prove. I don't feel the perceived need to explain myself for whatever season or reason.
Two great equalizers that help me through the storms of self-doubt are gratitude and paying life forward. They take my focus off my own vulnerabilities and onto a wider horizon of humanity and history. Surely the small deeds appropriated in the quiet of our hearts and closets have an impact that reverberates, however small.
November 13, 2013
Arles
non-subject: a dream of Paris
aww ~ 11/12/13
*****
Oh how I fell in love in high school with Van Gogh's paintings, particularly the paintings of Arles. Van Gogh's work seemed to move and flow. The curves and the swirls became alive for me, like the paintings themselves were movement.
In tenth grade, using oil pastels, I created my own replication of Van Gogh's A Cornfield of Cypresses. I matted the piece but never framed it, at least that I recall. I gave the oil pastel to my then-boyfriend, Ron also known as Fatman. He hung the piece on his bedroom wall. I don't know where it landed after Ron and I broke up.
In my home now, a gold-framed 42-by-30-inch reproduction of Van Gogh's Irises hangs on my den wall. I spied it years ago in a local department store, passing it by, dismissing it. But it whispered to me until I bought it, even though I bought it from a department store. I didn't care that it was a reproduction. I liked that it wasn't a print; but rather that someone's hands had painted it.
Over the decades as I watch landscapes while walking or riding my bike or driving in the car, I regularly think of Van Gogh - his paintings and the little bits I have read about his life. The feeling of being foreign in this world, of not quite fitting anywhere, of being a part of but not a part of it all. Anguish and beauty.
When night falls and I gaze up at the stars with wonder, my rendition of Don McLean's song Vincent will run through my mind.
"Starry, starry night.
Paint your pallet blue and gray.
Look out on a summer's day.
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
...Now I understand
What you tried to say to me...
How you suffered for your sanity...
How you tried to set me free...
They would not listen; they did not know how...
Perhaps they'll listen now."
*****
Vincent by Don McLean
Starry
starry night
paint your palette blue and grey
look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the
darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
sketch the trees and the daffodils
catch the breeze and the winter chills
in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they did not know how
perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry
starry night
flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain
weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's
loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you
but still your love was true
and when no hope was left in sight on that starry
starry night.
You took your life
as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
this world was never
meant for one
as beautiful as you.
Starry
starry night
portraits hung in empty halls
frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes
that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met
the ragged men in ragged clothes
the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken
on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they're not
list'ning still
perhaps they never will.
*****
aww ~ 11/12/13
*****
Oh how I fell in love in high school with Van Gogh's paintings, particularly the paintings of Arles. Van Gogh's work seemed to move and flow. The curves and the swirls became alive for me, like the paintings themselves were movement.
In tenth grade, using oil pastels, I created my own replication of Van Gogh's A Cornfield of Cypresses. I matted the piece but never framed it, at least that I recall. I gave the oil pastel to my then-boyfriend, Ron also known as Fatman. He hung the piece on his bedroom wall. I don't know where it landed after Ron and I broke up.
In my home now, a gold-framed 42-by-30-inch reproduction of Van Gogh's Irises hangs on my den wall. I spied it years ago in a local department store, passing it by, dismissing it. But it whispered to me until I bought it, even though I bought it from a department store. I didn't care that it was a reproduction. I liked that it wasn't a print; but rather that someone's hands had painted it.
Over the decades as I watch landscapes while walking or riding my bike or driving in the car, I regularly think of Van Gogh - his paintings and the little bits I have read about his life. The feeling of being foreign in this world, of not quite fitting anywhere, of being a part of but not a part of it all. Anguish and beauty.
When night falls and I gaze up at the stars with wonder, my rendition of Don McLean's song Vincent will run through my mind.
"Starry, starry night.
Paint your pallet blue and gray.
Look out on a summer's day.
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
...Now I understand
What you tried to say to me...
How you suffered for your sanity...
How you tried to set me free...
They would not listen; they did not know how...
Perhaps they'll listen now."
*****
Vincent by Don McLean
Starry
starry night
paint your palette blue and grey
look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the
darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
sketch the trees and the daffodils
catch the breeze and the winter chills
in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they did not know how
perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry
starry night
flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain
weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's
loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you
but still your love was true
and when no hope was left in sight on that starry
starry night.
You took your life
as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
this world was never
meant for one
as beautiful as you.
Starry
starry night
portraits hung in empty halls
frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes
that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met
the ragged men in ragged clothes
the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken
on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they're not
list'ning still
perhaps they never will.
*****
God Ponderings
non-subject: a fantasy world
aww ~ 11/13/13
*****
What do I write today?
The non-subject prompt for the writing workshop tonight is "a fantasy world."
Gods and goddesses. I'm currently reading a book entitled Walking on the Wind - Cherokee Teachings for Harmony and Balance. The author shares regarding the beliefs of the Cherokee, part of which includes a triune god committee sometimes referred to as Chota-auhnele-eh, which means "Elder Fires Above" or "Red Thunder Beings." Uhalotega, also called Ogedoda, is the "head of all power" or "great beyond expression." This Great One has two children, Atunutitsu and Usgohula, which are the Great One's helpers. Together they are the three eternal beings which have always existed.
Like most other religious beliefs, the Cherokee belief assigns divine purpose to each event and circumstance in life.
To somehow make suffering meaningful, mankind finds or develops spiritual explanations for the suffering. If we assign divine meaning to suffering, then we naturally assign divine meaning to other aspects of life - to that which is beautiful, to serendipitous encounters and what seems like mystical patterns, to seemingly answered and unanswered prayers, to that which is "great beyond expression."
Sadly or not, I seem to believe less and less in a theist god, that is a god who intervenes on behalf of its creation. So if there is no theist god, what about a deist god, which is a god that created the natural world and then takes its hands off, so to speak, allowing nature to take its course? But why would a creator create and then let the creation spin on its own without any relationship whatsoever to that which it created?
What if the interventions that appear divine are simply natural occurrences that happen due to energy forces of which we currently have no means to scientifically measure, so we figure there must be something supernatural at play? That doesn't mean the event is not fantastic. Eye sight is not supernatural, but oh how fantastically awesome it is to behold with our eyes the beauty of that which can be seen.
What if reincarnation is something that occurs, but is a natural process...like leaves that fall in the autumn that feed the earth for new leaves to grow in following seasons? What if the new leaves are reincarnations of their former 'cellves?' Stupid analogy; yet, life is filled with seasons and cycles. But why oh why, if we are reincarnated do we not recall our previous lives?
Like other religions The Way teaches a blame-the-victim doctrine. When suffering befalls it is because an individual or group of individuals are believing negatively which results in negative consequences; or a person or group isn't living the accuracy of the Word of God and they thus reap consequences due to wrong doctrine or being out from under God's hedge of protection; or the person or group is living within God's will but the adversary, the devil, wants to thwart the greatness of the Word of God in that person's or group's "ministry" so the adversary attacks said person or group and because of lack of the person's and the community believing, tragedy falls - in other words, the mortals missed revelation somewhere because God will make a way when there is no way. God had to have informed them and they just missed hearing God's voice.
In past decades of living with chronic illness, I was a good Way believer; that is, I mainly blamed myself for my illnesses. But then I would quickly retemorize Romans 8:1, "there is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus," and then I'd feel bad about condemning myself. It was a vicious cycle. The Way's "law of believing" boasts the formula, "confession of belief yields receipt of confession."
These days I seldom fall into the pattern of blaming unfortunate circumstances on my lack of belief or on my negative believing or on walking outside the will of God. Sometimes I blame stuff on my stupidity or that I "should" know better by this point in my life. But blame doesn't help; accepting things as they are does help. What is is all I have to work with at any given moment...with or without divine intervention.
All that said, there are times I still long for the fantasy of Father God to be true, and there are times I petition the universe for help.
Sometimes the universe answers.
*****
aww ~ 11/13/13
*****
What do I write today?
The non-subject prompt for the writing workshop tonight is "a fantasy world."
Gods and goddesses. I'm currently reading a book entitled Walking on the Wind - Cherokee Teachings for Harmony and Balance. The author shares regarding the beliefs of the Cherokee, part of which includes a triune god committee sometimes referred to as Chota-auhnele-eh, which means "Elder Fires Above" or "Red Thunder Beings." Uhalotega, also called Ogedoda, is the "head of all power" or "great beyond expression." This Great One has two children, Atunutitsu and Usgohula, which are the Great One's helpers. Together they are the three eternal beings which have always existed.
Like most other religious beliefs, the Cherokee belief assigns divine purpose to each event and circumstance in life.
To somehow make suffering meaningful, mankind finds or develops spiritual explanations for the suffering. If we assign divine meaning to suffering, then we naturally assign divine meaning to other aspects of life - to that which is beautiful, to serendipitous encounters and what seems like mystical patterns, to seemingly answered and unanswered prayers, to that which is "great beyond expression."
Sadly or not, I seem to believe less and less in a theist god, that is a god who intervenes on behalf of its creation. So if there is no theist god, what about a deist god, which is a god that created the natural world and then takes its hands off, so to speak, allowing nature to take its course? But why would a creator create and then let the creation spin on its own without any relationship whatsoever to that which it created?
What if the interventions that appear divine are simply natural occurrences that happen due to energy forces of which we currently have no means to scientifically measure, so we figure there must be something supernatural at play? That doesn't mean the event is not fantastic. Eye sight is not supernatural, but oh how fantastically awesome it is to behold with our eyes the beauty of that which can be seen.
What if reincarnation is something that occurs, but is a natural process...like leaves that fall in the autumn that feed the earth for new leaves to grow in following seasons? What if the new leaves are reincarnations of their former 'cellves?' Stupid analogy; yet, life is filled with seasons and cycles. But why oh why, if we are reincarnated do we not recall our previous lives?
Like other religions The Way teaches a blame-the-victim doctrine. When suffering befalls it is because an individual or group of individuals are believing negatively which results in negative consequences; or a person or group isn't living the accuracy of the Word of God and they thus reap consequences due to wrong doctrine or being out from under God's hedge of protection; or the person or group is living within God's will but the adversary, the devil, wants to thwart the greatness of the Word of God in that person's or group's "ministry" so the adversary attacks said person or group and because of lack of the person's and the community believing, tragedy falls - in other words, the mortals missed revelation somewhere because God will make a way when there is no way. God had to have informed them and they just missed hearing God's voice.
In past decades of living with chronic illness, I was a good Way believer; that is, I mainly blamed myself for my illnesses. But then I would quickly retemorize Romans 8:1, "there is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus," and then I'd feel bad about condemning myself. It was a vicious cycle. The Way's "law of believing" boasts the formula, "confession of belief yields receipt of confession."
These days I seldom fall into the pattern of blaming unfortunate circumstances on my lack of belief or on my negative believing or on walking outside the will of God. Sometimes I blame stuff on my stupidity or that I "should" know better by this point in my life. But blame doesn't help; accepting things as they are does help. What is is all I have to work with at any given moment...with or without divine intervention.
All that said, there are times I still long for the fantasy of Father God to be true, and there are times I petition the universe for help.
Sometimes the universe answers.
*****
November 6, 2013
Smoking
non-subject: smoking
aww ~ 11/06/13
*****
Mom said she didn't inhale. Maybe she was telling the truth; usually her cigarette hung from her teeth as they bit the butt. I don't recall seeing her inhale, but the butts wore lipstick stains indicating that at least sometimes she inhaled.
Dad smoked a pipe and an occasional cigar. He usually sat in the family room in the rocker by the window that gave a view to the pasture behind the house - the pasture that grew weeds and grass and trees and briars and poison ivy and jimson weed and polk berries down by the creek. Heavy laden cherry cigar or pipe smoke would linger in the middle of the room as sun light shone through the window. As a child I liked to watch the heavy smoke sit like fog undulating ever so lightly like it was alive. The hanging smoke had a mesmerizing effect, surreal. It reminded me of the ocean.
I don't know for sure when Mom and Dad gave up smoking. I don't recall Dad smoking after his accident in 1983, but perhaps he took a few puffs from time to time. It seems Mom too smoked less, eventually giving up cigarettes altogether.
As a teenager, I only tried cigarettes a few times. I didn't enjoy them. What was the point of smoking a cigarette? To me the whole point of smoking anything would be to get high. I could get high by hyperventilating and entering a dreamlike state. When I was around 14, in one hyperventilating session at the Community Center in the girl's bathroom, I ended up lying on the cold tile floor against the cold tile wall, my body tingling and my mind numb with no memory of the previous 30 to 60 seconds other than it seemed like time had stood still.
Another time when I was around 14, Beth and Tricia and I smoked tea leaves trying to get high. Tea leaves only burned my throat.
One time Beth and Tricia and I opened some Contact capsules and separated the tiny colored pellets contained within the capsule. We had been told that swallowing only one of the colors, seems like it was the red pellets, would give us a buzz. It didn't work.
I tried smoking mullein in my 20s after I developed asthma at age 22. I'd read mullein relieved asthma. It made no sense to me how smoke could relieve asthma. It didn't work.
I understood the point of smoking pot; the purpose was clearly to get high. I smoked pot only for about six months when I was 14 and 15. I smoked a lot of pot during that time...morning, noon, and night. Sometimes we laced our joints with added THC. I gave up pot after the jimson weed incident; jimson weed changed my chemistry or neurotransmitters or something. After the jimson weed nightmare, pot made me extremely paranoid.
So I abandoned pot for chemicals and psychedelics. No physical smoke was involved in psychedelics.
*****
aww ~ 11/06/13
*****
Mom said she didn't inhale. Maybe she was telling the truth; usually her cigarette hung from her teeth as they bit the butt. I don't recall seeing her inhale, but the butts wore lipstick stains indicating that at least sometimes she inhaled.
Dad smoked a pipe and an occasional cigar. He usually sat in the family room in the rocker by the window that gave a view to the pasture behind the house - the pasture that grew weeds and grass and trees and briars and poison ivy and jimson weed and polk berries down by the creek. Heavy laden cherry cigar or pipe smoke would linger in the middle of the room as sun light shone through the window. As a child I liked to watch the heavy smoke sit like fog undulating ever so lightly like it was alive. The hanging smoke had a mesmerizing effect, surreal. It reminded me of the ocean.
I don't know for sure when Mom and Dad gave up smoking. I don't recall Dad smoking after his accident in 1983, but perhaps he took a few puffs from time to time. It seems Mom too smoked less, eventually giving up cigarettes altogether.
As a teenager, I only tried cigarettes a few times. I didn't enjoy them. What was the point of smoking a cigarette? To me the whole point of smoking anything would be to get high. I could get high by hyperventilating and entering a dreamlike state. When I was around 14, in one hyperventilating session at the Community Center in the girl's bathroom, I ended up lying on the cold tile floor against the cold tile wall, my body tingling and my mind numb with no memory of the previous 30 to 60 seconds other than it seemed like time had stood still.
Another time when I was around 14, Beth and Tricia and I smoked tea leaves trying to get high. Tea leaves only burned my throat.
One time Beth and Tricia and I opened some Contact capsules and separated the tiny colored pellets contained within the capsule. We had been told that swallowing only one of the colors, seems like it was the red pellets, would give us a buzz. It didn't work.
I tried smoking mullein in my 20s after I developed asthma at age 22. I'd read mullein relieved asthma. It made no sense to me how smoke could relieve asthma. It didn't work.
I understood the point of smoking pot; the purpose was clearly to get high. I smoked pot only for about six months when I was 14 and 15. I smoked a lot of pot during that time...morning, noon, and night. Sometimes we laced our joints with added THC. I gave up pot after the jimson weed incident; jimson weed changed my chemistry or neurotransmitters or something. After the jimson weed nightmare, pot made me extremely paranoid.
So I abandoned pot for chemicals and psychedelics. No physical smoke was involved in psychedelics.
*****