In several posts in the past, Share has said or implied that my attitude toward 
the Movement is due to some sort of unhealed childhood trauma.

You are right Share. I was traumatized many times as a child. 


I was traumatized the time my red-neck daddy took me, my brother, my sister and 
our mother on vacation to a place called Sycamore Flats in Pisgah National 
Forest. It happened to be a day when a large group of black people, probably a 
family reunion, was there enjoying the river. We were the ONLY white faces in 
the place - the Old Man was so shocked to see all those black folks in bathing 
suits that he whipped our Ford Plymouth station wagon around and hauled ass so 
fast the whiplash traumatized me. 

I was traumatized that my mother would fix us sausage and eggs scrambled 
together for breakfast.

I was traumatized when, on the rare occasions it snowed, Momma would turn the 
stove on when we came in with cold feet, open the oven door and let us sit with 
our feet on the door to warm our feet up quick, while Momma made snowcream from 
the fresh snow we brought in.

It was extra trauma when Momma would make me put the fresh doughnuts she had 
just made into a brown paper bag with cinnamon and sugar in it and shake the 
doughnuts around till they were well covered and I was forced to eat all I 
wanted of the fresh, warm cinnamon and sugar doughnuts.

I was traumatized when my dog would sleep with me at night and give me extra 
attention when I was sick.

I was really traumatized when we would go visit my great grandmother in 
Marshville North Carolina and she would always
 have these
 amazing fried apple pies she made just for me, a whole platter full of them.

It was supremely traumatic the Christmas I was sweating bullets over whether or 
not Santy Claws was going to bring me the Ft. Apache set I so desperately 
craved. The old geezer came through tho.

Also traumatic was the little library in Laurens, SC where I spent hours at a 
time in my kid-hood - it had stone tables on one side right by a clear stream 
with minnows that my best friend and I would play in after spending an hour or 
two in the library. Also traumatic that I discovered the Lord of the Rings when 
I was twelve there. 

I was traumatized every Saturday to have to watch Shock Theater, a show that 
showcased old horror movies like (my favorite) Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, 
on our old black and white tv on Channel 13. 

Extra trauma was experienced having to climb part way up the pear tree at the 
edge of our yard to get ripe pears. 

We (me
 and my
 brother) did
 have
 some fine trauma when the Old Man whipped our asses for digging a big hole in 
the back yard and filling it with water to make mud for a mud fight.

It was shore nuff traumatic, when having committed various violations of home 
rules, we would be sent out in the summer to "cut a switch" with which the Old 
Man would whip our asses. This in the summer left visible welts on our legs 
(cause we always wore shorts) that the other kids in the neighborhood would 
mock us for. Lest you think this was ACTUALLY traumatic, EVERY kid in our 
neighborhood would show up with summer leg welts from being switched by their 
parents at some time or other, so the mocking was eventually equally 
distributed. This was standard discipline in the Deep South where we lived. 
These days if a kid showed up with welts on their legs, the cops would lock the 
parents up for child abuse.

Trauma when we went to the kid's house next door that had a BIG yard where his 
Old Man had
 allowed him to
 build a go-kart track and we
 would ride
 the hell out of Jack's go-kart.

Trauma when we went to Myrtle Beach for vacation in the summer and eat fried 
seafood like a fiend.

Trauma when we went to the county fair in the autumn and eat corn dogs and 
greasy hamburgers and french fries made at the Lion's Club booth, one of the 
many fraternal organizations my Old Man belonged to. Best burgers and fries I 
ever had.

Also quite traumatic was my mother wanting some peace and quiet would take me 
and my brother and later just me when he got a bit older and was more 
interested in hanging out with his hooligan friends, to the local theater to 
watch features and double features on Saturdays with money enough to gorge on 
as much popcorn, candy and sugary sodas as I wanted. Vincent Price in Crucible 
of Blood, Masque of the Red Death or the Pit and the Pendulum scared me 
crap-less but I gobbled up sugar and salt to stave off the fear. 

After a double feature of Vincent Price movies,
 I wobbled
 out of there woozy from fear and on a sugar high. This was in the days when 
black people were relegated to the balcony, and they would sometimes throw ice 
from their drinks down on us white folks, so that was a bit traumatic. Also the 
floors and sometimes seats had sticky crap on them, but enough sugar in the 
veins and blood on the screen and one could forget anything for a while.

Trauma was going to the drug store with
 allowance money after getting the obligatory bi-weekly haircut and trying to 
figure out which comics I was going to buy - there was never enough money to 
get them all, which is what I wanted.

Trauma to have no air conditioning in the summer and have to run around only in 
shorts and barefooted in the rain when storms would come up to cool us off. 

Now the real trauma started when I grew up and found that I had been meditating 
the requisite 3 - 5 years and still no enlightenment. 

Trauma when I realized half or more than half the people who worked for the 
movement and who had the power to allow me onto a course were incompetent 
spaced out dolts who could hardly remember their own name much less take an 
application over the phone.

Trauma to realize that no one had ever or would ever levitate thru TM-Sidhi 
Programme. 

Trauma to find out the Movement was often staffed by people who's personalities 
had been replaced
 with that of a jackass. Strike that, its insulting to real donkeys.

Trauma to realize that Maharishi the Brahmacharya was actually Marshy, Founder 
of the Girl of the Week Club.

Trauma to realize that Marshy really did have an opportunity to make great 
change in the world and threw it away for sex, money and power.

Trauma to realize there are still people who erroneously believe every lie 
Marshy and his Raja-puppets told them. Even greater trauma to realize there are 
still people who recognize Marshy and his minions are users and liars and make 
excuses for them. 

So that is my list of childhood and adult trauma.

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