Spirit Bear

Welcome, Patricia. Where do you come from? Names are an odd thing. Names and the genders associated with them are different by area, time, and family. Some, like Alex, are for both genders. Robert, my own name, is usually male. I have known of men named Shirley, and my Humanities teacher asked to be called Loretta-- he's a male.

With his permission: I'm not afraid to admit (when I can make it a learning-opportunity) that he's talking about me. We seems to have different versions of this, but immediately afterward I wrote this (finishing the next day) and more (I removed portions for length) because I knew that I'd lose most of it from memory: I call it 3x^2 The beginning talks about events leading up to what had happened-- an ex ripping my emotions apart as if it were sport as always happens after "Hello" (if there is even a hello,) the guy I like having vanished for nearly two weeks at that time (I later found out he was hospitalized with complications,) stress of school and my loneliness, the fear of just facing tomorrow, and how I have lost my friends and cannot figure out what I had done to make them go-- one of the faithful ones I had spotted on a chat-site as she ignored me for some boy who had caught her attentions so fully and left me to feel so forgotten. The next part may seem sudden, but I had lead into it after questioning my life and people's actions among other things. Splicing in another part: How many of you just stare at 3x^2 or a can of cream soda on an old wooden desk? You can't focus but have a huge test tomorrow in class. And although you don't really want to and know it won't work, the pills saved up in a old jar and milk bottle will at least get you somewhere different than here. An antique milk bottle so full of interest. "GRCS-H," says it on the front. Well what does that mean? Who cares in the end.... It just holds pills. And your mind connects to that. Maybe those little circles on the Shasta can sitting before you remind you, or maybe because your head is only a foot and a half above them as you lay to 'rest' every night. You fill it every day with the meds that really make you worse when everyone insists that they make you better... You pretend to take the meds that they make you take and won't believe you when you say, "They cause me problems." They who are meant to help you really only hurt when they think they know better than the one who knows himself more than any doctor or counselor or psychiatrist will ever know. Dead conversation on screen.... Light grey checkered blanket loosely draped over your shoulders. "Studying" getting you no where. Music plays on.... Slowly you rise, the blanket slipping a little but just barely clinging to your body. Slowly walk out the door-- not a shuffle but not a true walk either. Just slowly staring ahead at the floor, the red glow of a night-time heat-bulb for a lizard illuminating the room through the kitchen. A growl arises from your dog as his gleaming eyes stare widely at you, fur slightly bristled. You stare back, walking so slowly, the dog backing up as the other follows suit. It's not really you. You feel yourself in there, but what are you doing? You feel in control but know it's not you controlling you. And the dogs confirm that it's not you... A stranger in your body. A plague in your thoughts. Something feared, something unknown, causing such an intuitive creature as a dog to fear the one they love and jump gleefully for every time he comes toward them. But they retreat.... Your hand rests on the handle of the door as you face about. It opens. You look at your other lizard, himself shedding under the glow of another hot bulb bringing the air of the tank to a temperature he desires. You sit down on a very old mattress that jingles and creaks with every movement. Your hand slowly reaches under the wooden frame of the solid-pine bunk-bed. It slips past a water-bottle hiding the pills, and slowly it draws out that which you seek. And you stare at the blank back of the century-old glass, and look into the mix of tans, browns, whites, and reds half filling it. You begin to pour them out, and a pungent odor pours out with it-- the scent that makes your face contort in disgust. You know this scent too well. And oh how you hate it. You stare as your hand is filled with the pills you've taken before in a large number, along with new ones you haven't tried to OD on as you knew that they would fail just like the 30 40mg Citalopram pills from last time. Suddenly, one escapes as it crashes to the hard faux-wood floor. Just as suddenly as that, you are you again as you nearly drop them all to the floor and your grip loosens around the bottle. And... And what? You've been here before way too often. Why do you sit there like that so often? You know it'll neither fix anything nor make things better. You know it won't work, but will instead further damage you. It won't make Tory see that she needs to do some serious thinking. It won't make Todd come back. It won't make your friends truly care-- Neither Nika nor Joe. Major Depressive Disorder... Just thank God that the "psychotic effects" part is ended.... But what has replaced it is equally out of control when your own pets that love you so dearly view you as a stranger entering the home. When do I get better after these 4 years of living like this so often? I recall events that forewarned this even before Steve died-- the death that set this off. Standing there with a knife to your wrists at age 13 is not healthy. But neither is sitting there with a bottle of pills at age 18. Nor will it be at 25. Or 50. Just like it wasn't healthy for the girl, age 11, to put a rope around her own neck and hang only a town away. Nor is it healthy for a girl-- or boy-- to begin taking razors to himself at age 9 to try and escape the pain. What will happen to our 6-year-olds next? See an issue here? As we advance our culture, we kill our future. Don't you see us as getting worse, not better? The numbers of younger people harming themselves keeps growing, and it's growing with younger and younger ages. And they're all just like me. And anyone reading this is just like them. No one would read what I write unless they connect to it.

A friend on Skype just showed me what he looked like back in 1977. Talk about big hair... It's like, "Oh my gosh, that was you?"

*Growls lowly, dark muzzle revealing gleaming fangs.* I'm not a Carebear. JK, LOL. But, seriously, Carebears are fluffy rainbow things that sing.. I think.... not a North American Brown Bear like I. *Musses up your hair in revenge.*

Thanks for the link, Joshua. I'll have to work on it after college. The fox I call Little Red, others have other names for many of the animals there. It's where I volunteer. Hi, and thank you, Tomo.

Joshua, I'm afraid that the link for Hexchat does not work on my desktop (no surprise) or laptop. But this pic's for you-- I took it myself: Wow, Nathan, that's a huge family! I'm over in Muskegon.

Links don't work. :/ Re-attempt in order(?) : Bible 1: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151075085655608641 Finds from Bible 1: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151114294419132097 What I do: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6112479767020613553 Bible 2: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151836749649269105 Bible 2: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151846450320062481 Bible 2: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151841534884154481

Edit: Alright, guys and gals, ignore the links for my first post in here. Look for them in my second post as I'm still learning how to operate the Forum.) Also ignore my mom's taste in bedding. I take most pics there because it's the brightest room. LOL. I'd have filled here with images, but this is the max # of images allowed. I restore antique books, and I come across a lot of things that I want the World to see but rarely get to show. From this one (1870s) which is actually a long-term experiment in progress: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151075085655608641 Sometimes, like my 1870s "Family Bible," they turn up things. I call the above piece "Salvation." What I love about antique Bibles over any other books I work on, other than the items they often hold and the story those can tell, is that they hold gorgeous lithographs and engravings. For our Catholic friends. ^ Don't shoot me, but I call it "Jesus on a cracker." I believe that they went Methodist when they moved states, though. Link to dozens of items-- including trade-card remains, "conpon," pictures and name of the family, banner, newspaper clippings, etc.: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151114294419132097 If you want to see what I do, then click here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6112479767020613553 This would make any kid wanna learn more. This is how every Book started out in my Church's Bible-- something like this. Impacting scenes every several pages. A handful in color. More from the first section found here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151836749649269105 More from this section: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151846450320062481 This is my favorite section to look through. I would love to have original prints of these framed for my collection. But it's not mine. LOL. My first or second favorite. ^ Its competition. ^ More from this section here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/105829219381567141804/albums/6151841534884154481

Cody, thank you. Nathan, another Michigander? From the west-side, no doubt? I'm amazed! (Everyone is always Detroit-Flint.) If I had to make an educated guess as to which city, I'd guess GR? Penter, I do tea, I'm afraid; but thanks. LOL. Joshua, it's good to meet you too. I'm afraid that, as hard as I tried, I couldn't locate the IRC? Thomas, LOL. Hi there. Josiah, howdy! r2packey, thanks. Blackstone, thank you also for the welcome. Zvoc, I trust you in that you're an expert at hugging. LOL. Also, I know that there have been many great Catholics. I cannot recall his name, but one went to live on an island of lepers so that he could minister to them in the name of Christ. He was the only willing person with the means to go. And so he went where God called. "I'm not for the religion" reminds me of a song called Die Religion Die by Brian Head Welch (Christian metal artist.)

Yes, it's okay if you shoot me for bringing up that old jingle from one of the cartoons. In truth, I like only the original Yogi of the late 1950s (Debuted on the Huckleberry Hound show in '58) and 1960s. But, anyway, I'm Robert from West Michigan. My normal screen-name for various reasons is Spirit Bear, but Yogi sounds much more friendly to people. As it turns out, I'm really a turtle-- just kidding! My paws and ears and tail and muzzle are much more reflective of North American Brown Bear rather than those cuddly little reptiles. I like to write, and I try to explain things in detail so that all may understand-- and because of that, you will find my posts to often be rather lengthy but detailed. When it includes a story, I like to make all details known. When I include humor, well, I'll likely fail. LOL. I'm a hyper-logical Christian in an Evangelical Church, but then I wonder: Why should we have 2,000 denominations? I feel like it separates us into 2,000 pieces. Heck, in all actuality Christ hasn't been gone 2,000 years yet. Why don't we all become the single body He wants us to be-- where is the Unity? And thus introduces you into my typical digression, but as typical I get back on track once more to derail until we come to my points: My hobbies are diverse and include hiking, kayaking, cycling, volunteering, writing, digging for antiques, restoring antique books. I like antique bottles, trade-cards, prints, coins, and insulators the most. I also love Heavy Metal-- Christian bands like Demon Hunter and Wolves at The Gate blast from my speakers often. (And if you think that Heavy Metal is of the Devil, read the lyrics and listen to Awaken by Wolves at The Gate.) You'll certainly awaken to the truth. Just turn your speakers down and have praise of God beaten into your eardrums. My dog Steve died on May 2, 2011-- explaining why I like May 2nd, 1893, Hemingray insulators. And on all places (minus Skype) that need me to have a profile pic (well, want me to,) I have his picture. The story of Steve is a tragic one, and the only stories that I have worth telling (a lot) all occur about 1 week before his death to now. You'll hear about him a lot. And I know that I can write well because of emotional responses I've been told by my readers (when they claim that they were crying, I know that I did it right,) and the fact that I placed in a multi-city multi-school competition suggests so too. As much as I love straight-up werewolf and historical fiction, I typical weave in a good thread of something Christian that the typical reader will not notice. Even though I'm gay and despair over my counterparts' actions, you'll find me a very clean, decent person. I must warn you, though, that as a Major Depressive, I may easily be hurt and show despair in my writings. I am also VERY blunt and honest (honest unto accidental insult if not careful,) and I will tell you that I'm not afraid to open up if I can use it as an example; and I am not afraid to call you out if you are going against the Religion-- we all do that, but I will hold you accountable as I expect you to hold me accountable like a good functional member of Christ's body should and is commanded to do so. But because of rules, there are a few things that I cannot speak about. If you are interested in why I'm a bear, it's because the mentality of actual bears (North American) reflects my own. As a nearly 10-year volunteer at an animal sanctuary designed for non-typical (proper definition is exotic) animals once kept as pets (later seized for reasons or given up,) I've comes into contact with more than the normal 30 wolves I go with weekly. I've come across things that I cannot spell. But I've also gotten to know bears. Sammy is the one that I had most studied. At not 1-year-old, he and his mother were struck by a vehicle in California. This killed his mom, but he survived-- with "permanent" damage that would prevent his normal functioning in the wild. But by a miracle, having been sent all the way here, he healed and was no longer the half blind cub I had once played with (to watch him grow! Oh, what joy he was.) And thus began a short relationship (all the bears are long gone) that has had a permanent affect on me. And so I have given long introduction into me. I hope to get to know other real Christians in the furry community, and I want you to know that if ever you need to talk about anything.... Hit me up in PM. May God continue to bless you-- if you're able to be on here, you're greatly blessed. See you around. *Noms on the goodies I borrowed your your food-stores.* ~Yogi.