Greetings.
A lot has happened since my last post.
Mom died. I moved, downsizing from a four-bedroom house to a one-bedroom apartment. (I like apartment living. I don't have to worry how I'm going to fix something when it breaks, or shovel snow, or mow the grass, or rake leaves.)
I found that the Jock files I had used to such good effect earlier no longer had any effect on me. After some experimentation, I concluded that I was not having problems with hypnosis in general -- I was still as susceptible and suggestible as ever to most hypnotic suggestions -- nor did I have a problem with any specific hypnotist. My problem was solely with some of the suggestions in most jock files. I discovered that my subconscious had problems with some of the uber-masculine commands that are normally included in typical jock files, like: go out every night to drink, party, and fuck somebody, go home, crash, and repeat at least once a day.
No, it's not put quite that crudely as that in the files ... but it's implied. Apparently my subconscious is somewhat of a prude. Dad owned a bar/restaurant. When I grew up, we ate supper together; what we did that day was part of our typical conversation. I got to hear lots of stories from Dad about the dumb assholes who got drunk and belligerent and were escorted away in handcuffs by the police. Other times, drunks got to spend their nights in the hospital because they couldn't handle their liquor and insisted on fighting some innocent party who could defend himself. Some idiots tried to harm themselves ... or others. Dda refused to have anything to do with them. He was trying to run a decent place where women could come in and get something to eat or drink and not be harassed. He succeeded. He had a reputation: you didn't bring drugs (or your troubles) into his bar. If you couldn't behave, you weren't wanted.
Dad refused to serve some people. They always wanted to fight ... or dealt drugs ... or tried to smash up the bar .... There was always a good, reasonable, reason for Dad refusing to serve someone. It wasn't arbitrary. But apparently my subconscious was insisting that I be a reasonable, non-drinking, non-belligerent type of jock. And since macho was always a part of these files, my subconscious decided to ignore all of the suggestions in that type of file.
So ... what the fuck am I gong to do? My motivation is crap. I want to want to workout. (No, that is not a typo.) I want to have the motivation to work out. But I never learned how to workout. I was forbidden to take Phys Ed. I was "excused" from having to learn to work out due to having grand mal and petit mal epilepsy seizures. Hell, I never even knew where the fucking gym was.
I never knew what I missed with Phys Ed. It might have been torture for me; I was your ordinary super-intelligent 98-pound weakling glasses-wearing genius nerd (and yes, I did have a pocket protector) who had read the dictionary and a good set of encyclopedias at an early age because I was bored one summer. I have a gift: an extremely retentive memory. If I've ever read something, I can (at minimum) tell you the basic concepts. I may be able to quote the actual pages of text if I was sufficiently interested ... or tell you the page number of what I quoted to you. Genius? Yes. I have an IQ of at least 160. (Mensa meetings are as boring as every other meeting I've ever been to. The parties, when everyone unbent, were fun.)
I'm great at theory. Putting theory into practice is the hard part. I can tell you how to fix your sink ... but hand me a wrench and I'm all thumbs. I'm Mr. Can't-Fix-It. Plumbers and electricians and roofers love me. Klutzes like me keep them in business. I'm the total opposite of my Dad, who could fix anything with a pen, a paper clip, some shoe polish, and a roll of electrician's tape. Dad could out-MacGuyver MacGuyver.
So what do I do?
Well ...
(to be continued)
A lot has happened since my last post.
Mom died. I moved, downsizing from a four-bedroom house to a one-bedroom apartment. (I like apartment living. I don't have to worry how I'm going to fix something when it breaks, or shovel snow, or mow the grass, or rake leaves.)
I found that the Jock files I had used to such good effect earlier no longer had any effect on me. After some experimentation, I concluded that I was not having problems with hypnosis in general -- I was still as susceptible and suggestible as ever to most hypnotic suggestions -- nor did I have a problem with any specific hypnotist. My problem was solely with some of the suggestions in most jock files. I discovered that my subconscious had problems with some of the uber-masculine commands that are normally included in typical jock files, like: go out every night to drink, party, and fuck somebody, go home, crash, and repeat at least once a day.
No, it's not put quite that crudely as that in the files ... but it's implied. Apparently my subconscious is somewhat of a prude. Dad owned a bar/restaurant. When I grew up, we ate supper together; what we did that day was part of our typical conversation. I got to hear lots of stories from Dad about the dumb assholes who got drunk and belligerent and were escorted away in handcuffs by the police. Other times, drunks got to spend their nights in the hospital because they couldn't handle their liquor and insisted on fighting some innocent party who could defend himself. Some idiots tried to harm themselves ... or others. Dda refused to have anything to do with them. He was trying to run a decent place where women could come in and get something to eat or drink and not be harassed. He succeeded. He had a reputation: you didn't bring drugs (or your troubles) into his bar. If you couldn't behave, you weren't wanted.
Dad refused to serve some people. They always wanted to fight ... or dealt drugs ... or tried to smash up the bar .... There was always a good, reasonable, reason for Dad refusing to serve someone. It wasn't arbitrary. But apparently my subconscious was insisting that I be a reasonable, non-drinking, non-belligerent type of jock. And since macho was always a part of these files, my subconscious decided to ignore all of the suggestions in that type of file.
So ... what the fuck am I gong to do? My motivation is crap. I want to want to workout. (No, that is not a typo.) I want to have the motivation to work out. But I never learned how to workout. I was forbidden to take Phys Ed. I was "excused" from having to learn to work out due to having grand mal and petit mal epilepsy seizures. Hell, I never even knew where the fucking gym was.
I never knew what I missed with Phys Ed. It might have been torture for me; I was your ordinary super-intelligent 98-pound weakling glasses-wearing genius nerd (and yes, I did have a pocket protector) who had read the dictionary and a good set of encyclopedias at an early age because I was bored one summer. I have a gift: an extremely retentive memory. If I've ever read something, I can (at minimum) tell you the basic concepts. I may be able to quote the actual pages of text if I was sufficiently interested ... or tell you the page number of what I quoted to you. Genius? Yes. I have an IQ of at least 160. (Mensa meetings are as boring as every other meeting I've ever been to. The parties, when everyone unbent, were fun.)
I'm great at theory. Putting theory into practice is the hard part. I can tell you how to fix your sink ... but hand me a wrench and I'm all thumbs. I'm Mr. Can't-Fix-It. Plumbers and electricians and roofers love me. Klutzes like me keep them in business. I'm the total opposite of my Dad, who could fix anything with a pen, a paper clip, some shoe polish, and a roll of electrician's tape. Dad could out-MacGuyver MacGuyver.
So what do I do?
Well ...
(to be continued)
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