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Quote by Charles Linden

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The Linden Method: The Anxiety and Panic Attacks Elimination Solution

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Charles Linden

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“But I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell. Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think, I now choose to go to lunch, when that monotone beep rings from on high at 12:37. But really, the bell decides. You think you're the painter, but you're the canvas.”

ExistentialismPretendingJohn GreenDepersonalizationDerealizationSimulation Hypothesis
Book:Turtles All the Way Down
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“When sleep came, I would dream bad dreams. Not the baby and the big man with a cigarette-lighter dream. Another dream. The castle dream. A little girl of about six who looks -like me, but isn’t me, is happy as she steps out of the car with her daddy. They enter the castle and go down the steps to the dungeon where people move like shadows in the glow of burning candles. There are carpets and funny pictures on the walls. Some of the people wear hoods and robes. Sometimes they chant in droning voices that make the little girl afraid. There are other children, some of them without any clothes on. There is an altar like the altar in nearby St Mildred’s Church. The children take turns lying on that altar so the people, mostly men, but a few women, can kiss and lick their private parts. The daddy holds the hand of the little girl tightly. She looks up at him and he smiles. The little girl likes going out with her daddy. I did want to tell Dr Purvis these dreams but I didn’t want her to think I was crazy, and so kept them to myself. The psychiatrist was wiser than I appreciated at the time; sixteen-year-olds imagine they are cleverer than they really are. Dr Purvis knew I had suffered psychological damage as a child, that’s why she kept making a fresh appointment week after week. But I was unable to give her the tools and clues to find out exactly what had happened.”

CrazyHorrorVictimCookingMental HealthTerrorPsychologicalTherapyTortureSurvivorSexual AbuseDissociative Identity DisorderDissociationMultiple Personality DisorderRitual AbuseDissociativeCastleTherapistPedophilesDerealizationPaedophile RingPsychotherapistOut Of Body
Book:Today I'm Alice: Nine Personalities, One Tortured Mind
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“The point is, it didn’t even look like my face. It was the face of any twenty-four-year-old guy who might have been sitting across the way on the commuter train. My face, my self, what would they mean to anybody? Just another stiff. So this self of mine passes some other’s self on the street – what do weh ave to say to each other? Hey there! Hi ya!That’s about it. Nobody raises a hand. No one turns around to take another look.”

DetachmentDerealization
Book:Pinball, 1973
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“Dissociative Disorders have a high rate of responsiveness to therapy and that with proper treatment, their prognosis is quite good.”

Mental IllnessTherapyDissociative Identity DisorderDissociationAbuse SurvivorsPsychotherapyMental DisorderTraumatizedDissociative DisorderDissociative AmnesiaDissociative DisordersMpdDepersonalizationDdnosPrognosisDerealizationDepersonalization DisorderDissociative Fugue
Book:Interviewer's Guide to the Structured Clinical Interview for Dsm-IV Dissociative Disorders
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“I was not descending in a plane, coming Home. I was watching an alien world as it ascended towards me - and one that I could never begin the process of readjusting to, because I knew that I would just as soon be returning to another world, whose normality was as alien to this home as I now was.”

WarComing HomeTroopsAlienTraumatizedDissociativeDissociatedDerealizationNot Fitting InCombat PtsdAlienatedMilitary PtsdDon T Belong
Book:Among You: The Extraordinary True Story of a Soldier Broken By War
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“Denial returned, like a nagging cough you can never quite shake. Actually, it was always close at hand, and even though "satanic ritual abuse" did describe what had happened to me when I was a child. the concept was so foreign and so horrific that some part of me still wanted to stay in denial. Devil worship dominated my childhood. That was undeniable, even if it was still nearly impossible to contemplate. Both of my parents and any number of their friends, as well as "respected" members of our community, had worshipped Satan. I pushed the notion aside with all the power I could muster. I kept thinking to myself that it was ridiculous and impossible. p157”

ConsciousnessAwarenessPersonalityDevilDenialSatanChild AbusePresenceDissociative Identity DisorderDissociationMultiplicityHorrificRitual AbuseSatanic Ritual AbuseDissociativeDerealizationMultiple PersonalityDevil Worship
Book:Wholeness: My Healing Journey from Ritual Abuse
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“During this hour in the waking streets I felt at ease, at peace; my body, which I despised, operated like a machine. I was spaced out, the catchphrase my friends at school used to describe their first experiments with marijuana and booze. This buzzword perfectly described a picture in my mind of me, Alice, hovering just below the ceiling like a balloon and looking down at my own small bed where a big man lay heavily on a little girl I couldn’t quite see or recognize. It wasn’t me. I was spaced out on the ceiling. I had that same spacey feeling when I cooked for my father, which I still did, though less often. I made omelettes, of course. I cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl, and as I reached for the butter dish, I always had an odd sensation in my hands and arms. My fingers prickled; it didn’t feel like me but someone else cutting off a great chunk of greasy butter and putting it into the pan. I’d add a large amount of salt — I knew what it did to your blood pressure, and I mumbled curses as I whisked the brew. When I poured the slop into the hot butter and shuffled the frying pan over the burner, it didn’t look like my hand holding the frying-pan handle and I am sure it was someone else’s eyes that watched the eggs bubble and brown. As I dropped two slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster, I would observe myself as if from across the room and, with tingling hands gripping the spatula, folded the omelette so it looked like an apple envelope. My alien hands would flip the omelette on to a plate and I’d spread the remainder of the butter on the toast when the two slices of bread leapt from the toaster. ‘Delicious,’ he’d say, commenting on the food before even trying it.”

CookingMental HealthSurvivorSexual AbuseDissociative Identity DisorderUnrealDissociationMultiple Personality DisorderDissociativeDerealizationOut Of BodySpaced OutSpacey
Book:Today I'm Alice: Nine Personalities, One Tortured Mind
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