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This is usually limited to alcohol. I have known people who brewed tea with opium leaves, but these same people were amateur botanists. Therefore, I am willing to accept—as common knowledge—that most people aren’t willing to spend their time cultivating poppy seeds. So, for purposes of my discussion, I am comfortable with the assumption that drinking equals alcohol consumption.

Now, in my experience, there are two schools of alcohol consumption.

First, there are the people who like the uninhibited feeling of a good drunken party. I find that these people evolve into the social drinkers: a couple cocktails at a party, get hammered on New Year’s Eve, sure, but no more black outs and strange people in your bed on hang over mornings.

When you hit your mid thirties, the adolescent fascination with suffering starts get boring. You begin to judge the quality of your time by how good you feel afterwards. Being hung over all day Sunday is just no fun.

Then, there is, of course, the other school of consumption, the Alcoholics. An alcoholic is an addict, a person born with a genetic disorder. The alcoholics can not control their frenzy for the drug. The drug consumes them and makes them feel invincible, invulnerable. They act unconsciously and impulsively on the drug. It makes them feel very powerful.

I have listened to many recovering alcoholics preach the virtue of the drink. They always have sincere, watery eyes. To them, alcohol is the savior. Alcohol is air and water and food. Alcohol is necessary—required—to feel alive.

Let’s be clear, these people don’t “choose” this “lifestyle.” That’s like saying a Cancer sufferer is really into the Chemo Thing.

And by the way, fuck you! How dare you blame sick people for their illness! It’s ignorant and illogical, and I’ll prove it.

Let’s assume — for the sake of your ludicrous premise — that Alcoholism is not a genetic disorder. Let’s assume that alcoholics do indeed consciously choose to ingest poisonous amounts of alcohol.

If that is the preferred theory, we must conclude that these Alcoholics are openly committing a gradual public suicide.

Doesn’t that classify as a mental instability?

In other words, even if they are alcoholics by choice, doesn’t the making of such a destructive choice seem like possible evidence of a severe mental illness, maybe?

Aren’t the mentally ill in need of treatment, instead of cages?

Does it even matter if  addiction is a physical illness or a mental illness?

Shouldn’t we be more concerned that the addiction phenomenon—no matter the cause of it—is running rampant across our planet?

Do you really think that locking all the sick people up in prison is going to work?

Do you honestly believe that most of the people in prisons right now are not desperately in need of medical treatment?

Have you ever thought about any of this?

Do you think it’s time you turn off the TV and do so?

Our world is falling apart.

Does anyone notice?

We can do better than this.

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Dear lovely readers and commenters:

I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve missed writing to you all. I was just going through a dark place these past few months. You know how it is, I started to think things that even I don’t feel comfortable writing about—frightening, masochistic, sadistic, thoughts and feelings.

I told my psychiatrist. I know my warning signs. She wrote me a second prescription. I’m feeling much better now. In fact, I feel better than I did when I was a teenager. I feel strong and confident.

To be honest, I think that’s why I haven’t written as Tom Hardie for awhile. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Tom Hardie is a very real part of me. I imagine him as the gruff, tough wild man of the wilderness, ya know, that part of me that would not be broken when I was a child. The part of me that society caged away, deep in a small dirty closet at the base of my identity. Ursula LeGuin described little Tom Hardie’s reality best.

The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes–the child has no understanding of time or interval–sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice.[1]

And yet, somehow, Tom Hardie survived in me. He became a man. He discovered his voice. He discovered he was naturally good with speaking. He loved to perform for people and make them feel things with his words.

But underneath all the partying and sex poems—there was anger. There was an old anger that I was afraid to let out. Do you know how that is?

Have you ever felt so angry that you honestly thought: if I let this out, I will fucking kill people. I lived in that place. I held all of my rage in. When I hit thirty-seven, I exploded. I couldn’t contain so much shit anymore. I needed a place to dump it. Hardhang.com was born.

This website represents the sum total of my linguistic working through, so far. The key to  beginning my recover from the trauma child abuse was so brutally simple. I had to prove to myself, intellectually, that I was not as horrible as I thought I was. The only way to do that, I figured, was to put myself completely out there.

I had to present the worst of my memories to the world—twenty-four hour free access to all of the thoughts and memories that I thought made me a horrible person.

I used doses of medical marijuana to loosen me up, and I just wrote. I wrote everything I could remember. I wrote until I thought I was going to vomit. I wrote for entire days without eating. I posted everything.

I wrote until I felt empty of it. I wrote myself in a deep depression of grieving. I cried every day for several hours. I lost my job. My family was furious with me. My personal relationships were stretched to the breaking point. Many of them broke. But I felt unburdened. I felt relieved. Throw in a little medical tweaking and I feel lighter than ever have as an adult.

The AA people would call this website my Step Four: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. In retrospect, I would have to agree. This is everything I can remember. Browse around. It’s as close to brutally honest as I could mister.

But don’t misunderstand me, I have a lot more internal baggage to search through. I don’t think my Step Four work is over, by any means. I don’t think the inventory ever ends for a truly ethical person. That’s what makes it so hard to be one, I think.

Anyway, I will still use Tom Hardie  to compile my inventory, but I will probably do some general pissing and moaning about the state of the world, also. Why? Because it’s healthy to vent.

Thank you for all of your time and attention in 2009. I hope to share more of my life with you in 2010.

Happy New Year!

-Tom Hardie


[1] “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.” Read it. It’s amazing.

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01
Dec

Our society is based on lying. It was built by liars. You have to be a liar to thrive in it.

I always hit that wall. I’m too honest. Take my writing, for example. I have done nothing but speak brutally, honestly about my life, my thoughts, my feelings.

There have been disastrous consequences.

I lost my job. My whole family is angry with me. I get a lot of hate emails. People call me vicious names. People have wished painful death on me.

It’s hard to avoid an unpleasant conclusion. I have to be a liar. I have to hide who I am. When I don’t, the world rejects me. Some on the world want to destroy me.

That’s so fucking sad.

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