It’s very interesting how the interviewer put the accent on the fact that Jean Seberg doesn’t take any psychologist. She is in her 20s and just divorced.
Jean Seberg: “I am more Parisian than Hollywoodian Psychoanalyzed girl.”
Interviewer: “I can tell.”
Except she is found dead suicidal for barbiturates at age of 40 in a street of Paris.
Amazing speech. Terrific message, well, reality is scary. Let’s understand what’s wrong with the new generation. And let’s help them (us) finding more balance.
One century ago WWI changed our way to make war forever. Powerful arms, and body-to-body combat left horrible wounds on men when they could survive.
Social anxiety was at the top, of course, so when they came back to their home, most of them were not accepted and rejected for their damaged body image. War vets with evident mutilations were compared to betrayal and cowards.
There we need the touch of a kind-at-heart and so talented woman, whose skills you can see in the rare pictures I will add above this article. She gave finally back heros the dignity they deserved on a battlefield.
God bless Red Cross ladies and artists like Anna Coleman Ladd.
“Triton Babies” in the Boston Public Garden
Anna Coleman Watts Ladd (1878 – 1939) was an American sculptor in the Boston area who devoted her time throughout World War I to soldiers who were disfigured.
Anna Coleman Watts was born in Philadelphia and educated in Europe, where she studied sculpture in Paris and Rome. She moved to Boston in 1905 when she married Dr. Maynard Ladd, and there studied with Bela Pratt for three years at the Boston Museum School. “Triton Babies” (shown here, now a fountain in Boston’s Public Garden) was shown at the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition in San Francisco. In 1916 she was a founder of the Guild of Boston Artists, where she held a one-woman show.
In late 1917, in Paris, Ladd founded the American Red Cross “Studio for Portrait-Masks” to provide cosmetic masks to be worn by men who had been badly disfigured in World War…
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Yes, be brave. It’s worse than you can imagine, but it works.
So, here I am to witness the power of garlic as a natural antibiotic. You see, part of this blog is dedicated to ayurvedic/holistic impact of natural remedies on my health. And perhaps, yours, for a change.
My gum diseases, if you were wondering, are back after regular antibiotics, and eventually it got worse after a week. This time, I won’t give it up. And I am becoming quite experienced on oral hygiene basics. Sure, it is not sexy. Not even a little bit. Especially, this afternoon, after keeping chewing garlic on my mouth. And swish.
My routine from today on: first, I start with oil pulling, coconut or sesame oil, at the wake up, during my 20 minutes meditation (no longer or your body will absorb it), second hot water and sodium bicarbonate or salt to wash your mouth. Remember to throw coconut oil and saliva in your toilet (it becomes solid).
Germs and bacterias shall be warned.
Let’s hang on.
By the way, I also found origan oil (and still waiting for Achillea for repairing), in order to sobstitute garlic as antibacterian and antiseptic, since I would like to keep my social life. What do you think about?
Back in the nineteenth century, the French chemist and microbiologist Louis Pasteur examined the use of raw garlic juice as a potential antibacterial agent and found garlic to be capable of killing bacteria much in the same way as penicillin does.
Consequently, garlic was used widely as an antibacterial agent to disinfect and heal wounds during World War II. Since then, several research studies published in medical journals have confirmed the antibacterial and antiviral properties of garlic. In addition to its ability to control bacterial and viral infections, garlic has been shown to fight and heal infections caused by other microbes and worms.
Due to the healing properties of garlic derived from its antibacterial and antiviral activity, this medicinal herb has also used in the treatment of some infections that are difficult to treat due to the presence of bacteria that have become resistant to prescription drugs such as antibiotics. However, more research is needed in this area before definite conclusions about the efficacy of garlic as an antibiotic can be made.
With courtesy of Health with Food
During the WWII years Norman Rockwell created a character named Willie
Gillis — an ordinary guy from a small town who joined the army.
Rockwell chronicled his experiences in the war in a series of Saturday Evening Post
covers. After the war, he showed us Gillis returned to civilian
life — above you see him in college, on the G. I. Bill, having
survived and put on a little weight.
It’s a poignant image, for all it doesn’t say. Gillis is
preparing himself for a “normal” life in post-war America, with his
pipe and his golf clubs — but the war souvenirs hanging over his head
suggest that he will always be haunted by memories out of place in a
One of the virtues of Ken Burns’ newest documentary The War
is that it addresses the sort of post-traumatic stress disorder that
returning vets, and the whole civilized world on some level, suffered
in the wake of WWII. For the vets it was peculiarly disorienting,
with feelings of triumph, guilt and shame all mixed up together.
It was not something that could be talked about in the world Willie Gillis was
trying to become a part of.
All of this I think reinforces my notion that it was in art, in film noir
particularly, that such disorientation could be engaged in a safe way,
a socially acceptable way. You can read more thoughts on
the subject here.
World War Two was a “good war”. America and its allies pulled together
and destroyed the Axis powers. On balance, and in retrospect, it
has to be considered one of the great achievements of
humane civilization. But human beings don’t live on balance or in
retrospect, particularly where war is concerned. They live inside
the horror of it and it takes a toll on individuals and on societies
which can never be fully measured.
The upbeat spirit of American propaganda during the war, and the
genuine satisfactions of victory, veiled the true experience of the war
for millions — not just for those who fought it on the battlefields of the
world, but for those at home who lived in terror that their loved ones at
the front might never return . . . and of course, most especially, for those at home whose loved ones didn’t return. On a broader level, anyone who simply witnessed
the spectacle of total war on a global scale, from whatever distance, had
to have experienced a soul-shaking anxiety about the fragility of all
social structures and cultural norms.
After WWII, the whole planet experienced post-traumatic stress disorder
— localized in this case by the fact of the atomic bomb, which ended
the war but left the world with a paradox that wouldn’t go away.
It took an act of colossal horror to finally “win” this good
war. And the prospect of this horror being again visited on the
world was far from unimaginable.
We now know a lot more than we used to about post-traumatic stress
disorder and the ways it can be treated. In the immediate post-war era, the
phenomenon was more elusive, and often unrecognized. We made
meaningful social restitution to the veterans of the war, with measures like
the G. I. Bill — we reconstructed the devastated nations we
conquered. But that just scratched the surface.
It was in art that the true psychic cost of the war was exposed and explored — nowhere more pointedly than in film noir. The sort of trauma that engenders PTSD is identifiable by several characteristics — a sense of being out of control and confused, a sense of terror, a sense of being outside the normal realm of human
experience. Is there a better description of the usual
predicament of the protagonist in a classic film noir?
PTSD on a broad cultural and societal level is what best explains the phenomenon of film noir, which on its surface is so mysterious. Why should a triumphant
nation, after a great collective victory in a good war, have been
gripped by that mood of existential dread which informs so many Hollywood films of the post-war era? Why should the most spectacular achievement of American arms have led to a crisis of manhood, a sense of impotence, a fear of powerful women
incarnated in the morbid fantasy of the femme fatale?
Film noir was a dream landscape where the buried costs of WWII could be recognized, reckoned and mourned, as a prelude to psychic recovery, or at least psychic survival.
Veterans of combat often report the difficulty of dealing with people
who have not shared their experience of it — people who can never
really know what it’s like. Film noir, far more than the WWII combat film, was one of the few arenas of American life where the true legacies of war, its lingering moral and
psychological dislocations, could be engaged without apology or shame.
Oh, I will be perhaps unpopular, who cares? 🙂 Take me or leave me. The fact is that by accident, last dying of my hair, turned into light purple. And after a quick search I fell into this amazing young woman who struggled with addiction, and she is finally back into her Self. Her words are inspiring, I am not too much into Osbornes, not only because I am not watching telly, except on You Tube, since 9 years, now. And I am not fan of reality tv, generally speaking. So, while my hair is trying to turn dunno which shadow of violet, I guess I will adopt, because this color makes me hilarious and cheerful. And I earned lots of smiles, today.
When I read about PTSD before going through my personal journey, I thought that PTSD were reserved only to war veterans or raped, child abused victims. God bless them all. Now, I can observe, « abuse », in a lifetime, can come in different ways, and shades of grey. It all depends on your level of sensibility. What is hurting me can be easily ignored by others. And, what’s worse, others won’t be able to understand your degreee of suffering, if they are not empath at all. I finally accept this. Since I’ve embraced the real fact that I am an empath and higher sensitive, in the noblest meaning. Also, I completely forgive these others. They miss awareness, and sometimes they simply don’t care. This is their misery. Not mine.
In my early twenties, I developed eating disorders and self harm disease. Depression was my company, since very young, it was more than weeping cos I wasn’t happy, and I couldn’t efford a Levi’s, financially, or couldn’t fit in. At 8 I discovered how to throw up food after eating, and it seemed to me like I got a magical power, eating junk food without putting weight on my belly. That worry didn’t last until I grew up older. I knew I wasn’t a typical cutie girl, and that was fine, that pushed me to look inside and focus on my personality. I really thought that my karmic debt was so heavy that I didn’t deserve to be the goodlooking girl which makes all men turn their head. And had to gain my beautiful body in one of next lives through hard work. Actually, not only I had a negative body image perception, but all my thoughts were tuned on negative vibes. Emotionally, I was a crap. Disfunctional family environement, of course, didn’t help and, at a certain moment, I just wanted to disappear. But slowly. A way to ask for attention and care.
Today I can recognise that I was on a strong love demand, and I can’t blame my peers not to understand how to manage my bipolar behaviour. Joyful, gay and cheerful, outside my armour, and damn upset and hating my self deeply inside. Self love is my last, wonderful achievement at age of 43.
Suicidal thoughts passed by in my twenties, like dark clouds on an empty sky. When anorexic, I have been diagnosed schizophrenic, because food&alchool abuse made me loose balance and clear mind. My mum had to watch me all the time or I could do something very harmful. Until I was hospitalized. Of course, today I see that it wasn’t my body, but my soul, the one who needed to be taken care of. But it took me 20 years to realize it, once for all.
At that time, the only way to overcome my lack of balance, by advice of my neurologist, was doing a psychodrug therapy. Recovering from drugs takes a long time and memory loss. A part of your soul flies away. Your personality, if you could build up some, at twenty, is no longer the same. Simply, you loose a big part of your Self. But in 90s there was not such a knowledge about ED like today. In a way, I feel lucky. First choice was a Center for Mental Health, and I can tell you that two of my neighbours passed by it and today they are still not well. Drugs addicted. Nobody takes care of them.
In my case, after all, time brings justice.
Being suicidal is natural when struggling is too much to bare, it makes sense to me, except that today I am a believer. Life is a game, a challenge. Indian call it « Lila ». Because I believe in karma, and reincarnation, I read once that, when you suicide, your soul is trapped between worlds. I can’t even think of being sticked in a hell of pain. This is enough for me to keep it up. But before I go on with my storytelling, I want you to know that choosing life requires courage and a bunch of energy.
So if you need more, ask for help to professionals. Not your neighbour, not your best friend or family member. We are nothing without others. Choose carefully.