BACK IN BLACK: Part One
I can’t believe this page is still up. I came back; pretty sure it was taken down. It’s not so funny how someone can mistreat what they love, and need. But I’m back – again – and it feels good.
Where was I?
In a dark place I thought I’d never escape. Therapy. I was already fucked up when I started, but I could still see the light and had a chance of getting out of it. When I started “counseling”, it was like going from general population prison to solitary. At least, in gen-pop, you can see the sun.
This is tougher than I thought. For three days I’ve read over old blogs, trying to get the “taste” back, and I thought I had it. I’d think over beginnings, one after another, each getting better and better. But now, it’s like pulling a tooth. Feels good, though. An uncomfortable yet stimulating feeling, like courting an old flame months after the break-up. The last time you saw one another was painful, but now all you can think about is the sex. It’s all-new again. You can’t wait to perform and show him or her what you’ve learned from the experiences between then and now. I’m anxious; waiting for the rush, the vibe, to slip into the jazz; that state of semi-consciousness, where HST takes over and I become a writing god.
Chapter 1 TheRapist
I started seeing Dr. Shrinker last year in September or October. I’ve written about it already. I spent weeks just unloading on her all the things I felt were wrong with me. I was convinced I was fucked up and needed help to get out. I was tired of slipping in and out of depression, the anxiety, poor self-esteem, and failed diets. I just wanted some answers. Why was I like this?
Once a week I’d go to her office and sit in a chair about five, maybe ten, feet away from her and just start talking. Ironically, the light would always shine on her, leaving me in the dark. There were a lot of days I dreaded going because I’d leave feeling worse than when I arrived. Other days, I truly had nothing to talk about, and I started cataloging events just so I’d have an inventory of topics to bring up.
At first, she said nothing, and I did all the talking about my life and how it sucked. The first words she spoke to me where about signing a contract – “Message!” In this contract, I was agreeing to attend my regular weekly sessions. If I missed a session, for any reason, I would be liable because she couldn’t bill the insurance company. Right then, I knew I shouldn’t continue. Everything about her was wrong. She never greeted me or responded when I said hello. And she worked herself into almost every scenario. For example, one day I mentioned how I felt like Alexander in the self-titled move by Oliver Stone. The character was portrayed as someone very misunderstood. There’s one scene in particular where he’s standing on a hill delivering his "I am William Wallace" speech, and as he’s speaking he can feel the dissension in the ranks. No one could understand him. They were too consumed by their own greed, prejudices, and limitations. Alexander stood on that hill, almost begging his people to see what he saw, to share his vision. But, they refused.
I told Shrinker that’s how I felt every day. I was so alone in how I thought, in what I believed, that I started to deny my own humanity. The world we know was a lie. Only I saw the truth and I wanted to shove it in their faces. I wanted to stand on a hill and lead everyone from the darkness, the ignorance, fallacies, and lies. She said: “I think what you’re telling me is you want me to join you in this struggle.”
…No.
It had nothing to do with her. In that room we were separated from the world, and she wasn’t one of “them.” She was an indescribable “her” to guide me through the shit storm of my mind. In that limbo I was Mork and she was Orson.
It happened again and again. Every time I’d unload something sincere, she’d inject herself into my trauma instead of helping me understand it. Even though I knew what she was doing, I was too hooked to call it quits. She already shot me full of her junk. I was fed sugar and tricked into the white van. My pants were unzipped and some fifty-something woman was jerking me off. I went there fully prepared to embrace the blame for my problems, but that didn’t mean I knew the solutions. When I went to see her, she took the blame away. She did what I had learned to stop doing almost ten years ago…
It was the first time I’d meet a writer in the flesh. Steven Barnes, author of The Kundalini Equation, Blood Brothers, Iron Shadows, Street Lethal, and several teleplays was having a book signing at a small bookstore off Ventura in North Hollywood. It was Merlin’s idea to go and we dragged our wives along. When we got there, Barnes was already in a long conversation, so I just laid back and listened. I’d already read his book and was a big fan. This was back, before I liked reading. Blood Brothers was the first science fiction novel I read and loved. As I listened, he said something very profound.
“You become an adult when you accept responsibility for your actions. Stop blaming your parents for whatever they did or didn’t do in the past for the mistakes you make in the present. Accept the responsibility and become a man.”
Okay, that’s not exactly what he said. It’s been too long for me to remember word for word, but like Andrew Adamson’s interpretation of CS Lewis, this is what I remember. He was looking at me when he spoke, as if he knew who I was and how I blamed my parents for every fuck-up. At that moment, I would stop.
And, I did stop. My life became mine. I took ownership of it. And when I did, one of the immediate changes was how I saw my parents. It was the first step in what would become a healing between my father and I. But, when I told this to Shrinker, that I wasn’t there to blame my parents for anything they’d done to me – I wouldn’t become a cliché – she said: But we can’t deny, whether we like it or not, there’s a part of them in us.” I believe her exact words were: “We all have a little mommy and daddy inside us.”
With that, ten years of therapeutic soul searching was flushed down the toilet. I regressed. I began therapy looking for a way to save myself. I was a changed man watching myself slowly revert to that adolescent going nowhere. That twenty-something boy had become a man in his thirties, only to watch everything slipping away. And my savior was a dope dealer.
To Be Continued (I will be back. Promise.)
Where was I?
In a dark place I thought I’d never escape. Therapy. I was already fucked up when I started, but I could still see the light and had a chance of getting out of it. When I started “counseling”, it was like going from general population prison to solitary. At least, in gen-pop, you can see the sun.
This is tougher than I thought. For three days I’ve read over old blogs, trying to get the “taste” back, and I thought I had it. I’d think over beginnings, one after another, each getting better and better. But now, it’s like pulling a tooth. Feels good, though. An uncomfortable yet stimulating feeling, like courting an old flame months after the break-up. The last time you saw one another was painful, but now all you can think about is the sex. It’s all-new again. You can’t wait to perform and show him or her what you’ve learned from the experiences between then and now. I’m anxious; waiting for the rush, the vibe, to slip into the jazz; that state of semi-consciousness, where HST takes over and I become a writing god.
Chapter 1 TheRapist
I started seeing Dr. Shrinker last year in September or October. I’ve written about it already. I spent weeks just unloading on her all the things I felt were wrong with me. I was convinced I was fucked up and needed help to get out. I was tired of slipping in and out of depression, the anxiety, poor self-esteem, and failed diets. I just wanted some answers. Why was I like this?
Once a week I’d go to her office and sit in a chair about five, maybe ten, feet away from her and just start talking. Ironically, the light would always shine on her, leaving me in the dark. There were a lot of days I dreaded going because I’d leave feeling worse than when I arrived. Other days, I truly had nothing to talk about, and I started cataloging events just so I’d have an inventory of topics to bring up.
At first, she said nothing, and I did all the talking about my life and how it sucked. The first words she spoke to me where about signing a contract – “Message!” In this contract, I was agreeing to attend my regular weekly sessions. If I missed a session, for any reason, I would be liable because she couldn’t bill the insurance company. Right then, I knew I shouldn’t continue. Everything about her was wrong. She never greeted me or responded when I said hello. And she worked herself into almost every scenario. For example, one day I mentioned how I felt like Alexander in the self-titled move by Oliver Stone. The character was portrayed as someone very misunderstood. There’s one scene in particular where he’s standing on a hill delivering his "I am William Wallace" speech, and as he’s speaking he can feel the dissension in the ranks. No one could understand him. They were too consumed by their own greed, prejudices, and limitations. Alexander stood on that hill, almost begging his people to see what he saw, to share his vision. But, they refused.
I told Shrinker that’s how I felt every day. I was so alone in how I thought, in what I believed, that I started to deny my own humanity. The world we know was a lie. Only I saw the truth and I wanted to shove it in their faces. I wanted to stand on a hill and lead everyone from the darkness, the ignorance, fallacies, and lies. She said: “I think what you’re telling me is you want me to join you in this struggle.”
…No.
It had nothing to do with her. In that room we were separated from the world, and she wasn’t one of “them.” She was an indescribable “her” to guide me through the shit storm of my mind. In that limbo I was Mork and she was Orson.
It happened again and again. Every time I’d unload something sincere, she’d inject herself into my trauma instead of helping me understand it. Even though I knew what she was doing, I was too hooked to call it quits. She already shot me full of her junk. I was fed sugar and tricked into the white van. My pants were unzipped and some fifty-something woman was jerking me off. I went there fully prepared to embrace the blame for my problems, but that didn’t mean I knew the solutions. When I went to see her, she took the blame away. She did what I had learned to stop doing almost ten years ago…
It was the first time I’d meet a writer in the flesh. Steven Barnes, author of The Kundalini Equation, Blood Brothers, Iron Shadows, Street Lethal, and several teleplays was having a book signing at a small bookstore off Ventura in North Hollywood. It was Merlin’s idea to go and we dragged our wives along. When we got there, Barnes was already in a long conversation, so I just laid back and listened. I’d already read his book and was a big fan. This was back, before I liked reading. Blood Brothers was the first science fiction novel I read and loved. As I listened, he said something very profound.
“You become an adult when you accept responsibility for your actions. Stop blaming your parents for whatever they did or didn’t do in the past for the mistakes you make in the present. Accept the responsibility and become a man.”
Okay, that’s not exactly what he said. It’s been too long for me to remember word for word, but like Andrew Adamson’s interpretation of CS Lewis, this is what I remember. He was looking at me when he spoke, as if he knew who I was and how I blamed my parents for every fuck-up. At that moment, I would stop.
And, I did stop. My life became mine. I took ownership of it. And when I did, one of the immediate changes was how I saw my parents. It was the first step in what would become a healing between my father and I. But, when I told this to Shrinker, that I wasn’t there to blame my parents for anything they’d done to me – I wouldn’t become a cliché – she said: But we can’t deny, whether we like it or not, there’s a part of them in us.” I believe her exact words were: “We all have a little mommy and daddy inside us.”
With that, ten years of therapeutic soul searching was flushed down the toilet. I regressed. I began therapy looking for a way to save myself. I was a changed man watching myself slowly revert to that adolescent going nowhere. That twenty-something boy had become a man in his thirties, only to watch everything slipping away. And my savior was a dope dealer.
To Be Continued (I will be back. Promise.)
posted by QABBAL at 2:26 AM
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