The Over-soul: An Apologetic Musing on Fight Club and The Ladder
Restored Post originally published on Sun 21 Apr 013 2:00 PM
“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.”
Since last night, especially, I was actually reluctant to abandon not as much the premise that people are naturally good, but if I, myself, was inherently a good person, at my core.
But for now, as my much more humanistic over-soul, as in, likely, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s best essay, in my opinion, I do believe that all of us, do have a soul which is inherently good-natured, immortal, immensely vast, and quite honestly, beautiful.
Perhaps fittingly with my initial intention to <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post this on the G+ Community I administer, it is rewarding to see more people joining the Let’s Talk About Mental Health Google+ Community. I haven’t been on it much myself, even as its “moderator,” though I do feel it’s a rather safe place with safe people interacting so far, who are able to communicate in a healthy-as-possible and compassionate way, with a common understanding that we’re all in this together—we, who deal with life’s day-to-day issues, both good and bad, while through the filter, or lens, of our individual mental health conditions. Sometimes, we, with mental illness can, and I think should, laugh at our otherwise unfortunate conditions, when we can, while there is a time for everything, even messing up, on a small scale or a greater one.
I write this <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post in order to analyze and journalize for myself, therapeutically, at the same time, to come to terms with what I had written last night, which can be found below, feeling and fulfilling a personal desire to forgive myself, while asking for your forgiveness, as well.
Last night I messed up, plain and simply, I behaved inappropriately, and unlike my more disturbing and sometimes-angry fictional writing which I create, in part, for a living, but for its therapeutic aspect of creative expression through fiction, written for my own self, as the writer, and the communicator—the creator of inner worlds, as I see them swirl—then to bump it all up a notch, thus the <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>fiction I might write. Though, sometimes I bump it up too much in real-life only to find that I’ve lost that game, the seizing of that particular day.
The <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>fiction I write works for me, though not necessarily all of my readers. I tend to dig deep into the closets of my psyche and the exaggerated wells within my own imagination thus to expose in an often-disturbing fashion, yet I feel it’s with a heart buried underneath the gravel at it’s innermost core—of seeking, inquiring and ever- searching for the source—the missing pieces and the unanswerable reasons and answers to human nature, deep inside, yearning, sometimes suffocating and yet ever-inquiring, over and over, while keeping a smaller audience who does enjoy it, or read it <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the first place, though for many the content is just not for them, or simply not the time for them, as I see it. But I do; for I find pleasure and satisfaction in any book, as I see it, and will often say, if it looks good on my bookshelf, then it looks good to me. <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am happy with it. Lover <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the Nobody might be an apt example, where I strip down the characters to their naked core which to me (and perhaps to Freud) is symbolic of the root of every aspect of the angel-demon-human dichotomy of life, <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the way that I see it. How else to strip one down to their core without writing them in fully and actually naked, and full of desire and even fetish? It surely seems to be the elemental metaphor as to the roots of my own feelings, which are often quite extreme themselves. But, this is an apology request from my bitter demeanor, and what I feel was disrespectful to my readers—all of you. At the same time, there might be another late evening when <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am profoundly upset and only to hope that I will, next time, respect others, even when not feeling, falsely or not, disrespected by others. I do my best to not miss my mark completely, but we win some and lose some. Letting my deepest fears attack anyone else’s character or persona, mentally ill, or mentally healthy is not my cup of tea, after all.
I <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>change and I <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>change again, like the good ole chameleon effect. I believe at my core is someone who is looking to do <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>right and can also become all too frustrated when feeling unloved, taken advantage of or even disrespected myself. I do yearn for peace of mind and that’s my goal. It always has been.
While this is a <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post for Porcelain Utopia, and not directly into the LTAMH strong Community feed, I feel indebted to both my audience and to my family, very few of you with whom I know personally or online.
I admit, I vented out my own anger deriving from all the stresses and challenges within my momentary situations in life and with those who simply didn’t deserve from me, some of the things, rather many of the things I vented about, neither to the late authors Sylvia Plath and David Foster Wallace, who happen to be two of my favorite writers, who happened to perhaps be “mad” but madly ingenious—I don’t believe any literary mechanic could ever pull apart Wallace’s Infinite Jest and decipher it, nor put it back together, that’s how ruthlessly brilliant Wallace’s <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing is, though Infinite Jest did not leave me with any great epiphany, or eureka effect, rather simply a detailed and privileged look into how literary genius does end up existing, knowing that it is palpable and present.
Having been back <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing again, my next novel, over the last few days, since 2012, regardless of the book deal issue mentioned in last night’s Fight Club and Jacob’s Ladder post, the deal that fell through, I did feel that <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing was in fact exorcising the demons within, and that it was helping me stay afloat. As an old doctor once advised, just write, no matter if true or untrue, no matter how disturbing it may be, no matter anything, as long as it’s fearless and something I’ve never expressed before, no matter what, just write, she said. When I used to know my father, he, among many friends, would commonly ask me if I was still writing, since it has been, for so long now, such a helpful outlet for me, and people knew it, and cared. However, last night my <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing undoubtedly came out way to strong and wrong, so I must apologize to everyone involved, all of you, regardless of how much better it made me feel inside to vent as I did.
<strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I have about 20 minutes to write here now, and I’d like to disregard any syntax and/or language usage, though I’m not <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the swearing diatribe place today, moreover that <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am just writing—that’s all. Not concerned about the best style, the better usage of intellectual words, etc.
My morning began in yet another dismal and negative space. Spousal challenges, and the wreck I left online and at home last night. Hateful texts and calls came through startling me awake early on, and I felt that I needed to regain my self-control, and my day; my life. Not just my breath. Lots of people will be showing up here tomorrow, and I was full of an even deeper sense of loss and depression, and of fear. I needed to get myself back into rolling with the ebb and flow of day-to-day life, and while I couldn’t just snap out of it, I gradually began my own day, not <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing hateful things back to others, and not telling my doctor, whom I did make a call to, of my problems in a negative tone. I just knew I could try and that I could do my best, that was all.
My psychologist and <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I have since set up a phone session later on this afternoon, while <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the meantime, I decided to call a crisis line, just to talk, nothing like a life-or-death emergency. The kind and compassionate woman on the line listened and asked me some appropriate questions. I felt better almost instantly as I began talking with this person anonymously. She and I were on the phone for about 45 minutes. I felt much better just being listened to, and that was all that happened. I was heard, anonymously.
My problems and feelings became less problematic and moreover, just words. I felt back <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the moment, not into yesterday and not into tomorrow, and not feeling any urgency or any sensation of feeling rushed while <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the moment.
I mediated afterwards and began to listen to my heart, identifying anyone I felt scared of, or agitated about. My audience, my wife, and the staff here where I live, who are here to look after me came to <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>mind on the instant. I wrote and called each of them. I asked for forgiveness, help, and understanding, regardless of the outcome, without expectations.
I now feel emotionally safe enough with those in my immediate circle, and I also know things can always change, and they do, in fact, change.
I plan to write more again soon, and I ask for your forgiveness, from last night. One final thought for now, though this <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post has no reason to make the Today’s Top 10 List, instead of posting this separately, I will go ahead and <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post this as it is, but moving last night’s <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post under this one and simply renaming the title of the post.
I can’t take back what I’ve said, yet, I can delete it from Porcelain Utopia, though I do have other transgressive and erotic Exorcising the Demons Within material which is my native craft; I just seem to have audiences in so many varied arenas—Porcelain Utopia before it became more popular as a “quote site” and not a personal blog, as I see it—I would like to come to terms with my actions by admitting that yes, I do have my off days and I can and do get angry. The mental illnesses I deal with don’t help much, but I have overcome a large portion of the burdening issues in my life and yet with a lot more work still ahead. I admit my blatant disrespect and with what <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I have written so far, not as an excuse but as I realization and acknowledgment of my mistakes and to admit this one by posting it below, knowing that we all can and do have our horrible days, but they can get better. And while sometimes I think <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I have to be my own hero, and even the parent for my own inner child, I can do better and as for the other posts that are less positive and more personally therapeutic <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>writing styles—the <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>fiction based on parallels of my own psyche, they’ll come, too. But for now I’ve got to sign off and just make the best of the day. We can turn things around. I believe we must put in our best efforts, be okay with our wrongdoings and move on as positively and as realistically as we can. So unabashedly, below is something—the <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post from last night—which <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am not proud of but I acknowledge it and <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am sorry, no matter the harm that might have been done to me, <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the past, it’s certainly not my proper place to write what I would like to apologize for, below.
I keep my overall character, the angel, demon, and human inside me intact.
I mess up, I do my best, and I return back to my core when I can—human being-style.
Below is where I felt I missed the mark, however, in keeping it as it was last night as one might, even if just for myself, an example of people, in this case myself, we do miss our marks, and don’t stick to our core at times. This was not a fictional attention-grabber attempt. I did, however feel hurt, and otherwise have changed my opinion and feelings about the following <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post. Not to make excuses, only revealing my own human nature. <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am not perfect either. None of us are. And when this sort of fear does arise again, I plan on keeping it to myself, otherwise in private or simply manipulating it into a work or art, if you will, of <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>fiction. Just not the way it had been. This <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>post did seem to garner lot of attention, approximately 35,000 hits <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the first 6 hours. But it’s not currently what I would have wanted to write publicly. I do acknowledge this and I feel a responsibility to admit I wasn’t true to my <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>heart. If fictionalized, it would have been a different story altogether.
In Fight Club Sliding Down Jacob’s Ladder >>
Sat 20 Apr 013 10:00 PM
<strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I have been severely depressed during the last couple of weeks; almost, but not quite, Sylvia Plath style, except my book deal just fell through today, two years <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the making. Fuck it, I’m gratified more by the pain, degradation, etc., that is imposed by others, unlike such cop-outs, Plath and David Foster Wallace. My ass is still on this ship.
It feels like I’m in Fight Club sliding down Jacob’s Ladder, with enough anger to plaster the Internet with the good ole fashioned shit you all seem to crave when searching me on Google, Bing, and blah-blah-blah, the drama, the abuse—the hedge funds and my net worth, which will keep you all guessing and guessing. We can all be anyone we choose to be on the Net can’t we? Well, I’m choosing to be a real dick this evening, a self-hating and disrespectful crazy psycho little son-of-a-whore. At this point, I actually wish my own mother, whomever she is, for I haven’t a clue, would have just followed through and got the abortion. But she didn’t.
My psychiatrist wrote back straightforwardly, “Sorry, hope you feel better.”
A friend, “That sucks.”
It doesn’t help. But I don’t know what would.
My family? All spiritually deceased, or physically deceased by means of suicide, primarily via the old fashioned hanging method. Again, cop-outs… losers, and yet all are mentally ill, like me, even the one of many public figures <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the bloodline, yes, the murderer. So, yes, a little slander here and there, I get sued? I didn’t use anybody’s name—they’re already known, and with power of attorney, I can’t be sued. They’d be suing themselves.
Ah, the torture, the sexual torture especially, fond PTSD memories, and when my psychologist just wrote me back (the one person I actually get along with on a continual basis,) about his calling to help with my depression, I left him a message about how my thinking that help strong isn’t likely possible <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>right now and in my actual state of mind, since <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am not suicidal, because <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am more gratified by hatred inflicted upon me by others, habitually, (I just feel like <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am hating a lit am no tit back <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>right now, until I feel… better…) and that with this doctor, in session, all I do is talk my sick and twisted head off about delusional bullshit, dreaming I’m a brilliant demagogue. Fucking crazy talk.
<strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am alone, and yet I still have all the .mp3s I recorded from 2011 with my psychiatrist since she was hired by my family and reports to them illegally, in case it ever comes to revealing the tapes—recorded every week out of paranoia, for sure, but hell, it’s all the lies, and the paranoia that seem to keep me alive and safe. <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>I am strong, after all, a self-stigmatizing schizo with nothing to lose, for real.
That felt good, pouring out some of the hatred that comes with this depression. Now, it’s back to bed for this little bitch. Time to breathe. To focus on the life of my own breath, for it’s all I seem to have <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>right now, which is okay by me, regardless of the air conditioning system broken, and a dislocated left shoulder, with nobody around; around but not here for me, <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>in the way that I want, which is what I don’t know—how? This poor wounded inner child. I laugh to myself, inside, this ballistic crybaby in my sometimes-outer peaceful manliness, I just don’t see it <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>right now.
Alas, it looks like somebody just responded on Facebook as to my state of <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>mind and reference to Plath and Wallace, how endearing, though I don’t officially know him in person. Someone who actually gives a hot damn, it reads:
I’m sorry. But look at all these people concerned about you. That’s something for sure. I wish I had that. Book deals come and go (and they will come again) but people who want to support you and be there for you are priceless.
I guess there is some hope. However it might manifest, or not.
Anne Frank’s quote, comes to <strong class=’StrictlyAutoTagBold’>mind once again, “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” It’s as if the primary motive of what might be considered “evil” is simply a mask or disguise.