Is “mattress” really just the female version of “mattress”?

Had therapy today, and my therapist had an unusual but quite sound suggestion : that I prop an old mattress up against a wall and beat the ever loving shit out of it.

The idea is that it would be a great way for me to both get exercise and work out my latent aggression at the same time.

It makes perfect sense to me. I have always wanted a punching bag or heavy bag to use for that very purpose.  But those are both extremely expensive and totally incompatible with the size of our apartment.

But a single mattress, sans frame or bedding, would fit in my room. In fact, the best place for it would be a space not three feet from where I am sitting right now.

And I have to admit, being able to stand up from the computer and vent my rage at will sounds pretty frigging sweet.

The topic came up because I was talking about hwo I think a lot of my problems come from pent up emotions and unexpressed anger. As patient readers know, I have an enormous amount of anger and frustration built up inside me because anger is the emotion I have the most trouble expressing.

And I told him the story of why. I have told it here before but I will tell it again because it really does explain a lot.

The incident in question happened when I was in high school. In computer class. Which in that semester was taught by none other than Mister Yeo (pronounced yo).

Yes, that’s a very funny name. Moving on.

Now he and I did not get along at all. I had discovered this n the previous year when he had been my geometry teacher. I swear it was mostly some weird kind of pheromone thing. When he and I were in the same room we set one another’s teeth on edge. This despite us both trying really hard to get along.

Him more than me, because I was 17 at the time and less aware of things. But  definitely tried hard. I think we were both bewildered by the whole phenomenon and wanted to regain some kind of control over ourselves despite the fucked up messages our primitive brains were sending us.

That’s what we intellectuals do. We have to prove to ourselves that we can resist purely hormonal bullshit and remain masters of our own actions.

In practice, that only goes so far, and we have to shamefully admit that we get overwhelmed by hormones and pheromones sometimes too.

Personally, I’d rather admit to a bizarre and outre fetish or a  love of Justin Beiber than admit that I had lost control like that.

Anyhow, we didn’t get along. Luckily, we both knew it going into computer class, so we dealt with it in the classic male way by simply ignoring one another.

I suppose it helped that I knew so very much more about computers than him, and he knew it. So that kept him in his corner, and I had no desire to tangle with or hurt him, so that kept me in mine.

But then there was that fateful day at the end of the semester when he deleted all the student files off the hard drive of the one computer in the computer that HAD a hard drive (that’s how long ago this was, folks), exactly as he’d been saying he would all semester, but I hadn’t listened, and so I had not backed up my work to my school-assigned floppy disk like I was supposed to do.

So let me be clear. I was in the wrong here,.

Nevertheless, this action pissed me the fuck off. I guess on some level, I didn’t think he would actually do it. So when I found out he had done it, a fuse was lit in me and it did not take long before it went off.

I forgot what I said in my high intensity tirade But I remember putting absolutely every ounce of my being into telling him to go FUCK himself.

And then I went home, because honestly, how can you top that?

I come to school the next day, and I find out that directly after I did that, he had a heart attack. He survived but it was pretty bad. He never returned to being a teacher, as far as I know. He was too physically weak.

And I feel really bad about that now. Looking back, he was a pretty harmless kind of guy. Maybe a bit of a dick sometimes, but he certainly didn’t deserve such a crushing blow. I would take it all back if I could.

But you can see how that make me reluctant to let my anger call the shots ever again, can’t you? I nearly killed the guy. That’s the kind of damage I can do.

And yes, I know all the counterarguments. Like, maybe he would have had that heart attack that day no matter what happened. And of course, he had to have a bad heart in the first place.

And those are all sane, rational, and credible arguments. And no doubt they represent the objective truth.

But I know in my heart that it was me. My rage, with all my considerable emotive power behind it, magnified by my size.

The poor man probably feared for his life. I had my full adult height of 6′ 1″ at the time, and I weighed around 230-250 pounds. He was fairly small, like 5′ 6″. Plus, this was completely out of character for me. So it was extremely shocking. as well.

So there ya have it. The reason I keep my anger on a very short chain. I damn near killed a man with it. Someone who did not deserve it at all.

I am slowly coming into my power now, though. Less scared of myself. So who knows, knowing that I have this kind of power might come in handy in the future.

But would I be willing to bully my way to the top?

I am going to have to say “maybe” to that.

It’s something I will have to think over.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Been going through what artists always have to go through in order to get shit done : a period of hating everything that I have ever done.

I wrote a script for the trailer for Secret Informant, that show I am part of developing. This is the trailer that will be shown to attract funding. So I want it to be perfect.

That’s probably too much pressure for a guy like me. Sad but true.

Anyhow, after dithering a bunch, I wrote… something.

And I hate it. Hate it hate it hate it.

That’s not a problem. That’s just part of art. Every artist in every medium and form makes bad art. This is something I understand.

Nevertheless, writing that putrid piece of crap has kept me from either fixing the fucking thing or starting anew, and people are counting on me. I can’t fuck this up.

So I need to get the fuck over myself as quickly as possible so I can treat the whole thing like a few new task and attack it with my usual zeal.

First step for that, as it turns out, will be talking about it here so I can work through the emotional blockage I am dealing with and get things moving again.

I don’t lack of inspiration, that’s for sure. Love the whole idea of the show, love the plans we have for it, love the people I am working with. Excited to see where this all goes. Eager to get this kind of credit on my resume.

In other words, this is definitely a “me” thing. My mental damage. My weakness of spirit. My path to strength and courage and drive. My recovery.

Somehow, I have to connect with my cocky, confident, charismatic side and use that energy to power through all this psychological garbage to make way for my real self.

Have to keep remembering that. Who I’ve been is not who I am. The real me is nothing like the depressed me. The real me is strong, courageous, bold,. brilliant, and capable of ten miracles a day – 12 if there’s money or sex involved.

I’m a wizard, goddamn it^[1],  For so long, I thought I was useless because the things I couldn’t do were so simple and basic. Things that other people do automatically, without even having to think about it.

But do those things really matter compared to what I can do with my creative and intellectual talents? I would excel in any office. From working in the mail room to being senior manager in charge of development, I could do it all.

And do it damn well, too. I know I have it in me to see unique solutions to problems others find intractable. I could be a heck of a troubleshooter. I also know that I can pinpoint inefficiencies and figure out how to eliminate them. So I could totally be an efficiency expert. And I have a head for certain kinds of strategy. So I might do well in strategic planning as well.

And that’s just administrative stuff. It doesn’t even include my writing skills. I could writer damn near anything in damn near any genre for damn near anyone and it would be pretty goddamned good.

So I know, in my heart, that I can do this. Now let’s back the truck the fuck up and take a look at why I haven’t, yet.

It’s that whole “avoidance” thing,. I was upset by how my first attempt turned out, and that made it hard to think about a new attempt, so I just kept pushing it out of my mind and into the future.

Weak stuff. Unworthy of me. Looked at with the harsh cleansing light of objectivity, it’s clear that I have been dicking around, spending half my day playing Witcher 3 when I should be working on important things.

This is the point where we enter the minefields, however. Because if I excoriate myself for this failing, it weakens my self-esteem and thus the strength I need to continue, as well as making the task even less attractive by putting this huge emotional tag on it that says “YOU ARE A LOSER”.

So that’s the wrong road to go down, even though it feels right and traveling on it is so easy because I have trod its stones so many times before.

What I am trying to develop in myself is the ability to ruthlessly cut off the past. To say to myself “Whatever. It’s in the past. Can’t be changed. Doesn’t matter now. What matters is getting things DONE. Everything else that gets in the way of that is bullshit and needs to be instantly burned to ashes and the ashes flushed away.

I’m working on it.

I realize that part of my problem is that I have been in a world of my own making – otherwise known as my rich inner life – for so long that I lost the ability to separate myself from my thoughts, emotions, ideas, and so on. So any kind of change or lack of faith in them feels like I am cutting off a piece of myself.

And that’s no way to run a railroad, son.

Don’t get me wrong. I am positive that my deep connection with my art is a big part of what makes it good. I wouldn’t risk that for anything.

But when it gets in the way of my actually using my skills, something has to change.

Perhaps the gentler approach of “water under the bridge” would suit me better. Less “FUCK THAT PAST, SCORCHED EARTH MOTHERFUCKER!” and more “Meh, whatever, let’s do the next fun thing!”

Whatever the approach, it’s clear that I have some shit I got to work out before I reach my full potential as a writer..

Good thing I have therapy tomorrow.

I will talk to you nice people again later.