Might as well get the song that will be stuck in my head for the whole time I am writing on this subject out of the way :
What got me thinking about this subject was the line about being a self made man from this other classic rock song :
And that got me thinking about the self-made man phenomenon and why, as one wag put it, self-made men (and women) tend to be in awe of their creator.
And creator is the world, because what everyday people miss about the successful entrepreneur is that they created something. They made something out of nothing. They created and nurtured and sweat blood over something in order to make it live, and now, quite rightfully, it is their baby.
And the thing is, I can relate. That’s exactly how I feel as a writer. For me, the magic of creativity is in creating something. Of taking it from my imagination and turning into something real, something other people can experience.
The fact that something like that is even possible amazes me. That’s why I want to write scripts that get produced so bad.
I want the full act of creation. From my brain to television. Incredible.
So I can see how the classic entrepreneur becomes extremely impressed with themselves for their act of creation.
I mean, they created jobs and everything. Added goods and/or services to the economy. Improved buildings and bought complex machinery.
And any time they want, they can look out over all that hustle and bustle of productive activity and say, “I did that.”
Let’s just say I see the appeal.
In fact, I am sure that somewhere out there on the planum of all realities, there exists an alternate dimension in which I got my head on straight in high school, went for a business degree at UPEI, and started up some crazy kind of business that nobody thought would work but become a huge success.
Not sure what that business would have been. Custom-tailored bikinis? Entry fee based arcades? Bigger donuts? Super sex-positive “adult bookstores”?
I got lots of ideas.
Hell, just sex shops that don’t look oppressively sleazy would be nice.
But yeah, I was a fucking idiot as a young person and did not see the possibilities inherent in my outsized intellect and outrageous talents, so without anyone to guide me I ended up taking a lot of philosophy and psychology.
And true, if I had not been cruelly pluck’d from my education by selfish Boomer parents, I would have gone on to get a Master’s in Psychology and become a therapist.
That was my goal back then. I knew deep down in my heart that I would be an incredibly good therapist if I just had the education to back up my high degree of insight and empathy and understanding.
And I still think that way. I would be an amazing therapist. I would consider helping people find their way through the jungle of their minds to be a rare and delicate privilege, and I would do everything I can to help them, no matter what.
It would honestly be a calling. Like the calling to be a priest, but without the bullshit.
And I suppose that’s still possible. Heck, I could call myself a “life coach” and start practicing right away. There’s clearly no qualifications needed for THAT gig.
I would basically lead by counterexample. I’d be this guy :
Go ahead and rest – you have to – but always do it with a mind of getting right back into the game. Never let your life come to a complete stop.
Because you may never get it started again.
More after the break.
That old wound
I don’t think I have ever actually recovered from being raped as a child.
Ever since that awful day, I have been one of the walking wounded. I managed to pull myself together enough to do what was expected of me (school) and have limped along through life ever since, but as an emotional cripple, nothing more.
And because I was raped so early in life, when I was just four years old, I don’t really remember being any other way. I have some warm but blurry and vague mental snapshots of being a happy little precocious charmer of a kid, but all my serious memories have that massive wound at my core as an undeclared base assumption.
But I now know that things could be different. I could be whole. I could be strong. I could be an actual complete and healthy adult like everybody else.
Only problem is that I would have to somehow shift that massive boulder that I have been stuck under since the rape so I can clean and mend that terrible injury at my core and I know, intuitively. that this can not be accomplished via logical analysis.
It can’t be “solved”, like a puzzle or an equation. I can’t just “figure it out”. There is a huge hole in the center of my being and that’s not the sort of thing you can solve just by being terribly, terribly bright.
It can only be accomplished by feeling a lot of very bad feelings. And when you have lived with depression for your entire life like I have, you instinctively avoid those very bad feelings because it feels like if you let them happen, they will utterly destroy you, or at least cripple you even further.
But you know what? Writing about them helps. It lets me release those bad feelings into the world via words and thus eases my inner burden a little bit at a time.
And I know one thing : I don’t have to think of myself as a helpless waif any more. I can be strong and powerful and in command of my life. I can actively pursue what I want in life. I can stand up and be counted.
And I don’t have to keep telling myself that I am helpless as a cover for simply not wanting to do anything.
I’m not helpless. I am tremendously powerful. I can move mountains with this massive mind of mine. I can create living, breathing worlds with my words. I can move the masses with my oratory prowess. And I’m funny as hell.
No, I am far from helpless. Except for that nasty wound of mine.
Soon as I get that damned thing fixed, I’m out of here.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.