Feeling ugly today. But in a fun way. Like I am a silly ol troll or ogre from a children’s story, one who is ugly in a cute way and not scary at all.

Of course, when I write children’s stories, they feature hardcore nudity.

Why? Because I’m a pervert, duh!

Been contemplating my relationship with order, or lack thereof. I know for sure that, deep down. part of me craves a neater, better organized, more rational and efficient life, that represents that side of my mind better and that pleases me to behold.

The problem is that there is a much bigger part of me that absolutely loathes that idea and rises up to brutally demolish any and all plans in that direction before I can even fully form the intention to clean up around here.

There is something deep and dark inside me that hides in all the chaos and the clutter and the filth, and it (in other words, me) fears exposure like Dracula fears sunlight.

And I could not tell you what this dark thing is. I suppose if I could, that would be a form of exposure via the spotlight of consciousness. All I can tell you is that there is a great deal of very deep and potent shame attached. The kind of shame that tends to be attached to matters concerned with the elimination of waste.

You know. Potty stuff.

So that’s all part of the mix. Part of me is terrified – deep down terrified – of what I have been holding in coming out and views that possibly as, like I said yesterday, the Worst Thing That Could Happen.

But why? What could be so bad? Whatever it is, I am probably far better off without it and the only way to get rid of it would be to let it out, so why not?

What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we are dealing with a physical toxin or even actual bodily waste here. This is purely psychological. If whatever it is comes out, it will be in the form of emotions and possibly words.

So what’s the big deal?

It must all tie back to when I was raped at the age of 4. A lot of us survivors of child sexual abuse carry a deep dark sense of shame, as if the abuse made us into something dirty and disgusting and shameful.

In fact, that’s true of all rape survivors, regardlessof age. And it’s so unfair. We didn’t do anything wrong. We’re the victims here, not the perpetrators. They are the ones who did something shameful and horrible and disgusting. They should be the ones who feel dirty and spoiled, not us.

And yet here we are. We, the innocent victims, literally feel like shit, and the rapists probably went on with their lives never even thinking about it again.

My rapist, the man who shattered my life forever, probably went back home to his family that day feeling great. He had gotten his dark urges out without violating his own kids, and he had that warm happy feeling one gets after taking a really good shit.

There’s that Freudian butt stuff again.

In fact, I bet he considered that to be one of the best days of his life.

It was, obviously, the absolute worst in mine. Bar none.

But even recognizing the unfairness of my feelings of being a walking talking turd sandwich that is so disgusting and horrible that nobody could ever love him does not make those feelings go away.

At best, it helps me handle them a bit better.

No, I think there is no linear, rational way to actually rid myself of these feelings of filthiness and contamination. I think whatever the successful method is, it will involve the sort of transcendant mystical thinking which operates purely on emotion with which I am almost totally unfamiliar.

I am a victim of my own rationality on many, many levels.

That’s one of them.

I mean, I grasp the theory of it. That kind of thinking (or rather, feeling) involves following the emotional connections of the mind without the limiting factor of logic, reason, or any need to make literal rational sense of it all.

It’s the sort of thing people experience under the influence of powerful hallucinogens. In those situations, those inner connections take over the person’s entire consciousness.

I have never had that happen (while awake, anyway) but I feel like I reach something like that mode when I am writing my thoughts down as they come. It’s especially potent when, like in last year’s book, I am translating those thoughts and feelings into the potent imagery of fictional prose as I go.

By doing so, I begin to approach that mystic state where inner reality is projected into the consciousness in a way that feels nearly real.

But I wish I were even braver. I greatly admire the poets and writers who are willing to fully embrace this dream logic state of mind and write their words without thought as to whether anyone will understand them or even care about them.

They are the ones who create truly powerful art that comes from those deep dark recesses of the soul. Their imagery is powerful precisely because it comes unfiltered from the part of the mind that generates dreams when we are asleep.

I think I have gotten close to that in my writing a few times, but not as close as I wouild like. I think it would be very interesting, not to mention highly therapeutic, for me to try to write like that, without worrying about whether my audience will understand it or like it and concentrating entirely on expressing what needs to be expressed in the most vivid and true way that I can.

But I am scared. Leaving the cold comfort zone of my rational linear mindset is very difficult for me. It has been both my weapon and my shelter against the darkness of the world for as long as I can remember, and I am scared that if I leave it in order to explore the dark and tangled woods of my deep emotional life, I will never find my way back.

Quite probably not a rational fear, but still, it remains.

So I dunno. Maybe one day you will come to this blog to find that the latest entry is my doing my level best to write down every thought as it comes to me, or at the very least to follow those emotional pathways wherever they want to take me.

If so, sorry in advance if it makes little sense to you.

But it might just do me a world of good.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.