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Life, Metaphoric

I’m somewhere in a mashup of Fight Club and The Matrix, awakening into a brutal fight.

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For a man who says he’s a writer, I spend much of my time not writing. Sometimes I just can’t, the words unwilling. The rest of the time I’m busy finding ways to avoid writing. I don’t know what to do and it’s proving to be blindingly frustrating because I’ve decided to write a book.

And so it goes with me, most of my life actually.

Somewhere things went wrong. A lot of things went right too, thankfully. But the wrong things crippled me in fundamental ways. They stole my ability to grow. As a child, I invented tools to manage but they utterly failed me in adulthood. Unable to start a story of my own, I adopted the stories offered to me. Some of the stories were from family, which were just spin-offs from earlier generations, and others deeper — threads from the fabric of culture.

I played the characters well enough, but a part of me always resisted. I ignored it and carried on. I redoubled my efforts. I avoided. Things got worse. I saw the truth of it eventually, but the cost was high. Now I’m aching to write my story. I’m ready to begin.

The problem is,

I’m a writer that won’t write.

I feel like Spy vs. Spy. A life lived in the extremes has turned me into two dimensions, neither capable of allowing me to thrive. They treat my heart as an occupied land, a circle jerk of sabotage and clever traps. There’s the abusive Parent, incessantly critical and oppressive, a force strong enough to grind mountains to sand. He finds fault in everything and sets standards a god would fail.  On the flip side there’s the Child, rebellious and untrusting. He holds my creativity and voice ransom because he feels abandoned and tragically unworthy. He is bruised and torn. His motto is Fuck You.

I’ve taken actions to push into three dimensions, to introduce a third side. The Adult. He’s rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and putting his big boy pants on. A sadomasochistic landscape lies before him and his development is only beginning.

I think an examined life is a noble cause. There’s so much bullshit to sort through. Blame and shame only serve to sever the connections, to deny the roots and truth. I’m abandoning the strategy of conflict resolution through domination. The only way I can unify my fractured identity is through acknowledgement, authenticity and acceptance.

Buckle up, here it comes.

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