Well, really, I’d call it ‘My Struggle,’ but apparently the title has already been taken by some flak writer in the 1930s.
Well, I had a few hundred word written a couple minutes ago (about 15:50 on Saturday, October 10, 2015. But went to get a quote, from Freud about keeping secrets
which was to be a bulwark for an idea already exposed – that some of us carry secrets our entire lives but WordPress ‘vanished’ all that I’d written… no, not in ‘drafts,’ not in ‘trash,’ just gone.
It started off about crazy people ranting as they wander down the street in their delusional worlds. Then a sharp veering action as I looked for evidence of crazy people that were ‘happy,’ rather than screaming, scheming bundles of nerve endings. That pathway led me, not where I wanted to go, but to the idea of secrets.
And the ability to have secrets. There are almost 60 years of secrets locked up in wetwear here; family secrets, personal secrets, things that no one who knows me now knows. Freud was wrong about keeping secrets – maybe right about those secrets trying to peek out in to the daylight of the truth – but wrong about the ability to keep them.
It doesn’t work. Feels like I’m pounding 10 pounds of shit in to a 5 pound bag.
The line immediately above was already there when I started writing and I’m writing around it. Manic/depressive/ManIC/DePrESSeD is what my life feels like.
But I was going to write about the frantic crazy people, the ones always screaming at demons you cannot see, arguing vehemently with a cohort I cannot hear, people at odds with their lives, their selves, a seemingly horrid place to be trapped.
So I thought about the crazy people (there has to be some?) who do not rant while walking down the street. Surely, somewhere, is a person who is happy. They wake up happy. They go to bed happy. And they just seem to be happy every time you see them. Where are they?
Momentarily I thought I’d found one; a guy about my age, with a range of interests broadly similar to mine. Even knows many of the same people. But he wasn’t who I was looking for; he hid, hides, behind a mask. Always.
Someone said “you really care what people see”
I replied, saying “I’ve worn so many masks for so long I no longer know what ‘I’ look like.”
The ranting crazy is right here. The happy, laid-back crazy is a mask.
But I know not to save a draft copy – it will be days or weeks before I can face finishing it – sometimes nothing is ever finished.
So, is this catharsis? Or the lonely mental wanderings of someone just a little to close to the edge of normality – the far, far, edge – ready to tumble (again) in to some hell. I can feel the language trying to get flowery, writerly tricks to sound good the ear, but they get erased as soon as I can.
I prefer my writing
I prefer my writing, what?
Flowery? No. How about clear, concise, to the point? Nice idea, doesn’t seem to work quite that well. Haw about ‘catchy,’ trying some way to hook a reader, something you think hasn’t been done before. Like that is a possibility.
Secrets. Faces. Masks. An air of reserved aloofness.
Press ‘publish’ now
It’s hard work when you feel like you’re losing your mind; even those days when you still remember that it will get better (sometime, in the future, maybe) it is hard to reconcile how you feel, how you look, how others see you. Time to go now.