I think I have issues......
I'm being serious here, damn it! Over the past year and a half I've asked myself many questions and to find the answers I've had to take many long looks into the mirror. For the most part I'm welcoming of any and all images/answers I find, but one question has me perplexed:
Am I dumb like a fox or unaware that I'm nuts?
Hold that thought.
Let's start simple. I want to take a look into my persistent writer's block. For the past six months I've struggled with what to write about. Every time I try to put thought to keystroke I'm getting punched in the gut with "It just doesn't feel right", or "It's forced" or "So and so might get offended" or "They've read this before". It's gotten so bad that I'm now deleting essays before they even have a chance to mature.
Because of this I have days when I think maybe I'm tapped out -that's all there is, and believe me, it doesn't take long for that to morph into the feeling that this writing thing is just another dead end path.
(Can YOU hear those violins???)....
Wow! Far be it from me to just enjoy something, rather I make it the be all end all, the antidote for my woes, personal and professional.
All in all it seems as though I'm starting to question myself and worse yet, censor myself. I know enough to know that that's dangerous.
Why can't I just go with the flow? Why can't I just write for me? Why do I care so much what people think? Why does sugar free gum give me gas?
Do all aspiring writer's go through this?
Case in point -The other day I actually put together a list of phrases that was so random/bizarre it actually freaked me out, but at the same time it was different and therefore inspiring. So, I thought about if for a while.
When I finally came to I realized just how different it was, and therefore edgy. Then I thought; Why not go with it, it's new, it's exciting? Then?.. I deleted it. %#&@?!?!
What I did next is a true sign of where my head is, I opened up Facebook. Then, I checked weather.com. Then, I ate. Then, I started another essay. Then, I day dreamed of having hot chocolate with six of the brunette Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. Then, I got excited about what we might be having for dinner when I get home. Then, I ran across the street to Rite Aid and bought some Peanut Chews. Then, it hit me.....
A.D.D!!!???
OY, Is that what has me bottled up all the time? Is writer's block not block at all but just a bunch of unharnessed thoughts running free on the open plains of my brain? Say it isn't so for I do NOT look good in chaps.
Great, something new to stress about! As if my brain isn't busy enough now I have to try my hand at riding the backs of untamed, snorting, slobbering ideas.
Oh well, makes sense I guess. I mean I always knew I had some difficulties with focusing. I just never thought, that what I deemed as my source of creativity and humor, that it would masquerade itself in negativity. Let alone some deranged dude ranch.
Hmph... A.D.D!!!???
Maybe it's true. Come to think of it, my wife and I ARE always arguing about how when she has something important to tell me, that halfway through it she has to say, "You're not with me, are you?"
I would usually say back to her, "It's like I know you are trying to tell me something, I mean, I see your lips moving." Or I'll let her finish and then I'll say "Do you know I didn't get ONE word of what you just said?" Then we bust out laughing and she tells me to let her know when I'm ready. I know it sounds rude but after all these years I hope she gets me.
I've said it before and I'll say it probably three hundred and sixty eight more times; Putting my energy into writing has allowed me to see myself for who I am, from all angles. It's allowed me to get a clearer picture of me and some of the answers I've always wanted... or not.
So let me see if I've got this one right. I'm to understand that I am a blurred-visioned, imaginarian, underachieving, rogue thought-rancher; one who also runs a bed and breakfast for the impromptu mental images and may or may not look stunning in riding pants??? Hmmmm... Is that good or bad?
Hymph... Issues!!!???
Hey look, can I help it if my brain is just so full of stuff that I can't control it sometimes? Can I help it if when the time comes to discipline my five year old that I'm sometimes magically whisked away on a week long spree of linen shopping in the Congo?
And when planning a family gathering, can I help it if the question 'Should we have chicken or BBQ brisket for dinner' sometimes sends me hurling through space to a convenience store in south east Asia; a quaint little hole in the wall where I'm propositioned by two beautiful, blond, street merchants on flying carpets? Misguided as it may be, sometimes shit just pops in my head, ya know?!?!
It's like when I'm having a conversation with someone, periodically, I'll simply check out, shutting down all interpretation receptors. Look, no offense, I lose interest very easily. And from what I understand, that comes with the territory of my new self diagnosed illness.
For the most part it's harmless, you won't notice a thing; unless you're really looking deeply into my eyes. More often than not you'll simply get my glassy-eyed stare as I'm off on a day dreamy trip to a far away place; maybe the ill timed eye roll you noticed and that I now have to pose as an itch; or possibly even the laugh/sigh that masquerades itself as a throat clear. Tell me something relatively boring; you probably won't know I'm not there.
If you start to tell me something I have little interest in, in GREAT detail, you'll probably get something a little more noticeable, a little more telling, the zombie stare. It's there I'll envision leaping off the nearest cliff or maybe even removing my eardrums with dental tools. Nothing too serious though, again, just a little harmless day dreaming to get me through the conversation.
Now, should you tell me something that falls into the realm of 'hated subject' or 'COMPLETELY fucking boring', well then we're heading for another level.
Enter, what my sister and I like to call, turret thoughts. Not yet a clinical illness but most definitely an act of subconscious selfishness that's punctuated, not truly revealed though, with the circumstantial glass eyed stare. Up until now though, turret thoughts had no relevance, it was just an inexplicable random act of immaturity.
Allow me to give you a little insight into this painful affliction. Every now and then, while chatting with someone, I'll imagine what it would it be like if I halled off and THWACKED them, right in the middle of a sentence. No warning, no rhyme or reason. Then as soon as I'm able to sweep that image away, in struts; What if I SCREAMED at them, so close that our NOSES were touching?
Believe me I know it sounds strange and I often wonder just how many people think like this but I can't help it. And I never know when it's going to strike.
It doesn't seem to be age discriminatory either. Nor is it gender selective. It all seems to stem from the level of my mood and whether or not I'm interested in what's being told to me.
OY! A.D.D!!!???
So be warned; The next time you want to tell me about that soccer match, the one you had with all of the neighborhood chums, for the THIRD time, you just might get an imaginary open handed slap to your left cheek.
Want to tell me the epic tale of how little Jimmy got his braces, the long version? Better get prepared for your bottom lip to be stretched over your forehead.
Think I wanna hear about Grandma Lulu and her 100th birthday? Think again, I'm now planning to take a bat to the bottoms of your feet.
Please, whatever you do, don't enlighten me on an entire episode of the sitcom I said I didn't care to watch. I really don't want to drag you through the streets tied to my bumper.
And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't tell me about little Betty Lou cutting her eighth molar, I don't want to have to set you on fire.
Ya gotta grab me man! Tell me somethin' good. Tell me something worth hearing. Tell me something that peaks the interest.
I want to hear about Aunt Pearl and her bout with crabs. Tell me about Uncle Junior impaling himself with the antlers of his latest road kill find.
Let me know what happened to Grandma Wilma's hammer toe. Is Grandpa Red still gnawing on it before dinner? That's the stuff I want to hear about!
Forget the mindless chit chat of Terry James, his new job, and how he loves his wife. Tell me about Robby's lobotomy and how every time the phone rings he sports a hard-on, hoots like an owl, and then soils himself. Woo Hoo, interesting stuff!
You want to keep my attention? Don't speak to me about the weather, the stock market, lawn mowers and cars. Tell me about how you want to hunt down and kill all remaining sperm whale.
Give me something original, will ya? I want you to tell me that your parents were just arrested for spear heading a movement that will allow geriatric prostitution to see a federal tax credit. Now THAT'S interesting.
Do ya see what I'm getting at? Let's drop the charade, people. For goodness sake I'm beginning to think I've developed Attention Deficit Disorder when all I really need is to hear something stimulating.
Ahh, who'my kidding? I probably need to distance myself from people all together. I think maybe I should get a job ringing some huge bell in some tower somewhere.
I know! Maybe I should turn to the books. Hey, as a matter of fact, you would've thought that with all this trouble in conversation that I would have become an avid reader, wouldn't you have? That's it! What better way is there to avoid imaginary aggravated assault charges than to pursue stimulation through written word?
Not a chance!
I tried reading once back in high school. The paragraphs always seemed to turn into shapes just like the clouds do. Shoot, sometimes paragraph three would yell out "Freedom" and wage all out war on paragraphs one and two.
That was a horrible time. Letters strewn across the pages laying in pools of their own ink. Limbless K's would scream for the medics as the inerts of many Q's fouled the air. Life would spill from topless T's and capitol R's, who'd lost their front hash, would tip forward as crippled P's. Na, reading wasn't for me and so it's a time I would rather forget.
Why do you think it takes me so long to put one of these essays together and then post it? I hate proof reading them, that's why. As a matter of fact, half way through this one I found myself riding bare back on a Shetland pony over the rolling hills of Dublin in search of good Cheddar cheese.
Really? A.D.D!!!???
Ok, so where do we go from here? I mean hey, so I've got some issues. Look, it can't be that serious, can it? I mean I get my work done, the kids are wonderful and the house is taken care of. Should I be stressing myself out like this?
I'm pretty high functioning, right? It's not like I get up in the morning, go downstairs to get ready for work, go out the front door and try to start up a game of beach volleyball. I mean I can function and I am with it, right?
What is that anyway, to be "with it"? My father used to use the phrase "Get with it" all the time, still does.
Is "With it" to conform, stripping yourself of all creativity and individuality? Is "With it" to mind your own business, keeping all thoughts to yourself? How about blending in to the background, is that being "With it"? Perhaps standing idly by and letting people fill the air with dangerous words of no substance, is being "With it".
You know what? Maybe I'll just stay "Without" it.
OK, so my imagination tends to take me on little journeys every now and then. So I might imaginarily attack the occasional innocent would be conversationalist. He's none the wiser or aggressed upon.
What is one to do about this? Do I just go with it or do I get with it?
Hmph... Did I type all of that outloud?
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