Primarily, I write these blogs for me.
They are a creative act, for me, in that I get to reframe parts of my life. They are a creative act, for me, in that I express parts of me to the public that haven’t even been exposed before, in such a way that they, I hope, move you. They are a creative act, for me, in that I get to unearth and to process parts of my life that I had forgotten existed or that, because of dissociation, parts of my life where I had not even been in attendance. They are a creative act.
Much of my life has been painful and ugly. I don’t apologize for my life. For me that’s a huge change. I used to be sorry that I existed. Now, to a greater or lesser degree, I am, for the first time in fifty four years, living.
I used to live in complete shame, holding secrets in. I refuse to do that any more. At any time. I am who I am. I am a man who ‘suffers’ from Complex PTSD and was neglected for many years. I have lived in delusions that have kept me alive. I did some pretty horrific things to myself to survive. I made it out the other end.
I am astonished, most times that I have gotten a hugely positive response from so many different people. So many different types of people from different walks of life can identify with my life. Young women who are in their teens have messaged me. Men in middle age have corresponded with me. They all tell me how courageous I am. They tell me that they have felt like I have. That gives me huge hope. I makes me feel a part of you. That makes me feel real, it makes me feel human. I feel, not necessarily, loved, but capable of being loved. Maybe the frog is also a Prince, both at the same time. Maybe I am Schroedinger’s Frog Prince?
Yesterday, I heard from a person who I respected. She essentially told me that while she understood the artistic struggle involved, that maybe the choices of the places I made to post my blog could perhaps be chosen better because of the fact that some of the material was obviously still being incorporated in such a way that the essential essence was not being translated correctly. As I understood what she was saying, and I tried to clarify and get past the bullshit language, she found what I was writing to be distasteful and overwhelming. She did say that she read all of my blogs and that perhaps I should start attending a twelve step group. She obviously found my pain distressing and wanted to happen else where.
Now, to unpack the above, I have posted many times that I see a therapist. That I go to group therapy. That I am in attendance at AA meetings. So maybe she doesn’t understand what those words mean? Or maybe she didn’t read what I wrote at all? I refuse to speculate.
What I will say, is that what I write is potentially distressing and that it did happen to me. I am hurt. I am hurt and angry. There was a point in my life where just the conversation would have made me stop blogging, to delete my blog and all the entries, and to go into a rage and depression spiral.
Some art come out beautifully. It is aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes art is painted in shit mixed with blood, like blood dribbling from my anus after I let that man fuck my ass. Sometimes art in painted in pride and other times it is painted in rage and shame. Rage and shame are my media. I don’t do Hello Kitty unless she is missing an ear and has a ball gag in her mouth and a burn scar on her belly. The only Hello Kitty toy I would ever own is the vibrator.
Ugly is what I do. It will probably never make me popular. I will probably never ‘make it’. So be it. the work is enough.
As to not posting my blog?
If you don’t like it, don’t read the fucker.