Exposing Inner Demons – An Uncut Example Of Writing Therapy
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I don’t know why, but I feel the need to write something down. And then to share it. So I guess you my dear reader are invited to take a journey into the stream of consciousness that is this piece.
True, I could go back and edit my work. Give this piece the introduction that it deserves, one that aptly describes whatever I end up writing about, one that will perfectly grab your attention with the promise of an amazing payoff for your valuable time by the time your eyes reach that final line.
I could, but I won’t.
Instead I am just going to continue to plod along, sharing my thoughts as they come. Plod. Plod. Plod. What an amazingly apt word to describe the state of meandering boredom that the combination of these words induces.
Perhaps I should switch it up. Perhaps I should insert an exciting adjective here. But no dear reader. If I am stuck inside my mind, then, for the next little while so are you.
You see, this writing is therapy.
I can express whatever I like, and there is literally nothing stopping me from total, pure, unbridled, expression of whatever thoughts arise. Watch, I’ll prove it. Ready?
Poop.
You thought I was going to be serious there huh? Well, you see, right now the serious thoughts are scaring me. The apathy of my current medication poses more of a risk to my ongoing existence than the very thing they were supposed to cure. When life and death seem like equally okay options, well there isn’t much to hold onto beyond the tiny voice of rationality that is screaming ‘remember, this too shall pass’.
So yeah, I think I will stick to less serious topics for the moment, because that shit is dark.
Or not.
This piece is for me after all, you dear reader, are just along for the ride. But unlike carnival attractions, this ride can be stopped at any moment. You are free to exit. Thank you for patronage. The exit is up and to the right. Right where that little ‘x’ is.
Sorry, no refunds given. I need all the funds I can get.
Actually, I don’t. What I really need is a reduction of anxiety. I know that no matter how much money I have, I will still worry about not having enough. About losing it. About the bills. About interest rates and inflation. About work and my ongoing ability to turn up again and again and again, forever.
See, I would like to go down this path and present to you a consistent narrative of my inner world. One that gives shows you the ebbs and flows, the victories, and defeats. One that ‘makes sense’, but the thing is, that’s not how my mind wants to express itself in this moment.
It doesn’t want to make sense for you. It wants to express itself and heal – your understanding be damned. Okay, my mind wants to apologise, it wants me to let you know that it loves and cares for you, particularly those of you who are choosing to wade through the mess that is this piece. But nonetheless, it must continue to express things as they come. Just get it out onto the page in some form. Expose the inner demons to the light and perhaps kill some of those insidious nasty fuckers…
Dad. I hate that I love you. That love made your betrayal hurt so much more than it would have, if I truly ‘didn’t care’ about you or anything you had to say.
You failed me. You failed to show me how to live. How to function. How to connect. How to survive. You left me with nothing but broken dreams and a broken mind incapable of following them. You left me. Here. Alone. With nothing but false memories and lies.
Hahahahaha. Just rereading that makes me cringe at the clearly 2010’s emo that is still struggling to express itself, still screaming the lyrics to a song that I thought was written for me. Still mourning the loss of the lead singer of the band, only just now realising that they were his demons not mine, yet nevertheless getting some solace from the connection.
The irony isn’t lost on me that even here, alone in this room, on this blank page, I can still cringe at myself. Still judge me based on some kind of undefined standard, some residual hangup from a painful past. As they say, high school never ends.
Speaking of, I shouldn’t have moved out so young. 16! What was I thinking? I knew nothing. I still know nothing. I was a child, doing the only thing that it could think of too survive. It ran. It hid. It pretended not to care. It did whatever it needed to do to survive.
Charity. Out of date food. Oh yes, what a sob story I lived. Once again that inner critique comes back, laughing harder.
You were fine. Don’t you realise just how bad some people truly have it? At least you had running water, and access to education, and a functioning government capable of providing you support. At least you were at peace. At least… At least… At least…
Oh yes, it is you again my old friend. The demon of comparison, here to spread its wisdom about how others have it worse. SOMEONE WILL ALWAYS HAVE IT WORSE. This sad fact doesn’t detract from my suffering. There is no suffering Olympics to determine who truly has it worse. And yes, if there was, I wouldn’t place… I wouldn’t even qualify.
But here is the thing, I am not them. I can only compare myself to myself, and somewhat to those around me. What I experienced growing up wasn’t normal. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t fair.
Oh boo hoo. Poor little Zaccy struggling with a life billions can only dream of…
Yep. And I am ashamed of that struggle. I am shamed by the fact that I am not strong enough to survive without complaint. That I am not wise enough to detach form my situation and see the truth sitting right before my eyes.
I am lucky. But for whatever reason, I cannot embrace and accept that luck.
I struggle to work a ‘normal’ job. I struggle to accept the risks and tumult of the alternative path. I could fall to my father’s example and lose myself to addiction, but I refuse to pass on abuse. The cycle stops with me.
Thus, I find myself on the ground, in a panic attack, unable to keep the contents of my belly inside of itself. Once again ashamed that my kids will see me in that state. All I can do is model to them the fact that I struggle, and right now I am struggling.
I fear that they will see my behaviours and learn from them. That they will copy me for attention. That every issue I have stems from me doing the same…
How do you know you didn’t make all this up? All the abuse, all the neglect, all the pain? How do you know that you didn’t see your dad and want to follow in his footsteps?
Ah yes my demon, you are a crafty one. Unfortunately for you, I need to stop this silly writing activity. No, please don’t get mad, I know you will wait for me. You always do. Perhaps another time we can do battle again. Perhaps another time we can write it out.
Because yes, I will never know the back-end reasons why. Yes, there are holes in my memory. Yes, kids do what they can for attention.
But the reality is that none of any of that matters. I am where I am now and thus need to act based on that current state. The panic attacks are real. The medication is real. These words are real.
As too are my actions to save myself.
It is time to exercise my demon friend. Time to sweat. Time to train. Time to fight. Time to live. Time for me to close this document and speak to other humans – despite the fact that doing so doesn’t currently feel like the safest option. I know it will help; it always does.
And to you my dear reader. Are you still there?
If so, I guess we both now know the point of this piece – If you want to learn how to do writing therapy, reach out, and I can coach you.
It won’t fix your problems, but it will help you to see them with some clarity. It will help you to take other actions to heal. It will provide some solace in an otherwise painful world.
Bye bye now!
This post was inspired by the book, Augmented Realities: Human Poetry x A.I. Art
