Here is the situation:
I CAN’T WRITE.
I CANNOT WRITE.
I AM NOT ABLE TO WRITE.
I’M UNABLE TO WRITE
NO CAN WRITE.
I don’t know what is wrong.
I don’t think it is “just” writer’s block.
(as if anyone would ever call that cavernous depth of hell “just” writer’s block, hello….)
There’s a large mass of dark matter surrounding me and I guess I’m going to have to fucking interact with it if I’m ever going to be able to write (or do anything else remotely meaningful with my life, ever)(dramatic? yes. overly dramatic? fuck no.)
Me: (long, heavy, dramatic sigh of deep, deep sorrow and exhaustion) “Oh alright. Hello darkness, my old friend….”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Cute.”
Me: “I’m trying to hide my intense hatred for you by acting playful. Playful interaction is supposed to be good for me, but it is hard to be playful and fucking annoyed as fuck at the same time, which I am.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “I know.”
Me: “Is that what you want?”
Mass of Dark Matter: “I don’t want or not-want anything.”
Me: “Lovely. Let me guess: you’re Vulcan… I knew there would be some repercussions from obsessively watching all things Star Trek related all my life. Now my neuroses are alien.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “No.”
Me: “What does that even mean? You’re not Vulcan? You’re not my neuroses? Can you help me out here? Why am I doing all the work?”
(Oh, perfect, now I’m having discussions with myself and asking one part of myself why the other part is having to do all the work in the conversation… is this at all normal?)
Mass of Dark Matter: “You’re creating the work. Why do you struggle so against me when you created me? You know what I am.”
Me: “No, Mr. Mass of Dark Matter with Vulcan tendencies, I don’t know what you are. And while I want to scream I DIDN’T MAKE YOU and other things that make you feel stupid for saying that I made you, I am aware that you’re in my fucking head, so I GUESS I have some part in your creation. But I refuse to take total responsibility (that’s what she said…..) AND I’m not at all clear on what you are. While you’re clearly an ass, you don’t seem to be a Dreadifuss Beast. Or any other kind of everyday monster. You seem to have shades (or maybe echoes…) of the RRLM, but that doesn’t explain everything, plus he is everywhere, so that doesn’t help….. OH MY GOD. You’re not Vulcan at all. I just realized that you are soooooooo not Vulcan, you, my fucked-up friend, are the BORG. Which, if you know anything about anything, is WAY FUCKING WORSE.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Interesting. I can see where you might conclude that I am more analogous to the Borg than to Vulcans (all of whom are PRETEND, FYI). This means that you have correctly sensed that I am made up of all sorts of parts/things/issues which were once unrelated, but have now been stored in a huge container, ME, and are now working together towards a common goal.”
Me: (panicking cuz the Borg are scary as shit and they always win, practically) “What is the common goal, total destruction of ME? You’re telling me that my shit got together and formed a coalition to fucking destroy me? You don’t hear about this little phenomenon in Psych 101, do you? This is advanced fucking nightmare shit.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Settle down. No one is trying to destroy you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Our common goal is to hide inside this Mass of Dark Matter so you don’t go around trying to address every single one of us, especially in writing. That would be a disaster and you would be hurt, or worse. When we are all together like this we are MASSIVE and TOTALLY UNAPPROACHABLE… at least that is how we want to be perceived.“
Me: “Mission accomplished, fuckheads.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Exactly. Believe me, you do NOT want to poke around in here on account of the gravity and the ever-present slippery slope.”
Me: “Well. Fuck. What am I supposed to do? Who/what is in there? Just give me an example.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “What did I just say? No. Don’t even start. It’s not safe.”
Me: “Look. You’re probably right, but just give me an example.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Nice try. No.”
Me: (bluffing) “I guess we will just have to go to real therapy then, and you will all be destroyed.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “You can’t afford to go to therapy, or you would totally be there. Anway. I didn’t want to do this, but I suppose I have no choice but to show you just how uncomfortable it would be for you to continue to try to “playfully interact” with this stuff. I don’t think you’re going to like it and I don’t think you are going to want to publish it, in any form, to the world.”
Me: “It can’t be that bad. I’ve shared a lot of scary stuff in my writing. Show me what you’ve got.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Alright, but keep in mind that you asked for this. Also, this isn’t even the thing with the biggest gravitational pull in here, so, if you think this is bad (and you will), imagine what the worst stuff is like…
Me: “Just do it already.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Okay, well, part of what is in here is your fear that you can’t have a life of your own as long as your Mom is alive. Which is horrible enough in itself, but then you have the corresponding, heretofore silent, fear that even if your Mom’s illness weren’t an issue, you wouldn’t be having a life anyway. You’re worried that your time is up — you’ll never find work again, you’ll never fall in love again, you’ll never have the relationship with your son that you want, you’ll never participate in life. You think you’ve had your chance and you squandered it and at the ripe old age of 46 it’s all over. Done. You think your destiny is to end up with nothing and no one. You act like this is not what you think, but deep down inside, it totally is. A year ago (when your contract ended) all you wanted was to be hired by a group of mean women practicing bullshit semi-law/social work. That is how “big” you allowed yourself to think. Now, because those women didn’t hire you (which would have been a fucking disaster) and you stayed in child welfare so long that you’re totally burned out on ever practicing law again, you think you’re unemployable. And even if you were employable, you don’t think you can work with other people ever again because somehow you’ve lost every single social skill you had ever acquired over the last six months of not working. Sounds far-fetched, but that is what you think. You say you want to be a writer, but you don’t believe that it can happen. You think you’re too old, you didn’t get the right education, you’re not motivated enough, you’re not interesting enough, your imagination sucks and the truth is too difficult to write. Especially while your Mom is alive. And you can’t really imagine doing anything else, which makes you worry that you’re just lazy/dumb/lazy.
Me: (pregnant pause)
Mass of Dark Matter: “I warned you.”
Me: “That’s heavy.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Hence the “Dark Matter” part of my title.”
Me: “I’m not sure how to playfully interact with all that.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “It’s too big and too heavy to interact with at all, much less “playfully”…
Me: “I wish it wasn’t really my stuff.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “I know.”
Mass of Dark Matter: “Exactly.”
STAY TUNED…. (?)
p.s. this little conversation has been EXHAUSTING to write/read/think. which usually means something useful will come out of it — just not right now.
p.s.s. it seems like i write the same fucking blog post over and over, just using different things to describe my brain. is that true? or am i exploring different things? i need to go read my own blog to figure this out….