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walked upon the edge of no escape

My friend, Will Hindmarch, is a brilliant writer and game designer. He’s one of the smartest people I know, and his weekly newsletter always challenges and inspires me.

In this week’s newsletter, he talks about playing a videogame called CONTROL, which by coincidence, I began playing over the weekend.

I wanted to share some thoughts here that I shared with Will privately, because I’m interested to hear your thoughts on my thoughts.

Will said:

> As of this week, I’m also playing Control again, and glad to be doing so.

Here’s my reply to him:

This game is beguiling me. I have only faced three boss battles, and I’ve nearly quit during each one. I love the story, I love the visual and audio design, and I love the puzzles. But boy do I hate it when it becomes a video game with a boss battle, especially when it takes two dozen or so runs at it to get the shape of the level, and you have to sit through 30 second loading screens every time you die.

It’s like I’m intrigued by the story, but my skills as a FPS gamer just aren’t where they need to be for me to get through those video game bits without ragequitting at least once a day.

I had a thought about Control: I’ve been playing RDR2 since it came out. It’s literally the only game I’ve played, I’ve even replayed it, with a replay of RDR1 in between. I have been able to adjust the difficulty setting so the game really holds my hand and makes the video game portions of the story simple and satisfying to get through. In a way, I’m getting to live inside competence porn, right? And I’m a middle-aged white dude in that game, which is significant when I compare it to Control, which is REALLY FUCKING HARD … and the protagonist is a woman.

So I’m thinking about how REALLY easy life is for middle-aged white dudes, especially when we compare our lives to the lives of young women. My current experience has become a metaphor, which has been intellectually stimulating and challenging (in a really good way).

In RDR2, I have (effectively) unlimited ammo, (effectively) unlimited health items, and because I only cared about the story and exploring the world (sidebar: riding my horse all the way across the map, stopping only to engage photo mode, like I’m a tourist in the old world, is really satisfying and fun), I adjusted the difficulty to reflect my personal difficulty level in the real world, which is to say I put it on the easiest setting.

When I started CONTROL, I immediately noticed that I have to manage my ammo, and health is WAY more vulnerable than it is in RDR2. There’s no computer assist in aiming; I have to do it all myself (and I am NOT good at it). Mechanically, I have to work really hard to kite around the bosses without dying, and the game is just totally unforgiving when I fuck up.

Maybe I’m overthinking it, but I feel like the experience I’ve had with these two games is a really strong metaphor for the different experiences men and women have in the world, online and off.

I don’t know if any of this makes sense outside of my head, but now that I’m thinking about the hours I spent playing Control yesterday, and thinking about how, even though it can be REALLY hard and REALLY frustrating, it’s also compelling. I’m not entirely sure it’s worth the effort, with my limited free time (when I ragequit last night, I said, out loud in an empty room: “This is such a waste of my time. I am not having fun and I don’t know why I’m even giving this goddamn game my time,” and yet here I am, thinking about trying it again today.

This is a new experience for me, to be seriously challenged in a game and not know if I’ll be able to overcome the challenges that exist between me and the resolution of the story. After nearly three years of something that’s less gaming and more competency porn, I’m finding out if I can actually rise up to meet a challenge (and if it’s worth the effort) that I can’t skip or have help overcoming.

I feel like it’s a powerful and meaningful metaphor, and it’s caused me to examine and reflect upon my privilege, and I appreciate that. At the same time, I feel like the point of games is to be fun, and this game isn’t really “fun” the way RDR2 has been “fun” for me.

But I don’t think that’s the game’s fault. My son is 30 and he loves games like this that are REALLY hard (he loves something called Dark Souls that reduced me to tears in about thirty seconds). Most of the games I looked at when I was trying to decide what to play instead of RDR2 seem to fit into this difficulty curve, which I suspect may just be the state of games today, and I’m an old man who is outside the demo.

There’s another metaphor for ya.

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Maroon, yellow, blue, gold and gray

Everyone who lives with mental illness experiences it in our own way. For me, my Depression and Anxiety sort of hang out just beyond the scope of my peripheral vision, occasionally telling me they are there by casting a shadow over my life. Most of the time, it’s just that shadow, but other times, they team up and they just totally block out the Sun, and all the light in my life.

That’s how the last week or ten days have been, triggered by this complex PTSD episode that knocked me down really hard, and then stood on my chest wearing golf spikes. It was not awesome.

This thing that happened to me was brand new. As an adult, I hadn’t really, truly, fully experienced the totality of the pain, fear, sadness, and helplessness I felt as a child. I’d sort of pushed all that to the side, in the name of empowerment, and charged ahead with my life, to the best of my ability. What I didn’t know until this last week is that the stuff I pushed to the side was just sort of waiting for me to be ready to confront and deal with it, when it blocked out the Sun and scorched the Earth around me.

But I did the work that I know how to do. I allowed myself to feel all the things I needed to feel. I had long conversations with my sister, who has been so supportive and understanding through all of this. I had long conversations with myself, and I talked to the little boy I was. It felt kind of silly and a little “woo woo” to do that, but he needed to know that I love him, I see him, I can’t protect him from these terrible people, but I’m going to do the best I can to hold his hand and help him through everything, even if it’s just in my memories. He is not alone now, even though he felt so very alone, then.

And it really helped. It really helped to acknowledge my pain and my recovery. It helped to remind myself that healing is a journey, and some parts of the path are more difficult than others.

My sister gave me some really good advice, my Godmother and my cousin reminded me that I am and always have been loved by them, even when I wasn’t feeling unconditional love and approval from my parents. My wife held me while I cried, then she held me while I ugly cried, then she held me while I sobbed uncontrollably.

My pain and my trauma is real, and it is lasting, but I know that I’m going to heal it all, eventually, because I am surrounded by love and support.

Some housekeeping, after the jump:

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I’m caught in a rip current, and I can’t seem to swim out of it

After months and months of feeling pretty good, like I’m doing a great job healing myself and making a lot of progress overcoming and processing my childhood trauma, I’m having one of the hardest weeks of my life.

There was this kid I knew when we were child actors in the 80s. We were never friends, but just like me, he didn’t want to be on any of the auditions our mothers forced us to do. His mother was the most openly abusive monster I have ever seen. More than once, I saw her hit him in public. Literally every time I saw him, she was yelling at him, berating him, putting him down, and being emotionally abusive. Literally every time, hundreds of times, for about a decade.

I always felt so sad for this kid, and his siblings, who were obviously being abused and used by their mother. His mother was so unabashed about screaming at him in casting offices, even little 9 year-old Wil knew that he was probably being physically and emotionally abused at home.

I hadn’t seen or thought about this person in thirty years, but the other night I saw him on my TV from a movie he did in the 80s, and all of these traumatic memories of my own abuse were triggered. I remembered things I had totally forgotten, things that I hadn’t thought about since they happened 35 years ago, and I just started to sob, because I realized that if little 9 year-old me knew what was going on, certainly the adults who should have protected him knew, and they did nothing.

Just like the adults in my life, starting with the two people who I should have been able to rely upon more than anyone else in the world to protect me.

I was a kind, gentle, enthusiastic kid. I was super creative, with an endless imagination. I was honest, I was honorable, and I always tried to do the right thing. I really love that little boy, and I wish he was my own son, because he deserves so much better than he got. I just wanted to be loved and praised by my parents, which I don’t think is unreasonable for any child. But my father made it really clear from my earliest memories that I wasn’t good enough for him. He bullied me, he humiliated me, he hit me, and I lived in absolute terror of him. By the time I was a teenager, and had plenty of experience with bullies, I recognized how weak and pathetic he was, and I traded my fear for contempt. I didn’t respect him, I didn’t trust him, I would never confide in him or seek advice from him, but I still desperately wanted him to love me. I desperately wanted him to approve of me, to give any indication at all that I mattered. He was, and is, such a bully, such a narcissist, so selfish and so cruel, that that was never going to happen. My mother must have known how cruel he was to me, but she protected him and enabled his abuse. She gaslighted me about it for my whole life, as recently as the final communication I had with her. I’m working to accept the reality of who they are, and even though I won’t ever speak to them again or have anything to do with them, the absence of loving, nurturing, caring parents is always going to be there for me. It hurts, a lot. It feels kind of like the whole world.

So when I saw this kid, back in 1988 or whenever it was, I was reminded of being that sweet, gentle, curious, smart, clever, kind, child I was. That child who didn’t ever get affection or approval from his father, who learned that he could only get approval and affection from his mother when he was letting her use him to chase her acting dreams. Something happened, and it’s like this emotional dam I’d built to contain the sadness and fear I lived with when I was that child just totally burst.

The enormity and totality of my father’s abuse, my mother’s manipulation, and how unhappy, sad, and afraid I was poured over me in a torrent, and I felt like I was drowning. I still do. I’m caught in a rip current, and I can’t seem to swim out of it.

So now I have these two profound emotions swirling around in my head: I feel, in full color and as vividly as if it is happening to me right now, the overwhelming fear and sadness I lived with as a child. I was so afraid my dad would be mean to me, or that he would hurt me. I was so afraid that my mother, like my father, would not love me if I didn’t do what she wanted. Endlessly, I begged my mother to let me be a kid, and she refused. I did everything I could to earn my father’s affection and approval, and it was never good enough for him. I feel those things with the helplessness and confusion of a child, but I also feel white-hot anger at those awful people for hurting that child — for hurting me — so much, and so callously.

I love that little boy. I love his kindness. I love his compassion and his empathy. I love how creative he is, how much he loves to make up stories. I love how important it is to him to be kind, to treat people the way he wants to be treated. I want to protect and nurture and love that little boy the way he deserves. I want to go back in time, and protect him from the people who are SUPPOSED to be protecting him, who are using and hurting him, like he’s their property, and not their child.

When I remember being that child, I feel so angry and afraid, I could join the Dark Side, and that’s not something I like to feel.

I’ll get through this, because I am stronger than my abusers. I am better than the man who was my father, and I am working to heal from and overcome how manipulative my mother was. Some days are easier than others, but the last few days have been really, really tough.

It feels like the whole world, and if you understand what that means, I am so, so sorry.

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stay awhile and listen

“After a cruel childhood, one must reinvent oneself. Then reimagine the world.” – Mary Oliver

In “On Writing”, Stephen King tells us that if we don’t make time to read, we don’t have time to write.

I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. In a way, he’s saying that if you don’t love to read, you probably won’t love to write. At least, that’s one of the ways I interpret it.

When I was a teen and in my early 20s, I did my best to make myself go out to the movies every week. I saw everything that I could see, sometimes twice, so I could study and learn from it.

I did not enjoy any of it. I hated being in theatres full of people who had no respect and basic courtesy for their fellow audience members, and most of what I saw bored me.

It took me years — maybe decades — to realize that while I like some movies, I don’t love film, the way my friends who are successful directors and actors do.

Actually, more than realizing it, I admitted it to myself, because I knew it all along. It’s just that I believed my mother’s gaslighting when she would tell me that it was MY dream to be an actor and to work in film and television, not something she forced me to do against my clearly and repeatedly-stated wishes.

So I’ll watch some movies when they are on DVD or streaming, and I’ll probably take myself to actually see something with an audience once or twice a year, but I don’t need to do that to breathe, which is the level of love and devotion I think we need to have for art, if we’re going to make our living and find our emotional fulfillment as an artist. I don’t have that love for acting or filmmaking. I just don’t. It isn’t there, even though I’ve worked in that industry for my whole life.

Which brings me back to On Writing.

For the last year, I have been in a cocoon. I have been withdrawn from public life as much as I have been since I started my blog twenty years ago, and I’ve been equally withdrawn in my personal life. I’ve spent a little over a year processing and trying to heal from my abusive childhood, and that has been a full-time gig for me.

Let me just take a minute to loudly and gratefully acknowledge and own how privileged I am, that I have been able to afford to work less than most people, while I get to spend almost all of my time doing therapy and healing as best as I can. I will also be proud of myself for having the courage to do this work, and to stick with it when it’s been incredibly difficult and painful.

Okay. Back to On Writing: since I finished writing and rewriting my first novel, I just haven’t made the time to read for pleasure. I’ve only read when it’s narrating an audiobook,or part of my homework for school. I’ve tried to make time to read for pleasure, but my brain just refuses to focus and build the author’s world in my imagination. It’s been frustrating, but part of my healing process is to practice mindfulness, to accept what I can’t change and focus on the things that I can change. I’ve known that I’ll eventually become a capital-R Reader again, that it’s just a matter of time before I can begin to emerge from this cocoon, so while it’s felt like something that should be a priority — I’m a writer, right? — it clearly wasn’t something I had room in my life to make a priority.

This morning, one of my internet friends showed me this collection of short speculative fiction stories at Amazon Prime called Forward. They are included in my Prime membership, to read on Kindle without charge, but they are ALSO available from Audible at no charge to Prime members. Each of these stories can be read or listened to in about an hour.

I was intrigued. I am a fan of many of the authors and narrators, but could I set aside a whole hour? Doesn’t that seem like a silly thing to ask myself? That’s my reality, though, at this moment in my life. I wanted to carve out an hour, but could I?

As I very slowly and cautiously emerge from this cocoon, I am making an effort to invest some time in my physical health (again, very grateful that I have been able to focus so singularly on my mental health, without my physical health suffering). I’ve done little things like walk my dogs, but for close to a year, I haven’t done any other meaningful exercise. I haven’t jogged, I haven’t even practiced yoga. And my body is starting to tell me that I need to take better care of it. I listened, and I don’t make new year resolutions, but back in December, Anne and I committed to walking at least every other day, with the goal of doing a 5K in the future.

To slowly work my body back into a place where it can do a 5K and not collapse, I walk every day, even if it’s just around the block, because I’m middle-aged, and it just takes longer for my body to work itself back into good shape than it did when I was younger. But I haven’t taken a long walk, by myself, until today. Today, I put on my headphones, picked a book to listen to, and took Jason Isaacs and NK Jemisin out with me. I literally did not want to come home until I finished listening to him narrate her short story, “Emergency Skin”. My legs were all, “bro, we’re getting tired” and I was like “shut up and keep walking. I need to know how this ends.”

My artistic spirit feels nourished and inspired, and my body feels good. I could easily have spent that hour doing nothing but goofing off, but I made a deliberate choice to do the personal work I need to do on my body and my mind, so I can live my best life.

I still have a TREMENDOUS amount of pain to heal, and while today is a pretty good day, I know there are rough days ahead (and also other good days), so I’m choosing to be present and grateful for that.

Over the last year, I’ve worked really hard to heal myself and unpack a lot of pain and trauma. I’ve made a lot of good progress, but it’s come at a cost. I’ve forgotten how to read. I’ve forgotten how to have fun. I’ve forgotten how to be joyful. But it’s slowly and surely coming back to me.

And I now have at least five hours of what looks like great reading/listening ahead of me, that I hope will inspire me to write my own stories.

PS: speaking of audiobooks, I had the privilege of narrating Andy Weir’s The Martian for Audible, and it debuted at number one when it was released last week!

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At Last, Accountability

For the first time in his cruel, racist, abusive, mendacious, privileged life, Donald Trump has been held accountable for his actions. A majority of Congresspersons, representing a majority of Americans, have done all they can do to protect and defend our country from Donald Trump’s crimes. The American people have spoken, and the American people believe Donald Trump abused his power and obstructed Congress, in violation of the laws of our nation.

The trial of Donald Trump is over. Donald Trump is undeniably guilty of high crimes and misdemeanors. The evidence is overwhelming and indisputable.  As President of the United States of America, he violated his oath of office, he broke the laws of our nation, and he has been held accountable by the American people.

Now, a new trial will begin. It is, in many ways, more consequential and more urgent than the trial of Donald Trump.

This will be the trial of the Republican Party, and the result of this trial is as important, if not more important, than the trial of Donald Trump. The trial about to begin is no longer about a single man and his crimes. This trial is about nothing less than the future of America, as a Republic, and as a Western Liberal Democracy.