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

Posted on By Wil

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

Posted on By Wil

“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

Posted on By Wil

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.

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following the footsteps of a ragdoll dance

Posted on By Wil
For as long as I can remember, I have had insomnia to some extent. It is very hard for me to fall asleep, and I struggle to stay asleep. It’s not uncommon for me to wake up four or five times a night.
 
Because that doesn’t make existing in the world difficult enough, my natural Circadian rhythm wants to stay awake until 2 or 3 in the morning, and it doesn’t want to get out of bed until 10 or 11. I have *always* been like this, and no amount of exercise, natural or prescription drugs, meditations or pacts with the devil have been able to change it. If I get into bed at what I think of as the time normal people go to bed, like between 9 and 11, say, I will stare at the ceiling, toss and turn, and get frustrated until sometime after midnight, when my brain finally gets on board and lets me fall into my version of what passes for restful sleep.
 
It’s frustrating and has been demoralizing for pretty much my entire life. Thanks, anxiety!
 
Well, about two years ago, I started using a cannabis tincture before bed. It’s 3:1 CBD:THC, and it’s been a h*cking miracle. I still stay awake until after midnight, but rarely am I awake past 2am, and I almost always stay asleep for a full 8 hours. It’s been such a life-changing experience for me, I’ve struggled to avoid becoming an obnoxious evangelist about it. CBD and THC, when combined, produce the entourage effect. If you’re looking for benefits from hemp-derived products, then I recommend a product like Area 52’s delta 8 gummies which contain a full spectrum of cannabinoids.
 
I wondered if I was developing a tolerance, or if, with my history of alcohol dependence, I was engaging in risky behaviour, so earlier this week, I decided to take a break and see what my physical and emotional response was.
 
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I did not experience a single physical or emotional withdrawal symptom. This is in sharp contrast to when I quit alcohol, which featured about two weeks of really tough days and nights (that I am so proud of myself for getting through! Coming up on four years! Go me!)
 
But a couple days ago, on the same day I had my time collapse thing, the insomnia came back as hard and as relentless as ever. It came out of nowhere, and it was like HEY MAN I AM HERE AND I AM GONNA MAKE THE MOST OF IT! YEAAAHHH!!
 
It was a rough night, and by the time I gave up and got out of bed at 5am, I had only managed to struggle through about two hours of fitful sleep.
 
And because that wasn’t annoying enough, during the brief time I was asleep, something happened in my neck, and when I got out of bed, I was in excruciating pain. I could hardly hold my head up, and turning it to either side wasn’t going to happen.
 
I reacted to this in a mature and adult way: I got really, really mad about it. What the fuck, Wil’s Body?!
 
Around 630, I texted my chiropractor, and asked her if she had any appointments to help me. Around 8, she said she could see me at 930. I put myself together as best as I could, and dragged my exhausted, miserable, wrecked-neck self to see her.
 
Anne does Pilates in the same building, and when I got there, I saw her instructor, who looked at me like, “Why are you here? You don’t do Pilates and even when you did, you were never here in the morning because you suck at mornings.”
 
“I’m here to see [my chiropractor],” I told her, “because I wrecked my neck when I engaged in the extreme sport known as ‘sleeping’.”
 
We laughed about that, because I am a goddamn delight, even when I feel like a hot wet bag of crap that’s ten months past its sell date.
 
My doctor came out of her office then. “What did you do?” She asked me, “your neck is … kind of bent to the side.”
 
“Well,” I said, “Let me tell you all about it.” I stood up. “I went to sleep last night.”
 
She waited for me to continue.
 
“That’s it. I went to bed, and when I got out of bed, this happened. Because middle age is AWESOME.”
 
We all laughed about that, because it’s true. I went into her office, she worked on me for a little bit, and I went from a 9 on the pain scale to about a 5. “So there’s this thing that can happen,” she told me, “where we go to sleep, and our head ends up in a strange position for some reason, and a disc in our necks can just slowly slip out of alignment.”
 
“That’s bullshit,” I said.
 
“It is, but it happens. And it’ll probably take about two full days for it to unwind itself.”
 
I thanked her, and on my way home, I stopped at a cannabis dispensary to get something to help with the pain. The woman who helped me suggested I use the same tincture I use for sleep, because the high CBD is good for reducing inflammation, and recommended this topical spray that’s kind of like if Biofreeze had some cannabis and arnica in it.
 
I wanted to give my body a full six days to reset my endocannabinoid system, but I also didn’t want to take prescription painkillers, so I used a a 25mg dropperful under my tongue as soon as I got home. I also sprayed the topical stuff (apothecanna, if you care) on my neck and shoulder. Within about twenty minutes, my pain was reduced to about a 3 on the pain scale.
 
I’m telling ya’ll, this stuff is a goshdarn miracle.
 
My pain abated enough to let me go to sleep, and for once my wonky brain was a team player. I think I slept for close to an hour, and woke up feeling not great, but not awful.
 
I took it easy for the rest of the day, and by the time the evening came around, I felt good enough to go to the Kings game with Anne.
 
Sidebar: I love hockey and I love the Kings, even when they’re terrible. We are lucky to afford season tickets, and I cherish going on hockey dates with Anne. I honestly don’t care if they win or lose, because the game isn’t what’s awesome about going to the game together.
 
So we were creeping down the goddamn 110 with everyone else in the world (who, incidentally, don’t know how to drive), and we were cathing each other up on our day.
 
“Did T tell you I saw her this morning when I went to see N?” I asked her.
 
“Yeah,” Anne said.
 
I related my conversation with the chiropractor. Anne laughed and said, “I told T almost the exact same thing. I think we may have used close to the same words, even, and she says, ‘you know, I just love how you and Wil are totally buddies. All of us who have been around you both can tell that you hang out, that you are best friends, and we can see how much you love each other. There are, like, married couples who are partners and who love each other, but they aren’t exactly friends like you two are.'”
 
I felt my heart grow three sizes. “Oh my god,” I said, “We are TOTALLY buddies! You’re my buddy! You’re my best friend! I love that so much!”
 
“I know we talk about it from time to time, but I want to say it out loud again: I love that you are my best friend, my partner in crime, my co-conspirator, and my favorite person in all of the universes. And I love it so much that people who know us both can see that.”
 
“Yeah, we don’t suck,” Anne said.
 
“We totally don’t suck,” I said. “And I love you the most.”
 
“I love you, too.” She reached over and put her hand over mine.
 
I never would have thought it could feel romantic to sit in traffic … and yet.
 
Have a great weekend, nerds. I hope you get to spend it with your buddy, like I do.
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caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom

Posted on By Wil

I occasionally get these memories that are so vivid, it feels like time collapsed for a second, pushing the past into the present, before it retreats back into the sea of time.

This happened last night, while I was watching The Toys That Made Us, about LEGO, of all things.

I was always a good student when I was a kid. I worked hard to get all As, I did my homework the instant I got home, I participated heavily in classroom discussion, and I never goofed off when it wasn’t recess.

But in fifth grade, something changed. Suddenly, everything was incredibly difficult. I couldn’t focus in class. I didn’t want to do my homework right away when I got home. I still got As, but I had to work harder for them than I ever had to that point.

Except in math. I just did not get fifth grade math AT ALL. I couldn’t wrap my head around it, I couldn’t remember basic things like multiplication tables, and long division may as well have been hieroglyphics.

I’ve been trying my best to remember what was going on at home then, and I have a big blank page where those memories should be. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say there is a dimly lit tableau that I can’t see when I look directly at it. It only gives up shapes and colors, mostly obscured by shadows. I know that, by this time in my life, I had been telling my mother that I didn’t want to go on auditions or be an actor. I remember telling her, almost every day, “I just want to be a kid”, and I remember her dismissing that. She constantly gaslighted me about how I really did want to be an actor. She was so manipulative about it. She would tell me how selfish I was, because she’d sacrificed her own career to support mine. Please note for the record that when I was SEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD, I did not say, “Mother, please abandon your tremendously successful acting career so that I may have one of my own.” Please also note that, as I got older, my only request, ever, was to please let me be a kid and stop making me work. Until I ended contact with them, they gaslighted me about this whenever I brought it up.

So I can’t remember if anything particularly memorable was happening at home then, something which would have made it hard for me to focus and concentrate when I was in class, but I suspect that I was becoming aware of just how much of a bully my father was to me, and how little my mother seemed to care about it.

In any case, it was fifth grade, and I was struggling like crazy to understand math. I was barely passing my math tests, and when I should have been getting tutoring, or being helped by my parents, my father was busy bullying me, and my mother was forcing me to go into Hollywood three or four days a week for auditions after school, which I hated.

This is where I stop for a moment and I tell you that it’s okay for you to have enjoyed the work I did when I was a kid. It’s unlikely that many of you have seen my work before Stand By Me, because it was mostly in commercials and a few movie of the weeks on television, and one entirely forgettable feature film. I’ve written about how unhappy I was as a child actor, and that’s caused some people to share with me that they feel guilty for enjoying the work I did then. I’m here to tell you that it’s okay, and I’m glad that you did enjoy it. That means it wasn’t a waste of my time, and it means that I was good at being an actor, which I can feel proud of.

Okay, as Joe Bob Briggs says, back to the movie.

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