Good morning motherfucking anger and angst and ERGH. Good morning blood suckers and shadow sufferers. Good morning coffee sucking bureaucratic hacks. Good morning nah can’t-do-that naysayers. You’ve toxic ozoned my skin, the largest human organ and then one that’s Ziplocked the I-me-my. Like a snake skin that won’t shed.
I’ve tried to hyper consciously cultivate an authentic self in this Facebook diary. But I’m censoring myself. When I started this, a little voice on my shoulder flagged the frequency of vulgarity in my day-to-day dribble as offensive and unattractive. My mother-in-law has told me this recently, and warned of the dangers of EllieRoo imitating her cussing father. I’ve objected but Kate finds the logic persuasive too. So I’ve tried to shhhhh shit and fuck. My mom would certainly have be on their team. So the women have a point, which I respect. And appreciate the wisdom. But the censoring isn’t just because of the matriarch pressure. It’s also my knowledge of Facebook readership statistics. Despite my attempt to pitch this as a men’s forum, readers of The Alt Dad Diary are overwhelmingly women. And so I conflate my mom’s and wife’s and mother-in-law’s preference for cuss-free prose with my readership. So I tell myself this story that being genuinely me isn’t dependent on swearing or broken glass words like god dammit. I tell myself this story that I can silence that part of myself, gain more readers, make more people feel warm and fuzzy…..
But at what expense?
What does the swearing stand for? What’s suppressed along with the words? What are the words proxies for?
I realized something on Sunday. Compliments of David Goggins a la the Joe Rogan Experience. We’ve got a shadow self perched on one shoulder. And a light self, perched on the other shoulder. On Friday, my friend Clark the psychologist explained more or less the same concepts a la the all powerful German psychoanalyst Carl Jung. Clark gave me a book called “A Little Book on the Human Shadow.” Yesterday afternoon I was slow headed and thick legged from swimming and less fitful sleep. I pulled the covers up, doubled the pillow and read this Save The Planet line: Every part of our personality that we do not love will become hostile to us.
You can say that again. Every part of our personality that we do not love will become hostile to us.
What I realized on Sunday is the journey toward light is full of fuck and shit and damn and bitch. It’s full of scratching nails, demons drooling and murdered chickens. It’s like this morning’s post thus far. You have to wade through muck. Like spilled oil, the journey into self means shit sticks to you. Until it’s so heavy and deadening, the shit of life flattens your once radiating 360-degree-self into a can of soda that’s tin foil tin, pummeled into parchment by wheel after wheel on the freeway.
And then the fucking sun rises. This is what David Goggins talks about. He says the key to success, for him, has been relentless positive self talk. “You’re the baddest motherfucker around. Nobody’s training as hard as you. You’re heroic. You’re tremendous. You’re galactic. You’re the next Rocky Balboa. You’re gonna do it. You’re gonna do it. You’re gonna get it. You’re unstoppable.”
I haven’t been doing this. And I need to. Period. I’ve been feeding myself avocado and eggs and leafy greens and coconut oil and bananas and apples and sweet potatoes and almond milk. And I’ve been writing like the fingers at a Chinese iPhone sweatshop. But I haven’t been doing positive radiation therapy.
I haven’t been feeding myself nutritious self talk. And I need to. Starting now.
I’m a badass writer. I’m telling the truth and that’s dope, even if it’s messy and cuts fingers and requires the dustpan and broom. I’m up scribbling when everyone else is snoozing. I’m a badass writer. My prose is pixelated and pop and poof and paleeeeeez. My guts are gargantuan and my desire is so deep the ocean looks like a 9.99 swimming pool outside the Dollar fucking General on a hot July day. I’m a writer whose going to walk one foot in front of the other in this obsessed manic ape dance forward and to the side and it’s going to be headphones on, except the headphones will be my hands cupping my ears and the beat won’t be Grammatik or RJD2, but it’ll be me pounding fingers into keyboard like a drummer blurs sticks into cymbals and toms and snare.
>>>TUESDAY NOTE: This was fun to write. Therapy, like yelling at the top of your lungs. Can’t wait for the Grand Canyon, I need to to yell now. And then repeat the mantra: I’m the Grand Canyon. I’m the Grand Canyon. I’m the Grand Canyon.. If you’d like to support the mission to denude and celebrate the overstimulated and stigmatized and stereotyped human hum dum headspace, check out patreon.com/altdaddiary to become a supporter. Even a $1 per month is WHATTT HUGE. Peace brothers and sisters until tomorrow.
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