Saturday, May 24, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
More on abuse
It's interesting.
I was just thinking about what I was planning to do today as far as work, and creative stuff.
Then the phone rang, and it was my sister (three times) and now my mind has been stuck on that rather than what I wanted to do.
And that's how it was when I was a kid. I remember being 14 and at school, and just not being able to concentrate on my school work, because not only were my emotional needs not being met, but home life was just awful. Rows, and the usual emotional threats, emotional abuse, demands, and crap was going on all the while I was at school. Was it any wonder I couldn't concentrate?
And now, my family are asking me to go back into that shit that I escaped 11 years ago.
I don't want to do that. I don't want to do that any more than a divorcee wants to go back to his or her ex. My deepest self feels absolutely sick at the thought of having to be around my family in person now. I'm actually terrified of them, without some effective boundary between me and them.
My boundary for the last 11 years has been the Atlantic ocean. Rather foolishly, I gave them a local phone number not long ago. My sister has abused that already, and I'm due soon to have it disconnected because of it.
I feel burned out by my family's business, and caring for other people's shit. Whether it's been family, girlfriends, or just life's bullies, I just feel tired of trying to defend myself from demanding leeches.
What I may have to do is just get angry, and do things like post the phone messages I've had right here on this blog. It's easy enough to do.
My mother gave me 200 pounds today.
I wonder how much it will cost me.
I was just thinking about what I was planning to do today as far as work, and creative stuff.
Then the phone rang, and it was my sister (three times) and now my mind has been stuck on that rather than what I wanted to do.
And that's how it was when I was a kid. I remember being 14 and at school, and just not being able to concentrate on my school work, because not only were my emotional needs not being met, but home life was just awful. Rows, and the usual emotional threats, emotional abuse, demands, and crap was going on all the while I was at school. Was it any wonder I couldn't concentrate?
And now, my family are asking me to go back into that shit that I escaped 11 years ago.
I don't want to do that. I don't want to do that any more than a divorcee wants to go back to his or her ex. My deepest self feels absolutely sick at the thought of having to be around my family in person now. I'm actually terrified of them, without some effective boundary between me and them.
My boundary for the last 11 years has been the Atlantic ocean. Rather foolishly, I gave them a local phone number not long ago. My sister has abused that already, and I'm due soon to have it disconnected because of it.
I feel burned out by my family's business, and caring for other people's shit. Whether it's been family, girlfriends, or just life's bullies, I just feel tired of trying to defend myself from demanding leeches.
What I may have to do is just get angry, and do things like post the phone messages I've had right here on this blog. It's easy enough to do.
My mother gave me 200 pounds today.
I wonder how much it will cost me.
What is "abuse"?
I suppose one might ask "what exactly is abuse"?
Well, abuse comes in a variety of forms. There's physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, neglect, manipulation, lies, betrayal and a lot more. There are subtle and gross forms of abuse. The main feature of abuse, though, is objectification of someone else.
When a person has been objectified - that is, one's own demands are placed above the needs and/or requests of the other - one has abused that person in some way.
The moment we demand a person does something they're not ready or prepared to do, or just don't want to do, we're abusing that person. Whether we're demanding money from them; sex, attention, or even just help from another, if we're demanding it, we're abusing that person.
If we deliberately mislead someone we're abusing them. If we're manipulating them into doing something we're abusing them. If we force or coerce or hit or scream at or pester or keep phoning someone, or turning up at their home uninvited, we're abusing them.
If we cheat on someone we're abusing them. If we betray someone we're abusing them. If we borrow money and fail to pay it back we've abused them. Whenever we see someone as a source of our needs but don't respect their needs, privacy, space, time or life we're abusing them.
To sum it up perhaps more succinctly, the abuser believes they have some right to another person's life in some way, and when they want it. Pretty much what slavery was all about.
My phone has rung three times and I don't want to answer it because the person calling has been abusive several times. Why on earth should I open myself up to more of the same thing? I don't trust this person any more. One reaches the point when enough is enough when you've encountered demand after demand, and been as supportive as one's seen fit.
One of the most pertinent things I learned from therapy was that when one is expected to be responsible and at the same time be powerless, one is most ripe for going completely bonkers.
Responsibility without authority is always a dead end.
But the abuser looks at things differently. The abuser demands authority, yet fails to act responsibly. The abuser demands power, but only over another person. The abuser always feels weak and helpless inside. It's their terror that demands the absolute submission of others. Abusers are always terrified.
That's what makes them so terrifying.
DH Lawrence said it well:
We are Transmitters
As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
Abusers are the living dead. They're the ones who'll eat you up. They're the ones who'll steal your life energy if you're not careful.
Well, abuse comes in a variety of forms. There's physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, emotional abuse, neglect, manipulation, lies, betrayal and a lot more. There are subtle and gross forms of abuse. The main feature of abuse, though, is objectification of someone else.
When a person has been objectified - that is, one's own demands are placed above the needs and/or requests of the other - one has abused that person in some way.
The moment we demand a person does something they're not ready or prepared to do, or just don't want to do, we're abusing that person. Whether we're demanding money from them; sex, attention, or even just help from another, if we're demanding it, we're abusing that person.
If we deliberately mislead someone we're abusing them. If we're manipulating them into doing something we're abusing them. If we force or coerce or hit or scream at or pester or keep phoning someone, or turning up at their home uninvited, we're abusing them.
If we cheat on someone we're abusing them. If we betray someone we're abusing them. If we borrow money and fail to pay it back we've abused them. Whenever we see someone as a source of our needs but don't respect their needs, privacy, space, time or life we're abusing them.
To sum it up perhaps more succinctly, the abuser believes they have some right to another person's life in some way, and when they want it. Pretty much what slavery was all about.
My phone has rung three times and I don't want to answer it because the person calling has been abusive several times. Why on earth should I open myself up to more of the same thing? I don't trust this person any more. One reaches the point when enough is enough when you've encountered demand after demand, and been as supportive as one's seen fit.
One of the most pertinent things I learned from therapy was that when one is expected to be responsible and at the same time be powerless, one is most ripe for going completely bonkers.
Responsibility without authority is always a dead end.
But the abuser looks at things differently. The abuser demands authority, yet fails to act responsibly. The abuser demands power, but only over another person. The abuser always feels weak and helpless inside. It's their terror that demands the absolute submission of others. Abusers are always terrified.
That's what makes them so terrifying.
DH Lawrence said it well:
We are Transmitters
As we live, we are transmitters of life.
And when we fail to transmit life, life fails to flow through us.
That is part of the mystery of sex, it is a flow onwards.
Sexless people transmit nothing.
And if, as we work, we can transmit life into our work,
life, still more life, rushes into us to compensate, to be ready
and we ripple with life through the days.
Even if it is a woman making an apple dumpling, or a man a stool,
if life goes into the pudding, good is the pudding
good is the stool,
content is the woman, with fresh life rippling in to her,
content is the man.
Give, and it shall be given unto you
is still the truth about life.
But giving life is not so easy.
It doesn't mean handing it out to some mean fool, or letting the living dead eat you up.
It means kindling the life-quality where it was not,
even if it's only in the whiteness of a washed pocket-handkerchief.
Abusers are the living dead. They're the ones who'll eat you up. They're the ones who'll steal your life energy if you're not careful.
Hey! If you don't like what's in this blog, or others...
Notice to whomever: If you don't like what's in this blog, don't read it!
Also, I might suggest you write your own - they can be quite therapeutic.
See, the thing is that when you write for yourself, you find your own sense of what is and/or what isn't. That's because you're doing the self expression thing. That's freedom of expression, and freedom to explore your thoughts, feelings, memories and such. When what you're saying is dependent on what someone else lets you say, or influences you on what you say, then you're speaking for that person, not for yourself.
Does that make any sense?
But anyway, the chances are that few people actually read this blog anyway, so what does it matter?
And what's more, even if a million people read it, what does it really matter? Who really cares about what stuff has gone on in someone's life for more than a few moments? We might gossip about this person or that, but our own stuff comes straight back to haunt us.
So I'd suggest, reader, that you start your own blog. You might find it cathartic.
I write for me. You should do the same.
Also, I might suggest you write your own - they can be quite therapeutic.
See, the thing is that when you write for yourself, you find your own sense of what is and/or what isn't. That's because you're doing the self expression thing. That's freedom of expression, and freedom to explore your thoughts, feelings, memories and such. When what you're saying is dependent on what someone else lets you say, or influences you on what you say, then you're speaking for that person, not for yourself.
Does that make any sense?
But anyway, the chances are that few people actually read this blog anyway, so what does it matter?
And what's more, even if a million people read it, what does it really matter? Who really cares about what stuff has gone on in someone's life for more than a few moments? We might gossip about this person or that, but our own stuff comes straight back to haunt us.
So I'd suggest, reader, that you start your own blog. You might find it cathartic.
I write for me. You should do the same.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The War Zone
I just watched the film "The War Zone" with Ray Winston and some other brilliant young actors. Apart from thinking how courageous they were to do some of the scenes in the film - involving nudity, very graphic sex, profoundly emotional scenes of incest and violence - I was impressed by the writing, direction, and general subject matter of the film.
It got me thinking. Not only about my own family issues - there is a deep fissure within my family which is related, if not to sexual incest, then some kind of emotional, physical, and psychological abuse - but also about my abilities as an artist and writer, actor, and film maker. Do I really have the guts to write about what I really need to write about in order to come up with something that's really engaging?
The book "The War Zone" won the Whitbread Prize (although it was taken away again, bizarrely) because it really was that good. It touched on a subject that just doesn't get touched on: incest. And I like films which go into taboo subjects in an adult and profoundly insightful way.
Truth is, "The War Zone" probably couldn't be made in America. American audiences aren't generally mature enough to take it. In fact, I'm suurprised it's ever been distributed in America. The fact it has such graphic sex in it, and scenes of child abuse and infant nudity would probably get it thrown out by American censors, denying such truth to ever reach an audience.
But the thing is, I want to write stuff that's that bold. And I also want to be free of the abuse that's been such a heavy weight in my own personal life. Nobody can be as dysfunctional as me without there having been some kind of abuse in my life. And my family reeks of abuse. In fact, if I'm really honest I have memories I just can't explain. Memories that I can relate to some kind of sexual abuse, in fact.
And again, if I'm really honest, I've been living out some behaviours that just might reflect some kind of sexual abuse in my past. There's bound to have been some sexual abuse in my family for there to be so many dysfunctional people within it: uncles that are weird or gay or weak; aunts that are promiscuous, have illegitimate kids, or bizarre religious beliefs; then there's my father's emotional block, and my mother's emotional frigidity. Neither side of my family are or were happy people. The evidence of some kind of abuse is clear, even if it's in their weight or image problems, alcoholism, drug use, desperate loneliness or cloying neediness.
But for me, I ask "How do I put this all down on paper in a way that leads to my creating something that's actually well written, or good, or watchable?"
I just thought about Amparo, who criticised one of my monologues a couple of years ago because she said it was melodramatic (or something like that). Her argument was that really effective drama has to be portrayed flippantly or as black humour or anything but serious and weighty.
I disagree with her. I did then (although I didn't articulate that) and I disagree with her now. Her way is just one way. My way is another way. There are many effective ways of telling a story. And not one way works for all people.
There is no one right way of doing art.
And so I feel better about whatever it is I'll be working on.
What I do want to rediscover, though, is the amazing sense of being connected to something that feels almost divine in its connection to importance and truthfulness - a sense I discovered when I first got into acting.
It's that wonderful sense of connection that I want to have again. And that means getting into a mindset that's more dedicated to My Art than I have been for some time.
I can do that, I think, and still be businesslike. I'm tired of feeling cynical about art, film, and the whole business of making a living as an artist. I love feeling really positive and enthusiastic about making art - even if it's making some little film or documentary, or wedding video.
I KNOW I still have it in me to make worthwhile, truly artistic work.
But I know I do need to put the hours in, and the dedication. If I'm really honest, I've wanted the rewards without the dedication and the work. I know I really do have a lot of talent, but I also know I have been somewhat lazy, and somewhat scared of really going into the places I need to go, and building relationships that I need to build.
It got me thinking. Not only about my own family issues - there is a deep fissure within my family which is related, if not to sexual incest, then some kind of emotional, physical, and psychological abuse - but also about my abilities as an artist and writer, actor, and film maker. Do I really have the guts to write about what I really need to write about in order to come up with something that's really engaging?
The book "The War Zone" won the Whitbread Prize (although it was taken away again, bizarrely) because it really was that good. It touched on a subject that just doesn't get touched on: incest. And I like films which go into taboo subjects in an adult and profoundly insightful way.
Truth is, "The War Zone" probably couldn't be made in America. American audiences aren't generally mature enough to take it. In fact, I'm suurprised it's ever been distributed in America. The fact it has such graphic sex in it, and scenes of child abuse and infant nudity would probably get it thrown out by American censors, denying such truth to ever reach an audience.
But the thing is, I want to write stuff that's that bold. And I also want to be free of the abuse that's been such a heavy weight in my own personal life. Nobody can be as dysfunctional as me without there having been some kind of abuse in my life. And my family reeks of abuse. In fact, if I'm really honest I have memories I just can't explain. Memories that I can relate to some kind of sexual abuse, in fact.
And again, if I'm really honest, I've been living out some behaviours that just might reflect some kind of sexual abuse in my past. There's bound to have been some sexual abuse in my family for there to be so many dysfunctional people within it: uncles that are weird or gay or weak; aunts that are promiscuous, have illegitimate kids, or bizarre religious beliefs; then there's my father's emotional block, and my mother's emotional frigidity. Neither side of my family are or were happy people. The evidence of some kind of abuse is clear, even if it's in their weight or image problems, alcoholism, drug use, desperate loneliness or cloying neediness.
But for me, I ask "How do I put this all down on paper in a way that leads to my creating something that's actually well written, or good, or watchable?"
I just thought about Amparo, who criticised one of my monologues a couple of years ago because she said it was melodramatic (or something like that). Her argument was that really effective drama has to be portrayed flippantly or as black humour or anything but serious and weighty.
I disagree with her. I did then (although I didn't articulate that) and I disagree with her now. Her way is just one way. My way is another way. There are many effective ways of telling a story. And not one way works for all people.
There is no one right way of doing art.
And so I feel better about whatever it is I'll be working on.
What I do want to rediscover, though, is the amazing sense of being connected to something that feels almost divine in its connection to importance and truthfulness - a sense I discovered when I first got into acting.
It's that wonderful sense of connection that I want to have again. And that means getting into a mindset that's more dedicated to My Art than I have been for some time.
I can do that, I think, and still be businesslike. I'm tired of feeling cynical about art, film, and the whole business of making a living as an artist. I love feeling really positive and enthusiastic about making art - even if it's making some little film or documentary, or wedding video.
I KNOW I still have it in me to make worthwhile, truly artistic work.
But I know I do need to put the hours in, and the dedication. If I'm really honest, I've wanted the rewards without the dedication and the work. I know I really do have a lot of talent, but I also know I have been somewhat lazy, and somewhat scared of really going into the places I need to go, and building relationships that I need to build.
Friday, May 16, 2008
So...more haphazard writing from me, as I try to engage some special force that gets me making something mind bogglingly brilliant. But of course I'm writing about writing, or writing about problems rather than writing about something that actually interests me or that I think will be commercial or brilliant or actually art.
And of course what you focus on is what stays with you. The imagination is a powerful force: when I think about failure I fail, and when I think about success I succeed. Dwelling on the irritating limbo of neither here nor there means staying in that limbo.
But it's true that one of my constant problems throughout life has been thinking too much, and procrastinating. Fact is, it all feels like such an uphill struggle to reach that place where I think I deserve to say I feel good about myself. For all I've learned about self respect and self discipline, self love and all of it, I know I get stuck, or have got stuck in this irritating place of not liking what I do or who I am. I know that, even now, I want to have already done things that are exciting, brilliant, or worthy of fame and fortune.
I was out running this morning, and I became aware of the monumental task ahead of me of becoming hugely successful, rich and famous, and powerful beyond all belief. I am aware of the decision I made when I was about 15, sitting at my desk at school just as I awoke once more from dozing in some kind of adolescent depression. I can remember really wanting to concentrate on my work, but suddenly finding myself asleep, there at my desk, and wondering how it had happened.
And I made that decision there and then to "show them all" that I was capable.
And now, it seems, I'm nearly 52 and wondering what happened, and why I've been putting that moment of "told you so" off for so long. And then of course there's the part of me that says "I can't do it after all" and that I just might be useless and not the brilliant mind I'd been telling myself I was deep down.
How can anyone succeed at The Arts when they're constantly being chased by ancient demons? When some inner 14 year old - himself the victim of impossible parental and peer group pressure - is demanding something so unreasonable from him?
I don't feel nurtured, and that's a fact. I didn't when I was 14 and trying to do well at school. I don't now. I didn't feel supported, and I didn't feel loved and accepted then. Neither do I now. And perhaps the reason I haven't really got my act togther to write the great screenplay or make the great novel or whatever other task I've set for my creative self is because I need something that it - the art, or the making of it - just doesn't give me.
Art has to be the product of something put in. Just as one can't make a casserole without ingredients, I feel short of the ingredients I need to make my great art. I can't even say for sure what the ingredients are - are they motivation, joy, confidence or some other thing? Or some degree of bravado or guts or....
So there we are.
But what IS so is that I wrote this. And that means something, doesn't it?
I know I must write, though, to reach those places where the real stuff comes from.
And of course what you focus on is what stays with you. The imagination is a powerful force: when I think about failure I fail, and when I think about success I succeed. Dwelling on the irritating limbo of neither here nor there means staying in that limbo.
But it's true that one of my constant problems throughout life has been thinking too much, and procrastinating. Fact is, it all feels like such an uphill struggle to reach that place where I think I deserve to say I feel good about myself. For all I've learned about self respect and self discipline, self love and all of it, I know I get stuck, or have got stuck in this irritating place of not liking what I do or who I am. I know that, even now, I want to have already done things that are exciting, brilliant, or worthy of fame and fortune.
I was out running this morning, and I became aware of the monumental task ahead of me of becoming hugely successful, rich and famous, and powerful beyond all belief. I am aware of the decision I made when I was about 15, sitting at my desk at school just as I awoke once more from dozing in some kind of adolescent depression. I can remember really wanting to concentrate on my work, but suddenly finding myself asleep, there at my desk, and wondering how it had happened.
And I made that decision there and then to "show them all" that I was capable.
And now, it seems, I'm nearly 52 and wondering what happened, and why I've been putting that moment of "told you so" off for so long. And then of course there's the part of me that says "I can't do it after all" and that I just might be useless and not the brilliant mind I'd been telling myself I was deep down.
How can anyone succeed at The Arts when they're constantly being chased by ancient demons? When some inner 14 year old - himself the victim of impossible parental and peer group pressure - is demanding something so unreasonable from him?
I don't feel nurtured, and that's a fact. I didn't when I was 14 and trying to do well at school. I don't now. I didn't feel supported, and I didn't feel loved and accepted then. Neither do I now. And perhaps the reason I haven't really got my act togther to write the great screenplay or make the great novel or whatever other task I've set for my creative self is because I need something that it - the art, or the making of it - just doesn't give me.
Art has to be the product of something put in. Just as one can't make a casserole without ingredients, I feel short of the ingredients I need to make my great art. I can't even say for sure what the ingredients are - are they motivation, joy, confidence or some other thing? Or some degree of bravado or guts or....
So there we are.
But what IS so is that I wrote this. And that means something, doesn't it?
I know I must write, though, to reach those places where the real stuff comes from.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Impatience
I can't help noticing how impatient I've been.
Oscar Wilde once said that impatience is a form of desperation that masquerades as a virtue, and there could appear to be some truth in that, but I notice I have some silly impatience. I've always found myself impatient with my computer, or my car, as if my impatience might affect the universe in some way by its embarrassment that it doesn't work as fast as I insist it does.
Impatience is a most illogical thing. At least it would appear so. I suppose there are some reasons for it, though. Its opposite is some kind of blase lethargy, I would imagine.
I just found myself being terribly impatient with my computer.
It can't be at all good for it, or me, to be so.
I do hope I can be changed, and from this moment on.
Oscar Wilde once said that impatience is a form of desperation that masquerades as a virtue, and there could appear to be some truth in that, but I notice I have some silly impatience. I've always found myself impatient with my computer, or my car, as if my impatience might affect the universe in some way by its embarrassment that it doesn't work as fast as I insist it does.
Impatience is a most illogical thing. At least it would appear so. I suppose there are some reasons for it, though. Its opposite is some kind of blase lethargy, I would imagine.
I just found myself being terribly impatient with my computer.
It can't be at all good for it, or me, to be so.
I do hope I can be changed, and from this moment on.
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