"My work may be garbage but it's good garbage." Mickey Spillane
Dungstain does not understand trauma or its effects.
My entire life was stained by violence from the time I took a baseball bat to a drunken uncle who was battering his wife on the front lawn when I was home alone at age 11 to the time that a marine sergeant (who happened to be my brother) cracked three of my ribs by banging me against a piano and tried to choke me to death. I was 23, and a few months shy of 24, and I beat him in the face with a heavy flashlight to get his hands off my throat.
By the time that I was forty, the unending abuse, both physical and mental/emotional, had become so bad that I had developed a hair trigger response of bringing my fists up to defend myself whether the assault was physical or verbal.
I was told by others that, when I demolished the gangster wannabe in the halls of this building, my facial expression was demonic. The guy had threatened to kill my little dog, Levy. After that he started crossing the street to avoid me. That was only seven years ago.
Dealing with Dagstine, more than Nicky these days, sometimes sets off those same responses.
So yes, maybe I am batshit crazy. But at least the crazy has triggers and I worked with a cognitive therapist for several years trying to get control of it.
I think I still have a right to resent Dagstine’s remarks.
I doubt that he has ever had anything more traumatic than a stubbed toe happen to him.
I put the traumas of my life into my writing and there are times when I write obsessively for days and hours at a time trying to runaway from the memories and flashbacks.
I have never made any secret of that. Sometimes exhaustion is the only thing that lets me sleep because as soon as I put my head on the pillow the dreams, memories, and flashbacks start up again.
Some of them are violent and others are just a pit of sorrow. But I run from both of them.
I wanted to get some writing done today, but it looks like all I will do is blog and run in that manner..
I promised Sovay that I would help her with her novel, but I put her off until 5, which is an hour and a half from now.
My last neurologist attributes my seizure disorder to having been pounded against the wall repeatedly by my step father who stands six foot five inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds. He banged me against that wall until I grayed out. I was 42 at the time. There is a little bit of something inside my head that is probably benign, but the timing for the development of the first symptoms is perfect for when he beat me. He also admitted years later to being the person who cut the breaklines on my car, gave me a naughty boy smile, and laughed in my face.
If I am batshit crazy, then life made me a present of it.