Injin/Alex's Self-Torture.

[Injin]

looking back, i'm starting to feel like i should delete the new thing i posted. maybe now isn't the best time for that.

[Allya]

You know, one of the things that I think most writers do is take thoughts and self-examination and work it into fiction. For instance,this bit about shame would be an interesting back-story to a character, particularly if he was dealing with the consequences of shame in his adult life or about to do something for which he knew he would be ashamed later.

I think if you read enough of any writer's work you get to know them. Perhaps, if you take this self-examination and place it in a character outside of yourself, you will see things you haven't seen before.

[Sekot]

If I didn't know you, Injin, I would honestly say that that is a pretty decent character backstory. It feels real and flows comfortably well in a way that creates familiarity between the narrator and the author. Piggybacking off of what Allya said, I think you could easily make that work if you distanced yourself from it just ever so slightly. Which is pretty much exactly what Allya said but there you go. Don't delete it. Don't ever delete anything.

[Injin]

Didn't expect any response, but if you guys think this would help build a character, I think I understand what you two are getting at. I've never been all that good at creating decent backstories, so maybe I should start trying to write them in a way that properly reflects how they were raised. Thanks for the suggestion.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Is cathartic in a way to impart your hang ups and anxieties on to a fictional character. It allows you to analyze them in a "safe place" and, more importantly, see them from the outside. You get too pot yourself in the role of the onlooker, see what others see when they look at you and possibly even help you arrive at real solutions to your real issues.

I wouldn't bank on writing it into a character solving all your problems, but it's a great easy to get to know yourself a little better.

[Injin]

Sept 1, 2013 21:36:07 GMT -5 ASGetty ((Zovo)) said:

Is cathartic in a way to impart your hang ups and anxieties on to a fictional character. It allows you to analyze them in a "safe place" and, more importantly, see them from the outside. You get too pot yourself in the role of the onlooker, see what others see when they look at you and possibly even help you arrive at real solutions to your real issues.

I wouldn't bank on writing it into a character solving all your problems, but it's a great easy to get to know yourself a little better.

As I said to everyone else, this is a good idea. I'll try to manage to at least create a character with some forms of my background and see what I can interpret as a result of that.

Either way, thanks Zovo. It's nice to hear your opinion in this regard. I know what you mean, and I'll really try to get more into my writing than i've been as of late.

[Injin]

God, its been two years since I used this topic. Oh well, here's something that I had to write last night.

------------------------------------------------------------------
‘I’m not worth much now, am I?’ thought William Briggs as he was dragged through the halls of the institution known as the Dome.

Imprisonment in the Dome was generally thought to be certain death, but there was an easy way out of it. Pay your debt to society, or rather, have your family pay for your release, and you were a free man.

His crime had been simple. He’d sped on the 55 Motorway leading to New Angeles, his Camaro roaring down the highway as the now unforgettable sirens whirred behind him. For twenty miles he’d been going 80 miles per hour. The speed limit was 55, much like the number of the highway. The normal ticket was $300 on the spot, but today he hadn’t brought that much with him and he’d been formally charged and arrested.

There had been a short hearing detailing the nature of his crime and the punishment. At any time his family could have paid for his freedom, before the charge of $300 had become $3,000. Still, even that was pocket change for his grandfather, who normally dealt with such transactions. William hadn’t reacted well to his charge.

Perhaps, in retrospect, William thought, he shouldn’t have called the judge a cunt. It was too late for those sorts of regrets, William thought grimly, as he slumped back and allowed the two rotund guards scrape his body towards his destination at the far end. The air around him seemed to take on a black and blue hue as a rock that stuck out of the floor punctured his jumpsuit, the slow, drawn out ripping like a release of rapids down a formerly dammed river. Behind him, as he lay still with his arms hoisted in the air, the great dome opened up, the scraping of metals drilling into his ears as he remained limp.

Two months. It had been two months since he’d arrived here at the Dome. His grandfather hadn’t paid for his release yet. What was keeping him, William joked to himself, and the dryness of the joke began bleeding all over the floor beneath him as dust was kicked up by his wake. The scabs of humor fell off of him as the Dome approached, his eyes focused on the wide open sky as his movement failed to cease. The last meeting between the two of them had been terse, short, without a taste of familiarity. Despite having raised and nurtured William, his grandfather increasingly, over the few months before his arrest, had descended into his own mind, leaving a hollow, lithe shell of a man as he simply lived. The shine in his grandfather’s eyes had been snuffed out.

William had other relatives, sure, but they were different than his grandfather. His grandfather had always been stately, honest, and kind. His relatives, however, could easily be described as wide, jolly, and full of life. Those were descriptions that could be assigned to them. The truth was more banal, however. They were immense in their own minds, more than in reality. They were distant, impersonal, and histrionic, the more apt descriptions of their personhood, or lack thereof, more clear and distinct than how they portrayed themselves.

They were assholes.

They knew they were assholes.

Still, they were family. Unreplaceable in their own ways in their greed, their avarice, and their gluttony, but close family nonetheless.

Cousin Gertrude, the liar. Could tell anything to anyone and if they didn’t know better they might just believe it. Uncle Alphonse, the actor. Spoke what people wanted to hear and took their every moment from them. Great Aunt Myrtle, the giant. Giant piece of lard, she was. All of them meant well, at least they made it appear so, whenever they visited the hospital.

They were still assholes.

Feeling a clunk of wood against his back, William looked up, seeing the tower behind his back as the platform he lay on began to rise. Scarred, chapped lips opened for the first time since his journey began, breathing out an increasingly visible wisp of air as the lift rose into the frigid sky of the dome. To each side of him stood the portly, garish looking guard that had dragged him, somehow managing to asexually reproduce it seemed as his vision doubled. The air was getting difficult to breathe in the higher they got, to the point that those beside him now wore ancient helmets that seemed to protect them from the elements.

It seemed he would not be getting a similar treatment, this time.

“Sir Briggs” said the voice on the intercom on the lift, “I’m afraid the paperwork for your release was not signed again today. Bureaucratic slowness, I suppose” the voice spoke, oozing with candor and pride, “It’s time for you to drop dead, cousin. Too bad you missed the funeral, it was wonderfully quaint”

A quiet drive down the 55 Motorway was what he’d needed. The moments had been too much pressure, especially given what had changed. It seemed that was what Cousin Gertrude had needed that drive as well. “I don’t suppose you’ve arranged for paragliding today, Gertrude?” William coughed out, his vision starting to bubble and blacken around the edges as he struggled to remain slumped against one side, “Or did you just neglect to get the glider?”

“No glider today, William. It is time to show the world how you can fly” the voice responded, the two guards helping William up, “and don’t be coy, dear cousin, I’m sure your lesson today will be brief. Just relax and watch the sunset. I specifically arranged this for you. Remember when we watched the sunset together on Christmas Eve?”

“Not really” choked out William, the air below him already scooping up his hair and clothing.

“Well, I just thought we’d be able to watch it together one last time, wouldn’t you say?”

The question wasn’t really a question. It was a cue.

The sky, no, the ground seemed to take a different hue as it began to approach, almost timidly like an outcast asking the prom queen to dance. The warmth of the descent followed shortly after, the ground’s brownish grey replaced by a warm lively orange as the sun beside him seemed to shrink away to avoid watching what would come next.

The brightness of the ground was soon replaced by the pitch black of a light snuffed out in a quiet room, silence following.

Naught but a painful white followed, gaunt, empty eyes watching him as his descent ended.

Only one sentence echoed through the space as all feeling ceased.

‘Worth is situational, huh?’

[Injin]

Well, I think given that this is the first time I've even looked at this thread since August of 2015, I've improved more as a writer than I thought. I still lapse into the occasional issue here or there, but its interesting to go back and read what I've written long ago.

But.

Looking back, I see a stark lack of something. I haven't become more mentally healthy since my writings here.

I'm still stuck in the same rut. Well, not exactly the same, if I were to be honest. A deeper rut. I'm definitely more emotional on average than I was back then. Not in a good way, though.

Starkly, I'm seeing Zovo's advice and my own response to it and I'm disgusted at myself. I'm both disgusted and relieved that at least my thought process on sadness has not stayed at the eloquence of bullshit that was that response. I mean, shit, I've had some bullshit spew out of my mouth like a mutherfucker, but that was pretty high up there on a pathetic non-answer totem pole if I ever saw one.

So I suppose I have to ask myself the following: When did I last really feel really fulfilled in some way where I wasn't constantly sad? I'd say my last real internship, at the Congressman's office. There I had a feeling that I was helping people, directing them to resources that could actually help them. I felt like I was doing something. My boss back then is one of my bosses now, different internship, but back then I wanted to impress him too. Now I despise the man in a lot of ways for his promise breaking. Despise is stronger than I would actually admit to myself, but the word respect is there too. He's a lot like my father in the way that he makes promises and expects you to only fulfill your end of the bargain. I thought if I kept following my old boss' advice, I'd be able to advance myself. It didn't work.

Right now I'm in two different positions, both as an intern making "survey" calls and writing about information I've wrote about a billion times and not really helping people and a position where my main focus is getting survey work and research done. Neither of these are at all fulfilling. I think the former is the worst by far of the two, I don't really feel like I've accomplished anything at the end of the day.

I'm currently in the process of getting an application in for an internship for the Governor's Office. I'm really hoping I can get that. I think I'll have another chance to make a difference there, even if it is a small one. I think its possible that I'll be able to feel that fire of accomplishment like I did at the Congressman's office.

Next question on the agenda: What if that doesn't work?

Well that is not one I've not thought of until i wrote this out. What will I do? If I don't get the Governor's Office internship? Well, I guess there will be other opportunities that I'll keep looking for. I'm sure many different departments have programs that I can apply for at their web sites. Maybe Social Services? Something. Now, that leads to the other possibility. What if working at the Governor's office is just as negatively affecting as working as a Communications Intern? What If I don't feel like I'm doing anything or worth anything to the office? Will I just cease working hard and get the boot? No, I think that what would happen would be that I would just put in the minimal effort not to fail. That's what always happens when I just am not feeling it. Failing means that I am lesser. That's always been a feeling that has permeated my being. Have I been set up to where this is the only result of failure? Only outcome feasible? That I am, by conclusion, a bad person? Yes. I could blame my father all I want, and I fucking do, but the blame also has to come to me. On me. Why does everyone in my life, even unintentionally, make it so that I cannot fail? Have I surrounded myself with the sort of cheerleaders that would kick me in the balls and leave me to rot if I failed? No. Then why do I hold onto this feeling of failure being the be all end all? Have I been socialized to where failing anything is tantamount to being nothing? Perhaps. Definitely.

Perhaps I have taught myself this feeling. I barely tried in High School. I didn't get my driver's license until I was halfway through my 17th year. One day, when I was late getting to school, I parked cock-eyed with the butt of my car in the road. Got a ticket for that. Why did I do it? Because it was better than being late to class. One time, I was told that the lights in my car were on. So I ran all the way to the outer reaches of the school to find that they were, in fact, not on. I barely made it in time for class to start. No one laughed. I failed both times in different ways.

Back to the question at hand. What if that doesn't work? Do I cave to my father's offer of finding a doctor who will find me some magic pill? Is that really what I want? No it isn't. My dad suggested I come back to LA. So that I wasn't so sad anymore about being away from family. The same man who told me that I needed to go far, far away for school to expand my horizons, who then pushed me to go to USC in Sacramento, has the balls to tell me to come back down to LA, where he will moan about the increased price of everything he will have to pay and he knows that I know this. I'd lose all of the connections I have up here. Did he know? Am I overthinking the agency of my father when it came to this offer? Was it genuine? I won't know any time soon. What will I do if this doesn't work? That is really something that will have to wait for me failing to find.

The last question of the night is: Why did you suddenly write this, Alex?

The answer is less complex than the others. I was crying. I could not stop crying. The only way to stop crying was to write out my emotions and responses to myself and the world. Sekot suggested once that I should just let what comes out when I write, come out. Does that mean to let it show to the world how emotional I am? Perhaps. Do I hate myself for every little failure of mine and yet do nothing to fix things in myself? Absolutely. My writing is at its most visceral when I am at the height of emotions. Not best. Visceral. I was once advised by someone here to write when I was sad. Or happy. Or just fueling one emotion. For someone like me, I have found, that is self-destroying. I don't make good work when I am sad. I write rawly, in a form that I would be embarrassed of writing when I was in a more stable mindspace. I think the song Ghost by Mystery Skulls is a good mirror of what I am feeling. Not a match, exactly, but a mirror of my feelings rather than my self. This point is, as usual, pointless.

I have the itch to write when I'm sad, but nothing good ever comes of it. I have never written anything GOOD when I was sad. The piece where I lost my dog? It was horribly relatable, of course, but it was at the same time where I realized that everything was falling apart in ways that it hadn't before. You see, my life used to be a different sort. I don't mean in the "Things are different now because I was older" sort of way, but in the way that everyone in my life is falling apart. My dad is the healthiest one of the bunch and he has to work more than ever on top of his sleep apnea. My step mom was just diagnosed with multiple schlerosis. My mom has had fibro-mialgia for a decade, has grown way fucking bitter at the world without showing it actively, and knows to herself she will never find real love. My brother is in his last year of college, but his boss is driving him up the wall by not only LITERALLY CHANGING HIS CONTRACT WITH WHITEOUT, but he can't get out of it because if he does he won't be able to graduate due to his major and his school. His school life is poisonous too. My aunt has spinal cancer, my cousin is a in and out junkie, my other cousin has much worse depression that I do, another has an abusive fucking boyfriend who she won't drop, another has no chance to inherit anything due to the oldest cousin junkie going to likely inherit it and fuck it over, and my uncle, you know Uncle Abe the hilarious asshole is bipolar and is drinking himself to fucking death. One Grandma keeps having shit falling apart on her and my other still hasn't recovered from seeing her daughter have cancer for the third fucking time and getting robbed on Thanksgiving at gunpoint. And that's just my goddamned family. Yes, its not as bad as some, and I can always call my mom when I need someone to talk to, but I don't feel like I can really trust her anymore. I can't trust anyone in my family to still be here in five years time.

I've written this all because I am sad. Very sad. Extraordinarily for me sad. Not quite so sad to do something irreversible, of course, but sad as all fucking shitting hell. I miss my world before it all shattered and my parents separated. Its like I'm the result of a long line of unfortunate decisions. This is the conclusion I've found myself at.

I'll write again when I feel like I have more to say. Right now I think I've kinda overdone it. G'night fuckos.

[James]

Hey, Injin. I'm British and therefore when confronted with real emotion will freeze, retreat into a hardened shell and resort to humour. Like a John Cleese Kakuna.

I'm sure other people might be able to offer you advice or something, if you want it or not.

But I just want to say I read your words and you are not just screaming into an empty abyss. You've connected with people. AWR cares about you.

[Injin]

Feb 24, 2016 3:16:26 GMT -5 James said:

Hey, Injin. I'm British and therefore when confronted with real emotion will freeze, retreat into a hardened shell and resort to humour. Like a John Cleese Kakuna.

I'm sure other people might be able to offer you advice or something, if you want it or not.

But I just want to say I read your words and you are not just screaming into an empty abyss. You've connected with people. AWR cares about you.

As always James, I appreciate your words. I know that AWR cares about me and I wouldn't still be at this forum if I didn't care about the people here and the relationships I've fostered with you all.

Thank you James, currently situated in John Cleese's Pokeball.