Long ago, an enthusiastic critic of my blog said:
"You write too much about yourself, and you always twist everything to make yourself look good."
My (bitter and sarcastic) reply:
"I write about myself because I'm the most fascinating person I know. Since I already look good, I have no need to twist."
This reminds me of one of my favorite personal mottoes:
NEVER discount your own worth or put yourself down. There are too many other bastards eagerly waiting to do it for you.
I don't take criticism easily. It's probably one of my weakest points. And don't tell me about constructive criticism. That's extremely rare. Almost all criticism is intended to cut you to the quick.
What exactly is "the quick", anyway?
My father criticized me mercilessly and relentlessly my entire life. His cruel and caustic words shredded me like the razor-sharp blade of a knife. I quickly learned that words are more lethal than physical violence.
Whenever he beat the shit out of me and left me quivering in a bloody pulp, I knew that the physical wounds would eventually heal.
The psychological wounds never heal. Ever.
I've always had a complete lack of self-confidence. My mother also had very little confidence. She was absolutely gorgeous and brilliant, but my father managed to sap her self-worth as well as mine. He drained our souls, like a vampire drains blood.
Bullies desperately need victims in order to sustain their power.
Mom learned to cope with the insanity, and managed to project a false outer image of perfection and domestic tranquility.
I harbored an immense amount of hate - - especially self-hatred. I loathed everything about myself and the very essence of my existence, but learned to camouflage it with a manufactured method of defense.
I (eventually) managed to transform myself into a fabricated image of a person that I never really was: tough, self-assured, alluring. And disarmingly mysterious.
A mask of defense.
In the safety behind that mask, I embarked on an inexhaustible journey of rampant self-destruction in Hollywood's seedy underworld. During that time I was amazed to discover that many people (both women and men) thought I was good-looking.
I never fully believed it, but definitely learned to use it to my advantage.
In essence, my life was nothing more than a disastrous jumble of absolute chaos and constant inconsistencies.
Extreme promiscuity, alcohol, occasional drugs, torrid affairs, half-hearted suicide attempts.
I willingly and enthusiastically courted danger.
A death-wish, maybe?
Definitely. But also a desperate attempt to escape from myself.
Today - when I consider my sordid past - I cringe with astonishment (and more than a little disgust). My youth was one helluva wild ride - a turbulent and reckless adventure that I wouldn't want to experience again.
So, why am I revealing all this?
I'm in the (very difficult) process of writing (and re-writing) my memoirs. Consequently, an onslaught of random, unconnected thoughts are racing through my mind.
Are my memoirs worth writing? Will anyone give a damn?
I'm mostly doing it for myself. Call it a catharsis.
More about the memoirs in my next post.
Hey -
welcome to May.
NOTE:
Sorry that I deleted some comments, but I felt it was best - rather than rehash old wounds.
I must say that ALL of the people who criticized my blog in the past did so specifically because they DESPISED my political views.
Name-calling, hate, and humiliation were their childish weapons of choice.
