After Life

Book Two: Purgatory

From Journeys and Transitions

by Melanie

Chapter 77

The Passionate Self

November 2, 2005

Late on Halloween night, after my previous entry, I set myself down to pen a Writing Tip for the email list at my online store for writers of fiction.  For those of you who don’t know, my profession is as a teacher of the craft of writing.  I have created the two most popular software writing tools in the world, and teach seminars, as well as sending a monthly newsletter to my list of 13,000 subscribers.

I needed to get one written and out the door before the end of October in order not to lose credits with the online firm that handles my emailings for me.  So, I screwed myself to the chair in front of my laptop and considered what should be the topic of this month’s tip.

After a time, it occurred to me that many of the experiences I have been discussing in this journal were not unique to transgenderism, but might equally be applied to anyone who seeks to get in touch with his or her emotional self.

Once I had settled on that topic, a title came to mind: Writing from the Passionate Mind.  With that as my focus, I sat for hours, writing with reckless abandon, until at long last I had completed the extensive article.

Upon rereading the work, I discovered that I had refined my thoughts and drawn conclusions beyond those uncovered in this journal.  And so, I determined to share the article here.

It speaks of the issues of pseudo personas, presented as that applies to the writing of fiction.  But if you step away from that particular usage, the insights contained therein may indeed provide useful to the realization of one’s true personality in the realm of the transgendered individual seeking transformation.

Here, then, is:

Writing from the Passionate Self

by Melanie
Creator StoryWeaver, Co-Creator Dramatica

Who are you?  Really.  Do you even know?  Or do you just think you know?

At the center of our beings, at the heart of our souls, can be found the truth of our identity: our compassion, our anger, the breeding ground of the very stuff that makes us love and hate.

Yet, though a lifetime of compromise in the attempt to garner approval and avoid rejection, most of us have hidden the true nature of ourselves so far behind the shield of a pseudo persona that we are no longer privy to the essence of our own selves.

Unable to tap directly into the firestorm of our Id, we live on second hand passions and pass them off in what we write as the gritty truth of personal reality.  A writer can survive a career without ever becoming aware of his or her true essence.

What might you write if you became aware of your Passionate Self, and could tap into the primal force of your psyche?

The issue then becomes the effort to mount an inner expedition to the darkest reaches of your mind.  It is dangerous territory.  You may very well lose your sense of self in the process, discover you are a completely different person than you thought, and this knowledge may ultimately cost you your relationships, family, friends, job, and even your own peace of mind.

You don't need to tap this cauldron of angst and elation in order to write interesting stories that captivate others.  But as a writer, wouldn't you like to be able to access it?

Let's examine how and why we hide ourselves and then outline a method for recovering our first nature from the labyrinth of our second.

It all goes back to your childhood.  You came from a loving, caring family, or from an antagonist family where you were always afraid of punishment, or were just ignored.  Sure, there are many variations, but they all lead to the same syndrome.

If we are raised in a loving household, we learn compassion and empathy, and come to want to please others, even if it is at our own expense.  Usually, we are accepted as ourselves in such a household, but when we arrive at pre-school or kindergarten, suddenly we are confronted by those who make fun of us because of inherent qualities that are expressions of our true selves.  We quickly learn that to avoid displeasing others and to get the same kindness we have at home, we must hide certain traits and pretend to possess others.  In short order, we establish a pseudo personality that no longer reflects ourselves, but reflects as nearly as possible the mean average of what we feel others would prefer us to be.

If we are raised in an angry recriminating household, we learn to hide any trait that could bring punishment or ridicule, and also create a mask we can wear to avoid pain and enhance pleasure.

If we are just ignored as children, we invent an ersatz persona to attract attention, and/or as an attempt to make ourselves noteworthy.

It is almost an inevitable human endeavor.

As we grow, the mask must become more complex.  We add to it whenever a new situation arises.  We look to see how others act so we will know what to do in similar situations.

Slowly, we come to realize that it hurts not to express our true selves.  And then we do one of two things: We break out of the mask and let it all hang out in a teenage rebellion, or we learn to stop looking inside at the real us, so that we don't suffer the pain of suppression.

Even those who rebel, may later compromise their inner integrity to advance in a career, impress peers, or justify a lack of success to themselves.  Very few of us reach full adulthood still knowing who we really are.

In most cases, we hide our true natures away from ourselves for so long that we forget how to find ourselves - we forget who we were, and have no idea who we have become down there in the darkness.

Our true selves are like ROM chips on a computer.  They are preprogrammed with the essential elements of our personalities, and they are designed to load specific portions of that programming into our minds at various junctures, such as when we learn to walk, the onset of puberty, the arrival at childbearing age.

Our minds are like RAM in a computer.  Into our minds we load our experiences.  They sit on top of the the ROM personality that has been loaded.  In a sense, experiences are the data that is crunched by the personality program from our ROM.

But when you create a pseudo persona, you fill up RAM with another program.  You create protected memory where nothing else can be loaded.  And so, as you grow, the ROM personality tries to load, but sees that there isn't enough space, and aborts the operation to try again at a later time.

As our minds expand with growth, there would be enough room for the ROM, but we also expand our personas so that there is never enough room.  So our ROM personalities - our true personalities - can never load.  And we become stunted in our emotions, never advancing past the development of the year we first invented our mask.  And our true selves, hidden deeply in the ROM, remains only a potential, not an actualized self.

We meet a mate, we get married, we have children, we advance in our careers, and all with people responding to our personas, not to the true selves which have never been realized, even to ourselves.

So the mate we attract is one who loves the false us.  The children we raise associate love and comfort with a fake person who is not us.  And they support that image with their holiday gifts, secret glances, and tender moments.

It becomes a web of lies from which we dare not attempt to escape lest we lose the love and respect of others when we reveal our actual essence and expose the person they thought they knew to be no more than a sham.

But you are a writer.  And as a writer, you peddle emotions.  And if you are a worthwhile writer, you want your wares to be honest and true.  Yet how can they be, if you aren't true to yourself?

If you are game then, how can you discover that inner person?  Simply put, you have to pass through pain.  You will need to come to feel the lack of all of your ROM programming.  You will need to see your everyday self as a lie.  You will explore the pain until you can stand it no more.  And when you are ready, you will take a leap of faith and dump your RAM persona by unprotecting its files - files you have spent a lifetime building.  When you do, the ROM will notice.  It will rush in and overwrite your false self with all the past due sections of your self that should have been loaded along the way.  And in one electric moment you will feel your old self vanish as if you had been exorcised, then feel perhaps a second or two of emptiness, followed by the force of your embryonic actual self rushing in to fill the void.

You will then realize that the old files are gone.  You cannot recover them, no matter how much you may want to.  You make the leap of faith and there is no going back - ever.  You cannot even rebuild them.  You would have to start all over from scratch, and there probably isn't enough lifetime left to do that.

But the consequences!  You are now a different being, a more vibrant being, a creature of foundational power that we all have the potential to experience.  So will your loved ones, and those you depend on find you acceptable and embrace the "New You," or will they recoil, feel betrayed, abandoned, and perhaps mourn the loss of the person they thought they knew through all the seven stages of grief?

No one can predict the response of others, but positive or negative there will be a response from everyone you encounter once you have crossed to the other side?

If you are willing to take this risk, how to you get to that magic moment when you can shift over to a new reality?  Through your writing.  You need to keep a personal journal.  You need to express your deepest thoughts and feelings in it daily.

My personal journal has sometimes resulted in 17 type-written pages in a single day.  More often, it amounts to a page or two.  There have been years when I kept no journal at all.  But I have always found that when I do keep a journal, angst is discovered become one with, and evaporated - eventually.

Usually, this major sea-change occurs in a time of extreme mental pressure - loss of a business or a loved one, or some impending change of lifestyle, situation, or relationship that rocks the very foundations of your soul.

These are the times to keep a journal without fail.  The words you write will help you work it through, keep you sane, and in time reveal the actual issues that drive you.

Still, you don't have to take that path.  You can content yourself with the comfortable life you have fashioned around your pseudo self, and continue to write intriguing stories populated by compelling characters engaged in riveting action.

You may find that sufficient.  You may, even after all of this, believe that is all there is, "as good as it gets."  But what if there is something powerful within you - something basic and honest and true.  Are you prepared to go to your death bed never knowing who you really are?

-----  I leave you with a poem I wrote some years ago that touches on some of these issues:

by Melanie 

My emotions are dead 
and lack any resistance 
to the onslaught of logic’s 
relentless persistence. 

I’m malleable, moveable, 
flexible, still. 
I succumb with aplomb, 
as I alter my will 

to conform to the pressures 
that weigh on my soul 
without motive, or method, 
opinion, or goal. 

They reach for the stars, 
as they stand on our hearts, 
and they sell us off piecemeal, 
parcels and parts. 

They slice us to mincemeat 
and padlock the door, 
while our blood runs quite freely 
through holes in the floor. 

But nothing is wasted, 
tho’ everything’s lost. 
So our blood is recycled 
to offset the cost. 

We huddle in darkness 
yet shy from the fire 
to howl at the moon 
with the rest of the choir.

And when the glow wanes, 
we stoke it with dreams 
in hopes that the crackle 
will drown out our screams. 

You sleep in your bed 
and you doze in your chair. 
Your cushions are comfy 
and so is your air. 

But your heartache grows heavy, 
as well as your head, 
‘til you nod away, nod away, 
nod away, dead.


Yesterday afternoon, I mailed the check off to Mira for the deposit on my lip surgery.  There was both elation at having actualized the plan and truly set it in motion.  There was also reconsideration as to whether I really needed to do this.  It is so expensive, using up half of the money I have left from my share of the sale of our house.  But every time I stopped by the mirror, in all conditions and times of day, just pushing that lip up the tiniest bit made such a world of difference to my eyes, than I could not find grounds for recalling the commitment.

I began to truly look forward to feeling I had transformed my face, if even in this small way.  Transformation Envy?  Perhaps….

Toward the afternoon, a depression began to settle upon me.  I began to feel as if there was nothing of real interest in my life.  I felt numb in the world.

Teresa and I lay down for a nap, and I slept heavily.  And I dreamt.  In my mind, I was in a trailer park mobile home.  It was cluttered and unkempt inside.  Dr. O. was there, and so was Mary, my wife.

The doctor, in his white coat, ran a thin flexible wire under the skin of my scalp, and eased it down along the side of my face, just to the side of my left eye.  It did not hurt.  He said, “That’s not where I really wanted it, but I’ll fix it before I finish.”  Then, he gave me an injection of anesthetic, and in my dream I could feel my mind slipping away into a forced sleep.  Mary sat in a chair along the wall, crocheting, and seemed not to be paying any attention at all.  I was still standing, and Dr. O. walked away to get some of the equipment he needed elsewhere in the room.  I realized I was close to losing consciousness and staggered by myself to a chair one over from Mary.  I grabbed the armrest to steady myself as I sat heavily down, then lost consciousness and woke up next to Teresa.

As I opened my eyes, it was like waking from anesthetized sleep.  My mind was slow, my head heavy.  Yet even in that condition, I was aware of something I hadn’t known before the nap.  Just as I had felt my pseudo persona evaporate, followed by perhaps two seconds of nothing, and then the rush of my true personality loading into my mind – similarly, my old life was vanishing, leaving me with no life, and waiting for a new one to pour into place.

Rather than only seeing the internal experience of transformation, I was now witnessing the external ramifications of transformation.  But rather than happening in a few seconds, this would probably take a few weeks, or even months.

I went to bed last night determined to make some choices about what I wanted my new life to be – the activities I would engage in, the circles in which I would interact socially.  I was somewhat uneasy to note that no clear interests or desires in this regard readily came to mind.  And in this gently troubled state, I went to bed once more.

In the morning, after an apparently dreamless night, I awoke realizing it was far too early to think of what I wanted my new life to be.  In fact, I had not yet even approached the void between the old life and the new.

What was disturbing me so greatly was that I was seeing those things I thought I loved, dissolving, no longer meaning what they had to me, and in many cases, no longer striking me as they had.  They were morphing, changing their natures, becoming less important and starkly revealing themselves in many cases as being no more than my own imaginings in an attempt to believe I was having a happy life.

I always imagined having a family where we sat down to dinner and talked over the events of the day, as we often had when I was a child.  But in all my years with Mary and the kids, we did this less than a handful of times.

I pictured in my fantasy world that I had a loving, caring wife, who deeply felt for me and smiled when positive events occurred in my life.  But in reality, I remember only her indifference to my big moments, everything from when I brought my new car to show her when we were dating to the party thrown by the producer of the first film I had edited in my movie industry beginnings.  She was several months pregnant at the time, and wanted to leave early, before I even had a chance to make the rounds, introduce myself, and garner some praise for my editorial efforts.  And so we left.

Oh, she was tolerant over the years of all my schemes and plans, but just as she never rebuked me for any of my endeavors or attitudes, she also never praised me, or told me that I made her proud.  Not once in our decades together.

Although I love my son, he is distant, not as a rejection of me, but because even at age 26, he’d rather play video games than talk to anyone on the phone, me included.

And the list went on and on.  I shared with Teresa some of the misconceptions I had created within myself so that I could believe I was living a life that I truly wanted, rather than facing the truth that there was no fulfillment in it at all.

Throughout today, I have watched more and more of my sureties about the nature of my past, my interactions, my efforts, my sacrifices, and the actions and reactions of others toward me, both in and out of my family.  And I find that I wasted so many decades in a self-fabrication that bore no resemblance to the truth.

I could have found my inner self so much earlier, if I had not held on to that fantasy, and held out hope that, in time, things would get better.  But such was not the case. So, this evening, I am uncomfortably numb, anesthetized of spirit, watching my past crumble around me, yearning for a real life not knowing what that will be, and knowing that I still must pass through the vast apathetic desert of purgatory where the past has finally gone and the future not yet arrived – waiting to see if I am destined to find heaven, doomed to fall back into hell, or cursed to remain in purgatory forever.

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