I spend a lot of time wondering about what's right or acceptable when writing diaries on this site. Too much time. Part of that concern is motivated by my own personal little idiosyncrasies. I'm OCD, and that manifests in a need for perfection. When I was in the first or second grade, I remember the teacher posting student papers - a test or an assignment, something - on the wall. Mine had one mistake in a list of about ten words. It drove me crazy to have that mistake up there in public. I wanted to correct it, but she wouldn't allow it. I was 6 or 7 years old! (My first three years of secondary school, I attended a country school with fewer than twenty students in all twelve grades. Six grades downstairs, six grades upstairs. So it's not like my imperfection was exposed to a lot of my peers.) I don't know what motivated my somewhat neurotic need to be perfect. I could read before I started school, and the first six years were easy for me.
It might have had something to do with my father. All I ever wanted was for him to let me help him on the ranch. I wanted him to say I'd done good, just once. I wanted him to like me. He rarely called me by my name. I was 'Dummy' or 'Stupid', and I never did anything right. He hit me from the time I was 3 or 4 years old until I was 16, the beatings becoming more severe as I grew. When I was about 10 or 11, I decided to learn to saddle a horse. I'm not going to go into detail, but it was a very difficult endeavor, and it involved a lot of maneuvering with the saddle, which I could barely lift. I finally got the saddle on the horse, cinched it up, and rode off to the pasture to show my father. His reaction? "Dummy, you're gonna break your neck. That cinch isn't tight." That was my last attempt at gaining approval from him. When I was 16, he whipped me with a thick leather belt until I had welts up and down both legs. I got away from him and left for a while. When I came back, I looked him in the eye and said, "If you ever hit me again, I'm gonna kill you." It wasn't an idle threat, and he must have believed me. He never hit me again, but he still manged to be verbally abusive. A couple of weeks ago, I learned from one of my cousins in Mesa that my father had died. Six months ago. I was disappointed. I've been sitting here waiting for him to die, thinking there might be some financial gain in it. Evidently not. My evil stepmother and my scumbag brothers didn't contact me. Bummer. He was worth more to me dead than alive, or so I thought. It appears he's worthless in either condition.
I'm not going to analyze the effects of my father's abuse. I can't find my psychiatric degree right now. It's probably stored with my medical degree and my law degree. Due to a lack of demand for my services, I've quit practicing all three occupations. I've always wanted to be a writer, but real life intervened and I got sidetracked. First it was booze, then drugs, and finally, AA. I'd managed to convince myself that alcohol and/or drugs enabled me to be creative, so I believed sobriety hindered my creativity and ambition. What a load of b.s.! I don't know if I really believed that. The truth was that I lacked the self-discipline required to spend time writing, and I lacked confidence in my ability to create something worthwhile. And then there was that old fear of being criticized or judged if I actually completed my story and got it published.
When I was laid off of my heavy equipment job, I was 64, so I just retired. I moved here (Sofar), and I decided to buy a computer. Actually, it's a laptop or notebook or whatever they're being called now. (I kept waiting for computers to turn out to be a passing fad, but I finally had to accept the reality that they were here to stay.) I spent about a year getting to know my new technology, and when I knew enough to venture onto the internet, I found a whole new world. When I discovered sites like "Nation Builders" and "The New York Times", I was so happy. I haven't had cable tv for several years, and now I could access Diane Sawyer from my living room, whenever I wanted to, and choose which reports I wanted to see. When I find a site I like (like "Nation Builders"), I tend to stay there. Being able to communicate with people who shared my views was just too cool. Then I started looking around, and I found "Daily Kos". On 'NB', I'd write a blog, then it would get too long and digressive (is that a word?), and I'd delete it. Until 'DK', I'd never actually posted anything besides comments on Facebook (the Walmart of the internet). I finally completed a diary on 'DK', said to hell with all my neurotic little hang-ups, and I posted it. I don't know where or when or why I got the idea that being disagreed with is being disliked. And if it is, so what? Now I've published 3 or 4 diaries, I've been disagreed with and criticized, and I'm still standing. I've started writing my book, and I'm going to finish it. It's autobiographical, and it talks about drugs and addiction based on experience. There's no exaggeration or lies, and it encourages no one to try drugs of any kind, ever. (The exaggerations and lies publicized by the government and most anti-drug groups are doing no one any good. In fact, the government needs to admit that they are incapable of accomplishing anything positive in their 'war on drugs'. They need to do what they did with Vietnam: Declare victory and and run away.) What is needed is a realistic, truthful discussion about drugs, and while we're at it, let's suspend all the laws which require prison time. They're unrealistic, they're applied inconsistently, and they do nothing to solve the problem. More prison time for crack than for Cocaine? Probably has something to do with crack being favored by Black folks, while Cocaine in powder form is a pick-me-up favored by rich white folks. But I digress.
For some reason, I've gained confidence and my paranoia has diminished. I'm enjoying myself, and I suspect that anonymity probably has a lot to do with it. I'm not going to concern myself with doubts about my contributions' acceptability. I'm certain I'll hear from whomever is watching if I cross a line. My impression, so far, is that the standards are fairly broad as far as language and content are concerned, but personal attacks are not acceptable. (Does this apply to Wayne LaPierre?) I'm relieved that I've gotten this out there, and now I'm going to concentrate on writing diaries that express my feelings and views. I'm going to enjoy being agreed with, and I'll regard opposing views as an opportunity to learn about other viewpoints. Besides, it's a constructive way to continue procrastinating about writing my book.