FLIP

a memoir

Flip, my first novel, will be out this Halloween. 

It’s about a kid who suffers from supernatural visions.  He witnesses a child abduction, freezes and tells no one. For the remainder of his life, he corporally and psychologically punishes himself for his cowardice until an unlikely intervention stops him from his final act of his self-imposed penance. 

Writing has been one modality to blood let incessant ruminations of lifelong guilt.  It helps a little.  For decades I’ve habituated and grand mastered emotional cutting. 

In the Philippines, a devout sect performs acts of self-flagellation while reciting the rosary.  These, mostly women, whip their own exposed backs causing bloody lacerations.  It’s performance art penance.  Asking for sympathy and attention while praying for forgiveness feels fake and insincere.  It’s like, “Look at me.  I hurt myself and have a clean slate because I saw you feel sorry for me.”  It cancels out the efficacy because it depends on audience reaction. 

My sins will transfer to my son if I don’t lobotomize this shame.  I am not doing that shit to him.  It’s screwed up.  Instead of creating a finger snapping happy go lucky life coach persona to blanket the piece of shit I felt I’ve become - I write.  I now confront myself here, in journal and screenplay. 

“A memoir isn’t about the author” said someone smarter than me.  Since a memoir is exactly about the author, I knew a dope switcharoo was about to drop. 

As it was explained to me, events are so horrific and humiliating it strips the author naked.  There will be a moment when the reader horizontal in bed, on the toilet or in a café nibbling a chocolate croissant will say, “I did that shit, too.”  Not the act, but the shared fear or shame behind it. 

That’s the moment when the memoir becomes a mirror. 

I admit hypocrisy.  I’m talking crap about people who act out “woe is me” when I’m cutting and whipping myself for you to see.  I just picked up on that.  No lie.  I’m keeping this paragraph as is.  Here it comes… Yeah, but I do have a revelation that stopped me from mindful self-harm.  

My best friend, an old school and respected Oakland Police street cop and someone I always wanted to be like, held space for me as I shared all the above.  After a long silence he confronted me with, “Why have you punished yourself when you didn’t have the life experience and skills you have today?” 

I folded.  It’s inner child abuse and, not only am I holding the stick, I also locked that kid in a darkened room. 

Not being able to justify my actions triggered convulsive uncontrollable crying.  It was my body’s highlight and delete to sever the habitual self-loathing program.   I just fucking stopped.  There was a me before my buddy shook me by my shoulders. 

And there’s the me now. 

It’s not gangster to punish yourself just to show how hard you are.  If you believe in God, she is the arbiter of justice not you or me.  So why do we take on her role?    

I don’t want anyone in my tribe to unnecessarily harm themselves to absolve for past guilt.  It’s not your place, you do not have the authority nor is it necessary.  Flip is my conversation with you about just that.  I’ll reach out to you closer to Halloween.  In the meantime, be kind to yourself.