At that juncture in my life, Millsy’s genesis was a necessary evil. A part of me was in deep trouble. I was mired in a terrible depression, life held no joy for me, I was just a dented can, a lost soul, struggling for a reason to live. Plus, my family couldn’t afford to send me into therapy for some scumbag shrink to play Freud on me.
So in order to ensure that I didn’t win a free trip to the place with the complimentary electrical treatments and jackets that buttoned up at the back, I created the Millsy persona to save my sanity. And probably my life.
And it worked.
For a time.
At age 20, I woke up one day and realized that there was a crazy person running around inside my head, a stranger who if I didn’t exorcise quickly, would land me in prison, in hock or in a casket if I wasn’t careful. So I decided to confront Millsy before anything serious went down.
If not, I would blow my wheels, wig out, go to the loony bin, go instant section eight, loony tunes or whatever cute little cliches you can think of.
Eventually, I was able to corner him and we had a little talk, one on one.
“Millsy, we need to talk.”
“Oh yeah, we’re gonna talk with a knife in your hand? That’s cute.”
“Just listen. I know that you are a part of me now, but I can’t allow you to be in total control anymore – the wild stuff, the womanising, the wall-punching, the psychotic behaviour, weed-smoking, the no respect for the glue that holds society together…”
“You need me! I am the engine that drives everything. Who is the one that comes up with all the great ideas? Me! It’s all me. What about your first novel?”
“My first novel? You don’t even care about that, man.”
“Do you think you can write without me?”
“No, maybe not. But you need to take a chill pill, man.”
“What are you going to do? Kill me? You can’t do that?”
“I know. But I am going to embrace my monster.”
Millsy resisted at first, but we hugged, blah-de-blah-blah, then we came to an understanding, Millsy and I.
He didn’t try to get me thrown in jail, and I wouldn’t get rid of him, talk about him to other people, or keep him caged for too long. Things have changed a little in the last few years. For the better. Mostly.
I don’t punch walls anymore. I hardly womanise, still write zany, edgy articles about anything I damn well please, and I approach problems the way I’ve always done, I lock myself in my room and light small fires. I guess I’ve got to work on that. If you’re still with me, Dear Reader, I want you to know I wrote this article to let you know that it is OK to embrace your monster. Your monster? you ask. Yes, you know, that off-kilter side of you that people might be a little scared of, and definitely don’t want to understand.
Don’t let the ‘fassies’ change you. If they think you’re short a little furniture on the top floor, that may be a good thing, they won’t try to screw you over as much.
Besides, you have to be a little crazy to survive in this weird world we live in where airplanes fall out of the sky, and daddies chop up their kids like kindling.
Your monster is a part of you. You need him. He is your life buoy in the storms of life.
Until, next week.
Embrace your monster.
You can e-mail me firstname.lastname@example.org