by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com
When I was young I was quite miserable.
I didn’t learn how to be partially happy until perhaps 27.
(And then much later, after the Melbourne War didn’t need to fake it)
This is all not abnormal – that is to be miserable by default.
The kids who grow up with high trauma internalize the misery that surrounds.
Deep into their nervous systems and psyhe’s.
And by default all kids like this – we soon transmogrify into broken adults.
I’ve talked about my trauma before so I will not rehash other than three epitets:
Poor, Neurodivergent in the 80’s, Child of Divorce, my father a magician (i.e. disappeared).
Now I am for many an ‘older man’ – but by now I’ve learnt to to ‘steal happiness’.
It’s not really happiness per se,
It’s really a rolling feeling of semi-wellbeing,
Because I’ve learnt to curb the most destructive habits:
Being too drunk too often,
Being around too many assholes in big cities & offices.
And I’ve learnt about a few easycheats:
Eating home cooked meals,
Having creative hobbies that could sprout into something bigger – e.g. writing.
Learning that it’s ok to say no to something.
Getting some regular hard physical labor under your belt.
And I think the writing & the hard labor may have saved me entirely.
I’m purely speculating here, but you never know –
If I’d never started the hard labor and the writing –
Perhaps I wouldn’t even be here.
For yes in my younger, darker, big city days I have known deep despair.
If I had not died and been reborn and exiled at 38 – who knows.
But I doubt I would have ever died by my own hand.
Maybe I would have suddenly became a big ego driven success story in the bright lights –
MAYBE.
But I think I was one of people that had to be essentially destroyed to get better.
The weird thing about my big City era, was I was within a couple of steps to some big cash.
It’s just as well as I was taken before that happened.
For I probably would have been just another semi-wealthy miserable bastard wearing a mask.
Now after the war has been over for a decade,
I get to sit quietly and reflect.
On how good it is to have a soul, quiet times and the occasional smile.
That’s where the wealth’s at my friend.
You know it, I know it, your cat knows it but your big city office crank boss doesn’t.
Of course I don’t want to sugarcoat – I’m probably a old curmedgeon.
And I do love a few cans of beer at night.
And why not? haven’t I earnt it?
The war is over and I’m entitled to a beer with my thoughts as the country stars twinkle.
Yes – I have remnants of big city Melbourne bastardry – and that’s ok.
A remnant and defeated psychological ghost army can’t do much harm anyway.
I really can recommend blowing up your horrid big city office life for the country air.
Of course if your lucky the city will push the controlled demolition button for you.
And they’ll save you well ahead of natural time.
And I realise all this as I sit with a beer breathing clear air.
Writing away happily and only ever being being ‘f’unctionally lonely’.
And I don’t mind the memories of the Melbourne-War of 2005-16,
It’s edges are rounded off and quite entertainingly fruitful conversationally and literarily.
And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the Melbourne War allows its soldiers to get laid regularly.
That’s it’s little demonic perk that all us drunken corporate slaves enjoyed.
In writing and in life – you gotta call a spade a spade.
Your best audience will love you for it.
Who doesn’t love a good trauma-based, haphazard-but-believable, de-transmogrification tale?.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 