Joe Fletcher, Future Journalist Profile

Articles

Who is Steve?

1 month ago | joebassman35.medium.com | Joe Fletcher

Is Steve (the delusional commentator in my head) me? In a way, possibly, as perhaps he is a manifestation in the dream of my mind, a kind of alter ego. Then again, am I really my thoughts, really my mind, really my body, really my identity, and really Steve? Or am I something way beyond any definition, concept, or idea? If Steve is like a character on the TV screen, am I this character, or the screen itself, that which powers the TV, or that which is perceiving the show? Or perhaps I am all of them?
Steve, The Master of Illusions

2 months ago | joebassman35.medium.com | Joe Fletcher

Giving the voice of terror inside my head a name has proved very beneficial for me so far. The idea first came to me while studying a course on OCD, and the teacher, Nathan Peterson, suggested naming the OCD. I remember once attending a talk by a speaker, Ron Coleman, who helped people who were experiencing multiple voices. Coleman said he would get the people he was helping to name their voices, as it takes the voices’ power away. When did Steve first break in and take up squatting in my mind?
The Spiritual Ego Did a Number on Me

Mar 27, 2025 | medium.com | Joe Fletcher

Joe Fletcher·FollowPublished inLess Stress More Success·5 min read·--After living a life of suffering and trying different therapies, I discovered spirituality, initially, through Syd Banks, who taught the 3 Principles of Mind, Consciousness, and thought. One of the first helpful messages I heard was that we are all living in mental health, but our thinking masks this. As I watched many of Syd’s videos and read his books, my mind appeared to quieten and the thinking slowed down.
Four Poems, by Joe Fletcher | Conjunctions — The forum for innovative writing

Sep 17, 2024 | conjunctions.com | Joe Fletcher

STINA GROTHWe were picnicking on the plainswhen she emerged from the rushes. She wore an apricot smock. Her face was smeared with soot. She said her name was Stina Groth. A cloud of bats burst from the chimneyof a crumbling cottage behind her. We asked her where home was. She drew a circle in the silt with a twig. How long did she stay with us? How did she keep her tin lantern lit? She showed us where the snakes werehiding in the canal-side rocks. She wouldn’t let mother comb the knotsout of her hair.