I chose to end my last journal by asking the question, “What now?”
I asked this because of the countless times when I found myself in the wake of an aftermath or in the wake of a tragedy or some life-altering change, and yes, I asked myself, “what now?” because out of nowhere, life was about to be different.
I am a person who has lived different lives. I have gone through different phases and while not all of them were good, I have to say that not everything was bad.
I have lived a clean life and a dirty one. I am far from innocent and further from a Boy Scout.
I am a person with a past, and seasoned by my past, I am someone who lives with unfortunate memories and old pains that refuse to let go. However, I am also someone who fully believes in the ability of recovery and that, yes, everyone is recovering from something.
I can remember cold mornings from my unfortunate youth. I remember the bad times when I was somewhere on the street or hidden in some God-awful place.
I remember the discomfort of an old February when the wind blew through my bones and the cold air whistled as it blew. The temperature was frigid enough to make me think of the snapping sound of empty branches on winterized trees. I was nearly frozen and otherwise sweating from a powdery substance which, to me, could also be seen as a demon of some sort, or a different version of the angel of death.
I can remember the chill and the waste of time or the wasted moments where I found myself placed in some voluntary misfortune, or as the saying goes—I can remember the pain which came after I cut my nose off to spite my face. Falling deeper into an affliction, I found myself digging my own grave, almost too willingly, and eagerly awaiting a moment when the frost was no longer felt.
I remember the mornings after my old and sickly nights, or back when I was on the hunt for some kind of synthetic justice. With hopes to find a chemical solution, I remember my body’s response and the chemical reactions to the mix of speed that began from the narcotic gods, which inevitably slowed down to a crawl, and in the fuel of some chemical meltdown, I found myself nodding away, or dwindling down in some half-bent lean; my eyes folding down to a half-shut position and my mind was elsewhere, launched away, like a satellite moon in orbit of an earth that seemed to keep dropping farther and farther away from me. Ah, the opiate demon and her silent deadliness. She was a temptress to say the least. But misleading as ever, and always lying, always luting me to dare the edge, one step further, and always promising me to be beyond the bounds of a soft, or chemical salvation, which only lasted for a short while, until she led me astray.
I can remember the sound of doors closing and the echoes of angry corridors where flat-footed guards wore their hard-toe shoes. I could hear their footsteps and the jingle of their keys as they led another so-called body down the line and placed them in a cell.
I can remember the feel of cuffs around my wrists and the limitation of a chain that linked me to a bench so, of course, I couldn’t move or get away.
I can remember the sound of the caged doors as they rolled open, and then the following sounds that came after, which I can recall as well.
I remember the loud clang and the exclamation of an outrageous bang when the caged door rolled shut, and then the guard turned the key, and furthermore, there was nothing more deafening or finalizing than the sound of men being pushed into cages and hearing the doors shut behind them.
I remember this.
I remember the faces of men behind bars; their lives and their worlds and their choices were all the sum of a volunteered outcome, and I remember sitting on a hard, wooden bench and staring at the wall, and there I was, thinking to myself the same, goddamned question.
“What now?”
I remember thinking my life was going to end young; or that I was going to live fast and die young and leave behind the coil of some young corpse, tragic as could be—but that didn’t happen.
I remember finding myself at the end of a tirade or some fight, to which I knew that nothing could ever go back or unfold or be like it was and that yes, the creases and the cracks or crevices in my life would leave behind an altered emotion in my heart, and that as long as I would remember, or as long as I felt the pain or remembered the intrusion, I can remember thinking to myself about the loss of time, or the loss of a friend, or the betrayal, or I can remember thinking about the loss of a loved one, and there I was, thinking to myself, “What now?”
“What the hell am I going to do?”
From a different perspective, I can remember advancing or improving to the next level, or I can recall the times when I bettered my position at work and there I was, facing the challenges of some crazy imposter syndrome and fearing the changes in my role as well as acknowledging the upgrades of my responsibilities.
And there I was, thinking about the intimidations of my upcoming life, and thinking to myself, “what now?”
“What am I going to do when everyone realizes that I don’t know what I’m doing?”
How am I going to handle the shame or exposure and the fears of vulnerability?
I have completed more journals than I could possibly imagine. Whether I am popular or well-read, or agreed with has become irrelevant to me. None of this matters anymore.
I am here, of course, because where else would I be?
At the same time, I am not here for the food and friends. I have not come here to sit down and write about the world or my regards for rainbows and kittens and little innocent things, like kids who skip rope or play games on the playground.
I am not here to clear the air nor am I here for the acknowledgement. However, I come here to this place, each and every morning.
I come to this little figurative place in my head, and with good reason too.
I come here to rid myself of certain thoughts—and also, I come here to accept the gift which comes when I decide to endure rather than quit, or to keep going, or in the case of this journal and all the ones prior and the ones which I hope to complete in the future; I come here to this little mental factory of mine to escape the common routes of an otherwise confused or unfair world.
I come here to abandon the aggression and change the narrative in my head, and in the spirit of this new journal, I am here to answer a question, which I have asked myself for as long as I can remember—
What now?
I have been at this journaling business for years now and yes, I have my fair share of problems with the grammar police and the literary critics. But to be honest –
Fuck them . . .
I am not here for them either.
I used to write with specific people in mind; but more, I used to write to allow myself the inclusion of those who I loved or who I assumed would love me back.
However, I have seen so many changes and learned that love is not always love and that truth is only true when facts are acknowledged. The truth is, life changes and so will people. I will change and so will everyone else in my life. Roads come to an end and so will my time with certain people, and, or but for those who remain and to those who understand and refuse to give way or give up on me, I say this is for you.
It is not my place to argue or fight anymore. I am not here to bicker or create concern and to be absolutely clear—I am not here for any sort of accolades or acknowledgements. Should this find the right eyes to read my words or the right heart in need of some encouragement—or in the case of some lonesome traveler, who assumed that no one else thought this way or that they were terminally alone from now until the hour of their death—then let me place this here, and put this out into the Universe.
What now?
What’s next?
What do I do?
What’s my life going to be like now that everything changed and nothing will ever be the same again?
I love these questions.
I really do, although they used to haunt me. Then again, my awareness of my endurance and my ability to survive, or to adapt and overcome was blinded by the insecure notions that either I am unable to advance, or that I am incapable of achieving, or due to the ideas that misled me or distracted me from my best interests, I never knew that my best possible potential was allowed to improve and that I could improve as well, or advance.
I know that it was Nietzsche who said, “what does not kill me, only serves to make me stronger.” And I know it was Jim Carroll who adapted his one spin when he wrote, “What does not kill me, only serves to make me sleep until 3:30 the next afternoon.”
And me, I believe that what does not kill me, only serves to act as proof that life is often changing and unexpectedly moving in different directions and at different speeds; however, what does not kill me, only serves to teach me to be more careful the next time I choose to give myself away for an unfair value.
Once more, I am at page one in a new journal.
And as for the question:
What now?
I swear this is a great question.
And so is, what’s next?
The truth is, I don’t know.
I don’t know what’s next.
I guess this is the great part of starting a new journal.
I can take the lead (you know) and look to see what I want my next day to look like.
And if at all possible; I can do whatever it takes . . .
to make things so.
The Written Addiction 