And . . . So . . .
I suppose this might be personal.
Maybe this is too personal,
Then again, what isn’t personal?
What is anything worth if there is no substance
nor earth nor depth nor sound nor meaning
behind the words we chose?
What is anything worth
if we deem it as otherwise worthless?
Then here we are, trying to pretend or trying hard
to play a role or fit the part.
Here were are with a brave face, facing the world,
and standing in the crowd, “As if”
looking to pull the job of someone
who’s supposed to know what to do.
Perhaps this page is not for anyone.
Maybe we should rip this one out of the book, but no.
I can’t because the day I limit my voice
or edit my choices
just to suit the reader
is the same day that I give up the right
to call myself a writer – if I am writer that is.
Or if I choose to be a writer then
let me do this here and please be forewarned
that what I write is simply to cleanse myself
and rid me of something which has otherwise
been seen as a stain and yet, I just call this me.
This is who I am
No labels. No diagnosis.
No professional, statistical, economical
or cultural connotations.
This is only true from the heart so . .
tell hell with gender, bias, culture,
race, religion, orientation, or anything else
that does nothing but separate us
or leave us distant from one another.
Long ago, it was,
or it must have been.
I decided to forgo my search for acceptance or approval
because, at one point, I was so alone or so down,
so deeply lost and desperate
that I had to find something.
I had to find something to hold
or something to grab onto.
I needed to feel something with substance.
I needed something with grit to believe in.
Something that I could see,
which I can’t really see anything to be honest;
at least not when it comes to this.
Then again, I was told that
“Faith is confidence in what we hope for
and assurance about what we do not see.”
I was told this comes from Hebrews 11:1
and though I stay away from religious text
and I have decided to walk differently
when it comes to the symbols of faith or religion,
for the moment,
forget the text or the generation thereof,
just for the moment, take the text for what it’s worth.
Faith –
as in to believe, just because and because of this;
somehow, we find a way to get up.
We find a reason to stand up
and make our way through the world.
Somehow, we find the words,
deep within, and thus, we find a reason to endure.
Endure . . .
I say this again, as if a light goes on;
as if a trigger is pulled and the heat ignites the fire
to keep me alive once more.
However, I realize that using words
opens the doors to an interpretive lens.
To be clear,
I don’t know what any of this means to you
But should I care?
Do you care?
Does anyone?
What does it mean anyway, a word?
A thought?
A statement from within?
Or how about this –
A transformation?
Can we say that word anymore?
Transformation is a word too
and should I say this word
or dare I say it, then I have to say this cautiously
and carefully because the word itself
can mean so many things.
Yet, to me, I say this because the word itself
can mean wonderful and beautiful things
and yes, in my case, I see the word transformation
as a symbol of hope.
I say this and need this in my heart because although
(like you, or so many others in this world)
I struggle with the concepts of “self”
and yes, I struggle to change or evolve,
and, of course, I have my conflicts
with the reflections in the mirror;
I have my personal misconceptions
and suffer from the misperceptions of self,
and (like so many others) I struggle to stand at times
when otherwise, without something;
or without a standard, without a fight,
or without something to substantiate my simple existence,
I would otherwise fall – I do hereby solemnly swear
that I recognize myself as a person
who has yes, endured, and yes,
I am someone who has in fact survived.
Though I find the word transformation to be self-preserving,
I am someone in search of my ultimate transformation.
I see the word as a sign of hopefulness
that one day, or even maybe someday soon,
I can transform. I can stand without the weight on my shoulders.
I can walk without worry.
I can be without the complexities
or complications of misdiagnosed
ideas that come from within.
Do you know how many years it took me
to not just say this but to write this,
both openly and physically?
Do you know how long it took me
to allow myself the right to put this down for you to see?
Maybe you do know.
Maybe you don’t.
Either way, I have no choice now but to leave this here.
I want to transform
I want to grow and to evolve
into what I’d like to see as the strongest version of me,
thereby unafraid, thereby unbeaten, and hereby
from this day onward and perhaps not unscathed but at last,
I want to build myself in the realms
of my own recreation
and be victorious over certain
degradations that separate me from myself.
I want this.
At the same time,
I don’t know how to do this (without you)
or without openly disclaiming who I am
as well as regarding myself
as nothing more than a man, person,
human, or as a being in this world;
I am only this.
I know what the words mean
which people use to describe each other.
I know what stigma is.
I know all about doubt and the diseased-like thinking
that corrodes from within
when we talk about doubt or the decaying results
of imposter syndromes.
To be honest . . .
I don’t know how I get up sometimes.
I don’t know if this is a “want” or a “need”
or a habitual loop or pattern
in which whether I am in pain, hurting inside or outside,
or whether it has become custom to me, or not,
to get up at the sound of a bell in the morning
when the alarm goes off, like a trained animal (or beast)
or whether it is a spark within me,
refusing to quit, either way,
I am not sure how or why or what keeps me going.
I don’t know what’s transpired
I don’t know what’s kept me in the game this far –
I don’t know what it is and by now,
I know that people don’t want to hear this.
Or if anything, nobody wants to engage
with this topic of conversation because, of course,
the subject is too dark and raw – but whether
I am dark or raw or too uncomfortable
to speak with or read about – I have this thing that I live with.
In fact, if we use words to define or describe things;
I have this thing which infects millions of people,
if not most people, or perhaps all people; but either way,
I live with this thing
which has been with me
for as long as I can remember.
I don’t give this a name or label; although,
I know several doctors who have either labeled
or diagnosed this but me,
I see things through different eyes.
To hell with the labels or diagnosis.
To hell with the word suicide or suicidal
Maybe I’m just a laymen or
maybe I just needed to find
a new way to relate to information.
See, I understand things through different concepts
to somehow come to an understanding
that I can then explain myself or
relay my thoughts in relatable ways
to connect my thoughts to the commonalities
or to use analogies to bring along
a sense of understanding . . .
I have to do this because, to me,
there is an otherwise deprivation
or detachment of understanding.
Or, better yet, I am trying to avoid
the misunderstanding of simple terms
that are easy to others but
otherwise not retainable to me – and what I mean is,
it’s hard for me to understand
or comprehend life without the details of my existence.
So, therefore, like any learning challenge
or so-called learning disability,
I have to find ways to understand
and relate to information
so that I can both retain it
as well as internalize what I need to learn –
so I know how to live
and not just survive
I have unhelpful concepts that bring me back
to unhelpful ideas of tragic descent
which lead me back to old plans
that almost left me without a plan or a future and thus,
my history would have been different
because my history would have been cut short
had the noose not broken free
I have spent years trying to express
the tragic ideations of lonesomeness,
or the otherwise seen as desperateness,
which calls for self-inflicted endings.
These ideas come with a word
which, dare I say it or if I say it,
my fears of rejection perk
because I’m afraid of how you’ll look at me.
I’m afraid if you know the truth
then you will simply cancel me (as ill instead of brave)
and I’m afraid of how you’ll see me
or what you’ll say or what you’ll think
when I’m not in the room.
Or, will you be mean or if you’ll reject me?
Will you cast me aside or throw me away
like some reject
because I dared the line
and decided to be honest
or tell the truth?
See?
This is why nobody ever tells anyone
how they really feel
or what they really think
because while there’s
no such thing as perfect,
we try though. We pretend to be.
Well?
Am I saying something that’s not true?
Either way, somehow,
I get up the next morning and quite honestly,
I really don’t know how.
I just know I’m here. One more day.
I wish people knew it’s okay to not be okay.
I wish people knew it’s okay to open up
to the right person,
to tell them “hey, I’m not good.”
To say . . .
“I want to get away from myself
but I don’t know how.”
I wish people had somewhere safe to go
where they could cry (if they want to)
or find relief, or find warmth from the hand
or listen to someone else who understands . . .
And, in fairness, do I understand?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
But I’m not here to understand or be understood.
No, I’m just looking for this thing we call substance;
to find something to keep me going,
to create a pathway,
to get by, and to find that transformation
of me being the person I’ve always dreamed to be.
Faith or not, ready or not . . . Release me because
it’s Wednesday morning and guess what?
Here I come.
The Written Addiction 