There is a time which I recall, long ago, and from a lifetime that seems to be so far away.
I was young and on the verge of a thousand different things. My life was changing. My Mother had moved. My Father was gone. My family had spread itself thin and my friendships were changing.
I saw how life would move in cycles. I saw this, just like the different seasons of winter, spring, summer and fall.
There are good times and bad times. There are days when we find ourselves in the perfect company and yes, there are times when it seems as if our loneliness and heartache is payment for the good times, which were less than innocent.
I know this well.
I was sitting on the hood of my car at a little beach in Southampton. The ocean was ahead of me and the world was behind me.
I was lost. I had no idea what to do with myself. My love life was uninspiring to say the least.
Yet, physically, I was not alone. I had the chances of intimate partners but at the same time, I never had a partner which I felt connected to.
I never held someone and thought to myself, I could hold her forever and if forever never comes, then let me hold her one more time so this way, I’ll never forget what forever should feel like.
Ah, the beach . . .
The waves were coming in. I watched the sea as if the rise and fall was the proof of Mother Earth’s breath; as if to be taken into the bosom of her warmth; as if to be soothed and calmed, like a cradle that rocks a child to sleep.
I watched the waves come in and, of course, I had my outfit on from the night before. I could smell the drink that was thrown at someone else. However, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and, unfortunately, some of the drink was splashed on me.
A kamikaze it was . . .
The drink, I mean.
I could smell it on me, mixed in with a cologne called Obsession.
I stared out at the ocean. I pulled out one of my Camel cigarettes from my hard pack and let my lips cinch around the filter.
Then I cupped the flame and lit the tip of my smoke.
God, I get so tired thinking about how much energy this took.
I say this because everything about me was about posture.
Everything was about the look or the dance, or the way I held myself, or stood, or leaned against the wall.
Everything was subject to criticism. . .
I tell you no lie, the internal voice and the whispers of insecurity are louder than any scream, which was certainly the case in my world.
I was so critical of myself.
I tried so hard to pull off my look, to perfect each move, or to be cool, to be wanted. Better yet – I did anything and everything I could just so I could believe that someone out there would find me and call me desirable.
It is draining to think this way. It is draining to question everything.
Furthermore, it is otherwise exhausting to live in one’s own mind like this.
But this was me . . .
And the beach –
She was there for me.
I remember the sound of the waves coming in. I remember the early sunrise after a night out with the crowd and the so-called friends and the so-called bullshit existence, which I tried my best to portray.
I blew the smoke from my cigarette up to the sky. I let the sound of the waves moving in and out become the background, like a soundtrack to my peace.
I understand what life is like while we look at ourselves under our own microscope.
I’m sure that we all understand this.
We dissect everything, pull it apart, and then we analyze, dissect again, pull it apart once more, only to put this under that same microscope, as if the answers we find are still not enough. No, there’s got to be more.
There has to be another reason why I (or we) think or feel this way.
Life is punishing when we think like this.
However, in fairness to honesty, the truth of the matter is most people judge themselves.
At the same time, most people judge themselves too harshly.
I remember thinking about my life.
Although several years have come between now and then, the questions I had for myself were something like the ones below:
What have I done?
What is my life going to look like?
What am I going to do with myself?
Who is going to want to be with me?
Will anyone ever love me?
Or wait, and here’s a touch of uncomfortable honesty, will I ever let my guard down long enough to let somebody in?
My questions are sad and equally hopeful . . .
Will I ever allow myself to be vulnerable?
Will I ever give myself the chance to remove the mask, to come out from behind the bullshit lies, or to stop the masquerade and remove myself from a fake or pretended image?
If at all possible, is it possible to find someone in this world; someone who no matter where I am or where I go, and no matter what the time of day is or how I look, feel or seem to anyone else; is there someone in this world who I would feel absolutely and completely comfortable with?
I wondered these things, as if to ask, is there a person in this world who I can sit with, talk to, hug and hold? As I considered this, I wondered if there is someone out there who consciously and cosmically could find me and as a result, we would connect like a perfect match to my imperfect seams. If so, is there someone in this world who I could be myself with?
I remember the feelings I had.
But at least, I had the waves or the rise and fall of Mother Earth’s breath to comfort me.
The waves on the beach are a beautiful thing.
I can see myself now from my mind’s imagination.
My hair was long. I had a thin, silvery necklace around my neck and two hoop earing in my ear.
I was somewhere around the age of 22 or maybe 23.
My black, button-down dress shirt was untucked and mainly open, exposing my chest to the sky.
I wore black pants, black shoes and, typically, this was my classic look or my usual, “Go-To” outfit.
I had too many things in my head. I had too many arguments taking place in my thoughts.
I was replaying too many arguments that took place in my past and, of course, I was replaying them too, so that I could rehearse my responses just in case any of these arguments took place again.
I have to say this:
The mind is a maze.
And me, I was tired of overthinking.
I was tired of the routes I took which always lead me towards another dead-end.
I was tired of my inaccurate belief system which defined me as unworthy, undesirable, unwanted and, of course, unlovable.
I was tried of living my life in accordance to this type of thinking.
Man cannot always be at war.
But I was.
I took the stance of a man in survival mode. In which case, I would rather be the striker than be struck or hit by someone or blindsided. Thus, I would be exposed as weak and seen as a mark or just gullible.
I smoked my cigarette down to the filter.
I considered my life. I considered my intimate connections which were otherwise meaningless and pointless, or loveless to say the least.
I thought about people who were happy – or so they seemed.
What about them was so different from me?
Then again –
I never thought anyone else struggled with their thoughts – at least not like me.
I never realized that insecurity is more common than the fact that we breathe or wake up in the morning.
I remember the angst. I remember the disgust I had and the contempt I felt towards some of the people in my life.
I remember the unstoppable feel of lovelessness and the absolute lonesome concept of life as it was – and yes, I figured this was only part of being a man.
Think about this:
Being a man, which I was (or am)
At the same time, I had no idea what this word meant.
And peace?
I think of Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet in Romeo and Juliet when facing his enemy, a Montague, in Act 1, Scene 1
“What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.”
I understood this from my own perspective.
Peace?
I despised the word, as I despised the way I thought or felt, or as I despised those who I could not emulate; or as I despised the crowd, the groups of people, or as I despised the different echelons of popularity, their style, and the pretty people, or the beautiful ones who seemed to automatically receive a pass, or as I despised the gifted whose only fortune was being born from a favorable gene pool – I despised the word and the thought or the sentiment of peace as I despised all of the above.
Though this were true at the time, I wished for peace.
I wanted peace more than I wished for the stars to be out at night.
I wished for love. I wished to lay down my sword and rest my shield so that I could remove my mask and, at last, I could be myself without apology –
and be free enough to feel “in love.”
If it were true that I was who I believed then, at best, all I could ever be was at war with myself.
Without peace, I doubt that I would ever know how beautiful the ocean can be at the birth of dawn when daybreak comes.
The colors in the sky were sensational.
The summer was on its downward slope and autumn was on its way.
I love this view.
I keep this memory close to me because while times were tough and fear was prevalent, there was something about the waves and the beach and the sun and the sky.
There was something about the sound of the wind. There was something about the sound of the gulls crying out from the sands or flying through the sky.
There was something about the breath of Mother Earth and the rise and fall of the waves, the outgoing tides and the returning waters that pull back to the sea.
I know what the word tumultuous means.
I knew it back then too.
But the waves and the scene around me knew me well enough to let me sit there and watch.
Mother Earth was kind enough to let this soldier sit for a while.
I was free to lay down my weapons, sword, shield and mask, just long enough –
so I could breathe.
So I could regroup.
So I could regain my composure
But more –
So that I can endure once more
and live through another day.
There is always a way to find peace (or solace).
It’s not always easy.
But that doesn’t mean this is impossible.
I know peace is out there for us.
Whether we find it together or separately is irrelevant.
The bottom line is even when times are tough, there’s always the beach and there will always be the memory of the sunrise –
and for me, I will use this to warm my heart
. . . whenever it gets cold.
The Written Addiction 