I’d like to go back to that idea that I told you about earlier in this journal.
I want to go back to that plan I had of what I would like to say to my younger self if I had the chance.
The first thing I would say is, “Don’t listen to them!”
I understand that when I say, “Don’t listen to them,” the term is broad and perhaps vague.
But still—the advice is true and the freedom this could have given me would have changed my childhood, for sure. Hence, this would have changed my life as well.

I know all about pointing fingers.
I’ve had a few of them pointed at me too. I know about being the so-called bad one or what it means to be marked or labeled. And this is more than my fascination with my choice of artwork, which I have on my skin.
This is more than an entry about tattoos or tattoo culture. Yet, there is a definite misconception about this life. But that is not what this is about.
This is not about looks or anything like that, nor is this about our choice of fashion or the culture behind our music or its genre.

I am famous for what I am about to say, which is I am about to share something that is not typical for a man to share. Or to be tough, none of what I am about to expose allows me to stand any taller or be any stronger when it comes to the scales of masculinity.
And no. I am not tough.
Not at all

This is not to say that one needs to be a man for them to be tough, nor is this to involve myself in the argument of gender or whether one gender is tougher than another. Before I digress any further, I want to be clear that this is not to claim a standard nor is this a claim that only a man can corner the market on toughness.
Anyone can be tough.

It was early morning.
I knew that this day was about to be different. And I knew why too.
None of this was good and all of this was bad, but at the same time, at least I knew that an answer was coming my way.
I knew that the combination of my actions and the consequences that come with them were bound to catch up with me, which they did.
I knew that time was running out and like a countdown, I knew it was only a matter of time until the imaginary numbers went from ten, down to zero, and then that would be it.
And it was.

I was sitting in a room which I have described before. However, I think I will describe my surroundings differently for this entry. Rather than detail my location or the reasons for my detainment, I will use this entry as a means to define my emotional content.
Rather than glamorize or dramatize the moment, I would rather explain my reason for reflection which came to me in a place where time stands still, yet, the persecution lurks, like a stalking predator to the heartbeat of the weakest prey.

I wish I could say that any of this is easy. Then again, I wish I could say that life is easy.
But I can’t say that, at least not honestly.
I can say that as people, we are really good at making simple things complicated.
I can say that as a species, we are excellent at complicating things or at overthinking or over analyzing.
I have seen this in others as well as within myself and for the life of me, I can’t always say that I know why we do this to ourselves. Overthink and overanalyze, I mean.

I suppose my reason for this entry today is because I don’t like what I see. I don’t like to hear the news about some kid who went missing or who found themselves alone or misunderstood. I don’t say this as if I am more special or understand anyone at some kind of ultimate level. I am not a guru nor do I claim to or want to be.
No, I’m simply a person who would like to see changes in the way we think. I’d like to see us update the way we treat each other. Moreover, I am a person who would like to see a new dynamic when it comes to the way we approach one another.
I am someone who believes that we need to improve our systems when it comes to the way we deal with our mental health or emotional challenges.

It is a curious thing. I’ll admit to this. Yet, it is a simple thing as well.
The way we are, or the people we are attracted to, or the reasons why.
I have been asked why people act the way they do. I have been asked why I acted the way I did. Of course, my stock answer used to be, “I don’t know.”
But I knew.
Deep down, I knew everything.
I just never had the language or the ability to explain myself.
So, I explained myself through actions.

And when things go wrong, I get it.
It may seem like things will be this way forever but remember – forever is a really long time.
So breathe –
I know that sucks.
I know that I hated it when people would tell me this.
Breathe.
Really? Is that all you got?
Just breathe?
I am breathing.

By the way, what does that even mean?
Breathe. . .

I am going to ask you to pardon this entry while I allow for some honesty. I suppose no one really breaks down these kind of topics to us when we were kids. At least, I can say this is true for me.
No one ever taught me about romance. No one ever told me about the importance of life or how to be gentle or how to hold on to a minute because once that minute is gone, it’s gone forever!

I never had a son. Then again, The Old Man has been gone for so long that it almost seems as if I never had a Father either, which is untrue, of course. At the same time, The Old Man is only memory now. He is pieces of my past and little portions of my childhood memory which will surface from time to time.
I view these moments as special. However, and since there is no real back-and-forth or understandable way of communication with those who left this Earth, in fairness to myself, I suppose I had to learn things by myself.

Before we go forward with today’s exercise, I have to say that at this point . . .
I’m not even sure if this is from me to you anymore.
I’m not sure if this is me speaking to you from the heart or if this is me speaking to myself.
If anything, at worst, this is honest.
I know this is from the heart and yes, this is something I wished that someone else was brave enough to tell me. This way, I would know that I am not the only one.
I’m not alone.