What Do You Know (You’re Just a Kid) Ch. 21

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.

Deep down, I knew everything but, at the same time, I had no idea what I was doing.
I suppose I was flying by the seat of my pants. I suppose I was operating on a different level than the typical or common kid. Maybe the truth is I was afraid.

Yes, that’s it.
I was afraid.
I was afraid to be picked on. I was afraid that no one would like me. I was afraid that no one would want me around or that no girl would like me back, and that I would never be seen or noticed or regarded and included. I was afraid of being that faceless person in the classroom or just unimportant or a waste of a body who sits in a chair and the whole world could laugh and celebrate – but should I disappear, I was afraid that no one would notice. Or worse, no one would even care.

No one wants to be left out or to be the one who is picked on or bullied or shamed or humiliated. No one wants to be at the bottom end of the social pecking order. But yet, there is a pecking order.

I have been asked why I think there is an attraction to the tough guy or the so-called bad ass or why there’s a fascination for the gangster life.
Again, I think this is a curious thing.
I admit that I used to find myself in that rebellious mindset. I can say that the rebellions in my heart were typical results or the aftermath of my experiences. Due to the results of my first experiences with being the fool or picked on, or after I found myself hurt or beaten-up in the schoolyard, or after it was revealed that I was gullible, or that I was the butt of someone’s joke and openly humiliated or exposed in front of everybody, I was afraid to be like the low-hanging fruit or the weakling to a pack of wild dogs — eager to cull the herd chew the flesh of say, the weakest of all.
I had to lick my wounds. I had to cover my scars or expose them and learn how to brag. I had to cloak myself with a new shade of armor so that I could thicken my skin. I had to learn how to volley and banter but more than anything, I had to learn how to absorb the pain until it was either nonexistent or simply unobjectionable. This way, no one could hurt me.

I chose my place in the crowd. Sure, I chose my rank, and I chose my armor. I chose my outfits, and I wore my scars like stripes on the armband of someone’s plastic militia.
I chose the rebellious. I chose the angry. I chose to find myself in the surroundings that matched the degradation in my heart; therefore, I chose to match this with my behavior and with a rebellion so that my pain and outrage could speak from my heart – and sure, I was bullied. I was picked on. But I did my share as well.
I was kicked around, and I had my share of fights and losses. I could hardly read, and I was never good in math. Then again, I was hardly good in any of my classes which is why I hardly went.
Besides, I had no interest in school. I hated the social politics and different sections of popularity. I hated the anxiety that I felt each morning while thinking about what might happen to me. I remember projecting my fears and so, sure – I chose an angry pathway through different types of behavioral responses. This is what marked my rebellion . . . .

I chose to bleed. I chose to hurt because, to me, or at least in my head, if I could train myself to accept pain then no one could hurt me.
How can you hurt me if I couldn’t even hurt myself?
(Understand?)

Was I angry?
Absolutely.
Was I hurt?
More than anything.
This was me, all day, every day.

But why?
Well, let’s see –

No one tells a kid, “hey, this is going to be hard. But don’t worry.”
No one ever told me “You’re not alone!”
I was terminally different.
No one explained this to me.
But here’s the truth:
No one gets though this without some bumps and bruises.
No one at all

No one tells a kid, “hey, I know they said you have learning disabilities, but trust me – you are smarter than the teachers who teach you.”
I thought I was nothing more than a waste. . .

However:
One of the kindest compliments I have ever received was at my Mother’s funeral.
I saw an old friend from the neighborhood. She was there with her husband, who was older than me. But he was also from the neighborhood. They knew me.

She had mentioned that she was sorry to see me under these circumstances.
But she was glad to see me because she wanted to tell me something.
She mentioned my writing.
She offered the compliment that she believed this was always me.
This has always been you – she said.
She told me that I was probably too smart for school, and to smart for the teachers, and that school was just uninteresting or boring.
I loved that.
This meant so much to me.
More than anyone would ever know.

It is amazing how much we doubt ourselves and how deeply we live inside of our own minds. It is equally amazing to me how weary we become and how sad or dangerous we can become to ourselves. No, not everyone goes the same path as, say, me with drugs or alcohol or with crime or my fascination with revenge or violence.
But, actions and intentions or the birth thereof can be similar. Although our responses may differ – the core of us are relatable and understandable things that people seldom share with each other.

I admit it. . .
I liked the crime scenes.
I liked the rage.
I loved the adrenaline of doing something bad – so-to-speak.

This was a result of my emotional content or better yet, this was my response to a scream that I was never able to shout or have this voiced to leave my mouth.
My words were spoken by actions and the acts of my crazy young self. I did what I did because I was always responding or honoring a thought, a want, a fear or a need. I lacked the language to communicate my discomforts so instead, I acted out.

With regards to my actions . . .
I don’t do war stories. I see no honor in these things.
I don’t brag or boast about the drug culture or how much I did or drank or what happened.
I will make references to where I was at times or talk about the feelings behind the nights when I found myself alone; however, even the most degrading stories are somewhat intriguing to someone who is hurt or scared of feeling similarly – and so, there are kids who are like me when I was young – trying to find an escape or an outlet or an answer. Maybe they need their own rebellion too, which is why I never offer ideas about the razor blade or the way I’d cut or hurt, just to teach myself how to endure pain.
I see no reason to disclose all of these details.
Why?
Is it to just to satisfy a morbid curiosity?
How would this help?
I am not here to inspire an idea for some kid to follow my old self, like some poorly appointed leader and say hey kid – put the needle in this way.

I see no reason to glamorize this way of living or the drug culture, especially to kids because, like me, hearing these stories is like listening to a different version of soft-grade or emotional porn.
It is enticing and intriguing, and as crazy as this sounds – war stories or the dangers of say, finding oneself in a jail cell, or running wild all over the streets, or being chased by police or running from helicopters, or breaking things, destroying brain cells, or essentially finding oneself on the wrong end of a gun or holding a pistol in your hand (to gain some type of power) or by ending up in abandoned building or in some dope den or a crack house and I could go on – but all of this, as crazy as it sounds, is nothing more than a strange invitation for those who are sick and tired of a life they never asked for.

I remember being asked why I never spoke about drugs in my drug and alcohol presentations.
This is why.
I was asked by a student if I was ever bullied.
I answered yes.
I was asked “do you remember the last time you were bullied in school?”
I do . . .

But if I had answered this in that class, and if I unfolded the entire story, what would I have done for that student?
Give him ideas, maybe?
I was asked if I stood up for myself.
I did.
However, I did this in such a way that someone almost died . . .
I had a plan. I had a knife.
I had a chemical in my bloodstream that fueled me so that I could be otherwise painless and free from rational thinking and absent enough that my upcoming consequences were non-threatening at best.
I trained myself to endure what might happen in case the fight went on, which meant I had to prepare for pain.
So there were several cuts in my arm and my right leg.
I carved different insignias and emblems of satanic beliefs in my body.
I did this so I could bleed and be prepared.
But more, I was intending on making my bully bleed from his neck; and had fate been different, or had I been early enough to class where my plan would have been uninterrupted, and the seat beside him would have been vacant; I am not sure if I would be the narrator that I am for you today.
But fortunately, I am.

I would like to leave with this:
Bullying is like a time released capsule.
What I mean is yes, the insults hurt.
Yes, they do.
But what hurts more are the tapes in our mind which are how we play what took place, over and over again in our heads, until we find ourselves so hurt or so enraged that finally, we just can’t take it anymore.
And we snap . . .

I offer this because teenage suicide is real.
Does anyone listen to our kids?
I believe that people think they listen.
Does anyone listen to hear them, or do they listen to respond?
To be honest –
I can understand wanting to take away the pain from someone or wishing they would think differently for themselves. so, we try to impress a different way of thinking.

I ask that you please understand something:
Part of suicide is the need to be free.
You want to be free from all the shit and all the stress and all the hate and shame and most of all, you want to get away from the terminally unique idea of being so lonesome or unlike anyone else.
You want the thoughts to go away. Or you forget that the word “forever” is a very long time and still, you’re stuck with the idea that somehow, things will be “this” bad forever.
It’s not that you want to die as much as you want everything to stop – but nothing stops.
You just need to breathe, but you can’t.
It’s like being on some hellbent ride that you want to get off of – but you can’t and there’s no stopping this roller coaster.
Time never stops moving. You need a break. You need to just . . . get away from everything – to disappear or to finally have some kind of relief that’s longer than some kind of temporary fix.

I remember being chosen to speak at an event in a town that was not too far from where I grew up.

I blew up. I showed them all of who I am, both now and then.
I let that bullied kid and the scared kid or the stupid one, and the one who was picked on or so awkward and uncomfortable and more to the point, I let the old me come out and show them what my pain was like. I exposed why I chose what I chose and how this life failed me – miserably. Hence, I found myself in the worst of places and nearly dead, I found my way back home
(somehow).

I cried and I screamed.
And so did the kids at the town’s event.

A parent approached me to complain about my content.
I did not curse or say anything obscene.
However, I made it clear to illustrate my point.

The parent explained that I made the kids cry.
Good . . .
Let them cry here, I said.
I’d rather them cry here, out in the open.
Sure as hell beats them being in a hospital and their parents crying over their dead bodies!

Oh . . .
Dear You,

I have very little left in me at times. And there are times when I find myself hearing the old whispers too. However, there are times, and even in the worst cases when something comes up like a common or even an uncommon, or an everyday tragedy comes up, and somehow someone approaches me to say, “hey, that thing you did? That meant something to me.”

Ah, to be heard. To be acknowledged and validated.
To realize that we are not so alone or that we are not as alone as our assumptions imply.
Better yet, to find out that you and I and all of us down here on Project Earth all have an unimaginable value.
We are all worthy. No matter where you go or where we are in this place and no matter if we are close or far apart – I know that you are one of the most impactful people in my life because you were there to correct me by saying, “oh yes you can!”

And Mom,
This part is to you.

Wherever you are . . .
I wish you never had to see what you saw.
But Ma, I learned how to share our past in a way that there are kids who don’t have to see what you saw or go through what we went through – together.

I’m still writing, Ma.
I promise that I will see this through.

And make you proud . . .

Love always,

Your son

B –