Before we move on, I think now is a good time to talk about the distortions of self.
Okay?
I want to talk about this and the way this leads to a misunderstanding of who we are.
I look back at pictures from when I was young. I think about the challenges I had back them. I think about the struggles I had with my self-esteem and my misdirection of ideas that somehow put me in a different class or category.
I think back to the saying, “Man is as he thinketh,” and yes, that was me. I was exactly who I thought I was. To be clear, how could I be anyone different?
How could anyone see me as valuable if I failed to see my own worth?
No, I thought of myself as I saw myself, which meant that I was caught in the various stages of constant comparison to other people.
I had challenges with my body image.
I had challenges with my personality.
I swore that I was stupid.
I swore there was something wrong with me.
Oh, and by the way—
I never knew how common it is to be uncomfortable or to question oneself. I never believed that anyone else was insecure or at least, I never assumed anyone could be as insecure as me.
I never thought that anyone else was tortured by their own thinking or that other people rehearsed old conversations that took place in their head.
I never assumed that anyone else relived old arguments and practiced what they would say, just to prepare or be ready—just in case the conversation should happen again.
This kind of thinking can be brutal.
All this does is keep the insults alive and picks the scabs on our invisible wounds, which keeps them from healing.
And as for being awkward, I always assumed that people saw me the same way that I saw myself, which was uncomfortable at best. I was never comfortable with my body or the features of my face, like the way my eyes looked because one is shaped differently from the other—and the same thing is with my ears too.
I was skinny.
I was scrawny, at best.
I couldn’t fight my way out of a wet paper bag yet, I had to try.
Right?
Who wants to date the weaklings?
So—
I had to act or pretend, which I knew was all just an act. I knew that I was weak and that if my act was called out or if I had to put up or shut up, I knew that I would have to face the humiliation that I was nothing more than a liar or an imposter. I was never tough or strong and yes, I was weak in so many ways.
I have to preface by explaining that I grew up in the generation before technology. We never had a cell phone in every pocket and each cell phone came with a camera.
No, I was never around cameras very much—then again, nobody I knew at the time wanted their pictures taken. Back then, pictures were called evidence.
However, there are a few pictures that surface and I see them much differently now. I shake my head because, in fairness, I looked pretty good . . .
I was never ugly. I might not have had the perfect body or the perfect anything—but thankfully, I’ve always had a good head of hair.
I was never overweight, until I was much older.
And dig—
This is what makes me shake my head.
This is what leads me to talk about the distortions of self because most of my life was buried beneath the rubble of insecurities.
I could never seem to get out from under this.
I could hardly breathe.
But I wonder. . .
I wonder how much fun was missed because I was too busy thinking or worrying too much about the way I looked or smiled—or danced.
I think about what life could have been if I decided to abandon my social considerations and rather than find myself in the constant race or competition for worthiness—I wonder what my life would have been like if I chose to abandon my worries and let them go.
Or if the music played, rather than think about the way I stepped or tried to dance, I wondered how great it would feel if I allowed myself to flow with the music—or as Dobie Gray sang in Drift Away, I wonder what life would have been like if I chose to follow his lyrics.
More accurately, I wonder what life would have been like if I chose “to get lost in your rock and roll and drift away.”
Here’s the point —
I would like to offer you something.
As crazy as the days are and as troublesome as they can be, we are living in great times.
We are here, under the sky. We can change our minds. We can switch directions. We can put on a song or two and dance for a while.
Please believe me.
These are great days.
The world is a beautiful place. And you, well, quite honestly, you are far more incredible than you could possibly imagine.
I would like to impress upon you the value of this thing we call life.
I would like you to see how amazing this is—or how incredible you are.
I would like you to understand that like I had mentioned to you in a previous entry, there is nothing in front of you but air and opportunity.
There are things that I wish I knew . . .
I was afraid to dance. I was afraid to laugh because what if I laughed at the wrong time or what if my smile was too odd and what if my way would cause me to be seen as awkward or substandard?
I would like to offer the idea that the butchering of self is a problem that comes from within.
It is a result of these personal distortions that cause us to see ourselves inaccurately, or otherwise, some would even consider themselves to be ugly or unwanted . . .
We have all been born from certain lessons and we have re-evaluated ourselves and decided to change or deviate away from our standards.
We all have our own survival skills and means of self-preservation.
We have learned this over the years.
There are times and moments of shame or memories which we swore, “fuck that!!” we will never feel that weak or foolish again.
I was listening to a video of an elderly woman. She talked about the things she had which she used to believe were so valuable.
She was talking about dishes that she had and different things from her home where she raised her family—and now, nobody cares about them. Nobody wants them and none of these “once-valued” materialistic things are worth anything to anyone anymore.
I think about this too.
Only, I’m not thinking about the dishes or the different things we buy in a store.
No, I am thinking about our level of importance and how we prioritize our life.
I’m thinking of the things we think are so important when in reality, none of this is important at all.
I’m thinking about wasted time which is an aftereffect of living so deeply in our heads or giving so much to our fears that we miss out on the rites of passage that life has to offer.
I think about how our thoughts betray us and that we forget to let ourselves go or be free enough to laugh or sing or dance in the rain.
A year from now, we might look back on the time we wasted today.
We might think about the priorities we have now which will be unimportant in the future—and perhaps we might look back at this with contempt or disgust because we wasted so much energy on shame and fear. Maybe we will look back and shake our heads because we worried for nothing.
Please, don’t be afraid to dance.
Don’t be afraid to like what you like or do what you love.
Please, don’t be afraid to try and fail or to take a shot and miss.
And be advised:
Another thing that I have been consistent with is my opinion of bullies and the aftereffects of bullying.
This is what comes with the insults of being picked on or laughed at.
I remember being laughed at—
The first time was in 2nd grade because I wet my pants in the cafeteria.
I told everybody how I spilled my milk, but the lunch aide pointed out that I didn’t open my milk yet, and she said this with an annoyed look of disgust on her face.
Everyone laughed at me and that wasn’t even the worst part.
They sent me to the nurse’s office to wear an “emergency” pair of pants.
The pants were corduroy, and purple to be exact.
Also known as “NOT COOL!”
I remember the sound of the kids who laughed at me.
This was brutal.
I remember being laughed at when I went to basketball practice for the first time. I was excited but only for the first few minutes.
This was because I never did a layup before—but I was about to.
The only problem is I threw the ball up too late and the ball hit the bottom of the backboard and then BAM! The ball shot back and bashed me in the face.
Everyone laughed.
I never wanted to play after that.
Hence, I bring this back to the distortion of self.
I am certainly never going to be in the 2nd grade again and I highly doubt that there will be a pair of purple corduroy pants in my future.
No one is ever going to laugh at me like they did in basketball practice, and no one will ever bully me again. Not on my watch . . .
I do not have to entertain my bouts with shame and, if I allow myself, I can learn to dance and sing and even if someone laughs or makes fun—then, so what?
My aim is not to make them happy . . .
My aim is to make me happy.
My life belongs to me and like I said to you yesterday, if it is up to me, then it is up to me to live my life and reach my best possible potential on a daily basis.
I see these kids today.
I think about the way our distortions of self can ruin a good time—just like a bully comes in and steals our smile.
If I can save anyone from this theft of service or even if I open the eyes of one person so that they can let themselves go—even if they only do this once, then this journal has gone far beyond what I could have possibly hoped for.
But, if not —
At least I took a shot.
The Written Addiction 