There are times
when you are going to ask yourself,
what the hell was I thinking?
I swear this happens to everybody.
There are times when we look back
at our so-called hard times
or the troubles from our past,
and then we’ll shake our heads
or we’ll laugh and realize
that maybe it wasn’t so bad.
Maybe we realize that life is filled
with momentary things.
But that’s life, right?
Here we are in the middle of another challenge
and here we are,
facing the end of the world, or so it seems,
and in hindsight,
or when we look back after the future takes its course,
we start to realize that maybe we are tougher than we think,
or maybe the catastrophes in our mind
were not as catastrophic
as our mind believed them to be.
Hope . . .
That’s what this is all about.
Hope . . .
I have spent the last decade, or more,
writing about everything I can
and from sadness to sorrow or greatness to glory,
my topics have swung like the pendulum,
from good to bad, or from defeat to victory.
I have been told that no one cares about this stuff . . .
I have been told that, at best,
I am an amateur and that my writing
is less than impressive. And, to be honest,
I’m fine with that . . .
I have been told the opposite by others
who have experienced both ups and downs
and the ins and outs of daily life—and more,
I have been fortunate to have met with people
who have reached out to me
after reading one of my passages.
They get it. Or maybe I get it and to them,
this is what they found impressive,
which not to say that I am impressive or anything better
than a common, everyday person in this world.
For the record; this is not to say that
my articulation or that my summary of events
is perfectly detailed, worded, or grammatically correct;
however, this is only to say that my honesty was enough
to resonate with someone enough to allow them,
at least for a moment,
to realize that none of us are so alone.
I remember when I used to be deployed
to emergency rooms.
I remember them, the clients,
or otherwise known as patients to the hospital,
and I remember the looks on their faces,
alive after death, and alive after an apparent overdose
which nearly ended them
or placed them on a list as another statistic,
or tragedy.
or to add a different color, I was there to see people
who were marked with stigma,
lay in a hospital bed,
asking themselves
“What the hell just happened to me?”
I remember their faces, which is odd to say
because the number of people is high,
yet each had an entirely unique, different
and similar story.
I suppose this was the most successful journey
of my mental health career.
I suppose this is where life and death live,
in the emergency room of some hospital.
I remember seeing elderly couples, holding each other,
as if this might be their last goodbye.
I remember seeing this and realizing
the value of love and how desperate I was
to feel this kind of love
which is true love.
And this is life,
because although this is not the best part,
dying is very much a part of living,
and we need to understand this
in order for us to be alive.
I remember one of my deployments:
I sat with a middle-aged man
who was homeless.
We talked for about an hour or so.
He was not my client but he was a person, nonetheless,
to which, I listened to him and let him speak.
He told me about his reasons as to why he wanted to die
or why he tried to kill himself.
We talked for about an hour—or maybe more.
I was waiting for my client to regain enough consciousness
to have a conversation with me,
but he was out, and mainly;
I had to wait for him to be coherent enough
to sign for the proper services.
The man in the hallway, who was on a gurney
was just a man
who was down on his luck.
So, we talked.
The man was whitehaired and plump, red-faced, and drunk.
He was just a man. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I suppose I am the same
A man
nothing more . . .
. . . nothing less.
And we talked. Not as a specialist to a client.
No, we just talked.
We talked about everything, except for “the thing”
that brought him into the emergency room.
I shook his hand and wished him well.
I told him to hang in there and sit tight.
“The world really is a beautiful place.”
He asked:
“Did you ever try to kill yourself?”
“Sure. . . .”
I was only eight years-old the first time.
We talked.
We talked about life.
Not death.
We talked about everything from a good meal,
(since the hospital food he ate was terrible)
and then we went on about the good times
and the ideas that come around
to make life worth living.
A few days later,
I received a call from one of the head nurses.
She explained that she was told about my conversation
with a man in the E.R.
He chose to go to treatment
(this time).
When asked about his change of heart,
he told a nurse, “Because someone was kind enough
to show me that life is worth living.”
I saw this man unexpectedly,
and he told me that he remembered me
from the night in the hospital.
However, I did not recognize him at first,
and in fairness,
he looked very different from when
he was in the E.R.
He was sober and doing well.
He thanked me . . .
Meanwhile, what he didn’t know,
or what he couldn’t know
is that I am a person
who lives with medicated resistant depression.
I know all about suicidal ideation.
What he never knew is that by talking to me . . .
it was him who saved my life
and not the other way around.
I am a big proponent of the saying,
“you never know what someone else is going through.
So be kind”.
I am a fan of the saying which goes,
“in a world where you can be anything,
be kind.”
And I’m trying . . .
I really am.
By the way, and for the record,
hope is more than a feeling, or a sense inside of us.
No, I say hope is far more than this.
Hope is a message.
Hope is a delivery or an unexpected gift
that let’s you know that you are thought of,
cared for, and that despite the ideas in your head
hope is a spirit of someone or something
that comes along and says,
“Not today, kid . . .you matter way too much!’
I am humble.
I am modest.
I am vulnerable
and small in such a huge world
and I am hopeful too
because in the absence of hope
or in the depth of despair,
or during my worst moments of disparity;
I have been blessed by external signs of love
and care, and support.
In fairness, I don’t know why I am alive.
I don’t know why I survived some of the things
which I have survived. And I don’t know
why some people, “make it,”
and some people don’t.
I don’t know any of these things.
I don’t know why a trucker by the name of Painted Nana
reached out to me
to have me write a poem for her grandchildren
after their Mother passed away.
I don’t know why a little girl
chose to tell me the things she did
or share her life with me
or dared the defying past of hurt feelings
and scared emotions of trust and the lack thereof.
I don’t know why people believe in me,
or namely you—yes, you,
specifically you.
I don’t know why you choose me
or choose to call me beautiful when in fact,
I struggle with my own reflection
and at the same time;
all I have is my secret of endurance,
which is this passage and these journals
and regardless of whether I am a hit in the literary world
or if anyone else cares—I am certain
that had it not been for you,
or had it not been for your breath of fresh air,
which overwhelms me when you enter the room —
maybe I’d be like the man in the E.R.
content to find my exit, but no.
You are more than love—you are the spirit of hope
and a kind word that reminds me (daily)
that the world is a beautiful place
and that life is worth living.
So you, for this
I thank you.
In a world where we can be anything, yes,
the answer is to be kind.
But me, I’d rather be like you.
A lifesaver
A love
A beautiful example of what a person should be like.
I know that I am capable of great things.
I know this because you told me so
and I know
that you would never lie to me
about this.
I am capable.
We all are.
However, sometimes the rarity of love and having a soulmate
comes together
to inspire life in the heart of a lifeless body.
I want to be alive, I say.
Just like you are.
My hero of all heroes.
My love.
Oh, and on a different note—this is to you
Mathias . . .
I have done what you told me, all those years ago.
I just wish you were still around
because your brotherhood
was heroic to me.
No one knew the real you.
But I did
and that’s what saved my life.
So,
in a world where I can be anything,
I choose to be honest about this.
I choose to tell the world that life is a struggle
and the pain hurts, and that loneliness is lonesome
and depression is a bitch!
But regardless of our blurred vision,
the world is a beautiful place,
even at ugly times.
And how do I know?
It’s because I have hope.
(Thanks to you.)
I love you.
The Written Addiction 