I remember my first presentation in a high school setting. I have to say that I was as nervous then as I was when I was a kid. I never did well at school. I never fit in well and I never thought that I was “enough” or “cool,” and somehow, I was being brought in as a special speaker.
Although I was fully gown, I was as scared then as I was when I crossed through the double-doors of my own middle school. I say this because I never had a true high school experience. I never went beyond the ninth grade in a formal classroom setting.
See, I was one of “those kids.”
I was one of the labeled students. I was one of the socially uncomfortable and one of the defiant ones. I had challenges and struggles yet, I never had the voice or the ability to talk about them.
I was out of place or out of sorts. I was visually different from the other kids who were my age. I was small, short and very young looking. I stuttered when I’d read out loud in classrooms. I had learning disabilities that were not addressed and I had emotional challenges and personal secrets that defied my best interests.
I had thoughts and ideas that tricked me into believing that I was somewhat unworthy and that I would always and forever be the outcast and unwelcomed.
In fairness, I had grown up since my time as a student yet, I felt all of my old fears the moment I walked through the double-doors of a high school in Northern New Jersey.
I remembered every fear and every bully and every moment that deformed my truths and nearly destroyed my life. Somehow, I was brought in as an expert or professional on a subject that was not only killing our kids, but be advised and be very clear, mental illness and deaths that occur because of mental illness are actually avoidable deaths.
I know this because I am still alive. . .
I was invited to speak as a specialist about drugs and alcohol and the effects of depression and anxiety. However, I refused to glorify or to further glamorize the so-called coolness of getting high.
I refused to contribute to the culture and commercialize the drug craze which I remember very well how I was lured in and tricked.
And, too, I remember hearing about the horror stories and I remember hearing about the local tragedies. Moreover, I remember the sad badges of bullshit honor, and listening to people who exposed their self-inflicted scars and how this was seen as cool—and rather than be a deterrent, I remember how information on where to buy drugs, or when people talked about the so-called wonderful séance and the evilly glorified rituals of going out on the street, and closing in on the target; I remember hearing about the routines behind buying, setting up, and administering the drugs themselves, and how the talks about the methods was almost intoxicating. I was there in a roomful of young people and to a crowd of seekers, or people in search of something (or anything) just to feel better, talking about the culture is more like a soft grade version of pornography. And what does that do?
This makes you want more… not less.
This gives a drive to “feel it” or to feel cool, like some hotshot gangster, or better yet, I can remember being uncomfortable and awkward and being ‘that kid” in need of an edge.
This is why I took to the glorified natures of drugs or the so-called crime scene—just so I could emulate or portray some kind of protective feeling. This is why I gravitated towards an image of rebellion, and I did this to essentially wear this over me like some invisible cloak or shield, or some garb of protection.
As far as I was concerned, everything was about image. And me, I was weak and small, and in my defense, I needed something to hide behind, because yes, I was a coward.
However, as a grown man and as a specialist who was hired to discuss the natures of my past and my understanding of mental illness from a personal perspective, I was brought in to talk about the challenges and the symptoms of anxiety and depression.
Rather than talk about “the thing,” I decided to invite that scared version of who I used to be when I was a kid—and I decided to let him out and to let him be seen. But mainly, I decided to give that bullied, hurt and scared child within a platform so he can be heard.
I decided that I would not focus on the drugs per se; but more, I would talk about the reasons and motivations I had which nearly killed me, and then I discussed the losses of my youth.
I talked about the commonality of fear or the common discomforts of the crowd and of course, I talked about the different pecking orders when it comes to things like the social variations and the different layers of popularity.
I talked about how the different echelons of social groups and the pretty people or the athletic, or when it comes to the somewhat less-than who do not fit the commercialized version of beauty, or how we sperate into cliques, and to sum this up, I illustrated this by discussing the different stations in the school cafeteria. I explained the thoughts and the feelings, as well as the different emotions that go on in the different stations of the crowds.
I talked about where the cool kids sat. I talked about where the troublemakers sat and where the faceless, or the unknown, or where the other kids sat, as in the ones who’d never be remembered or invited to parties and of course, I talked about the visual outcasts or the ugly, or the undesired kids sat.
Rather than discuss the drugs or the ways around my feelings through some vehicle of euphoric passage, I talked about what went on inside of me.
I talked about the insecure nature and the worries of being the least dominant of the species. I talked about the way I thought, or the anxiety I’d feel before going out at night to meet up with a group of friends—or should I say, so-called friends.
I talked about the uniforms we wear and how we dress and how the way we dress can categorize us within a group, or station, or clique. Then I talked about the similarities in our differences because, and to be culturally fluid, although we are all different and unique, and come from different times and places and backgrounds, races, and religions, there is still a common ground when it comes to understanding emotions and the basic needs to be seen, or to be wanted or appreciated, or to be included and yes, I talked about the need to be invited and accepted.
I talked about the value I have behind clean living. I didn’t talk about the comparison of scars or how to look cool while going to jail.
I talked about the very basic needs, or thoughts, and wants. I talked about this in a very basic and understandable way. But more importantly, I spoke to a roomful of students and watched them all as they nodded their head with this wide-eyed expression, as if to be shocked to hear someone else say this, or as if this was so common yet, how this was seldom or rarely, if ever, discussed.
But why?
Why aren’t these things discussed?
I have to say this is one of the proudest accomplishments of my life. I say this because not only was I able to open the eyes of some younger people, but I was able to allow that young boy inside of me, or that bullied kid within my heart, and yes, I was able to let him out, and give him a voice and let him speak, yell, scream, and cry.
By the way . . .
This was the first time I ever really thought about the question, “What now?”
I remember an afternoon in a different high school. I spoke for approximately ten minutes, as a favor to a local law enforcement group. . .
This was on a Friday at the end of the school day in the gymnasium.
One would think the gym would have emptied out at the final bell.
But no.
It took me three hours before I could leave the school.
I spoke to every kid who waited for me.
I remember a young man approached me. He had tears leaking from his eyes.
He walked up and asked, “How come nobody ever told me about these things before?”
“Why couldn’t anyone explain this to me?”
I told him, “I don’t know, son.”
“But I’m here now . . .”
This young man is one of the reasons why I never quit working on my goal to help and improve mental health.
I was told that he went away to college and his life changed and that he was successful . . .
I don’t know how or why or even if this is true.
I only know what I was told.
But an idea came to me after I started doing events like this.
“What now?”
What happens after someone’s eyes are open and they can see clearly?
What does someone do with this kind of information?
I don’t do high school presentations anymore.
However, I do a few college events throughout the school year.
My approach in my presentations has never changed and it never will.
But . . .
I do remember a teacher asking me in front of the kids:
“I know you mentioned the drugs in your story, but you never seemed to go into any detail with it. Why is that?”
My answer: Because I’m not here to be a commercial for drugs.
I’m here to normalize the so-called stigmas that trick people into thinking that they’re not right or that something is wrong with them. And that’s just not true.
I’m here to expose the commonality behind the fact that everyone is going through something.
Drugs are a symptom, not the problem. The same thing can be said about behavior.
I grant that the symptoms are and can be deadly; however, I stand behind the idea that if we improve the worth of someone, you will find that their worthiness allows them to realize that their life is worth more than a quick fix and some special brand of heroin. . .
Understand?
The teacher didn’t like my answer
But that’s okay.
I didn’t like the teacher.
The Written Addiction 