I remember back when the summers used to mean something. I remember back when the kids from the neighborhood were still the kids from the neighborhood and yes, I remember the wild times and the bad times and, of course, I remember the troubled times.
I remember the wild nights and crazy days. Without question, I remember thinking that this was going to be my life—always.
I never thought time would step in, at least not like this.
I never assumed age would take place, at least not like it has. And of course, there were times when I wondered what my life would be like, in say, 20 or 30 years. On top of this, I often wonder if I could go back to that time, just to let me see myself now.
What would I say? What would I ask me about the future?
What would I tell my younger self to do?
How would I warn me?
How would I teach me about the ghosts of my past and how they can haunt me for decades.
I mention this because I can recall hearing the warnings and the advice from those who were older than me. I remember hearing the warnings from those who lived before me, and looking back, I can remember hearing about the red flags and warning signs, which I passed and ignored along the way.
I can remember saying, “I would never let that happen to me!”
That would never be me.
Ever!
I remember my youthful and faulty rebellions. I remember the line between “me” and “them” as if to place “them” or anyone who opposed or tried to warn me in a column or category.
To put this simply, I used to categorize anyone who would try to discourage or deter me as an enemy. And so, I was no different than the Prodigal son.
I was not unlike him in the means that I wandered off and squandered all that I had. I lived and I squandered beyond my means.
I lost more than I bargained for which left me in both emotional and financial bankruptcies.
I was alone and unsure why. At the same time, I knew why.
I remember back when I thought success was an act. I lacked the ability to understand the difference between aggressive and assertive and I also failed to understand the difference between confidence and arrogance. I thought that success was just an act. I thought this had to do with the way I walked or talked and dressed or carried myself.
But to me, this was nothing more than performance. And yes, I do think people like to perform or act as if. At the time, acting was all I could do.
I believe in both sincerity and the insincerity of man as well as the commonality of ego driven casualties and the self-made catastrophes, which could have been avoided, if we only listened to the forecast from the warnings we disregarded.
I do believe we die several times. We die while we are alive and that, yes, some of our personal deaths could have been avoided and preventable. Then again, if this is about how life pertains to me; then this would have required that I listen first and acted later.
It’s not that I didn’t listen. Or perhaps I heard what was said. But I never listened to the details or to the contents of the warnings. I never listen to the advisories because, of course, I believed in my heart—I knew better.
That would never happen to me.
Then again, everyone says things like, that would never happen to me—
until it does happen.
Next, we find ourselves painted into a corner. Or we find ourselves in the dilemma of the forewarned outcomes. We were told about the troubles ahead, more than once, which could have been avoided. . .
If we only listened.
But no, I swore that I knew better.
I swore that I could outrun the consequences. I swore that I could dodge the pain; and more than anything, I swore that my fantasy was so great and so big or so huge, and in the shortsightedness of my young adult life—I swore that I would be able to pull off a trick or two.
I swore that I would find a way to get over, which was more than getting by.
In my haste to make waste or in my moves to avoid the blisters of hard work, and in my early laziness, and when I swore that I could find a loophole or a bendable truth, I did what I could to get over—or get by.
Did I cheat? Yes.
I cheated in every sense of the word.
In fairness to my own self and allowing for full-transparency, I never believed I could win or beat the game or the players. I never thought that “someone like me” could win if I played it straight.
I swore that I was lacking, or that I was less-than, or that somehow; everything was simply easier for everyone else. I figured I’d always need an edge. . .
I swore that I was no better than the labels I was given.
I swore that I was stupid, or that I was a loser, or that I was someone who would eventually end up dead in some gunfight or in jail for the rest of my life.
I remember back when my angst and rebellion was strong enough to keep me going. I also remember when I was young enough to heal, or at least young enough to heal quicker than the way I heal now as opposed to the way I healed 32 years ago.
Old habits die hard, or so they say.
I’ve heard that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
Or at least, this is what people have told me.
I am not so old or so young. I am jaded in some regards and open in other ways. I am learning and hopeful because no matter how old I am or regardless of how jaded I have become—I swear, I still have some of my youth in me.
I know I do.
I know there’s love in there
and it’s worthwhile too.
I might have argued with you if you would have told the younger me that I would be this age.
I might have argued with you that I wouldn’t live that long.
If you would have told me that I would have to pay taxes and kiss ass or take shit, so-to-speak, or if you told me that I would have to play along to get along, or follow the rules, I might have argued and told you, “NEVER!”
I might have told you to go to hell
or tell you, “the hell you say!”
I might have sworn that I would never follow the line or appease the herd. I’d have told you that I would never submit or surrender. I’d never join the adult ranks.
I’d rebel to the day I die.
Fortunately, I am not dead. However, I am here to report that my greatest rebellions weren’t so great.
If you went back to my younger self, or my dangerous self, which is the part of me that if I could, I’d love to reach back to the “know-it-all,” punk that I was, and if I could find a way to make this happen and go back to my younger, former self, I’d have grabbed me and shook me by the neck or punched myself in the face.
I remember the night I was there to see the accidental murder. This was the vehicular killing of a young Mexican girl who was princess-like with Azteca-like features and beautiful eyes. She had deep almond-colored skin and dark black hair.
She was young and beautiful and running across a street known as Old Country Road during the Christmas season.
I remember when a man came into the fast-food place where I sat with an old childhood friend, or otherwise known as my partner in crime. The man was feminine and tall, thin, like a broomstick with arms and legs. He had a shaved head to blend the features of his balding top with his shaved sides. He was frantic and running in with a red jacket and faded blue jeans that were ripped at the thighs and the knees. He was crying. He was shaking. Then he began screaming, “She’s dead!”
“She’s dead!”
I was sitting near the door when he came in.
I asked, “Who is?”
“Outside,” he said in a feminine voice.
“She’s dead.”
I pointed to the payphone.
“Call 911.”
And he did.
The reason for the young woman’s death was because she was running across the street. But she was running with a good reason. She was looking to deliver her very first paycheck to her new husband.
She was so proud. Or perhaps too proud to see the car, which was driven by the man in the red jacket, and that’s why he hit her.
The young girl flew up in the air and when she came down, she was hit again by a pick-up truck, which flung her in the air again, and then lastly, she hit the ground and her mid-section was flattened by the limousine which was the last to hit her.
My so-called partner and I were waiting to be paid for some stupid scam. We were sitting and bullshitting. We were talking about crime and like two very small fish in a really large pond, we had no idea that we were only guppies amongst the sharks.
My partner and I went outside to see what happened.
I felt nothing at the time.
I felt no anger nor pain nor discomfort nor pity or even a shred of sympathy — or empathy,
I felt nothing.
Even if it were me who was the first or last car to hit the woman and end this young girl’s life, there would be nothing from me.
Not a flinch.
I had trained myself to be this way. No, really.
I did.
I trained myself to endure pain.
I trained myself to be this callous and cold, as if to be permanently numb. Therefore, nothing could ever hurt me.
I almost celebrated my numbness or the aloofness, of being so withdrawn and so distant.
In fact, after seeing the goriest detail of my life—I went back inside to finish my pizza, which was not unlike the body matter that was on the ground by the young girl’s midsection.
I remember the halo of blood from her head, which was black in the nighttime. The air was cold and I assumed the pavement on the street was cold too, like winds, and again, her blood was black, like black water spilling from a bucket around her head.
I remember the flatness of her stomach and how this was paper thin after the limousine run across her gut. But more, I remember the perfection of her face.
She was beautiful.
Her facial expression was frozen in time, and stuck, or fixed with her last and final look—as if to be shocked and scared, frightened, or perhaps she was too let down because, again, she was so proud to deliver her first paycheck to her husband—all of her emotions appeared real to me in her last and final face.
I was absent and vacant.
There was a girl who was perhaps around my age. And she asked how I could be so matter-of-fact or nonchalant.
She asked me, “What if that was your wife?”
“Or what if that were your mother or your sister.”
I didn’t feel anything; not even enough to answer her, which was surreal and odd because I noticed that what she was saying was true.
My partner answered for me in the lest sincere and the most disrespectful way possible.
He told her, “listen here, honey, if that was anyone to him, that limo driver would be dead.
My partner noted the limo driver because he was one of the few who stayed until, the police and the ambulance came. He was crying too.
I couldn’t do that.
The limo driver was sitting on the hood of his car, sobbing for the loss. But I couldn’t feel anything, at least not then
I was so cold then. I was perhaps capable of the worst yet, in my heart—I knew this wasn’t me. Then again, who knew me?
Not me?
Perhaps you knew me.
Then again, and in fairness, you always knew me.
I believe this.
You are my most special friend and the most special person in my small and fragile world.
You knew this wasn’t me.
I had trained myself to be unfeeling, or numb, distant, and I worked hard to remove myself from the struggles of emotional pain or fear.
I allowed rage and anger to take its place so that nothing and no one could ever hurt me.
(Again)
I wish I could speak to that young man. I wish I could go back to who I was then and when (or if) I did — I’d want to tell him how wrong we were.
I’d say that there is hope and that there is beauty in empathy.
I’d say, “you got it all wrong, son.”
I’d tell me that you are far better than you think and even far more beautiful than you believe.
I’d say please, for both of us, be gentle to yourself.
Be kind because your cruelties have hurt me far more than we realized they would.
You are going to meet good people. Stay with them. Avoid the flock and the crowds and the social draws. And be mindful. Beware. Be advised, this is not the way to go.
You are going to miss the ride, kid.
You are going to let love pass you by and then, one day, you’ll find yourself alone and with no one to love you or care if you live or die.
You will have pushed everyone away. You’re going to make big mistakes.
You are going to ruin relationships with this callous sense of self.
You’ll forever be alone and angry and scared to open up.
You will further the internal narcissist and sooner or later, you will implode — and be nothing or come so close to death (again) that dying might sound like a good idea.
I can see myself. Young and crazy and ignorant.
I wish I could go see him.
I wish I could relay the message and say it’s okay.
Go left instead or right.
Love “her” back.
It’s okay to take a chance.
It’s okay to be vulnerable.
Don’t be afraid of this.
“But I am scared.”
It’s okay.
“What if I get laughed at again?”
Trust me, kid—
Anyone who laughs is not your friend to begin with.
“What if I walk away and find out that I don’t really have any friends?”
Don’t worry son. You’ll always have me.
“But what if that’s not enough and I end up alone?”
I have news for you kid.
Real or fake, true or false, you’re going to end up alone anyway if you keep this shit up!
“Yeah, but at least I won’t feel it.
At least, I’ll be numb to it.”
If this is how the talk went, then I’d say . . .
You can pull that shit with the rest of the world but not with me.
See? I know you.
In fact, I am you.
All that hate is going to destroy you, son.
Please . . . let it go and be who you’re supposed to be.
I have come to you because my travels have hurt me.
I can’t carry the weapons of self-destruction anymore.
I have to let go of the wreckages from my past.
I just have to . . .
“Do you really think that anyone will ever love me?”
And now, if this were real and if this was a true conversation between the person I am and the person I was back then, I’d explain myself a little more.
I’d say that I can’t tell the future. But I can tell you this, one day, someone is going to come into your life.
Know this.
Respect it.
Appreciate it.
But most of all enjoy this and don’t be so afraid to dance.
Don’t be so blind that you close yourself off to the world simply because you’re too scared.
“But I don’t like being scared!”
Me neither, kid. But scared is only one of many emotions.
Trust me. There’s beauty out there, just waiting for you.
There’s love. There’s empathy.
There’s joy.
There are times when it will be safe to cry.
There will be warmth for your hands.
I promise.
“Will someone really love me?”
Yes son,
I promise.
“When?”
I don’t know, kid.
But open your eyes and learn to read the signs.
Look for the birds.
Listen for your princess.
All I can tell you is this – she is better than anyone else in this world.
She is brighter and to you, she is more lifesaving than any medication on the market.
She is everything and more.
I promise. And she will save you.
“Okay. So, what do I do when I meet her?”
Love her . . .
and never let her go!
Trust me— The life you miss could very well be your own.
Save yourself, son.
Save your own life,
Every day . . .
The Written Addiction 