This is not going to be an easy read, however, this was not something that was easy to write.
But either way, here it goes.
There was a time when I saw myself differently than how I see myself now. At the same time, I can still see myself in the reflections of glimpses past.
Of course, it is safe to assume that as I grow or as I move along on this great big conveyor belt that I often refer to as Project Earth, and the more rotations I take around the sun, the more I’ll see, and the more I’ll learn (at least I hope so).
And yes, the more I do and the further I extend myself into the atmosphere of life in my post 50’s, and the more I travel and the farther I go—I have to say that I find it laughable when I realize that all of my searches have led me back to my beginning.
This means I have always had what I needed. This also means that I failed to take notice of the truest value of their beauty, which is how we lose things, which is why butterflies fly away or the birth of a white feather turns to gray.
Everything I’ve always wanted was right there before my eyes yet, there was a special invisibleness or somehow blurring creation that somehow deformed my views or led me to believe that what I had and what I wanted would never be enough. Hence, nothing I could do would ever be enough to get me to where I’ve always wanted to be.
So, I spoke to you about The Prodigal son in a previous entry.
I spoke about running wild. I talked about squandering my wealth—that is, if I had wealth or if I was even wealthy. I talked about the misunderstanding of value and the object of less and how things can vanish, and when they do, we realize how beautiful they were.
I suppose my understanding of wealth was one-dimensional.
I failed to see clearly.
I never realized the value of what I had. I never understood the true and visceral worth of family and friends—at least, of course, not until I found myself alone or in trouble.
And love?
I admit to my faults.
I admit to all of them.
I admit to my wrongs and, as well, I own the incidents and the accidents and chaotic delusions as well as the panics, the rage and the outrageous moments or off-character insults and low-blow deliveries of words that cut sharply. I admit to the wrongful accusations and my insecure reactions.
I admit to them all as well as my misunderstanding and misperceptions and conclusions, which I arrived to before realizing this is only an assumption or projection.
Again, and going forward, I understand the damages and the wreckage of my past can easily become a repeat offender. If I fail to learn my lesson, or mistakenly overlook the wrongs, and refuse to change, I will inevitably find myself back in the same place; hurt and alone.
I admit to my defense mechanisms and the misleading blueprints that build the battle stations in my head.
Of course, this is nothing more than a volume of transparency. This is nothing more than an open exposure, or an uncovered secret to which, yes, I understand my wrongs and my faults and flaws.
I understand my reasons and my efforts behind my excuses. However, and more importantly, I realize the plastic lies that melt by the heat of truth.
I admit to my fears and worries and worst of all, I admit to my greatest fear which is to be exposed the way I was as a young schoolboy, laughed at and picked on, and no differently from the amplified memories which have grown viral throughout my years. I admit to my selfish, self-centeredness, and I admit to the enemies of my discontent, and I openly admit to the truths which I have looked to hide from, or bury, or tuck them away.
I remember when I swore to myself that I would never be so vulnerable again. I remember when I swore off love—at least love, for love’s sake or for the sake of being mutual and reciprocal.
I remember when I swore off the equal distribution of love, care, attention and to be both nurturing and comforting because, more than anything, I remember the feelings of stupidity.
I remember the fears of being hurt again. I remember the worries that I was nothing but a fool and not only this, I remember the imposter-like ideas which suggested that eventually—the curtain would rise and show me as ugly in the truest light, which shone upon me as weak or ineffective. I was afraid and, to be clear, I am still raw and very afraid. I am terrified and horrified and as true as I can be—I wholeheartedly admit to my selfish regard and how this hurt the feelings of good people.
Do I regret this?
Of course I do.
Do I feel badly?
Absolutely.
Is this excusable?
Is anything wrong or hurtful ever explainable enough to make the actions excusable or at minimum, does anything make mean or selfish or hurtful acts forgivable?
With all my heart — I have to say that the answer is not clear or concise.
No. Sometimes, forgiveness is simple. Sometimes it’s understandable to explain oneself and own up to a wrong or an action that was out of character or off-putting.
Sometimes, there is no forgiveness. Sometimes, resentment is all that’s left behind. Oftentimes, the only way out from the black hole in our mind is through the aqueduct of forgiveness of self.
I remember when I held myself accountable for everything wrong or bad; yet, I never thought to look at my strengths or my benefits. No, I never thought to look at my acts of redemption or to focus on my redeeming qualities.
This created a one-sided mindset which has escalated my fears and anger. This escalated my thoughts of unfairness and snarled my lip with anger and cloaked my tongue with contempt and irredeemable words of retaliation.
I remember when I swore that I had to be the angriest person in the room. I had to hate the world, perfectly, and since everything about me, including my love, my looks, the sound of my voice, or the uneven crookedness of my misshaped eyes and my ears, which are different from each other—and as an all-inclusive branch of insecure and irrational fear, I swore upon my ugliness as if this were truth. Thus, I was ugly and unwanted, irredeemable, and incapable of being “enough” in anyone’s dictionary.
I recall the times when I learned that I was not enough to be loved in return or that whether I was loved or lovable was less-important because essentially, love for me and to love me deeply was not probable or practical. Hence, I swore that no one would (or could) ever love me.
At least not perfectly because all I saw about myself was imperfection. Therefore, how could anyone else in the world see me differently.
What I mean is that I naturally assumed the reflection I saw of myself was the way everyone else saw me—which meant that since I saw flaws, everyone saw flaws. If I saw ugly, then all I could be is ugly—and if I saw hate or resentment then, at best, I would be nothing else but hateful and resentful.
I wondered when or if this would change. I wondered if my fears would ever subside. Like a warrior lost at war in a figurative battlefield of imaginary enemies, I was tired.
I wanted to let down my guard and my shield. I wanted to rid myself of my weapons of both mass and self-destruction—just to rest, or just to be safe and to be forgivable and redeemable. Yes, I wanted to be loved, to be wanted, or to be included and valued. I wanted to find peace or at least a shred of decency in an indecent surrounding or in troubled times, I wanted to come to a truce and sign a pact or treaty. But in all fairness, I was too afraid to sign first and be vulnerable enough to be attacked from my blindside.
I wondered when I would be comfortable in my own skin. Or when would I be comfortable enough with someone that I would never worry about their leaving me, or if they walked away or left the room, so-to-speak; I’d never have to question whether they would or would not return. I’d never question or fear about their stability of love for me and as long as there was breath in mine or their lungs, I wondered if I would ever find someone who fit me or matched perfectly. Thus, I wondered if anyone would ever complete me to the point where I never questioned or feared or worried and flinched at the moment of insecure thoughts.
Awareness takes time. And to me, I came to the realization that I have unsafely protected myself for decades and in the hours of lonesome regard or in the moments of sad despair, I thought about my investments and about the people I offered myself to. I thought about my lies and theirs. I thought about the red flags and warning signs which I disregarded too often because the fantasy of love or being in love or feeling something so mutual and reciprocal that my life would be more than satisfying; and more, I wondered and feared the worst about not having love or a life that could be defined as heavenly—that is, if being heavenly can be reality.
My biggest fear is that I was not enough or too far gone, or too unhealthy and unwantable that in my efforts to seek love or to be loved and cared for, and in my search for “more” (with the quotations intended to stand out, like “air quotes” that one makes with hand-gestures to express the importance or sincerity of the spoken word)—then essentially, my worries are this—no matter how I tried or how perfect love may seem, I was otherwise an under-serving candidate, and so, I would never be good looking or sexy or pleasurable enough that someone would (or could) be swept off their feet by me.
When would I find love?
When?
When would I open myself up to the opportunity to share love or to express this fairly and vulnerably? If I were to allow for this, when would I realize that my vulnerable truths would mean nothing to “the one” because this would be the one person who could look at me, and in the same glare, I would understand that there is never anything to be afraid of.
And so, I don’t want to fight anymore.
I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to be right or wrong; but instead, I only want to be matched in the sense that whether I am perfect or not which, of course, we all know that no one is perfect—especially me, nor you, nor the accusers or the finger-pointers and blamers; however, as imperfect and flawed as I am, my worry above all is that I would never be justly fit or matched or enough.
I have had the chance to see the aftermath of all the above.
I have been both an offender and offended. I have been both the accused and the accuser. However, the above always led me to question the sum of when?
When is it my turn?
I suppose the answer is when I decide to set my soldiers free and when I let my guard down, and when I realize that I am enough for the right person, and when I come to feel the art of joy and when I come to realize that regardless of what took place in my life and despite my crimes of the heart, which range from minor infractions and violations, to hefty misdemeanors, or hard-nosed felonies, and no matter how late it might be in the game for me—it is not too late to realize that there is love out there for me. There always has been—but in my faults, I defied them and failed to understand or acknowledge their beauty because I doubted too much and unmercifully.
Step One: Consider your inventory
Step Two: Note the changes that need to be made
Step Three: Find a starting point
Step Four: Get ready
Step Five: Get set
Step Six: now go and make it so!
(without apology)
Love happens when this takes place.
I know it does –
just give me the chance.
Please?
The Written Addiction 