When —
I have another “when” question, which I believe is an important question to share in this journal. I have lived my life for a very long time, obviously.
And I say this with the honest assessment that perhaps, at times, my view or my perception of self is wrong or inaccurate. Otherwise, my view or my perception of myself has been shaded by years of misperceptions and misguided ideas that led me astray.
I have talked with you about insecurities before. In fact, I am sure we have talked about this in great lengths. I suppose one could go on for hours about worries or fears, and if we are being honest, I realize that I am not “that” person anymore.
I am not who I was. I have improved. I have adapted. For sure.
I have made changes. I have made adjustments.
But I have also grown.
Perhaps I should be clear or add some color to this background. I was a very small boy. I was weak and puny. I had no real athletic ability. At best, I was seen as cute or, at best, I was seen as so small or young looking. I was boyish, as if to mean that I always looked like a little boy—not strong by any means and what girl would want me then? Who would choose to have me by their side?
I was never strong or beautiful.
But I wanted to be.
I wanted to be athletic. While I am honest and mindful enough to say that I was never really the one who was picked last when choosing teams in the schoolyard, I was never the one who was picked first either. I was not last, per se, but I can say that I was towards the last picks. I was the better of the worse and at the bottom of the picks when playing a game of football, or any kind of sport that we played on the playground.
I was not an athlete. I was not particularly good looking nor was I bad looking either. No, I was average, at least so I thought.
I was average. I sought for more but, at best, I thought that being average was tough enough. How could I be better than this? How could I compete or compare to others who I assumed were more desirable or better looking than me?
Either way —
I was bullied and picked on. But I did my share as well.
I was afraid and weak and vulnerable. I hid behind an image and pretended to be someone who I wasn’t. I assume this was as clear as a crystal lake that mirrored the sky.
I did my best to put on a brave face and I did the best I could to laugh out loud or act “as if.”
I tried to pretend that I didn’t care, or that I could care less who comes or goes, who stays or who doesn’t.
I saw myself in this view, which was excruciating to me and painful, which is why the drugs helped and so did the liquor—and to be clear, it was tough for me to get dressed.
I would put on clothes and then see myself in the mirror. I would not like what I chose or how I looked and then, of course, I would have to change and put on something else.
Then I would see myself in the mirror again. And let’s be clear, the mirror was not my friend.
Know what I mean?
I have been told that mirrors do not lie, however, I am not sure that mirrors are so truthful either. My perception of what I saw was altered by the haze of worry and insecure ideas that perhaps I was unsightly—or just plain ugly.
Maybe I was too skinny or too awkward looking. Maybe I was undesirable and the only people who would desire me were undesired themselves—and wait, what would I do if someone did desire me?
What would I do if I saw someone who was so beautiful that my heart stopped when I saw her?
What would happen if I found out they liked me?
And I mean “really” liked me . . .
Would I show them my true self?
Would I let them know about my little secrets or where I keep my treasures?
Would I offer them the chance to see me, within, or would I allow myself the joy of being intimate enough to share things like my hopes or my dreams?
Would I show them my poems? And I mean—let’s face it, this is what my poetry is all about anyway. If so, what would I do if I opened myself up and showed them who I am? How would I be?
What would it be like if I gave them an inside view of everything I have, as in showing them who I really am, and what would I do if they looked at me, uncovered and raw, and what would I do if they chose not to go further and then they decided to walk away?
Would they tell their friends?
Would I be laughed at and exposed?
Would I be the fool again because I mistook kindness for an opening?
Thus, since I showed them too much, would I be seen as someone challenged, like that of someone who has special needs, like, as if I were retarded?
And I know. That’s not a nice word to use.
(but it fits).
Sure, I have been a fool before. And sure, I have shown my heart to the inaccurate crowd. I have never told anyone (except for you) about this place.
Here . . .
No one knows—at least not really.
Nobody knows what this place looks like, or how to get here.
No one really knows about my little room and studio, which doesn’t even exist, except for here, inside my head.
I never dared to tell people about things like this.
No one knew that I loved art. No one knew that I was soft or sensitive.
I could never show anyone this—it would be a sign of weakness; therefore, I would be vulnerable to attacks, both socially, emotionally, professionally, and physically. Then what?
Be destroyed?
Of all my fears, my biggest is dying alone and being left, unknown, or buried somewhere, unmarked, like John Doe, and unmemorable.
Then again, another of my biggest fears is that I am unremarkable. I am essentially faceless an unnoticed and unworthy of mention beyond the simple measure that yes, I lived, or that I only existed. Hence, my biggest fear is that I will go through my life and never have the visceral feel or understanding of what it means to really be alive.
I have lived with thoughts like this since I was a small boy.
The problem with awkwardness and insecurity is that since this is what we assume, then we naturally assume that everyone sees us the same way.
Awkward and weak
Unsightly and unwanted,
Picked last or not even picked at all.
Understand?
Like I said, it used to take me an hour to put on a simple outfit—and like I said, I would change my clothes a dozen times and then I’d end up in the original outfit that I tried on in the first place.
Uncomfortable as ever.
I never knew how anyone else would see me.
I never knew if anyone would ever really choose me. If they did, would they keep me?
Would they want me after finding out that this is me?
Could anyone ever love me for the rest of my life?
(or theirs)
I have always wanted to be beautiful.
Maybe I am.
Maybe I’m not
I’ve always wanted to be “picked” or chosen.
And that’s my fear—that no one will ever choose me.
There I’ll be, alone, and unwanted.
Destined to be alone.
However —
This is The Book of When?
As in, when does a person see who they really are; or as in when do we understand our own beauty?
When do we realize that the view we saw in the mirror was inaccurate, at best, and when above all, will we allow ourselves the right to know that we are beautiful beyond compare?
When will we see ourselves in the mirror because we are proud of what we see?
(By the way, this is the true meaning of success.)
I am sitting here in my small, little section of the world—located in the upstairs apartment of a small home, which is a scaled size in comparison to any of my previous lives.
But that’s okay.
This is only a small moment and a temporary position.
I have shrunken my surroundings to create a better fit.
I have done this, intentionally—
to see myself in a better light,
to view my reflection with a healthy heart
and to realize that, like anyone,
I am just as beautiful as anyone else.
Except for you
(of course).
No one in the word is as beautiful as you.
Para siempre
The Written Addiction 