Today is a good day. I know it is.
Today stands for something. This means something to which I understand if the meaning is not the same to you as it is for me. But regardless of what this day means to you or to anyone else, still, I know that today is a good day.
It has to be.
No matter what happened to me or to you or to us and no matter what took place and no matter how hard we might have fallen or hit the wall, or fought, I know there is something waiting for me.
There is the undeniable fact that we are still here, somehow, and still crazy. We are still searching and we as still aching, and still wanting more, and we are still as wild as ever.
I know this is true.
I know it in my heart.
I know that layers have formed over the truth, which is somewhat of an emotional level of scar tissue, to numb us from pains of the past. Therefore, I know that we are simply covered by the layers of incidents and accidents, changes and problems and unforeseen events which took away from this day in the past or degraded our hearts.
I know that pain is relatable and changeable and yes, I know that no one gets out without a scratch.
But, no matter what or who or how, I know that today stands for something.
I know there is meaning to this.
There has to be.
Do you hear me?
There just has to be something about this day.
My mind escapes through loops of times where I find myself lost in the translation between life and fantasy. I know there are goals and dreams and levels of awareness.
I know there are versions of life and different versions of maturity as well.
I can say that as a grown man, and as a man approaching my 52nd turn around the sun, I have so much growing to do. I have to achieve a better level of awareness, which perhaps I have because one cannot improve without knowing there is a need for improvement.
Therefore, I understand the math behind 1, 2 and 3 which is knowledge, wisdom, and understanding and how one cannot improve or do anything without incorporating the math of all three.
What good is it just to have knowledge?
What good is knowledge without the wisdom to understand what you know?
What good is knowledge and wisdom without the understanding of how to use our knowledge and wisdom to improve to a better level?
Therefore, I find myself at the doorstep of a new level of awareness.
Not better nor worse. But this level is different from where I was before.
And, so . . .
I have to realize.
I think too much and act too little.
Or oppositely, perhaps I act too quickly or harshly, and meanwhile, I could have waited to see if my assumptions were real or perhaps they were simply an error in thought.
I can see how I lose myself to the assumptions and worries of insecure ideas, and other worries, of say, critics or the social snobs, the educational Nazis and the highbrow bullshit, and the grammar police who take chops at a man’s prose to laugh and cut down the trees of a dream which never belonged to them, yet, whomever dares big dares it all, and critics rarely dare, but they do deceive and look to take authority in this place I call art, which is funny to me, because there is no authority. At least, not when it comes to art.
Some draw.
Some paint.
Some sing.
Some play.
Some dance.
And me?
This is my felt pen – and I say felt because this is the one place I have where it is perfectly safe to feel.
So the critics can exit stage left or go fuck themselves.
Either way.
I don’t care.
I have this list of things that I want to do.
I have places I want to see which are somewhat of a bucket list and a necessity.
At the same time, none of these places can be seen or experienced if I do nothing but dream or hope, or think about the long open road that heads north from the southern tip of Carlsbad and leads me back up to a place called Chimayo, in good old New Mexico.
Nothing happens when nothing happens and thus, no movement leads to no gains and no gains leads me back to a unhappy symptom which I refer to as “more of the same.”
I am closing this journal today.
I think I have said enough about the category of “when?”
I don’t know where I will pick up from here.
I don’t know what tomorrow is going to look like.
I don’t know much about my enemies or my friends nor do I always understand the similarities between the two.
But there is a similarity sometimes.
I am aware of the wolves in sheep’s clothing and the sheep who I have mistreated and misled or how I assumed some of the sheep would follow as my flock—and whether I am alone, or if I am simply the black sheep or the odd one, then fine.
So be it.
Whether I am the truth or the lie, and whether I am the right one or wrong, and whether I am to be saved or damned, driven, or determined to be as I was, which is stuck in the atmosphere of “when?” and waiting for a sign, or hoping that something will come my way, I understand now.
I understand more about my life and my own mishaps, which are merely symptoms of something larger than my surface level appearance.
I have no right to point or accuse or judge or condemn.
But we do sometimes.
Don’t we?
I understand that I have waited and hesitated.
I understand that I paused or quit when I should have endured and moved onward.
I know my fears quite well.
In fact, I see them all the time when I notice my reflection in the mirror.
I know why the sky weeps and I know why Mother Earth can hush the land with a rainstorm that allows to create a moment of something which is unforgettable.
I do not deny who I am nor can I deny what I have done.
I am more than this, and so, from here on and going forward, I have work to do.
I have a passport to apply for.
I have dreams to draw up and plans to make them so.
I am as imperfect as anyone else here on this planet.
But I have all the same rights as anyone else does.
Perhaps, I have to pay more for what I have done.
I am someone with challenges too.
Or as my old friend Dangerous Dan, The Marathon Man, used to tell me, “Some are sicker than others.”
I agree.
We’re all sick
(sometimes).
Dan was a friend of mine when no one else would be.
He knew me in somewhat of a more turbulent and violent stage of my life. He knew about the battles I had. He knew about my insecurity, and he knew why I chose the right to bear arms.
However, I was not a well-regulated militia.
I was dangerous and far from righteous, but in all truth and transparency; I was closer to petrified and so, I chose to fight my fears with a mask and a shield.
I hid behind the two, in which I took to an image, and chose this as a means of safety.
But deep down, I knew this was not me nor could this be me.
I was not tough. However, I am tougher now, here with you, weeping and vulnerable than when I stood tall with a fake sense of self and some false bravado.
My image was nothing more than a plastic covering of my truths, and yes, unfortunately, plastic can never stand up to the heat of truth—which in the end, my lies melted away. Thus, I found myself uncovered and unprotected.
I was unsafe, afraid, and like a child seeking the comfort of Mother’s warmth, I was nothing more than an exposed infant who wept in loud tantrum to defy that curse of not getting my way.
What a bitch I was.
I knew this.
And perhaps the world around me knew this as well.
I can say that, yes, a man can bathe himself in blood and dress up in scars, as if to prove that physical pain will not make him flinch—but pain like this doesn’t hurt as much as the pains from the heart.
I know this because I have the scars to prove it.
Dangerous Dan, The Marathon Man, knew this about me too.
He knew this differently and while he acknowledged my sins or the actions which were only symptoms of a young man’s outrage, Dan would tell me, “Kid, some are sicker than others . . . and you definitely are one of the ‘some,’ but that’s why I love you.”
Today is a great day. And this is not because of men like Dangerous Dan, The Marathon Man, or an old friend who was affectionately referred to as Botch.
Botch was a man who worked in a stockroom from back when I was a kid working in a retail store. I was a stock boy. Crazy as ever and uncomfortable as could be.
I was exiting my first so-called relationship—cheated on, humiliated, and called another man’s name at the worst time possible, which was otherwise supposed to be naked and intimate or intertwined.
Man, that hurt.
I was living and growing and scared and hurt.
I was too young to understand that forever is a really long time and that the ideas of “never” and “always” are so broad that they defy or narrow the mind to all-encompassing truth that fate and destiny have something (and someone) in store for me.
Botch was a man who had special challenges. He was sweet and kind and young minded, like that of a child, which perhaps made him better than most, but of course, this made Botch more susceptible to bullying and cruel people.
Botch was a good man.
Older than me by many years.
I only knew him for a short time,
A few months maybe, before I was fired.
I saw him once.
Botch was being bullied by a few kids outside of a fast-food place. There would be no way that Botch could remember me. He knew me years before this. The kids were not big per se, but they were big enough to pick on Botch and perhaps big enough to be taught a lesson, which may or may not have been a smack across the face. However, due the natures of assault, I can neither confirm nor deny any of the said allegations against me and any questions thereafter would result in my right to plea for silence.
What I can say is that I approached the group who picked on Botch and offered to take his place.
“Pick on me,” I said.
“Let’s see what happens.”
They decided against that idea.
I turned to my special friend and asked if he was okay.
Botch looked at me. His face was exactly as I recalled, adult-like but child-like as well, as if to prove an obvious difference in the way Botch could see the world.
I looked nothing like I did when he knew me.
He knew me as a young, wise ass kid, a stock boy, and a loudmouth.
There would be no way this man could remember me—especially since he was so-called challenged and child-like. Plus, I had aged quite a bit and grown some too.
Botched smiled at me and said “Hi, Ben!”
He remembered me.
In a world where you can be anything, they say to be kind.
I’d rather be like Botch.
I am no better than him. In fact, Botch is a hero to me.
I fail in comparison to the heart of this man.
I no longer stutter when I read and I no longer have the same fears as when I was “that kid” in special needs classrooms. I am no longer “that kid” in the town who humiliated his family.
I am no longer “that kid” or “that person” yet, admittedly, I am currently facing and addressing the results of my shortcomings. I am answering for the consequences of insensitivity and narcissism. To be fair, I am living up to the accountability of my mistakes.
I have nowhere to run or hide.
I never said I was great or better and I never asked to be on a pedestal nor should I be on one.
I don’t deserve that and, for the record, neither does anyone else.
Except for maybe Botch . . .
I do have regret for my sins and sorrow for them as well; however, unlike the promise of confession and the forgiveness of sin, no matter who the priest is because even with regret and true sorrow, not everyone forgives nor forgets.
So, I allow the right to resent or hate or to respond because hey, that’s alright.
I know. I get it.
And dig—
I get that we all have bouts, and I get that we all have “things” to work through.
I have them. So do you.
But I am not the only one who is wrong nor is anyone among us without sin, so no one can “cast the first stone,” so-to-speak.
I am not the only person with sins or a past or a history in need of attention.
But, I am still me which means that my accountability begins with me and that I can begin now so I can make for a better future.
Understand?
Not when . . .
but now.
The future though. . .
What an idea –
I waited years to get where I am.
But I want more. I’ll always want more.
But, of course, this means that I’ll have to do more.
Otherwise, the only thing I’ll have more of is more of the same.
Nothing changes if nothing changes.
I have to change.
Not when,
but now.
Today is a good day.
A good waffle would be nice
maybe a peach pie . . .
Some soup would hit the spot (like it always does).
Maybe a long drive and a nice trip from Eddy Count and through the dessert and then to Chimayo, you know?
We can swing over there to say thank you for bringing me (and us) home again, and thank you for the dirt beneath our fingers.
This is the grit from our real life.
This is good dirt.
This is a good day and despite what may have happened or taken place, this is a good world. I have a good life and so do you.
I know that I have a good heart, and I can show you this, when you’re ready to see it.
I have some sins to address and items to pay for,
but I am (and will always be) right here.
Waiting –
But, until then . . .
Just know that I love you, faults and all, and with all of my heart.
I am here and if you choose,
I am all yours.
Love always,
B—
The Written Addiction 