No one said this would be an easy task. Then again, no one ever told me that anything worthwhile would be easy.
Nothing is ever easy. Or maybe there is no easy or hard—there just “is.”
I don’t know why we can’t be honest. I don’t know why we have to hide what we think or how we feel. And I’m not to sure why honesty leads to vulnerability and vulnerability is assumed to be weakness. But weak or strong, brave or not, I think it takes courage to be honest.
I think it take balls to say hey, this is me. This is how I feel, right or wrong, good or bad.
I think this shows dignity.
But at the same time, we do live in an image-conscious world. Let’s face it, everyone wants to sit at the cool kids table in the cafeteria.
No one wants to be left out.
But the truth is, we don’t always get what we want.
Life happens and therefore the terms of easy or hard are only relative to our interpretation.
But if the question at hand is is life hard?
Then my answer is yes. Sometimes it is.
Life can be beautiful. Life can be great. Life can be filled with love and sometimes, love can disappear, vanish and simply go away. And sometimes, life can be pretty goddamned unbearable.
Either way, I have chosen to take a stand. And sometimes, I stand alone. Sometimes I stand with good people. Sometimes, I find that perhaps I am judged or misunderstood. I often find that l am afraid to reveal myself like this—and at the same time, I am safe here.
I am fine here.
Then again, no one else is here,
at least not really.
Just you, but . . .
At the same time,
I’m not sure if you are real.
(Are you?)
I made a decision to open myself up to the universe, so-to-speak.
I made a choice to be honest here.
Even if I’m not honest anywhere else, I have to be honest here.
No matter who says what about me, and no matter what happens . . .
I have to keep this place between you and I, and more, I have to keep this sacred.
I need this.
I need this the same as I need air to breathe or water to drink and food to eat.
I need this like the soul needs warmth and the heart needs love. I need this like the soil needs the rain to quench the grounds and make the gardens grow.
I made a decision that I would write about myself, both openly and honestly, regardless of whether I am approved, accepted, agreed with, and honored, or liked and wanted by the masses.
To be honest, I’m not one for the masses . . .
I date this back to how I opened one of my first books.
This regarded a time when I was on my knees. I was beaten and hopeless. I was hurting and tired and angry and worse, I was painfully aware that it was me who brought myself to where I was.
And maybe “I’m there again,” sometimes.
I was aware of the consequences of my actions and due to the fact that it was me who made choices, whether they were self-destructive, confused, desperate, or pained by situations that were beyond my control, either way, I found myself at rock-bottom.
I had to make a choice—either I live, and I move on, or I quit.
And die.
But whichever my choice would be, I made a decision that I would choose decisively and accordingly so that no matter what, I would never find myself where I was again, which was on my knees, alone, unhappy, and realizing that yes, I should have followed my heart instead of my fears.
I should have went right instead of left. and yes, it was “me” who let “me” down and not “her” per se.
I was not a victim. I was a volunteer.
I learned how settling is not the same as getting what I want and that settling is actually negotiating a compromise for something that is valued less than my worth.
I had to decide:
I will NEVER do that again.
I will never hold my tongue unless necessary, not when it comes to matters of the heart.
I remember my time. I remember where I was when I decided to give in, rather than hold out, and go for my dreams.
I had no one to blame.
I had no one to resent.
I had me and my sorry choices.
And that’s what I needed to deal with.
I wanted to go.
I wanted to exit the stage and leave this platform; however, at the same time, I wanted to live.
I wanted to run away and escape or jump out of myself and get out of my own skin, but how?
It would be obvious to say that my choice was obvious.
Therefore, in the case of live or die, it is obvious that the choice to live won hand over fist.
But—
I had to find an outlet. I had to find a way to clear the thoughts in my head, which is when I wrote down my very first words, which I tell you about all the time.
“My redemption has nothing to do with our response.”
I made a decision that I would tell the truth about me or my depression. I made a choice to tell the world that yes, I am a person with challenges and struggles.
I have these things. But I refuse to suffer from them
I have been called every name in the book. I have been accused. I have been judged and persecuted.
Yet, whether the regard for me is warm or whether I am deserving of your attention or not, I had to realize that my redemption has nothing to do with your response.
It is not an easy task to open or reveal truths like, say, my thoughts and feelings or the ideas of inadequacy. It is not easy to open up and take off the various masks or talk about the truths in my heart.
It is often impossible for people to speak or say how they think, and, if (or when) they do, there is always someone who comes along and says, “Don’t think like that.”
No one wants to appear or seem broken or faulty.
No one wants to be labeled as damaged goods.
No one wants to be known or seen as a basket case. And nobody wants to be rejected or denied and refused, and no one wants to be excluded or uninvited, and worse, no one ever asks to be the person who is avoided (like the plague) and alone, as in terminally alone. Therefore, most people will keep their secrets to themselves and never reveal their pain or the rotting matters which defy the heart and betray us as a person. But why?
Why not let this go?
Why not scream or cry or yell?
And I understand that there is a time and place for everything . . ,
So, this is my time.
This is my place.
And this is my wish.
I remember being told, “Don’t talk like that.”
I was told, “Don’t think like that!”
I remember telling someone about myself, and this was something personal, and although they swore to keep this “between us,” the matter was discussed to others and in fairness to the second latter of a group known as A.A. or Alcoholics Anonymous, I realized that anonymity is not always honored and people are not always truthful, helpful, caring, or even concerned.
Some people just like the bullshit.
At the same time, we have to have an outlet.
That’s what this is to me.
This is my outlet.
This is my drug or my “fix.”
This is my world, where I can come and go, and plug in, rest myself, release the hounds of hell, and as a means to achieve something—this is where I go to leave pieces of myself.
This is where I come because, above all things; this is where I come to redeem myself on a daily basis—and yes, my redemption has nothing to do with your response.
I do not see a reason why we can’t be honest.
To hell with stigmas.
To hell with your social elitism and to hell with the different levels of popularity or the so-called systems of cool or uncool.
To hell with fitting in.
To hell with the gossip mills and the rumor factories.
To hell with the ideas that something about “me” is less-than, or poor, or undesirable.
Why can’t we be honest.
Why can’t we scream and cry or laugh like we did when we were kids?
I remember back when it was safe enough to be thrilled to see something like, a mom blowing bubbles for her kids, or something a pure as a grandfather flying a kite with his grandson.
I remember watching tiny, remote-control sailboats, and how there were a group of men who quietly made them sail and turn on a pond at a place known as Eisenhower Park.
I know what safety is and I know what safety looks like.
I also know what danger is. I know what anger is and abuse, and I know about the unwanted imposition of someone who did the unthinkable, and unforgivable act to me when I was just a little boy.
I know about depression. I know about self-harm.
I know about self-hate, self-doubt, sabotage, suicide, and depressive thinking, anxiety, internal hate, defiance disorder, emotional challenges, and I know all about rejection sensitive dysphoria.
Trust me.
I know them well.
I know about doctors with clipboards. I know about growing up with undiagnosed and unaddressed learning disabilities and the idea that somehow, I would have to save up to just be stupid.
And I know how it is to have these ideas about myself and to live my life with them.
At the same time, I know that no one wants to hear about these things. I know that no one wants to talk about these things because, at the same time, they revel too much and they uncover too much pain.
And pain?
Sure, pain and I go back a long time.
“We go back like car seats, pain and I.”
Do you want to know the truth?
I’m really not alone.
I’m not the only one.
But this is why I come here.
I come to unleash the hounds.
I come here to silence the demons or let them scream to lose their voice.
I come here to expel my waste and rid the draining energies that either keep me stuck, hold me down, or make me so tired that I fail to move, or I fail to launch, or when I am at my worse, I revert to size, and I can hardly get out of bed.
I am not so bad or so great.
I am only just a man.
I may not always be honest,
but I am when I’m here.
Know why?
Because you can’t hurt me
(here)
So that’s why I’m here
and this is why I do this
because this is my why.
The Written Addiction 