There has to be a way for us to get around this. Not just life. Not just the past or what’s taken place. Not just the people, places, or things that could drive someone crazy enough to lose their mind.
No, I mean this in more ways than one.
Besides, I lose my mind all the time, at least once a day. And sometimes more.
But who says losing your mind is a bad thing?
Either way, there has to be a way around the mental obstacles that we face together.
There has to be a way around the thoughts that refuse to stop, which is what brings me here.
I am at my best when I am here.
I do not have a pause button. “Life is happening.” And there is no “stop” button.
At least, not a good one.
And again, this is what brings me here.
No one can hurt me. I can speak honestly and openly.
This is why I’ve built this place.
This is my sanctuary and my church. This is my studio or my workshop. While my location has changed throughout the years, and the bed where I sleep has changed too—the premise is still the same.
I need a place to call my own. I need a shelter.
I need a place of solitude and refuge. I need a place where it is safe and where I can be away from the common or the everyday critics.
I need a place where I am free from judgment. I’m free to open up and free to let go or to speak my mind and to open up about things, like the way it is in my head or in my heart.
No one can stop me here. I can offer you my life and my heart and not find myself as too awkward, or unattractive, or better yet, I don’t have to believe that I am unworthy here. In the simplest terms, I don’t have to consider the pains of not being enough.
Not here, anyway.
I’m okay here.
I’m fine.
I’m perfect.
I can open up and display the contents of my dreams. I can show you my heart.
And I do have one. A heart, I mean, which may be contrary to what some people think.
I have feelings. I have fears.
I have pains and scars that run as deep as the ocean, maybe even deeper.
I have worries and doubts and insecurities.
I have wishes and dreams, aspirations, hopes, and a drive, which can vary in strength, depending upon the mood or the current conditions of my life.
But I can say this to you here.
No one can stop me.
I realize that we make our own luck. I also realize that we make our own happiness and equally, we make our own sadness and complications.
I am the director of my own drama.
I can stop the movie in my head, right now, and offer up a better ending.
I can do this.
But I am human, which means I allow my thoughts and biases to intercept my better thinking. Hence, I respond accordingly and embarrassingly, and then what?
I implode or explode and everything around me blows up as well.
And then it’s done.
As in over, as in too ruined to recover or to destroyed to be reconstructed.
I’ll tell you this . . .
Life in the view of our imperfect lens is nothing more than life as we perceive it to be.
How do I perceive me?
I am a work in progress. I am human. I am faulted and flawed and hopeful.
I wish I could stop myself, at least sometimes.
Other times, I wish I had the balls to let myself go and not be afraid of rejection or the imperfection of my laugh.
I wish I could think less and do more.
I wish I could let time happen and let matters work themselves out.
But fear grips me. That’s my problem.
The ideas of not getting what I want can be brutal, and the ideas of loss or rejection can be brutal.
This isn’t about finding out they ran out of ham at the store when I go for my breakfast.
No, I mean this when it comes to the life that I have always wanted.
In my defense, I fail to realize that I do not have to defend myself at all.
It’s okay to be scared. This is the most common feeling of all.
Fear should be normalized, but it isn’t.
We are afraid to show that we are afraid.
Isn’t that crazy?
I fail to realize that I have the right to change my direction or stand on my own — and at the same time, I have the need to be wanted. I want to be loved. I want to be seen and noticed and appreciated, yet the hard realization is the world from my perspective can blur the world around me. Therefore, I see things unclearly.
Do you understand?
I view myself as a young boy, at times. I am like a young kid who never had the chance to dance or to see the ocean at night, like say, somewhere over on the Pacific side, when the grunion run and the moon above is nothing short of mesmerizing.
I never shared these things with anyone. I have always been too afraid.
I always believed that I was somewhat defective because there is so much I haven’t seen or done, and there is so much that I am new to. I am a novice in so many ways.
This is vulnerable to me.
This is hard to share too.
But I am sharing this
with you, anyway.
I want to be brave enough to try something as a novice and enjoy the process rather than overthink my talent, or whether I look stupid or clunky.
I built this loft in my mind, which is a feature that I am proud of.
I say this because whether times are good or bad, unfair or unthinkable, I have managed to continue with this dream of mine.
I have never quit this.
Not here.
I never stopped. I never let anything get between me and this, or me and you—although, in fairness, this is the dream side of things. Therefore, the narrative in this feature is always kind because as I write to you, I envision us sitting somewhere by firelight.
There is no tension and nothing is unresolved or unresolvable.
We are talking.
You know?
We talk to each other the way two people speak when they love and care for one another.
My tongue doesn’t get in the way and neither does my ego or my fear or selfish pride.
There are no battles here. There are no thoughts or worries about betrayal, or the past. We do not discuss the old and unfortunate intrusions, or the arguments, or the battles between us.
No, this is not why I bring you here with me.
All that’s here is the purity and the sanctity of two crazy people who admittedly don’t know what they’re doing — but yet, we are still here, even after all that’s gone on, even after all these years, and even after the hurtful times or crimes of the heart.
Somehow, we are still here.
At least, this is how I see it.
Or at least, this is how I see it when I am here.
No one can ever tell me I’m ugly here.
Not even you.
I know that I talk about this, but I don’t really have a trick.
I don’t have a secret to help me (or anyone) get through life.
I just have this. I have these journals which the critics love to tear apart and then rip them to shreds. I have the poems in my heart, to which I have been called a novice and an amateur, and some people have said worse.
But I don’t let those people come here. I don’t let anyone come here, except for us.
I don’t listen to people or their hurtful nonsense when I’m here because I have my words to keep me safe.
I allow my fingers to poke the keys when I type.
Sometimes, I punch them with aggression. Sometimes I type as if my fingers are like daggers and each jab at the keyboard is the equivalent of me stabbing the topic, one blade at a time.
This is where I am free to let go.
I don’t have many places like this.
I have the beach. I have the ocean.
I have that feeling I get when sitting in an airport and my laptop is open.
I am writing in a journal while facing the huge window and watching airplanes, rest at their gates like steel horses that pull to their stalls and feed before heading out and taking off again.
I have resigned to the fact that life does not act as we assume.
I have resigned to the fact that the past is the past and that yesterday is gone.
Neither of us live there anymore.
I have resigned to the fact that not everyone thinks, believes, feels, or sees things the way I do.
I have also resigned to the fact that not everyone keeps their word, which is not to say that they didn’t mean it when they said it—like when someone say’s “I’ll always be there for you.”
I get it. But always is a really long time. I believe there is meaning behind this when it is said—but life changes, people change, and situations alter our life and our perception and suddenly, the word “always” becomes momentary.
There are times when always isn’t always and never isn’t never.
At the same time, never is always never and always is always the same.
I have this place in my head.
This is my best defense when it comes to the moments of unwanted life.
Sometimes, this is my only defense.
Sometimes, this is just enough to let me realize that there is a difference between fantasy and reality.
People talk . . .
People say things.
And the fantasy of this is amazing.
But life is life. And fantasy is fantasy.
And me, I want to make my dreams become real.
I have no time for half-measures or fake words, like always, which is only temporary.
There’s hope and there’s rational thinking. And sure, I have dreams that defy my rationality.
I have this idea that somehow, I can say those magic words or find that magic button and once I push it, all the complications and haste and harsh despair will vanish and go away.
Everyone needs an outlet or an escape.
I know that I do. . .
I might not have the life, the dream, or the house, or the money, or even the charisma or the looks or the character. But I have this.
And no one can take this from me.
At the same time, I offer this up to you, like a boy holding out a gift to a girl, humble and wholesome, with no agenda, but just to love. Or as if to say, take this, this is all I have, but you can have it
(if you’ll have me).
I offer this to you and to the universe and to the stars and to the sun, which is about to rise at any moment. I give this away to keep my sanity.
I offer my heart and my love, and all that I have because if I don’t give this to you now, it will be as if everything I have done will mean nothing, and just like that, you and I will be nothing but strangers again.
It is a fine morning today in Purgatory.
Then again, this could all go to hell really quickly — if we become strangers again.
The Written Addiction 