It doesn’t seem real to me anymore. My past or my younger life. I am far removed from those days. I have memories of when I was young. At the same time, I have grown to the point where I question my memories now. I question if memory is real or a liar or, at times, I question if our memory happened at all.
I support the motto that there are usually more than one side to a story. I support the idea that there are often three sides, which is my side, your side, and the truth is somewhere in-between.
I believe this.
I understand that memory is interpretive. I also understand that two people can witness the same thing and walk away with two separate opinions and come up with two different conclusions.
This is not to say that this happens with all things.
However, I have listened to old friends of mine as they recounted stories from when we were young. I remember the howls and the laughs from the days of mischief or when we were crazy and wild. I mention this to be spoken as a third-party witness.
I say this as a bystander who was there and more, I say this because the version I remember was much different from the recollection of my old friends.
For an example, let me use a different memory.
This comes from when I was around the age of twelve or so.
My Grandmother had just died.
I was very sad. I remember that.
I had never experienced death before. However, I was old enough to understand the finality of death or what it means to die. But I was young and this was all too surreal for me to fully grasp.
Then again, I think that the surrealness of death can be difficult to grasp at any age.
But, I digress.
I was too young to fully absorb or process or understand that this meant I would never see my Grandmother again.
But where did she go?
(If you know what I mean.)
I was standing next to my Father, the Old Man, when a close family member approached my Father. The two had not spoken for years, and to be honest, it might have been decades since the two had seen each other face to face.
I was there when the person addressed my Father. I was there to see my Old Man’s reaction when he did not recognize the family member and asked, “Do I know you?”
The question came honestly enough, as if to be without resentment.
My Old Man didn’t recognize him.
But I did.
The family member whose name is not important for the subject answered, “Of course you know me.”
Then, my Father mentioned him by name and the two men shared a genuine hug together.
Years later, I heard my Father tell this story. He told me what happened and I sat quietly without reminding him that I was young and attached to his hip when this happened.
I heard my Father tell his version of what took place, which was inaccurate to say the least.
I said nothing, but I noticed the inaccuracy.
I was a witness, almost like a fly on the wall. Years later, The Old Man passed away on December 29, 1989. Perhaps, I hadn’t thought about this until after my Mother passed.
Mom died on June 10, 2015.
The family member who I will not name called to talk to me about my Mother’s passing. He was upset that no one told him about Mom.
I explained that this is what happens when you walk away from people or leave them. You lose the right to know what happens with their life.
He spoke to me about the time when my Grandmother passed. He told me his version of the story that happened between him and The Old Man, which was inaccurate, just like my Father’s version, but with a light that favored his side, instead of The Old Man’s.
The two did not know that I was there. They have no memory of me standing by my Father’s side, mourning my first loss, and the heartbreak of losing my Grandmother.
I see this as valuable.
The lesson here is that emotion, feelings, resentment, and thoughts have the ability to alter and change facts, or shade and color memories with different hues of inaccuracy.
Then again, there were three sides to this story. There was my Father’s side, and the family member’s side, and then there was the truth.
Or maybe there are four versions of the story because there was The Old Man’s side, the other side, and then there was my version, which I admit is less bias. However, I understand that perception is not truth and interpretation is not always accurate to the facts. But more to the point, memories are frequently inaccurate.
And me?
Sure, I have memories.
I have pictures in my mind. I have compartments in my soul where I keep my old mishaps or moments of humiliation, embarrassment, and worse, I have compartments where I store my shame and keep it alive.
I have recollections of pain and humiliation. I have memories and bouts, and relived conversations that are equally dead and buried. Somehow, they are kept alive and in inaccurate condition in my head, which I admit that they can alter but as far as I am concerned, the memories are pristine to me—but again, perception and interpretation is not always synonymous with truth.
Neither is our memory.
I have memories from the days when I was crazy or worse, I have memories of when the good times and jokes lost their humor. I have memories of awful moments and tragic episodes, to which I know that I am lucky to be alive.
However, like The Old Man and his side of a conversation that took place with a forgotten family member, I am aware that memory can be a liar. Sometimes, these are the worst lies of all time because we hold them so tight.
We store these memories and keep them so dearly that our memories have an impact on our thinking. This can lead us to the thinking errors which I often talk to you about.
This is what leads us to biases or biased opinions, or the trained assumptions, and the influence of prejudiced ideas. This is the thinking that becomes shaded by our emotional understanding. While this can be vastly untrue as far as fact is concerned, I understand that truth can be relative when it comes to perception or the interpretation of a life-altering event.
I have my share of these things.
I have lived through life-altering events. I have survived the deaths of loved ones. I have survived near-death experiences of my own life, and at least three of those survivals were deaths that almost came by my own hand—each time was intentional, and each attempt to exit the world was attempted with a different action of deployment, that is, of course, if you know what I mean.
And I think you do.
However, even this, or even my recollection of the stories from my past, or my memories of tragic occasions; or if we talk about my recollection of emotional and moral injuries and the post traumatic disorders and that came after someone imposed themselves upon me, or if we think about the past memories of shame from the bullies in my life, or especially if we talk about actual and physical pain, or at minimum, if we talk about the mild to outrageous insults that happen in arguments with loved ones, I submit and declare that my version or my memories might not be as accurate as the truth.
Even if they are, how much do they serve me?
My perception is only true to me. I am seeing this from a new perspective. Therefore, I am approaching this with a new intention.
Yes.
My trauma is real.
Even if my memories serve me poorly or if my recollections are inaccurate, my trauma is still real to me because I believe they are real, so therefore they, they must be true.
Right?
Actually, this is wrong.
I have heard it said that intention do not always match interpretation.
I have heard people say things like, “I know that’s what I said, but that’s not what I meant.”
Either way, intention and interpretation are not the same. Hence, this is why we find ourselves looking back and remembering things differently. This is why we come to different conclusions or have different opinions.
And, as for my memories, or as for my battles and bouts with traumatic events, or as for the crimes against my heart; yes, I am hurt by them.
Yes, I have been hurt.
Yes, I have been the fool.
Yes, I have been lied to.
I have been exposed and humiliated, laughed at, bullied by others and above any other person in this world; I recognize that there is no bully worse than the bully within.
And that’s me.
I talk a lot about the internal narrative.
I talk a lot about thinking ourselves into a crisis situation. I talk about the impending doom of assumptions that all things can and will go wrong, and ever more, everything can and will get worse.
However, first and foremost, I want to be clear and deliberate between the definition of paranoia, or what it means to be paranoid, and how there is a similarity, but depression and anxiety is not the same thing.
No, this comes with different core.
This comes from a place of self-worth and value.
Or, should I say this comes from the absence of worth?
Perhaps, yes. That sounds more like it.
I have lived with the depressive assumption that I will only be allowed table scraps or the leftovers that no one else wants. I have lived with the biased assumption that people are generally cruel and out for themselves, which may be true in many ways.
But this does not mean everyone has an angle and everyone is selfish or self-centered to the point where this is their flaw, and their angle is to get over on you before you get over on them.
I talk a lot about love, or my misunderstanding of love.
I talk about the shadows of my past which ruin the daylight or the sunshine of good experiences.
I explain this because, at least to me or in my head, I believed that happiness was always fleeting. I believed that laughter was always temporary.
I believed in the shame-based mottes and the humiliating entries from my past experiences. And more, I believed in them as if this were law.
I kept these ideas in a compartment of lies, held in trust within my soul.
I held them like unwanted items, because I was afraid to be the fool, or to be hurt or humiliated, and in fear that the past would always repeat itself again; I held the worst of my pains and the horrors from my nightmares. I kept them close to the heart.
I lost myself to this, in fearful projection that one day, the past will rise again and there I’ll be, hurt again, or alone, or victimized like I was when I was a small boy, innocent as ever—yet, I was unaware of the stains that awaited me when I was old enough to understand.
This came to me when I learned about the word, “inappropriate.”
I never want to victimize anyone the way I was victimized; yet, I see this as a reoccurring trend. I see how damage creates damage or how emotional challenges and irrational concepts can lead us to a biased approach. Hence, we do what we fear the most would happen.
We fulfill the unwanted prophecies. While no one wants to repeat their regrettable past, I can see how biased thinking and biased behavior can train and lead us back to the same outcomes.
Therefore, I am here to break the cycle.
I understand the need to solve the problems in our mind, or even if at minimum, I understand pain or discomfort and the need to pacify this.
I get why people want to become something weightless or soft and easy.
I get why people like to get high. It’s like pushing a button, and then “click,” all the pain is gone and the residual pain is lost to a feeling that slowly subsides.
I submit this to you with a humble heart and further, I recognize the meaning behind days like today which, at the moment, I acknowledge that the date is Thanksgiving.
I am writing to you, alone again, and from my humble little place, which I call my apartment.
I have never been much of a fan for holidays like this. In part, I have reasons to think the way I do about the holidays. I have seen awful things on holidays like today.
I remember being in a place, somewhere in East New York, Brooklyn. I was in the worst place and living in the worst possible condition.
I had white burn marks on my lips from a glass pipe, which was an instrument that I used to find my vehicle that took me towards euphoria.
I had tiny bags with a few flakes that kill people by euthanizing them, slowly, and causing an infinite nod, also known as the dope nod.
I remember being in the sewers, underground in my neighborhood, cold, and shivering, yet there was a sickness that was pulsing through me and causing me to sweat.
This was crazy.
Nothing was ever as cold to me as those days. I weighed about 80lbs. My skin was green. I had black rings beneath my eyes, which were sunken in my head.
I was so thin and so sick and so far gone and unreachable that I looked like death, or that if anything, I suppose I looked as if I were going to join the column of an unfortunate statistic.
None of this exists anymore.
None of this exist the same as yesterday no longer exist.
Yesterday is gone and neither you nor I can live there anymore.
Even the feuds from my past or the intrusions from when I was an unwilling boy and unknowingly abused are all gone. Even the misunderstanding of what took place, until I grew old enough to understand, that’s gone too — and as for the fights, or the humiliating moments where I was shamed or betrayed or hurt, or when it comes to the crimes from my past, or when it comes to the guilt I feel for what I have done or said—I both understand, recognize, admit, and sincerely acknowledge that my memory is a liar. And so was I.
I’m sorry.
Even if my memory is true or accurate to the fact; still, my yesterdays are gone, and if I want to move on, then I can’t live there anymore.
And neither can you.
Or neither can we.
I have to let my past be where it is. I have to be willing to face my truth and set myself free.
I have to do this, otherwise, I will face the consequences and live with more of the same.
I have to rid myself of this.
I am the only one who can set myself free.
But to go forward, I have learned that apologies do not solve the pains of injustice.
Forgiveness is not a guarantee.
However, it is both critical and mandatory that we forgive our past and ourselves and that we learn to move on. Understand?
And sure, I have trauma.
Sometimes, my trauma comes to tuck me in at night.
But I’m getting better. I don’t need to sleep with the lights on anymore.
At least, not in a while, anyway.
At the same time, I think I need to take a new approach.
I need to realize that treating symptoms can alleviate pain. But treating symptoms do not solve the problems that cause the symptoms.
Treat the symptom and the problem still exists.
Treat the problem, and the symptoms can go away.
I think this is a great idea.
By the way, getting high on drugs or drinking, or using a temporary vehicle to gain a rush, in whichever form this may be, or if we think about our behavioral challenges, like self-sabotage and self-destruction, we have to be aware and realize that these are symptoms too.
Trust me. I know.
And that’s why I’m here.
I’ve been treating my symptoms for way too long.
So let me face the problems.
Let me turn them into possibilities.
Let me face the obstacles and turn them into opportunities.
Let me change my thinking so that I can change my behavior and improve how I feel.
Better yet, let me make peace with the past so that I can have the future that I have always wanted
(with you.)
I have to say that there is no high like the high of an achieved and successful life.
And that’s what I want.
Oh, and by the way, one last thing . . .
Today is Thanksgiving.
For what this is worth, just so you know that, above all, I am most thankful for you. My most beautiful and special friend.
I don’t know who I’d be or where I’d be without you.
I know who hurt me.
And I know why I hurt you and I know why I’ve hurt others as well.
But knowing does not excuse anything so, maybe knowing is half the battle.
Maybe . . .
But now, the other half comes when I challenge my memory or realize that it’s okay.
No one is coming into my bedroom, unless I want them to.
The kid or the so-called inner child in me is free to come out and play.
No one can hurt me anymore.
Besides, I have you in my life.
And you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me now,
would you?
As for the person who needs no mention and regarding what you did when I was little . . .
We both know who you are, and we both know what you did.
But that’s okay.
I’m sure that our memories differ.
There’s your side, my side, and the truth.
But I’m willing to let my truth rest, so I can be free.
But I wonder—
Can you do that?
No, I suppose that you can’t,
at least not if you’re going to be honest.
Right?
The Written Addiction 