And Oh, About That Thing

I remember back when we were growing up and trying to pretend to be bigger, or cooler than who we were. But I was never cool, or comfortable.
I remember the games we used to play or the things we used to do, or say. I remember the ways we used to act or how we tried to pretend like we knew about life.
I have news about life.
No one knows the hour or the day.
No one knows how they will be when they are faced with their truths. No one knows how to handle loss, until their losses present themselves, and even still, does anybody know how they will react when their dreams present themselves or go away forever?

I remember the lies and the stories about the girls we kissed. Or what about the times when we were finally allowed to put our hands up beneath some girl’s shirt? Or even better, I remember the stories about the times when I was finally allowed to dive my hand below some girl’s skirt.

Now, in fairness, and with an honest word, I can say that although I acted or portrayed myself in a way to act cool, or to act tough, or to act like a so-called “real man”, I know that I walked around and pretended like I was unafraid or that I wasn’t nervous.
But I was.
I was weak. I had performance anxiety and worse, I had insecurities about my body that made it painful for me to show interest, or match a mutual intimacy, and risk myself to the warmth of a beautiful interaction.
In fairness to myself and with all of my heart, I find it hard to believe — or no, I find it impossible to believe that there is another soul on this earth who is more afraid, or more insecure than I am.
I would also commit that I could not imagine anyone else in the universe would walk around and overthink more than me.

I often wonder what life would be like without fear or the worry that the girl I love would always love me back and never leave, simply because I have faults or flaws, or a mind that works against me.

Sure, I did the things that I wanted. I tried to act. I can say that I have experiences that only a few others can honesty admit to.
I tried to “be”
and I tried to put on my best James Dean approach. I tried to be mysterious and dark, and I tried to be charming, and I tried to play it off like I knew what I was doing.
But I didn’t know.
I had no clue and, to some regard, I still have no idea what I am doing.
I am still that little boy, too afraid to ask a girl to dance because she might say no, or worse, she might say yes and find out that I can’t dance at all.

I tried to act cool, or cold to the warmth, and I tried to act as if, or as if the invitations or the farewells meant the same thing.
I tried to act as if I didn’t care either way, as if I did not care about either temperatures, and whether I went or stayed, left forever, or even if I found myself with a reoccurring invitation, I tried to mask my smile and disguise my truths.
I hid.
I covered and tried to camouflage my unsightliness. I did what I could to hide my invisible scars which cannot be seen by the eye; however, I was petrified that my unseeable problems were detectable, and that my fears would be both pitiful and obvious leaving behind a lasting impression that left me forever distant or unworthy.

I assumed others would see me as I saw myself, which is a challenge for the socially awkward because if I see nothing but weakness, it would be inevitable that anyone else could see my weaknesses. Therefore, I would have to mask and disguise or shield myself from the world before anyone else would see that I am weak or ripe for the taking.

I used to want to be tough.
And why?
I’ll tell you why.

Nobody picks on the tough kids. No one bothers the crazy kid or the wild ones. As for those who challenge the wild, they are the opposing team like the unwanted authorities, and otherwise, I would find myself locked in the rebellion of angst and angry youth.
I often found myself in my own personal foxhole, firing back, and should the mental or the emotional artillery land or blow me away—well, then, at least I went out on my shield.
At least I went out in a blaze of glory. More importantly, or as I saw it, and more to the point, at least I didn’t go out as a coward — even if deep down I knew I was a coward; at least I put on one hell of a display.
Or, so I thought.

But in fairness, I was a coward. Nothing more and nothing less.
I am a coward now, too.
In fact, I never realized how brave it is to admit to our cowardly facts, nor was I ever aware how amazing and how beautiful it is for someone to stand up, or stand out in the crowd, despite their failures or flaws. With this being mentioned, I never knew the strength it takes to come out and openly admit to being weak. And sure…
I’m weak.
I am as weak as a cat, which is why I tried to be as crazy as a fox.

I tried to be so many different people. I tried to be tough. I tried to be cool. I tried to act as if nothing mattered and nothing hurt.
But this is not honest.
There are times when everything hurts. There are times in life when we do not have the strength to face anything, let alone be brave enough and face another day.

There are times in life when we have to accept the idea that it is okay to “not” be okay, or to “not” have an answer, to “not” know what to do.
There are times when life hits, or when betrayals crash the gates, and there are times when life opens your eyes to your surroundings. As I mentioned to you before about life being the toughest teacher of all teachers; there are times when life shows you all the warning signs you ignored, simply because you were wishing for something else.

And I?
With open eyes and being honest and being of sound mind, and looking back, I have no right to complain, nor can I claim innocence, nor can I say that my actions have not facilitated my fate to be as it is.

All my acting and pretending, and all that I’ve done to hide or mask my true self, and all of the ways I have sought protection, or tried to guard myself, and in fear of the past intrusions will somehow intrude and impose again, or in fear of rejection, in fear of loss, in fear of pain, or the humiliation which takes place when rejected, and while you have me here, in plain sight, I sit across from you, a weak and humbled man who tried to sell myself as if I were more than I was.
But I am nothing more than this.

I am afraid.
I have never seen myself as beautiful nor have I ever seen myself as important or valuable. Therefore, since I believed this, I realize this way of thinking does nothing else but furthers the depth of my emotional quicksand.
Therefore, I am forever sinking, as this drowns me in an inaccurate version of an imposter syndrome which, to me; this means that eventually, or sooner or later, you will open your eyes and you will see me the same as I see myself—as a joke, as a weakling, as someone who is too afraid to dare or to be myself, or worse, my biggest fear is that you will see someone else as “more,” and thus, I will go back into my hole, empty and alone, rejected, afraid, and found out to be nothing more than me.

I remember a morning after a long night that went wrong.
I remember the sounds of the night prior to a near-death experience. I remember viewing the world from a dark and dirty place, which are unthinkable to the everyday masses of common life.
I remember sitting in the coldness of a damp room, steel cages awaiting my presence, a barred door at the front of my small temporary room, and I recall the view of dawn’s first light from a window that was partly tilted open at ceiling height. I remember looking at this across the way from my holding cell.

Everything around me smelled from the soils of dirty men. The sound and the echoes from barred doors rolling shut, and the punctuation of life, which are the sad, hard and cold facts that we are the leaders of our own biggest failure.

I am the key. I am the way.
I am the root and the cause, and it was me who facilitated my own destruction.
I admit to this, which is why I come here to note and acknowledge this to be true.

I used to want to be tough.
I don’t want to be tough anymore.

I don’t want to compare my scars, nor do I want to have to prove myself.
Not now, or ever again.
I no longer bring my report card home to anyone else.

At this point in my life, and as I report this to you, I recognize that I am nine days away from an anniversary. This has become somewhat of an impossible idea that has been achieved and accomplished by me. Even still, I realize that I am still “a work” in progress.

I was thinking about my last trip into the so-called concrete jungle. I remember the .357 that was under my car seat. I remember the calm resignation that this was going to be my last days on earth, and that once the ignition switched, I was going to commit to something ugly and violent, and inevitably, I was planning to retire in a way that was equally ugly, but ending peaceful.

I don’t care much about my sobriety date.
I haven’t cared much about this for a long time because this is who I am. I suppose the only person I want to share this with is you.
Just you.
And I say this because other than you, I don’t care who notices or feels proud of me.
I just want you to be proud of me.

April 1, 1991. I remember that day.
I remember “getting honest” and I remember where I was.
I should have stayed honest in other ways.
I should have used the knowledge that I was taught but again, I suppose my learning disabilities needed more pain to add substance to my lessons.
This way, I could retain what I’ve learned.

I have not had a drink or a recreational drug since that time.

I was told that my trauma would always lead me astray.
I was told that my past would always find a way to creep up.
I was told that my pains have deep roots, and that I would always try to hide them, defend them, or pretend that they do not exist.

I remember back when I would choose to experience physical pain, just to learn how to numb myself, or learn to endure the aches without a flinch.

But that was back when I used to want to be tough.
I don’t want to be tough.
I just want to be me.
And who am I, you ask?
I’m a kid who grew up with invisible scars that no one sees and ugly features in my mind that keep me from being beautiful.

I am not mysterious.
I’m a boy who was hurt. I’m a student who was laughed at in a classroom, who stuttered when reading out loud, like some bumbling idiot.
I’m a kid who was bullied and a teenager who was rejected.
I’m a young man who lost his Father at an early age.
I’m a young adult who couldn’t get it together because I believed in the predictions that doomed me.

And now, as I fast forward to who I am; I am someone hoping to shed my old layers or to lay down the outdated weapons of mass or self-destruction, and yes, as I grow and evolve, I am the one who is looking to be the man I have always wished to be
(with you).

Be patient with me, please.
My love for you is real and open and here, right before you.
However, my inaccuracies and the inaccuracies in my belief system have somehow become diseased-like or cancerous, to which I find the need to wash myself, so that I can be clean.

And you?
You will be safe and free to love me
(again).