I should tell you that this journal is no different from any of the journals or notes that I have written to you. Each one is inspired by some kind of life-changing event or an eye-opening moment. And yes, this journal is no different.
There is a reason for my thoughts and my ideas. And, of course, my thoughts and my reasons for reaching out to you like this are very dear to me. This is all dear to me, even if they are not dear to anyone else, including you.
This journal is about life, which is not to say that this journal is about me or my life, at least not per se.
No, this one is about life and life’s terms. This is about the rise and fall of our fellow human beings and, more importantly, this is about the value of life, or the things we’ve done to make our life mean something.
Before I go forward, I have to explain something.
This is a strange time of year for me. Aside from the spring taking hold and the weather changing, this time of year marks a crucial period in my life.
I remember who I was as a young, troubled man. This is not about sobriety or about drugs or alcohol, but yes, I am coming up on a date which is significant to me. I am a few days away from a time that marks another year since my last encounter with a weapon and a substance that nearly killed me.
At the same time, this journal is not about this, nor is this about me or my mental health, or the fact that people can and will recover from the depths of their own personal hell.
This about life, as in “to live” as if to say, “what the hell are we doing?” or “what the hell are we waiting for?”
The clock is ticking and we all know this.
Time is moving and the morning will be here before we know it.
I am a firm believer in the overlapping impact of people and the influence of others. Hence, this brings me to another item that has inspired this journal.
With all my heart, I have been influenced by you. And, with al of my heart, I have been moved by you, and inspired, and motivated by you as well.
It would appear sometimes as if no one sees or as if no one hears or no one is watching, or cares.
Life can be this way.
Things can seem as if life is slipping away, at times, and we wonder things like, “who would notice if I didn’t show up tomorrow?” Or in the case of calling people, or when it comes to being the one who always calls and thinking or believing, “I would never hear from you if I never took the time to pick up the phone and call,” I suppose there is a challenge in the heart and procrastinated form of rejection that we put off, because, in fairness, we don’t want to feel it.
We don’t want to be turned away or refused, rejected, or noted as unworthy.
We all want to be invited and included, or when I say this to you, I can tell you that I want to be wanted and desired and loved. And I don’t want this from everyone.
Just you.
I want this and all the great feelings that go into the dream of happily ever after.
At the same time, no.
This journal means more to me than the typical insecurities or the fears of rejection.
At the same time . . .
This is about a life that was silenced and a life that was ended and more to the point, this is about a friend of mine who ended his own life without knowing his own worth.
In full disclosure, I am used to depressive thinking. I say this because I have lived this way for as long as I can remember. I can say that I have years of therapy under my belt. I have experience as a coach and a mental health advocate, specialist, and professional.
At the same time, nothing prepares you for the news that comes when you learn about the tragic loss that was self-imposed. Thus, I find myself thinking out loud—
“What the fuck!”
We just talked the other week. We talked out of nowhere, and with hindsight being perfect, I realize that this was a call to say goodbye.
Everyone is going through something.
We are all hurting.
We all go through loss.
And me?
I go through this too.
I misunderstand the world around me. I find myself locked in the personal tussle of insecure thoughts and fears which lead me to think that I am either stupid, uneducated, unimportant, or that I am, and I will forever be “the loser” in this game.
I have been called a loser before.
But nothing hurts worse than hearing this from someone else.
I have these thoughts which, of course, I often hear people tell me not to think this way.
And to them, I say how perfect.
How brilliant.
How amazing it would be to push a button and just like that, every doubt or fear, or ever battle with insecurity, and every worry that I am nothing more than an imposter would go away,. Going forward, I would love to reverse the idea that sooner or later, the curtain will be pulled, and I will be exposed, humiliated, and uncovered as a fool.
I am no more than anyone else, nor am I less; however, I often fail and lose to the inaccurate comparisons between me and other people.
I have been hurt by loved ones.
I have heard punishing terms.
They were wrong, but that does not mean these things were not damaging to me.
I think about the rejection of love, and I think about the association of blame or the need to find out who is at fault.
At the same time, I think about the assumption that the fault belongs to me when, in fact, no.
Other people will look to blame and point fingers, and next, I breathe out so that someone else can breathe in.
I think about the innocent and loving bystanders who have to pay for things that had nothing to do with them. And for this, I am sorry.
I have survived my share of near misses. I have woken up on a floor after attempting to end my own life. I have learned from my scars, yet there are times when I assume my scars will limit me, or that as invisible as some of the scars may be, they are clear to the eye of someone out there, who can hurt me far more than they realize.
I have lived like this for as long as I can remember. At the same time, I have lived without a drink or a recreational drug since April 1, 1991.
I have had to teach myself to adapt. I have had to teach myself to adjust my thinking. I have had to understand that my thoughts and opinions are not always truth, and that my feelings are not always fact.
I am far from perfect. But I am far from giving up.
As I write to you, I am preparing myself for a short trip. I am getting away, so-to-speak, because it has been a while since my toes have felt the warmth of white sands.
My life is not the same as it was this time last year. And that needs to be a good thing.
This needs to be a way for me to stop, realize, and return with a better mindset.
And as for my friend whose name I reserve out of respect and anonymity, all I can say is just know that my love for you has not changed.
My heart is broken. But like I told you a long time ago, I would rather take that phone call from you in the middle of the night than get a phone call that you’re gone the next morning.
I am no judge, nor am I fit to be one.
I have both hurt and altered my life as well as my love life, but now, as I write this to you and speak out loud, I am going to have my feet in the sands, later today, so that I can walk the shore and tell my thoughts to the sea.
This is what inspired this journal.
At the same time, this is not what this journal is about.
I’d rather be alive than live like I’m dead.
And I’d rather love than lie and act like I don’t care
because, I do.
I really, really do.
The Written Addiction 