Let’s see. Where was I?
I’m not sure when, where or how this came to be. Then again, I’m not sure if anyone remembers the hour or the day when they came in contact with a dream or their passion.
I’m not sure when it was that I became interested in writing. I don’t know when someone turned me on to poetry.
I do remember an English teacher of mine. She was mainly unattractive and old. However, I can remember the time she read Shakespeare, and there was something beautiful about her after this.
I remember being a young boy and thinking how amazing it would be to write a book.
Could you imagine?
At the same time, I figured no one would ever read a book that was written by me.
Why would they?
I mean, who would care?
Who would understand?
Plus, I could hardly read without stuttering. I was a bad student. Or maybe I had bad teachers. Or maybe I lacked the inspiration to realize that there is something inherent and something true. Perhaps I failed to realize that I am not alone in this big sea of people. I am not alone with my fears or confusions. In fact, most people are afraid of something.
Everyone has fears or worries and insecurities. My drowning pool or otherwise known as my social pressures and circle of influences, was the atmosphere of my youth. Thus, I found myself lost in an awkward identity. I was uncomfortable around the different echelons of popularity.
Put simply, I’ve always wanted to be cool. I was anxious and depressed and, at the same time, I didn’t know what the words anxiety and depression meant.
At least not yet.
I used to keep notebooks and write my thoughts in them. I would write little poems. I poured my heart out onto little pages and put them away in a little box beneath my bed.
Those notes are long gone. So is my youth.
So are the remnants of my old room, which went through several changes throughout the years.
The person I was is long gone as well. However, there is a piece of me still lingering and still clinging to the youthfulness of passion.
I was never big or strong. I was never very good in street fights, which is not to say that I never had them, or that I won many of them.
I had fights. I lost a lot.
I have a scar on the back of my head that reminds me what anger does. I have a scar on the back of my head that reminds me of humiliation and how pride and insecurity can lead me to self-destruction.
I took a turn at the popular game called, “Fuck Around, and Find Out!”
And yes. I found out.
The scar on my head reminds me of a fight I had in a diner late one night, after-hours of course when I was out with one of my friends. This scar is a reminder of how I crashed a thick piece of wood over a man’s head, which I knew was a bad idea once he stood up from his seat, and then he turned around, unphased, and kicked the shit out of me.
Pride and ego and these false ideas of self are interesting to me.
So are the dangers of how pride and ego can get us in trouble.
For example –
I was out one night with a crew of friends, late as ever, and five of us stood in line waiting to get into a place called Club USA.
This place was huge and well known in New York City’s Westside. I was never a club kid. I could never pull off the look, but I tried.
I felt something inside of me, intuition maybe.
I knew something was about to go wrong. One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, then again, I never name anyone because names and places in my journals are altered slightly to protect the less-than innocent.
Either way, my friend stood beside me. We were talking about whatever bullshit things young men in their 20’s talk about at 3:00 in the morning.
My friend was a small man. Smaller than me, in fact, but he thought he was bigger. This I know for sure.
His mouth was certainly big enough to start problems and get us into fights, which was fine because the other three of my friends were all bigger and far tougher than us.
Of course, in true knucklehead fashion, my friend started with someone as we approached the door to get in.
There was a line outside, which was a usual thing at clubs in New York City. I hated these lines . . .
Two others younger than us, but they were “club” kids, I suppose, pushed by my friend to get up to the red velvet ropes that surrounded the front doors of the club.
In true typical form, my friend started with them, to which I sided next to him, but when our other friends circled around them, the two visitors chose to avoid us, the home team, and in my eyes, I was glad to dodge the violent bullet.
I knew something was about to happen. I wanted to leave but I couldn’t say anything about it.
I was tired and the last thing I wanted to do was to be waiting outside of an after-hours place, hoping to dodge another fight or argument.
And then . . .
A tall slender man was rushed outside, escorted with force, and tossed into the middle of the street, which was somewhere in the mid West 40’s. I think . . .
I don’t recall. Maybe this was 44th Street.
I could be wrong, but either way, this was long ago.
The slender man flipped open a switchblade knife. The bouncer who threw him out was perhaps one of the biggest men I had ever seen in my life.
The bouncer saw the reaction of the tall, slender man. His eyes registered the threat of the switchblade without any signs of emotion.
Next, the bouncer turned and walked back into the large double doors of the club, and as quickly as he walked in, the large man came back out followed by five other men who were even bigger.
There was no delay, no pause, no “Hey, drop the knife,” or anything like that.
No, the tall slender man was not so fortunate.
They surrounded him and devoured him, instantly
In fact, they beat him worse than I have ever seen anyone beaten in my life. The bouncers hit this man with the station, which holds the ropes that surround the front door.
Those are weighted and heavy.
Holy shit, I thought to myself.
That was one hell of a beating.
I am sure this man learned his lesson after that, at least I like to think he did.
I am sure that if he speaks regularly, and if he was lucky enough to survive and have a life, or a wife, I’m sure there are times when the man is driving and someone cuts him off—and his wife might yell or scream and tell him to do something about it — and I’m sure the memory of five or six men beating the life out of him come back to mind, and next, he thinks to himself, “Nope. I’m good.”
I get that.
I see this like the scar on the back of my head; ever reminding me of a time when I forgot that violence is real, and that I am not tough. Pick your spots . . . because pride, ego and insecurity can put me in dangerous places. I know this for sure.
I write this with visions in my head because I remember these moments and I can see them clearly.
I’ve always wanted to be able to share these stories. I’ve always wanted to write in a way that people can see what I saw, without bias, and be descriptive enough that my emotion shows because, to be honest, I was never built for this.
I was just a kid.
I was never built to be tough. I was always afraid and always scared that someone would see through the mask and realize that I was vulnerable and nothing more than weak and just a coward.
At this point, I have my scars, and I can say that I’ve earned my seat.
I can lay down my uniform, my wardrobe, and I can put away my weapons of mutual and self-destruction.
I have nothing left to prove.
I don’t have to be anyone else anymore.
I don’t have to worry about sitting at the cool kid’s table and I don’t have to fit in the social or professional circles of acceptance anymore.
I got the job already, if you know what I mean.
All I have to do is make my way through the day. But as I do this, I plan to take notes and share what I see.
I used to write things like this and keep my notes in a box under my bed. But then I became cool, and my bed was on the floor, and my room took on the designs of my rebellion.
The war is over now.
There is no more rebellion.
At this point, I’d settle for a good night’s sleep and something to help with aches and pains.
But for now, I think I’ll just go on for a while and tell you more, like I tried to back when I kept my notes in a box beneath my bed.
The Written Addiction 