A Box Beneath the Bed

Here’s an example of what my notes would be like and this entry would otherwise be something unknown, and placed in a box somewhere, for no one else to see.

I have to go back to the thing behind the thing, or better yet, I want to start with my core, as in the box beneath the bed or the tiny secrets that I would keep in my little notes. These were my special treasures, but no one ever knew about them.

This came from a time when I was young. This goes back to when my urge to write began – when life started to unfold in ways that I could not understand.
I was always too aware of myself.
I was uncomfortable. I was small and thin and weak and gullible. But worse, I always saw myself as vulnerable to bullies or perhaps I assumed I was like prey for the social vultures who preyed upon the weak or the easily beaten.
That was me.

I am not sure when I started writing or how. I don’t know if this was inspired by someone or something that happened. I suppose this was something that I always did.
Only, I never told anyone.

I remember the days in my bedroom. I remember when I started to notice the social structures and how life unfolded. I remember how I noticed the draw or the attraction that some people had and other people did not.

I always wondered why or how it was that certain people could walk in a room and the world seemed to notice. All eyes were on them and, no matter what, it was as though they could never say something commonplace or uncool. Meanwhile, common or uncool, people still loved them.
I was not that person. No, I never saw myself as good looking or gross; but more, I saw myself as unnoticeable or plain.

Everything seemed forced or coerced. I had to try. I had to work for my place in the circle. Meanwhile, there were the lucky few who had this undeniable quality that everyone seemed to value or want.
But that wasn’t me.

I noticed the politics of life at a young age. And this was unfair. I never knew why some are considered beautiful and others are not. Sure, I get that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I never knew why the world around me was so ugly or harsh and judgmental.
Who was the committee who came up with what beauty is?
When was this brought to a vote? I have no idea because I’m sure no one ever asked me.

I was mostly alone. I never had large groups of friends, and the outcomes of me with the crowd were often unfair or unfortunate.
Awkwardness is a bitch!

This is not because I wanted to be this way or I chose to be alone; but more, I was alone because I have always been uncomfortable around people. 
I was burned and bullied at a young age. I saw dishonesty in smiles and this, yes this, above all things were perhaps some of the most painful memories from my youth — to be smiled at and assume that you are included and in on the joke, only to find out that I was the punchline and the joke was on me.
That hurt . . .
I went from believing that I was invited and being included to realizing that no, I was the subject and the asshole who took the bait.

I was awkward then and I am awkward now. While I appear open and outgoing, I am more frequently shy or better yet, I am always concerned that there is something wrong with me.
I never see myself as good looking.
I am already at a loss when facing people, places, or things. To make this simple, I have always lived with the cognitive distortion that I am somehow socially and educationally challenged.

I have discussed this with others as well as in some of my lectures, to which I am often met with disbelief. How could someone who lives with social anxiety disorder or how could someone who claims to be petrified by public speaking become a public speaker?
I talk about the bouts of anxiety. I am forthright and to the point that while outwardly I appear to be fine, my inside voice is not the same.
Trust me.
it is easy for me to be comfortable here.
It’s just us. No one else but you and I.

I have had meltdowns before performing. I’ve thrown up. I’ve had panic attacks, nearly fainted, and I quit before I began, nearly every speech, presentation, and yes I have had to push myself to do every lecture. 

Yes. This is me.

I own this. In fact, I see this as my right and a victory to claim my vulnerabilities because at one point, I’d have worn a mask or acted in a way to disguise my discomfort.
I’d have lied or acted like I am someone else to create an image of safety or comfort.

And so, there were times when I would sit and write notes in my little notebooks. This was my lifeline.
This was my only way to find sanity or peace.
I would write about love. I would write about revenge. I would write about the confusions and challenges that I would see; and more, I would write my thoughts as a means to find my way out of my own worst nightmare.

I do believe that the mind can be a prison. Therefore, I knew that I would have to be the author of my own prison break.
I knew that my awkwardness would steal my tongue and that saying the right things was not always an easy thing to do.

Most of all, I have always wanted to be beautiful.
I never wanted to be ugly.
I never wanted to be the odd one or the unwanted one.
And fine. I never needed to be the one who walked in the room and all eyes were on me.
No, that’s not it.

More than anything, I have always wanted to find that place where I fit.
I want to be with people who I enjoy, rather than find myself in the volley of back-and-forth sarcasm and bullshit insults.

I still remember the first poem I ever wrote about love. The poem was short. But this was about how I believe love should be or feel.
I know that somewhere out there is a place for me. And I know that this is late in the game, but I still have that feeling in my heart that somehow, all of this is going to pay me back for the years of miscalculations and misguided steps.

I was an old soul at a young age. Then again, I wanted to be older when I was younger so that I could be free. And now that I’m older, I want to be younger, so I can be free once more.

I wonder though.
I wonder if you knew me then, or if we could go back, somehow, and the two of us could meet at that early age with all the knowledge that we have now . .
What would this be like?

I used to write about ideas like this, about meeting someone, about loving them, unstoppably, and finding my place in the world without worry, without care, and without noticing who noticed me because why would I care who noticed me if I had you?

It’s amazing though, when I look back.
I survived all of this.
Somehow.
I can smile today. I can smile right now, thinking about what it was like, or how I was, or how I tried to be.

And love?
I spoke with a young man at the gym last night about what I thought love means.

Nothing else exists. No one else matters.
The world can go up in flames, and that would be fine, so long as the love of your life is with you.

I have not perfected anything when it comes to love.
I have my share of faults and defects.
I’m sure that I have made my share of enemies as well.

But that was then –
and this is now
and now is far more important to me.

If you know what I mean . . .