A Box Beneath the Bed

I keep these notes here to keep my sanity. Sometimes, I keep them to remind me of who I was or who I am. Other times, I remind myself that this is all live and on stage. This is a process and this life, unfolding. I keep them to keep my heart intact and to let my soul know that I have not forgotten the light inside of me, and that despite the quarrels or the fights and disagreements, and despite the insults about me or my character or the way I am, the truth is I’m not so bad.
I’m learning.

But . . .
If I only knew then what I know now.

I say this often enough. I say this because hindsight is perfect. In hindsight, I can see what happened and what went wrong. I can see where I closed my eyes on purpose, and I can see why too.
I understand what it means to keep myself blind and to keep from noticing the truth.
I can see why hindsight can be a bitch and so is the learning curve.

I can recognize the red flags and all the warning signs, which I knew about at the time, but still, hope can lead us to an emotional blindness. So, the need to find comfort or to be satisfied can cause us to turn a blind eye. This can lead us to compromise ourselves in a way that we accept a trade and think, “maybe it’ll get better.” and maybe it will . . . sometimes.
Sometimes we can find a happy medium or come to a comfortable negotiation and an agreement.

I have no right or reason to be angry, nor am I fit to put anyone down, and nor do I have the right or the reason to find fault with other people.
I have my own list of defects to take care of.
I have my own trained assumptions and biases, and my own inaccurate beliefs, which are unfortunate because these are the inaccuracies that I believe in, which deter me from moving forward.

If I only knew then what I know now.

I say this with regards to myself. I say this respectfully; however, I say this as a means to consider what life would be like if I could go back and redo or retake some of my old tests.

I often think about my educational struggles. I think about administrative bullies in the classroom or the guidance counselor who told me I’d be lucky if I could dig ditches or drive a truck for a living. And, for the record, and as a union tradesman, truck drivers and ditch diggers and laborers make a lot more than teachers do.
I think about my unfortunate experiences in the educational fields. I think about the educational snobs and the times when I assumed that they knew best, or the times when I figured that everyone else was smarter than me, and therefore, I assumed that everyone else was better than me.

If I only knew then what I know now.

I think about the times when I allowed myself to give in or surrender to the idea that I was somewhat inferior because I was less traveled or less experienced and somehow, I was less worthy because my bank account had less zeros.

I remember sitting in a room with people that were far more educated and experienced in the mental health world. I remember this because this was the first time i ever dared to follow one of my biggest dreams.
I was part of a police initiative. I was told to stay in my lane and leave the real work to the professionals. Yes, I was intimidated. I was afraid that I would be seen as stupid or a waste of space.

I took a humble approach, almost like a child who was too bullied to complain about being picked last. In fact, I expected to be picked last and hear the groans about having to have me on the team.
I was like that kid, back in grade school, too afraid to ask to play or be part of the game because what if I fail or drop the ball.

I stayed in my lane.
I took the back seat.
I did what I was told to do.

Moreover, I did my job, which I was hired to do and paid poorly. However, I explained that I was not in this for the money. I said this in my defense to someone who explained that I am being paid to do as I am told.
I explained that I had not worked for money like this since I was a kid.
I said that I was not here for the food and friends.
I was there for me.

I was working as an entry-level recovery specialist with minimal credentials.
I was told that I was inexperienced and that I didn’t know the first thing about mental health.
I was told that I had no place in the initiative, which I saw as more of a public display as a take in the war on drugs, and to me, this was more political. At the same time, no one knew that this was going to be as successful and as influential as it was—including me.
No one knew that this initiative would become a countrywide effort.

I’m glad that I didn’t know then what I know now.
I’m glad because this would have robbed me of an experience.
I was humble. I was loyal to one purpose only. I didn’t care about the news or the reporters that followed me around. I didn’t know that this would be televised or that I would be in the newspaper, on the front page no less.

I found out about this unexpectedly.
I was told to show up at a press conference. I was told that there was something to see. And I was fine with whatever it was. I never expected the news to be there. I never thought that I would be asked to stand up and be pointed out as a person of honor. I never thought that my name would be mentioned, on camera, and that I would receive an acknowledgement like this.

I was on the news.
I was on the front page of the newspaper.
Mom would have been proud to see this.
But Mom was gone.

I remember this not being real to me.
I saw some of the clinicians that put me down and told me to stay in my lane. I saw the people who told me that I didn’t deserve to be involved in this project.
I was addressed by one person who told me how they had more than 30 years of experience. The news never mentioned this person nor will I.

You know what . . .
Sometimes not knowing is better. Sometimes our natural humility and the truth behind our spirit is exactly what we need to be successful.

I never quit my day job, so-to-speak, but I still have ideas, hopes and an aspiration to take my role in the mental health field to a higher and more professional level.
I promise you!

My day job is a good job. I do respectable work. I earn a living, and I am considered to be good at what I do. My day job feeds my belly but my mental health work feeds my heart.
I used to say that my day job feeds my family and my other job feeds my heart.
I don’t have a family anymore.
(So?)

I have never been good with compliments or accolades.
I think they distract me.
However, I received an email about my work at my day job, which basically said that I did a good thing.

Sometimes, I’m glad I have experience. Sometimes I think it’s better to have no experience and sometimes, I need to understand that the natural humility behind my spirit is enough to make me shine and be meaningful to a team.

There’s a young kid who I see at my day job.
I offer him lessons and tell him that I am going to show him my work so that when he gets called up, he can start with some experience.

I admire him.
He is young. His father worked at the same level and the same position as me, and I see this young man, eager to follow in his father’s footsteps.

His father passed a few years back.
I don’t know why this hits me the way it does.
I don’t know why I’m starting to cry when I tell you this but I am.
No one dries my tears anymore.
And that’s okay.

Somehow, I have to help this kid — you know?
I just want to see this young man achieve his dream.
Or maybe this is personal to me and I can understand what it’s like to lose a father at a young age.

I told the young man how I lived a long time, and I missed the bus for too many years.
I waited too long for too many things.
I told him how my Old Man passed when I was young — and I told the young man how my Old Man never had the chance to see who I’ve become. In fact, my insecurities worry that The Old Man would be ashamed of me.

I want this young man to be able to look up to the sky and say look at me, Dad . . . I’m an engineer, just like you!

If I only knew then . . .
. . . what I know now.

Hold your head up, kid.
I promise you’re going to make him proud, even if I have to hurt and bleed to make it so.

Dear Pop,

I was wiring up a control valve at work yesterday and I was doing it the way you would. So you know, I was being watched by people who wanted to learn about what I do.
Sometimes, you have to do things differently and sometimes, you have to do things the way you’re “not” supposed to do them. This is especially so in different emergency situations.

I told them, “See what I’m doing?
The men I was teaching said, “yeah?”
I told them, “Don’t ever do it like this.”
And then I laughed . . .
So did they.

You’d have laughed too.
If I only knew then what I know now.

You know?

I love you, Pop.

Your son

B—