A Box Beneath the Bed

I don’t know when or why. And I might not understand how things happen or when the switch takes place. All I know is I am not the same as I was.
I know that I do not see things the same way nor do I feel the same as I did.

I have aged. I have grown. I have moved ahead or I have moved on in some regards and, yes, I have regressed at times. I have gone back to older ways of thinking; only to see that I have outgrown who I was. And more, I have learned that who I was might not have been me in the first place, which is odd to say because who else can I be?
How can anybody be anyone except for themselves?

I say the world can be a mascaraed, at times.
People tend to wear disguises.
Some people are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and some are doves, some are serpents, and some are still struggling to find out who they are to begin with.
So, what does this make me, aside from human?

I don’t know if it’s age. I don’t know if time pulls a trick and I don’t know if it’s the number of times I have fallen, which enables me to see and identify the struggle it takes to dust oneself off—and get back up.
I can relate to heartache much differently now. And I feel this differently too.
Perhaps this is due to the fact that I understand to live beneath the misperception of self or be fooled by the internal lies, which cause us to be tricked about our own beauty and believe that we are unwanted, unlovable, or ugly.

I don’t want to be ugly.
I don’t want to be alone either; however, it is worse to be with people who make you believe that you are ugly, or that you deserve to be alone.
Safe to say there are mean and ugly people in the world and safe to say they come with “Pretty” exteriors, but in truth, they are ugly on the inside, which makes them average or even lower.

I know that I have fallen. I know that I have broken my own stride and pushed the world away. I know that I have done mean and awful things to which I apologize, both fully and wholeheartedly.
But apologies do not change feelings and saying sorry does not stop the hurt.
I’m sure we all know this.

I used to train myself to accept pain, or to experience hurt and not even flinch. I wanted to be dead or numb to the swirls of emotion. This way, I would never be hurt again.
I would never be played for a fool, and I’d never be anyone’s victim or a target to be bullied, shamed, embarrassed, or humiliated.
I used to try and pull off my look, as if to be the mysterious rebel, as in dangerous, deadly, and quiet, or sleek and stealth like an unseen predator, unable to be hurt or caught. Even if I was hurt or caught, nothing could beat me—not even myself, so what would it matter?
How could anyone hurt or kill me if I could not hurt or even kill myself?

I remember the time when I saw a photograph of me from my younger years. This is back when I wore my younger man’s clothes. This was years ago and I remember the change I felt in my system, as soon as I saw the picture.

I have never been a person who enjoys seeing pictures of myself. This is mostly because I can always tell what I am thinking or feeling, just by looking at my facial expression.
Either way, an old friend showed me a picture from back when I was small and in seventh grade. She assumed that this was a nice thing, which it was. In all fairness, no one would assume that a picture of friends would be a trigger to an emotional memory or an uncomfortable link to an old tension.
But this is what that picture was to me.
This was a link back to a thought and a feeling from a bad time in my life.

I saw the photograph.
I could tell what I was thinking.

I could see by the expression on my face how uncomfortable I was at the time, and how afraid I was, and how petrified that something was wrong with me and that there was something off, or sickly about the way I am or was. I believed that the way that I looked was not only unkempt and ugly, but my fear is that out of everyone else in that small group of kids, I would be seen and pointed out and someone would say, “Who the hell is that kid?” They would say this, mockingly, with contempt or disgust in their voice.

I have never been one for pictures.
I have never enjoyed being photographed. While I have improved greatly with this, it has taken me decades to learn to appreciate myself as well as the way I look.

I am as insecure as anyone else is, I suppose.
Or maybe more.
I’ll never know.

However, fear and insecurity ruin the soul. I can say this heartily because I can say this to you, here and now, and I can verify this truth by explaining that my internal discomfort is something that burst into an internal hatred. As a means to find myself protected or to keep from being hurt or played for the vulnerable fool, I refused to let anyone in. I admit to this with regret because there is truth to the casualties of war —and yes, there were innocent people hurt by my mistruths and misconceptions of self. As a result, the casualties that came from the wars inside my head are matters that I have to deal with. I have to fess up to what I have done and I have to accept the exact natures of my wrongs.

I admit to this.
Yes, I have hurt people. I have done terrible things. Some of my actions and some of my responses and hurtful ways were part of a lifestyle that I chose. Sometimes, there were people in my life who pleaded with me to be kind to myself or to open up and let them in — to which I hurt them the worst ways possible because their gentleness was the biggest threat of all.
They were a threat, more than a dagger to the heart, more than a bullet through my flesh, and more than the worst theft I could think of — their love was greater than the strength of the beasts in my head. Hence, I was afraid.

I am sorry.

I am not someone who wants to be alone nor do I believe that I will always be alone, as in forever. At the same time, I recognize my need for growth and healing.
I realize that people are seldom this honest about themselves or how people will seldomly admit to the exact nature of their wrongs—ah, but I will.
I have to.
Otherwise, the secrets and the toxins and the sins of my hate will always outweigh the truth in my heart. My truth is not ugly, by any means, but I do have “a truth” which is nothing short of this—I am scared.
I am afraid of the light. I am afraid to let go of pain and fear and rage and hatred because I am afraid to open up and receive the greatness of light, only to find that the light was temporary or not real, as in a lie. Thus, what do I do if I let myself feel the grace of love and light, only to learn that the love was never real or not mine, or not intended for someone like me, and next, what do I do if I experience the joy of sunlight, only to go back in the dark?

Again, I call this honesty.
I call these the reasons behind my defense mechanisms.

I say this is the direct result of early abuse and I say this is what happens when people are bullied or laughed at and when the pains from rejection or humiliation cut way too deep.
I say this is what comes when the foolishness we feel hits us hard, especially when realizing that we believed in the wrong person. I say this happens when we loved someone who lied to us, mistreated us, or when we allowed ourselves to break down the walls that we kept around us, and when we find ourselves crushed, this is why I was how I was.
This is why I built walls around my walls and barriers around the blockades, to keep me isolated, or to keep me safe from believing another lie.

I don’t know when or why, or how things changed. And I know why things happen—at least I can say that I understand this from an intellectual standpoint.

I know why I am afraid.
I know why I was too afraid to love, or too afraid to give in and surrender to someone.
I know why I never dared enough to say to someone “I am yours, do what you want with me, just be gentle because I am not tough.”
I know what it feels like to be hurt and to be betrayed, or destroyed, and deceived; however, I am a huge fan of the saying “if you don’t heal from what hurt you, you’ll bleed on people who never cut you.”

I have done this, all too often, and for this, I am sorry. Yes, I am sorry with all of my heart.
I’m done with this now.
I’m done with this and the beasts and the demons with pretty faces and most of all, i am done with yesterday because finally, I want to heal and be better for my new beginning.

I used to train myself to never flinch or cry. I often think of old memories, both violent and brutal, and I think about how emotionless I was.
I was cold as could be, like a razor blade in winter, and somehow, I was proud to be this feelingless.

I used to have a big fish tank. I think about the little fish that grew too big and how he took over the tank and chased everyone away.
I think about the way this was sad to me, and how the fish died, alone, and how the other fish never seemed to mind or notice that he was gone.
I don’t want to be like that.

I think about two geese that used to live on the farm with me, and how they were mean little geese, and how one died from the barn dog—and how the other died from loneliness.
I don’t want the barn dog to bite me.
And I definitely don’t want to die from loneliness.

I don’t want to be that mean little bastard anymore. I don’t need to take over the fish tank either.
I don’t want to chase the world away; however, I have to understand that for every action, there is a reaction, and for every consequence, there is the span of time in which we have to serve and make our penance.

Again, this is called honesty. I call this an honest assessment to which I take on the understanding of what I’ve done or where I went wrong.
And that’s fine.
So be it, I say.

I do believe in the word “Never” as in I will never have the chance to redo my yesterday. I will never see or have the chance to say things, and now, and to go forward, I do believe in the benefit of the word “goodbye,” because now that I say goodbye, I will never have to go through what I went through again.

I will never have to allow someone the right to hold their dishonesties as truth. Most of all, I never have to be around my old pain again, which is great because there’s a great big world out there and the last thing I want to do is bleed on someone else who never cut me.

Looks like I have some growing to do.
But then — who doesn’t?

I’m not so great or so bad.
I’m just trying to get through my life.

Know what I mean?