Life is different now. Or maybe nothing is different, per se, and the only thing that’s changed is my relation to the morning or the hours in which I go to sleep.
I am an early riser, of course. Then again, I have never been a late sleeper. There was a phase of my younger life when my hours led me through the nighttime and thus, the dawn was my proof that I was somehow still alive.
No matter how late I came home, I have always had a thing for the sunrise.
Perhaps there were summers of wild times, like the renegades of me 20’s and the catastrophes that sunk my hopes and hurt my spirit.
Perhaps there was a period of reckless decline, sober though, but I was more sober in name than in spirit.
Perhaps there were nights and days and moments of disdain. Perhaps there were nights of exploration and times when I saw the new horizon evolve.
Perhaps the greatest of all times were the nights when I chose to walk away and see the City on my own. Yes, I can say the best moments of my younger life occurred when I chose to break away from the pack and see things on my own.
I would never dare to sit at a restaurant alone, or go out to dinner by myself, and sit amongst families or couples as they share a meal together. I would never dare to go to the movies alone or anything like that. This was too hard for me.
I have special memories that have evolved throughout my years. These are memories that are the same, but different. Regardless of my age or my choice of fashion, music or phase at the time, there was a basic or commonality with each memory that is worthy enough to mention.
I have a memory from my terrible years. Or should I call them my terrible teens? I suppose I can call this anything I choose; but more, I call these moments a collection of realization. I see this as an evolution or stages of awareness.
I was how I was.
Or in the case of where I was at the time or where I lived, I grew to realize that geography is only geography and locations are only locations.
Understand?
I remember being told that no matter where you go, there you are.
You cannot run from this,
but people try.
I can recall a day when I chose not to engage. I chose not to call anyone. I chose not to follow my usual routine. I chose to walk away and be alone.
This was perfect.
I was not afraid or worried or wondering if anyone would call. I didn’t care if I was not included or refused.
I was fine to be an outcast.
I remember standing in a field, not too far away from my home. My hair was long. I was unhealthy because of a unfortunate dependency. But even that was placed on hold.
I remember pulling out a cigarette. I think it was a Lucky Strike, or it could have been either a Camel or Pall Mall with no filter. Either way, the look was more of an intention to fit an image or define my own rebellion.
My hair was long and straight and covered my face. I was thin. I was sick. I was tired and, at best, I was alone with my thoughts. I was fine to protest the world around me. I was fine to protest my so-called friendships. And more, I was fine to walk away and be alone and not fear the dependency I had for being wanted, needed, or involved, invited, and included.
There are times when I practiced my speech and prepared myself for the delivery of my grand farewell.
There were also times when I realized that I don’t need to say goodbye.
I don’t need the last word. Or hell, I didn’t need the first word.
All I needed was the reassurance from within. All I needed was the rebirth of self and the courage, the drive, and the desire to stand up and walk away.
I remember the time when I was fine to swear off drugs. I was fine to swear off the crowd. I was fine to escape and fine to disappear and recreate myself in any way I chose.
I might not have held on to this in all cases, and I might not have walked away at the time i planned this, but I did, eventually.
I was always afraid that I was going to miss something. I was always afraid that I would be the one on the outside looking in, or that I would never be included or feel the warmth of acceptance.
I was afraid that I would always follow the crowd or follow the so-called leader and never dare to step away and be myself.
There are times (like now) when I shake my head or say out-loud, “do you know how much fun I could’ve had if I had only chosen to be me?”
I was –
Too young.
Too afraid to dance to the music of my choice.
Too afraid to claim my love.
Too afraid to share this.
Too afraid that if I asked . . .
she would never “really” choose me
or walk away with a smile
hold my hand as we took off
and never look back.
I would love to tell you that my fears are gone.
But no.
My fears are still here.
I have my speech.
It’s been planned and ready.
I’m all prepared because although I am afraid and my fears have left me in a tough position, I’m more afraid of the time that’s running out.
Maybe I am not fit to be chosen.
Maybe I need to walk away more and venture out on my own.
Or maybe the morning will show me something unexpected.
Either way, I’m off to find my home.
The Written Addiction 