A Day Called Way Back When

I suppose, of course, the saying is true. If you don’t know, then you just don’t know.
Then, of course, what do I know?

I remember walking through my little town, safe in my own self-destruction, and isolated away from the rest of the world. This was me, a tiny trooper, caught up in a war that never needed to exist. Safe to say that I was placed in what I would consider to be a suburban cocoon. What I saw was neither unlike or similar to what you saw because as I see it now, our vision and our interpretations are not the same. At the same time, I am more than sure that we all come to the wrong conclusions.

I remember . . .

The towns to the left or to the right of mine were like other countries. In some cases, these towns were hostile territories. They were like my Russia at the time of cold wars. Depending upon the time of day or the reasons, I would be at risk if I were ever caught behind enemy lines.
I remember the so-called riots and rumbles with neighboring towns.
Then again, I didn’t always have a ride nor a reason to be anywhere else but where I was. Either way, I was alive and well in my unwell life.
I was young, wild with red, bloodshot eyes fueled by the recreational substances that kept me crazy and hungry for something that could not be found, defined, or consumed.

I admit to my misguidedness. I admit to the “exact natures of my wrongs,” wholeheartedly.
I confess to the sins and crimes of my youth. And more, I acknowledge and reveal the simple fears and insecurities that kept me uncomfortable, or awkward, as it were.
No one walks into war without a reason. I had wars and reasons, but the point was diminishing. Hence, so were the returns of being part of the wild ones, or sitting in the backseat of a police car, which was not what I wanted. However, the nature and the severity of my outcomes were familiar and emulated the way I thought, looked, and felt.

I remember the places and the corners, the parks, the stores and the video arcades. I remember the other sections of my town. I remember the empty parking lots, the fields behind schools, and the alleys or the places where I used to hide.

I remember the angst of confusion and the feel or the need to be valid. I remember what it was like for me to be otherwise noticed more than just an average teenage kid. I say this because, in all fairness, I wanted to be more than an average kid with a switchblade in his pocket.

I remember the places where we ate. I remember the pizza joints. I remember the popular delis and if I date this back to when I was small, or even younger, I remember the sound of the ice cream truck as it made its way down the streets in my town.

I remember the allegiance I pledged, which was not the same as the one that I pledged to the flag in the mornings at school. No, I remember the people, places, and things that I swore my oaths to.
Of course, I remember my crazy rebellions as if they were yesterday. I remember the self-inflicted wounds and scars and the crazy fray of life as it was.

I remember the fights and the so-called tough guys in the neighborhood. Even more, I remember the nights when I would have to hide because someone was looking to kick my ass for whatever reason.
I remember the fear of being less, or too small, or too weak.
So, I rose up to fight back with whatever weapon I could find. Ever hold a hand grenade that can go off at any time?
Well, neither have I, but I can relate to this because this was what it was like in my young life.

I remember the liquor stores and the 7-11’s where I sat outside and tried to find younger looking grownups and ask them if they could buy me beer or a bottle to drink with my friends.

I remember the different cigarettes I smoked. Either of which was a test to create or perfect a look or an identity so I could be like some modern-day James Dean or be mysterious and cool.
More accurately, this way, I could be safe.

I was, in fact, a rebel without a cause; but moreover, I was a rebel without a clue.

I was young and untested. I was sheltered and misled by my own assumptions.
I was a circumstantial child, grown from my own dysfunctions, and walking around the neighborhood to find my place, my circle, my people. To the depths of my core, I just wanted to find out who I was.
I wanted to know who I wanted to be, and above anything, how do I navigate through life and find wherever it is that I am meant to be.

God, I have to say the process of overthinking can be painful.
I say that overthinking can be a killer, and yes, this can be a trained path of thinking.
This can be painful at any age. Also, this can drive someone to drink.
Well, almost.
I don’t drink anymore. I suppose I never will.
I have not had a drink or recreational drug in my body since April 1, 1991.

At the same time, there are times and moments and emotions that fill my heart with a sense of disarray. Being spiritual and as a man of faith, I find that I am on a journey and I am separated from my flock, or my person, my ride or die, life mate.
I am not that boy nor that young man anymore. I am not that kid or that plastic soldier who fell away or lost his platoon. I am not the rebel who swore his scars were like bars and stripes on the uniforms of soldiers who returned home from battle — yet a piece of them was still at war.

The angst of youth is still incredible to me. So are the sacrifices. So are the unforgettable damages, and the aftermaths, the fights, and the need to be valid or at least heard.

I wore my colors, in a sense. I wore my problems on my sleeve, and I tried as best as I could to eat the thunder and piss the fires in my heart. I know I was too small to reach the counters of a more desirable life.

I swore I would always be this way, on my own, and forever lost, and forever tortured, like a romantic soul who, in truth, I only wanted love.
I only wanted to be like the so-called normal models of what I assumed my life should be like.
But, it wasn’t like that.
Not for me.

I am what’s left of that young, little trooper.
I still know where his weapons of self-destruction are.
I still understand his language and his accent will always be familiar to me.

Sometimes, I speak to an old friend from the town.
I remember where I was. I remember the places I hid and the things I had done.

I was so angry. I was alone.
I was tired of the nonsense and bullshit.
I was at war with the invisible enemies in my head and each day, I swore as if I was losing ground.

I don’t have those battles anymore.
Of course, not.
I’m a grown man now.
(Or at least I claim to be.)
I have brand-new battles to think about which stem from trauma bonds and traumas that are based on ideas, which came to me from days called way back when.

I swear, it’s crazy to think about how I was.
What about you?