So, What’s it Gonna Take?

“What’s it gonna take?”
This is a great question.
What has to happen?
What do I need to do?
Or even better, “what do I need to stop doing?”

These are all great questions to ask when trying to figure out the next move. And the next move can be anything. This can be a plan of attack. This can be about a personal change. Even better, these can be great questions when we think about our own happiness.

I started this with an open mind, as well as an open heart. I have nothing left to hide, and by any means, I cannot allow anything to stand in my way.
But wait. This is real life here.
Right?
At the same time, life comes with hurdles and unexpected changes. Each day comes with new obstacles. This is just life.
There will always be unforeseen challenges. As far as I can tell, everyone has their own mountains to climb and oceans to cross.

No one walks away without a scratch.
No one.

I see this now. And I have always seen this.
Sometimes, I can be blind.
Sometimes, I can be hysterical.
Sometimes, I am good and steady.
Sometimes, I am shaken.
All too often, I can say there are times when I was too inconsolable.
I was too angry, too frustrated, and too damned sad to stand up and ask myself, “So, what’s it gonna take?

I would love to say that no one was harmed during this experiment, which I call “my life”, but that would be a lie — at least not here.
I would love to say that all the rumors about me are false and bullshit.
But I can’t deny them all.
Maybe I can’t even deny half of them.
Or maybe I no longer need to confirm or deny anything anymore.
You know?

I believe that no one gets out of this life alive. And I understand that everyone faces challenges. Some people live with privileges, and some must scrounge to get what they can.
I get this.
By the way, I do not think any of this is so uncommon. In fact, I think more people can relate to my challenges.
However, most people will file this under, T.M.I. as in Too Much Information.
I get that.
I was told a person from my past read something I wrote.
He told someone, “That guy is mentally ill,” to which I agreed, “I am!”
“But who isn’t,” I asked.
By the way, I always talk about people in glass houses and how they shouldn’t throw stones.
This person who threw too many stones lives in a glass house with a lot of broken windows. But so do I . . .

I used to think that money was all it took. I swore that if I were rich or at least richer than I was, then I would be fine. For the record, even if I wasn’t fine, at least I could buy something decent enough that I’d be fine with being not fine—if that makes sense.

I know that I am a fortunate soul. I am someone who has been privileged to meet different types of people. I have experienced different episodes in my life. I have gone through different phases.
I have lived and loved, lost, and I have learned too.
But maybe I have to learn how to forget some things.

I have never been homeless, per se. I was without a home for a while, and I had to do what’s called “couch surfing” for a little bit.
Then again, I remember a time when I lived in a nice house. I had more when I was somewhat homeless than I did when I lived in a big place.
I lived in a big house with a big pool in the backyard. I had a two-car garage, a big driveway, and none of this was mine.

I remember driving home one night and looking at the big bay window that looked into my old living room.
This was like watching a television show —and there was life going on inside that home. I was supposed to be part of that life, yet I was outside viewing this like a stranger.
None of this was mine. None of this was supposed to be me either.

None of these things or so-called possessions had a true or visceral feeling to me. There was no substance, no truth.
There was no warmth for the hand, and no sense of grateful pride or ownership for anything.

At best, there was nothing more than an overwhelming feel of loss because while I had gained so many things, none of what I had gained was able to mask the emptiness. None of my ‘things” could heal the sentiment of a life without truth or purpose.

I settled in so many ways.
I tossed my hopes into the fire.

I took too many trades and I was unsure why I was unhappy.
Do you understand this?
Does any of this make sense?
I understand that it does, but at the same time, irrational thinking defies logic and rational thoughts.
I was unsure why I was fighting with the people I was close to — or at least and in the simplest ways I can explain this, I was unsure why I was fighting with the people I was supposed to be close to.

Was anything real?
Was I?
Were they?
Were you?

There was a day in October. This was back in the year 2001.
I should have gone the other way.
But I swore it was too late to change my mind.
Sometimes, life is like a bad carnival ride.
This might make you puke.
This might toss you around or make you feel like the sky is falling
This might be uncomfortable to say the least.
But in the end, all you can do is strap yourself in and hope you don’t fall out and land on your head.

Nothing was ever mine.
None of my dreams or aspirations were real to me.
But how could they be?
I gave up on them.
Then again, nothing was shiny or bright because this is what happens when we accept the trade. This is what comes when we invest in a compromised life — and more to the point, this is what becomes of a dreamless soul.
No passion left to share.
No hope left to feel joy.
This is what comes when all the dreams were sold at discounted rate and all that was desired was settled by a sad negotiation that was less than my worth.

I do not blame anyone else for this. I do not condemn nor put anyone down as if to say “they” were unworthy of me, or that I was better or they were unfitting or unworthy or incapable of my deserving my best.
Or better, I do not say “they” deserved me at all.
If anything, and with regards to the people from my past, I was unfit for them
But —
This is not about worth or who is better than the next person.

No, this is about a question.
What’s it gonna take?

I remember back in the days when I was a salesman. I was a kid in a suit and tie. I remember having to ask some of my clients this same question.
What’s it gonna take?
“What’s it gonna take,” meant what’s it gonna take for me to get through this sales call and walk away with their business.

I used to have a hard time hiding my contempt for people. I used to thrive on my resentments. I drowned in my anger, and I swore that, above all, I would never catch a break.
However, this is not the best attitude for a salesperson to have.

Dark beliefs change our personal chemistry.
These leads to dark thinking, which leads to matching behavior because we are always acting or responding to a thought, or an idea, a want, or a need.

So . . .

What’s it gonna take?
What’s it gonna take for the world to be an easier place?
What’s it gonna take for people to be nice or kind?
But more importantly, the real questions were as follows:

What’s it gonna take for me to be comfortable in my own skin?
What’s it gonna take for me to walk away from the people, places, and things that hold me back?

What’s it gonna take to realize that my treatment of others is a reflection of how I see myself. Thus, if my reflection is resentful, then why? Why do in act in ways that I hate?
What is it about me that I cannot stand?
What’s it gonna take to stop using the figurative arrows to shoot down my dreams before they even have the chance to reach the air?

I have been told that these are all characteristics of depression.
I have been told this is what happens with unaddressed trauma.
I have been told that my behaviors and boundary issues are results of old and unacceptable intrusions.

I never knew or understood or felt the substance or the earth of true love. Then again, I never thought I would find true love, nor would I dare to share the sense of vulnerability it takes to own true love.
You can bet that as sure as the day is long, I swore that if I opened up to someone and told them how I loved them, they would never love me back.
So, then why bother?
No one could love me (for real), at least not fully.
How could they?
How could anyone get through my iron curtain because how could someone love me when I was never able to love me, myself?

I see myself in that emotional mirror and do you know what I see?

I see that small puny kid who was picked on and bullied.
I see that skinny kid who was made fun of and called weak.
I see a kid who played alone because he never believed he fit anyplace else.
I see a little boy who only thought someone wanted to play and give him some attention— and then the age of understanding hit me, and next, the age of awareness came along to open my eyes and grasp the fact of what took place.
Touching someone is such a gift.
This shows value and worth and beauty. Then again, unless this touch was so perverse and degrading that you were told to keep this a secret . . .

I see that kid who was too afraid to speak up for himself.
I see the rashes I used to get on my arms and legs, and I see the face I’d make when the other kids made fun of me for this.
I was laughed at all too often.

I see the kid who was made to read in front of the class and how other kids laughed at me because I would stutter.

“Thuh-thuh-the . . . . qui-qui-qui-quick . . . bruh-bruh, brown . . . . fuh-fuh-fox . . . . juh-juh-jumped . . . . o-o-over . . . . thuh, thuh, the luh-luh lazy dog.”
That was me, reading out loud.
I never asked for this.
But I got it

I see the kid who told a girl that he liked her.
Then I see the shame that came over as his smile turned to sadness.
I see his face as he responded when she laughed at him because there would be no way a girl like her would ever go out with someone like him—or more namely, me.
I see the kid who was always the crazy friend, but never “the one” so at best, I see the teenager who maybe got sloppy seconds, every once in a while.

I see a blackeye from a lost fight that humiliated me.
I see the bullies who had their fun and left me with a lifelong aftermath.
And therefore, I see my old rage.
I see my boiling contempt.
I see an old nickel-plated .357 which I used to drive around with, beneath my seat.
I see my physical, mental, educational and emotional insecurities.  

When I look in the mirror –
I see why I took the trades and settled for less. I did this because as far as I was concerned, I was too low on the totem pole and too low in the socials caste system to be wanted, adored, admired, or needed.

I often talk about the pressures of picking teams—and I go back to how this was when we were kids on the playground.
Everyone wants to be picked first—and if not first, of course, we all hope to be picked second or we shoot to be part of the top five.
But no one wants to be picked last—or worse, no one wants to not be picked at all.

I know how that feels . . .
I know how it feels to have to sell myself or give myself away in gifts because no one else in the world is going to want me, unless, of course, I come to the table, and I have something to give.

No one wants to be uninvited or unincluded or left out.
No one asks to be left to feel as if they are a lepper or pariah.

My biggest fears are as follows—

To be laughed at like I was when I stuttered in class.
To be exposed and ridiculed, like the times I was picked on in the cafeteria at school. God this was brutal. I remember this and how all the other kids laughed at me.
My fears are:
To be told that I am stupid.
To be told that I am ugly.
To be called a loser and feel no different from this accusation.
I am afraid to be alone and unwanted, — as in no one to care for me, no one to offer me a hand when I need it, and no one to laugh and say, this world is a better place because we have each other.

And there’s more too.
This list can go on for days.

I am afraid that I will never make my way.
I’m petrified to find out that I am the joke (again).
I am scared that someone will see right through me and realize that narcissist and the bullshit insecurities are simply layers upon layers that cover old wounds that terrify me.

I am afraid my apologies will always be unheard, unimportant and left without meaning (like the fears I have of me).

But wait—

Why say this?
Why tell anyone these things?
Why admit this or why put myself out there to be exposed or laughed at or judged?
Well . . .

I put this out there because in fairness to the question, “What’s it gonna take?” how else can I get away from this kind of thinking?
How will I ever find out “what it’s gonna take,” if I don’t know what’s held me back for so long.

I hope that no one remembers the things that I cannot forget.
Then again, I’d like to forget the things that no one else remembers.
I wish for the word “they” in parenthesis would forget what I can’t remember or at minimum, I pray “they” forget me so they move on — peacefully.

I’d like to remember good things.
I’d like to remember the times when I was brave enough to walk away and never look back.
I’d like to remember a day at the beach, looking outward at the sea.
The sun was bright, the winds were calm—and me,
I was happy.
Really happy.

So, what’s it gonna take?
What’s it gonna take to shed my old skin?
The truth is I don’t know.
All I know is that this (and me) is a work in progress, which is ongoing and indefinitely.
One day at a time.

“Don’t let the hard days win,” the shirt says.
The world is a better place with you in it, I was told.

“You’re a good kid, Ben.”
You always were.
You just never knew it.

To my friend who chose to go –

I miss you.
Thank you for the lesson.

Sleep well.