So, What’s it Gonna Take?

I am going to say this and leave this here. Then again, this is where I always leave things like this.
Right here, with you.

I suppose my fear and even my greatest fears are common, as if to be like the norm.
Or maybe my fears are simple. Maybe this is silly and the items in my life that frighten me can be compared to everyday things which occur among regular people. Therefore, I am not so different nor do I have the right to complain or bitch.
But I do . . .
Maybe I am plain, like vanilla. Maybe I am otherwise flavorless and not so noticeable, like the happenstance moments which take place in our daily existence.
Or maybe not.
Maybe nothing about me or my fears are commonplace.
Maybe I am inherently different and unlike anyone else.

Either way, I am not sure which is better.
Is it better to be common?
Or is it better to be uncommon?
Is it better to be me?
Or would I be better off if I learned how to play better in the sand box?
What would life look like if I had a better sense of socialization skills and hence, I would know how to play the room better and at least understand my crowd.

Maybe this is why times like grade school are important. Maybe the lessons in the hallways or the locker rooms are more readily remembered because these are the breeding grounds and the training stations for our future.
Maybe our private and social bullies had more of an impact than we assumed.
Or maybe this was just another case of me being me, or me being “too sensitive,” as I was told when, in fact, I should have learned to choose my toys and my friends with a better regard.
But again, I digress.
And I don’t want to do that now.
Not this time.

And so, yes, maybe I am unique.
If so, perhaps this is terminal, which means that perhaps I am terminally unique, which is also my fear that I am too far gone or too unlikely to ever find my place in the sun.
I have fears that I am too different to be considered, and worse, there is no cure or remedy to solve the fears or the inadequacies of someone like me. Therefore, I am only destined to be alone or at best, mismatched with someone who only chose me because they were afraid to be alone and with no one else.

I have this ‘thing” in me.
I have these ideas which set me apart and lie to me, or tell me that I can try and I can reach, but I will only come close and never be close enough to have my hand reach the palm of my wildest dreams.
Namely “her”
or even more namely “YOU!”

Or maybe I am not so different at all—and despite the feuds or the wars between us and the rest of the world, maybe there are too many similarities between us, which cause us to stir the fears.
Maybe we are both afraid of the same things, only, neither of us are comfortable laying down our weapons of mass and self-destruction because we’ve tried this in the past and we have been burned by this before.

Maybe our core is painfully similar and our inner truths are like the child who went unnoticed or cared for, and essentially, perhaps we are two people who need to be both acknowledged and comforted and most of all, validated.
Maybe our core is more alike than we assume.

Perhaps we are not so different from anyone else who lives and breathes or feels and thinks.
But my fears are elsewise, and my scars represent the battles that stem from my past. My aches and ghost pains are the fossils from my unforgettable history.
However, be advised that scars like these are the invisible ones and more likely, the visible scars and my personal defects are like track marks that signify the pain from my self-inflicted battles.

I am wounded, no less than you and no more than anyone else who played and lost or have been hurt by the results of unfortunate things.
No one is so sturdy or fortunate to escape life and life’s terms.

In fairness, I do not believe that most people will dare to share their sentiments like this or dare to be this honest — and equally and in all fairness, most people will deny or run from truths like this, claiming this is either too sad, too raw, or too real to deal with.
I say, I get it.
I also say we can deny things all we’d like but denying truth does not make our truths go away.
Trust me, I know this because I’ve tried this numerous times and yes, I failed miserably each time.
Then again, I go back to the absence of reason or the better definition for insanity, which is doing the same things, repeatedly, and expecting different results.
Am I insane?
Do I expect different results?
In fairness, I don’t know.
I think crazy people don’t know they’re crazy, so then if this is true, then my ideas that suggest I’m crazy are sane enough to show that I know better and that I am sane enough to understand the differences between right and wrong.

I cannot run anymore.
Or hide.
I know because I’ve been running from the truth for more than 53 years.
And running from the truth makes no sense to me.
Running away does not work because if I run, I cannot improve or advance my position. How can I if I do not remove myself from the wreckage or rise above the rubble?

My biggest fear is that I was the last to get the joke.
Or wait. No.
My biggest fear is that everyone else knew or “they were in on it” and in the end, I find out that I was either too simple, too gullible, or foolish and too stupid to realize that all the while, the joke was on me.
I am the joke, the topic, the punchline, and the idiot who took the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

I know what it feels like to be laughed at.
I know what shame feels like, and I know what it feels like to be shamed or turned on and hurt or humiliated.
But again, I suppose this is common.
This is something that happens to us all, no different from the happenstance moments of our everyday life.

I bleed too. You know?
I have pains. I have secrets.
I have faults and flaws.
I have hidden scars and secret truths that hurt me to my core.
I have things in my life which I have tried to escape from. I have been trying this for decades now—only, I always assume that I am transparent and all too visible.
Do you get this?
I always assume that my scars are bright and shiny, which exposes me like some naked child with a mild to average deformity.
And this?
This above all can otherwise makes me less-then and unattractive.

This is all true to me.
These are my biggest fears.
Even if none of this is real or rational, this is still me.

I worry.
What if all of this was for nothing?
What if I work my life away and then I turn around and have nothing to show for it?

No love or warmth for the hand.
No legacy.
No place to call my own.
No home. No land.
Nothing to leave behind.
Nothing to recount my memory or sign the world, as if to say “I was here,” and yes, goddammit, I made a difference.

What if I am the only one (again) and I find myself standing outside of the circle, looking in?
Am I alone here?
If this is the case, and if I am alone, what will I do when I realize that all my efforts came up short?
And this is it.
This is all I am and all I ever will be
“The guy who came up short.”

What if all of this was for nothing?
What if all the roads which I assumed led me here (to you) were just roads and in the end, what will I do if I find out that fate and destiny is for other people?
And as for me?
What do I do if it is confirmed that I was only fit to be in the underbelly of karmic debt?
And hence, this is my story.
This is my place.

What if I chose the wrong path?
What if this is the case and if so, then what if it’s too late to regroup?
I can’t do anything to regain the time I have lost.
What if I can’t find my way?
What can I do to fix my heart if I can never go back and amend myself?
Will I live with this?
Will my emotional content change or improve?
Will I be stuck this way?
Or wait, what if it’s too late in the game to make myself right again?
I’d hate for this to be the case because, if so, all I can do now is be a spectator because I lost my spot in the game.

Speaking of losses . . .

I watched a fighter lose to a five-round decision.
Keep in mind, these are five, five-minute rounds, and the underdog (or loser) was beaten and bloodied. He had absolutely no chance. Yet, he threw punches and fought back until the sound of the very last bell.

I wonder . . .
Could I do that?
Do I have what it takes to fight back and never quit or go down?
Could I ever be like the underdog and carry my loss with dignity?
I wonder what it takes to be this kind of competitor.

I thought about this.
I thought about the way this fighter fought back. He knew he was losing. He knew the score cards were against him.
He knew he was beaten.
But he never gave up.
He was never knocked out and so, in some ways, he never lost and somehow — I see this as somewhat heroic.
While I do not envy the pain or the brutality, I see this loss as an inspiring victory because despite the beating and the blood and the swollen eyes that took the punches, the fighter never quit.
He never laid down or gave in.
He never gave up and he fought back, no matter what, until the final bell rang.
Hence, I suppose this is why he is called “A fighter.”

No one envies the loser. And I get that.
While admiration does not go as far as the accolades and the cheers from the crowd, the true heart of this fighter is and will always remain otherwise unbeatable to me.
I value this.
I assume the fighter does as well.
At the same time, I assume the fighter values his wins far more than his losses.

I don’t want to be remembered as strong or weaker. And I don’t want to be regarded as someone who can take a beating.
I have taken several.
Instead, I want to be a man who can stand and who can get up and be humble, modest, and determined never to let anyone kill me, no matter how hard they try.

What if my love was never enough?
What if my worst fears are all true?
What if I am weak?
What if I am ugly?
What if I am the worst lover and inadequate in bed?
What if I am demented, somehow, or otherwise feeble and otherwise (or forever) emotionally challenged or what happens if I am too socially handicapped and unacceptable to be desired by my love?

What if I am ugly? You know?
What if this is true?
What if no one told me the truth because they felt bad for me?
What if no one told me because they didn’t want to hurt my feelings?
Or even worse, I imagine if I lived with a false sense of confidence because someone lied and said, “Don’t worry . . . you look great,” and laughed behind my back.

Am I really so alone with this?

At the same time, there are enough narcissists in the world and there are certainly enough bullies who’d love to take shots at me or at anyone in their vicinity —and they do this, like for fun, like as if this were their job, just to make another person feel bad so that they can feel better about themselves.
Isn’t this common?
It certainly seems to be.

My fear is that I am unmatchable and that while I have come close, I was never right for the part or that I am too misshaped to be perfect for someone.

I thought I had it right once.
But I was wrong because i found out it was all a lie and again, I was the punchline to a joke that I knew nothing about.

Now, of course one could argue that this is terrible to say.
One could argue that this is sad.
One could say this is negative.
One could recommend this is all self-deprecating; whereas I, or me, would suggest that no, this is an honest exposal of fears that have degraded me for more than five decades.
Even murderers get set free in less than fifty years – yet, insecurity and depression do not have the same wardens or laws, I suppose.

These are years of misperception, and this is a compilation from decades of misperceived information and inaccurate lessons which came from experiences that cut me deeply.

I get it.
This is all subjective and subject to interpretation.
I understand this wholeheartedly.

I never really chanced or risked anything before.
I always held back.
And here’s why.
I was always too afraid.
And I still am.
I never allowed myself to be so vulnerable that I could willingly be destroyed and offer myself, selflessly, as if to be on one knee and ask, please take me and accept me as I am.
“Marry me!” and call me “good enough.”
But I don’t want to be good enough or acceptable.
No.
I want to be “The One!”

I thought I walked away for something right once.
But I learned that this was a lie, and then I learned that I was wrong.
It was a joke in which even the sad clowns had their revenge.

I can do one of two things.
I can quit.
I can go away or bury my head in the sand.
I can say how the shame was too great, which is why I wanted to quit.
And I can still quit at any time..
Or I can take my lumps and fight for this thing in my heart until the end.

I cannot quit or stop fighting because what would I do if I found out I was just inches away from success and I gave up to let my victory become my biggest loss?

I might not be cheered or regarded.
But no one can ever tell me that I failed or gave up.

I want to be more like that fighter who fought one of the best in the world. Losses and all.
While he lost, expectedly, he never stopped returning punches.
He fought his heart out, right up until the final bell because what if one punch landed and folded the his opponent at the knees?

I wonder . . .
What’s it gonna take
to be like this

Alone, maybe.
I am . . .
but otherwise,
at least I can say that I am unbeatable.

At least I know that if my love or my life turns around, I will be there to accept her hand and have my palm in hers, for always.

I swear . . .
I will never give up

(on you)