All For More (Or Less)

I remember being asked by someone, “What if I told you that your prison cell has no bars, no walls, no ceiling or roof?”
He asked me, “What if the guards were not guards at all, and the judges, or your accusers, and the prosecutors were not real?”
Even my warden was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
What if this were true?

What if my challenges weren’t even a challenge? What if my room was not a room as much as a place or a momentary location, to which, what if there is far more to this world than I have ever seen?
What if the answer to this is simple?
If it is, am I ready to find out?

It is eye-opening to say the least, yet it is hard, or maybe bittersweet to realize that I have never been imprisoned at all, nor have I been kept, or locked away.

I go back to an evening in my mid-twenties. I recall there was an ultimatum, which was not an ultimatum, pe se.
No, this was more of a push for me to step up and reach my potential. But how?
What was my potential anyway?

I was told to go back for my diploma. However, school and I never seemed to agree before and I was never fond of the subjects.

I never assumed that I could pass the basic tests or achieve a high school equivalency exam.
To be clear, I never assumed that I would pass any kind of test. And sincerely, this was more because I never passed a test without cheating. Then again, I never studied either.  I never applied myself, which was not because I was lazy.
No, this was because I believed that I was incapable.

My classroom memories were sad and uncomfortable to say the least. Even now, here, with you.
I still struggle with my words, despite my battles to let them flow. I am still afraid of educational snobs and bullies. I hate the grammar police and the literary snobs, who mount at the doorstep of every writer or artist who dares to expose their chest.

You. Yes. You.
I reach out through the bars from my cell, and through the walls, the steel and concrete, and over the gates, through the razor-wired fences, and up to the universe. I reach out to you like this with hopes that my voice somehow finds you — and even still, decades after my years as a student, I assume that I am nothing more than simple.
I assume the label that was given was no different from the judgment and the gavel which banged down at my life’s sentence.
Because of this, the term “learning disabled” is still valid to me and as true as when I could hardly read or hold a thought.

This was my first prison. This was my childhood cell and, of course, the other inmates were cruel and brutal. The guards were equally cold, and the chastising screams from my teachers were like sounds of echoed cages when my cell door rolled shut.
I write because I write to you.
This is out of love and yes, this is no different from a daily account of love letters, poems, ideas and thoughts.
All of this is for you.

Still,  I think about the critics who condemned my prose or said that grade schoolers could write better than I do.
I think about so-called friends who put me down or told me how I should quit before I try again.

I never believed that anything about me or “this” is read with any sort of interest. 
Even you — as close I feel or as much as I love you and care or as close as I wish to be, I have never believed that anyone would care or be interested in anything that I could say
(or write).
Diseased thinking leads us to be diseased, or otherwise, imprisoned and limited, or otherwise, unwanted.

Still, aside from the fact that you know that my journals are written to you, specifically, and that I send this to you, to keep in trust, and for you to keep between us, as in you and me; I have always believed and looked at myself with an imprisoned mindset.

I have never risen above my own limitations; hence, the ceiling of my prison cells and the closing of the walls are just another claustrophobic phenomenon.
This is what happens to me when placed in critical areas or forced to deal with my lack of education.

I never believed or thought that I could be seen as intelligent or smart. How could I be?
I was a drop-out.
Right?
I have what’s called a G.E.D. diploma, which is a General Equivalency Diploma. Or this is what we used to call, “Good Enough Diploma” which meant this is for stupid people.
Words have meaning.
Yes, they do.

I assumed that I am what I was labeled. I believed that I was learning disabled. I believed that the doctors were right about me – that I am emotionally disturbed.
But am I?

I have yet to find a doctor or a clinician or person of practice who could validate this label, let alone tell me what this means.
I was told nothing other than this was a label they put on kids who were lost causes. Some doctors swore to me that they used this label because they had no answers for the parents.

Sure.
Maybe that was me.
Am I uneducated?
Am I stupid?
Am I crazy?

I was told that crazy people never think they are crazy because crazy people wouldn’t know any better.
If I believed this way, then this is just my inner judgments firing off — or otherwise known to me as my own inmate; these are the internal guards walking the prison hallways to keep me in line.

As for stupid people . . .
Stupid people don’t know they’re stupid.
They think they’re smart.
Once more, this is the internal judgments, or the warden who keeps us in our cage and refuses our parole or release — just to keep us stuck.
Hence, this is why I did not want to take the high school equivalency exam.

I was stupid.
I had always assumed that I was a chore for those who cared.
I am like the feeble minded, or like a child when their family applauds their simple tasks, like pulling down their pants to go to the bathroom or tying their shoes after a thousand lessons.

Yes. This was my first prison.
These were the walls that kept me still.

So, when I was told to face this and when I was told to go and get my diploma, I naturally assumed that I would fail.
Not only did I assume that I would fail, I swore that I would fail miserably.

I remember the classes, which were very few.
I remember hardly going.
I agreed to take the test, but I never said I would try and I guaranteed that I would pass.
Besides, how could I pass?
I was stupid, right?
I was a drop out.
I was called names like loser. I was called a junkie and an addict. I was a bum, right?

I was told that I was stupid, or that I’d be better off dead and that I should do the world a favor.
I was told that I should snuff myself before I do more harm to the world.

One of the teachers who volunteered to help with the exams asked me why I never finished high school.
I answered, “For personal reasons.”
“But everyone deserves an education.”
“Thank you,” I responded.
“So why didn’t you finish high school?”

What could I have said?
Because I was a loser?
Because I was one of those suburban or high school tragedies?
What could I say?
Because I was stupid?
Because I could hardly read?
Because I was told that I’d be best suited for manual labor or to drive a truck or dig ditches by my guidance counselor?
Or should I have said what I was told and that it was said that I would probably excel in prison — is that what she wanted to hear?
I told her something off putting and frightening to stop her questions.

The fact of the matter is I believed all the above.
The truth behind the teacher is she was complimenting me, not confronting me. She knew that I was smart.
But I didn’t.

How would I know, right?
I was just an inmate in my head.
Right?
I was all the labels I was given and nothing more than the best I was predicted to be.

I was living in the basement of my Aunt’s home.
Most of my friends were doing well.
But I was stuck.
I hated my job.
I hated how I felt about myself.
I hated everything which hurt those who were around me because I took this out on them.
(I’m sorry.)

Most of my family had spread out across the country.
I was alone in a different regard.
I was faced with the beliefs of my limitations.

I was sure that if I was ever to “make it” then this would only be because I pulled a trick or hit the lottery.
People like “me” are never successful on their own.

Plus, I could never be around people who believed in me.
This was like salt to my wounds, or like the sting of purity when disinfectant cleans the cuts and scrapes in our skin.
Love was like this to me.
Burning and ever reminding me that I was impure.

How could I ever expect to pass?
How could I ever think I was smart?
Or worthy?
Who would care anyway?
Does anyone care, unless they “had to” because of some kind of family bond?
If not, why would anyone care about me?

I swore, I was better off in jail away from this. I preferred my own limitations and to be away from love or the heartbreaks of reality. The reality was that no matter how hard I tried, I would always be subpar or challenged.
I swore that, at best, I could only be seen as if I am incapable, and otherwise worthy of institutional living — and nothing more.

But a promise is a promise.
And so, I did as I promised.

I promised to take the equivalency exam.
I never promised that I would pass.
I only promised I would take it.

I took it.
Weeks went by and I eventually went on with my life and thought nothing of this.
After all, I kept my promise.
Right?
I never said I would pass.
Right?

A letter came for me.
I couldn’t open it.
The letter was my results.

I sat in the blue recliner in my Aunt’s living room.
I held the envelope in my hand.
I couldn’t open it. . .

Why have something in writing that would tell me what I had been telling myself for years.
I was too stupid to pass something like this.
Right?

I assumed that I would read some kind of polite rejection or a supportive dismissal, which to me, I assumed this would translate to “better luck next time, stupid!”

This was my prison.
This was my belief.
This was my jail cell, and these were the results of my accusers, guards and my prosecutors.

Even some of my so-called loved ones took their turn at putting me down. They did this because they knew this would hurt me worse than anything else.

I have to say this too –
Physical pain made sense to me. I could understand physical pain. I know why pain hurts.
However, the torment of emotional pain was worse than any physical pain I had ever felt.

This was my first prison.

I believed in the bars and the walls and all that went with this.
It took me a long time to open that envelope and read the results.

I knew what it was going to say.
I never dreamed the first word I’d read would be “Congratulations!”
I cried my eyes out . . .

I go back to the beginning of this entry now:

What if I told you the prison you’re in was built by you.
This was designed by you, and protected by you.
Would you call me crazy if I told you this?
AM I?
Are you? 

Or is it the case that deep down, we know we want more but we’re too stuck in our doubts to believe in anything true?

I admit that I want more than where I am.
I want this, but I do believe that less is more.
Hence I titled this for you: All for More (or less).

I am here and somehow, you have always been there, in me, with me, and even when you were gone or not with me — my love for you and the sun and the moon and the stars is what keeps me going.
I cannot answer for anything else.

I might have to go at this alone.
And I might have to save my own life (again),
but at least I know why I breathe.

I know why I wake up in the morning.
I know why I still dream.
And I know why I still believe.

I’d like you to know that two sets of three words made this all worth it for me.
“I love you”
and
“I’m proud of you.”
Hearing this meant the world to me.

~~

Dear Aunt Sondra,

There is so much I wish I could show you.
There’s so much I’d love to say.
She is beautiful.
I know you would love to see her.
She would love this too.

Thanks for being a second Mom to me.
I’d never have done this without you (or her)
and I know that you know that.

Thanks for teaching me how to set myself free . . .
I love you.