I suppose the surprising or the funny thing about any of these entries is that I never assumed that this would be me.
I never assumed that I would show this part of myself or share the things that I have shared.
My past was poorly guarded and devoted to the unfortunate side of bad ideas.
I trusted people who were undeserving. And I gave myself away with the mistaken understanding that I somehow had to “sell” myself otherwise, who would care?
Who would like me?
Or who would want me in their life if I offered no benefits?
Everyone wants something from someone.
No?
We all want to have worth.
We all want to be desired and attractive for more reasons than just the typical or physical reason.
I watched a young man, brave as ever, speak his words in a microphone because “he” as he was is seen as unacceptable because his love is not typical. His identity is not the same. His attractions to the same sex were difficult for him to step out or appear from his closet–and to me, as the listener, I wondered if he knows how similarly different we all really are.
My complications are not the same challenges. However, the same is always relatable. Pain is real.
So is rejection and so is the devastation we assume when we predict who will love us, and who will NEVER love us.
I have been told “Everyone hates you,” similarly, and the same as the boy with different dilemmas.
I was told to “do the world a favor,” as push or shove to end my own life by someone who both loved and hated me.
I have been called–
Stupid
Loser
Bum
Junkie
Addict
Liar
Evil
And the list can go on.
The funny thing is how the fingers that point at me are equally as guilty of the same sins as I am–yet, it amazes me how people pardon themselves when they lie or hurt someone as opposed to how they crucify someone else when it’s their turn to feel pain.
It is not me so much.
This is a reflection of their own life.
I know this, which is why I never respond.
Never degrade yourself by stooping to someone else’s level.
Let them enjoy their hate.
It is of no consequence and nor is it helpful to interact or try to disprove anyone’s prediction.
I would have never dared to say any of this in my past. No, my language was better versed when spoken with sarcasm and hate or with revenge because this was the only way I knew how to feed myself.
I would never expose myself or disclose my truths, such as yes, I have feelings and I have fears.
I have insecurities that have caused trust issues thus, my belief in abandonment is far more abundant than my beliefs that anyone who loves can love you truly.
I have both external and internal bullies who I’ve allowed to dictate and determine my moods, happiness, and my decisions.
Therefore, the question becomes “how long am I willing to carry this kind of weight on my back before my legs break and my knees buckle from the pressure?”
And ah, the remnants of being bullied.
Ah the remnants of a secret intrusions
Abuse is far more widespread than we think and abuse comes with different faces, different voices, and with countless different flavors to keep the masses guessing.
The leftovers and the aftermath of our previous trauma is far more lasting than we believe.
There are habits that we have which have been born from our biases and our needs for survival.
There is a belief system that has been tricked and so, we have fallen for the lies that one thing is equal to all things.
But no.
Not all things are the same
And while people from our past might share similarities.
No two people are exactly alike.
I have to think here.
Who taught me how to ride a bike?
I did.
Who taught me how to read out loud without stuttering?
I did.
Who taught me how to survive?
I did.
Who taught me how to cook?
I did.
At the same time, who showed me how to misdirect my trust?
I did.
Who convinced me that something was wrong with me?
I did.
Who taught me to believe that I was ugly or that no one really liked me?
I did.
The shortest path between two points is a straight line, they say.
The distance between us and the truth is blurred however, and the fastest route to find safety is often confused by our surroundings or misled by our so-called teachers who learned their inaccurate lessons from inappropriate teachers who taught before them . . .
All of this is passed and so, poor teachers pass their mistruths like torches and keep us all blind.
I never dared to show this side.
I never dared to be honest and true or vulnerable enough that I could show my heart to someone and say here, take this.
“This is my all!”
I never dared to let my innocence show because each time and share my light, some kind of social or private bully came along to dim the brilliance. And so, I never dared to show what it means to smile or be a good boy.
I see him.
Me.
Small as ever.
Happy to play in a little bedroom with stuffed animals, all named, and all with their own position, but each toy was loved and appreciated and each toy had their own separate meaning.
I think of the times when my excitement spoiled or how it was fun to laugh until something happened.
I think about the worries that come with social interactions or the way our cultures separates us into different divisions of popular beauty or undesired ugliness.
I have never been too sure who it is that has the right to say who is beautiful or who is not.
I have never been to a meeting where there’s a committee or some kind of preauthorized level of authorized popularity to say who is who and who is not welcome.
Where did the popular band of color come from?
Where do trends come from?
How does this begin and why have we allowed other people the right to designate our ideas of beauty into some kind of commercialized agreement which declares that “this” is beautiful and “that” is not.
I never dared to talk about this.
I never told anyone how frightened I was or how long it took me to get ready before leaving my house.
I never told anyone about the outfit changes or how I would plan to wear something, put it on, see it, and the immediately be unsatisfied.
And, so, I would change into different outfits, just to look good, and each outfit caused me to look in the mirror, and each time I’d fold or submit by half, each time, growing inward or shrinking until eventually—I went back to my original outfit and left the house to meet my friends with an already defeated mindset.
I say this because I know this is relatable and common. I say this now because I never had the bravery or the nerve to admit to things like this before.
I never told anyone that I enjoyed poetry.
I never dared to share my side or my version of art.
I might have tried.
I might have dared a few times, but the doubt or the laughter was enough for me to fall back and turn the other way.
I used to never cry—or at least, I would never cry in front of people.
Why?
What for?
To show that I can be hurt?
To show that I have weaknesses?
There was a time when I was younger that I would train myself to accept pain or to accept the harshness of the world—this way, I would convince myself that pain cannot hurt me and neither could anyone else.
Only, truth is truth and the truth is I was weak.
I was in pain.
I was afraid.
Who taught me how to ride a bike?
Me. I did.
Why?
My fear was outweighed by the shame of not knowing.
So when my will and my intention outweighed my fears of falling or the discomfort of not being capable, —I changed my levels of commitment, —and so, I taught myself how to ride a bicycle.
No one ever said good job.
No one congratulated me.
No.
Not even me.
Lesson Learned:
When we are fed up, then we are fed up.
And until we reach a level of awareness that allows our conscious desire to understand that failure is not an option, we will endure whatever comes—we will fall, hurt, bleed and sweat, but when our level of commitment reaches ignition, our success is equaled to our level of dedication.
I was told that someone with a black belt in the martial arts is someone who started with a white belt and never gave up.
Dedication –
This is what makes all the difference.
And dig it:
I understand that life is filled with competition.
I understand there are others who compete for the same job.
I get that.
And yes, I might be in competition with others.
I understand the reason why nice guys finish last too because they’re not looking to “beat” anybody or pull a trick or play unfair.
At the same time, there are other people out there with the same dream as me—but whatever dreams they have; this does not mean they have the same drive to achieve these dreams to make them come true.
I am not sure why we subject ourselves to the convinced notions that we are somehow less-than or incapable.
And in fairness to the different brands of competition, —the answer is no.
We are NOT created equal.
We do not come from the same gene pools.
We are not born under the same circumstances—and despite our drive to create a diverse environment, I will never be able to walk on a basketball court and compete at a professional level.
At the same time, there will never be a professional athlete who can come to my day job and successfully run the commercial plant at my day job
I am an operating engineer in a commercial office building, by trade.
But I identify as much, much more.
I have skills.
Yet, I will never play any kind of professional sport.
And yes –
There are over a billion writers out there.
I’m sure.
There are more than a billion poets.
I am not like any of them.
And while I would love to be the next Jim Carroll or someone like him, I will go down in history as always being the one and only Ben Kimmel.
Either way, there are those who have voices like velvet and speak cleanly or dictate each syllable with a perfect narrative.
There are those who speak eloquently.
There are those who speak with a native tongue and with that being mentioned; I know that I will always sound like someone from New York.
And by now, I am fine with this.
There are billions of people in this world which means the combination of added beauty and various qualities of being unique are in the trillions.
I love this fact.
I love this because this makes you the most beautiful person in the world, which you are and you always have been too, at least, to me anyway.
No two people are identical, and each of us have our own outstanding qualities.
You are a list for me, or like a soliloquy given by Hamlet or anyone else from Shakespear, you are the movement and the beat to my heart as well as the drive and the purpose and the heartbeat to my poetry.
(No, really. This is the truth because regardless of whether you believe me or not, no one can or will ever hold this position with me or have this part of my heart, and should I find myself elsewhere in the world or in other company, the fact is I would only be settling because I was never able to have you!)
I am not certain what beauty looks like to you.
I don’t know if I am beautiful or ugly or if I am only average at best.
But I know how to ride a bicycle.
And, I don’t stutter like I used to when I would have to read out loud.
I might not be at the top of the best sellers list and my skills might not be at the level of another writer or professional; and, too, I understand that critics can be merciless and cruel, —but no matter what I’m told or what people say about me; my will and my intention to write has never been hijacked by critics.
I have never surrendered because of outside opinions or allowed myself to be persecuted by the social and personal bullies. And I never listened to anyone who told me that I should quit.
I have to say –
I would never dare to say these things in my past.
I was too afraid –
Afraid that I would be picked on
Afraid that I would be laughed at or ridiculed.
I was always afraid of humiliation.
I’m afraid to be exposed, which has happened, and yes, this was weaponized and used to both cancel and destroy me.
Afraid that I would be excluded
Afraid that I would be uninvited
or not invited at all
I was afraid that I would never be loved
that I would never be able to share my truth
that I would never be able to smile
or be wholesome
But this is me
a grown man
eager and free
to let my inner child go
so we can play
(if you’d like)
The Written Addiction 