I never liked the classrooms or the feelings of anxiety that I’d have when walking in the classroom. I used to panic. I used to fear the worse and believe that something awful was about to happen. And usually something awful did happen.
I never liked the fears that came over me or the change in my chemistry when I was questioned or told that there was going to be a test.
God, the anxiety was awful.
I hated how it felt for me when standing up in front of the classroom. I hated being laughed at or bullied or yelled at by my teacher.. I swore to myself that I would never step foot ina classroom again,
I swore that I would never subject myself to this kind of fear or pain or worry.
It is strange to me now how my life has changed.
So have I.
I have changed and grown and more than anything, I have improved since my time as a young student. I am sure that no one assumed this would be me in the future.
And I know this because I remember teachers telling me that I would be dead before the age of 18.
And yes, they were wring about me.
But they were not wrong for a lack of trying on my part.
I understand their predictions and worse, I understands what happens when we invest in outside predictions that degrade us.
I am nothing like the person I was last year, let alone the child I was when I was just a boy.
At the same time, I can immediately connect with the old traumas and memories as soon as I find myself in a classroom setting.
I can feel my body change as I walk through the door.
I hate this feeling. But I have learned to welcome this.
And I have to because my reasons for being in the classroom are far different from what they used to be.
A change took place, which I never assumed that this could happen . . .
But it did.
I remember sitting through a training process to become a specialist for a police initiative.
I remember the feelings and the uncomfortable ideas of being uneducated. I never finished high school, let along college or graduated with a real degree.
Everyone else in the training room had credentials and letters after their name, like the abbreviated versions of Masters of Social Work or Dr. or any other title which comes with diplomas on the walls of their office.
I was brought in for a different reason.
I was brought in to encourage peer-to-peer support for those in the roots of this initiative. I was the first point of contact for the arrested ones who were caught up in a sweep in the open heroin markets.
I was not educated in school for things like this.
No, my expertise was considered to be “lived experience,” and so, I was brought in to act as a support. I was hired to consult with the clinicians and the other so-called mental health professionals.
The funny thing is I was asked which one of the professionals would I speak to if I was in the position of the arrested..
My answer” none of you . . .
None of this makes me better or worse nor does any of this mean that I am more or less knowledgeable or qualified than anyone else. We all have our own relationship with the subjects of mental health and substance abuse disorder.
I remember the training process.
I remember the feelings of anxiousness.
I hated everyone else in the room.
I hated their smug expressions or their over-educated answers.
“Fuck them” I thought to myself.
“They’re probably rolling their eyes and thinking that I don’t belong here.” is what I thought.
I wanted to quit.
I saw myself as unworthy of my position.
What do I know?
I’m stupid, remember?
I hated the expression of the others who looked at me when spoken.
I hated their expressions when my experience became the topic.
“Fuck them! What the hell do they know?”
I saw how my imposter syndrome took hold of my insecurity.
I thought it was only a matter of time before they realized I was just a waste.
I was just another junkie who got lucky and made it out somehow.
I swore everyone was laughing at me under my breath.
I remember discussing the so-called roles between peer advocacy and clinical support.
I was told to stay in my lane and “let the professionals” handle the real stuff.
I was told that my part in this was minimal.
I suppose no one told the news this because I ended up on the front page of the local newspaper.
But this came after . . .
I should stay in my lane, they told me.
Okay.
Sure.
Fine.
“I can leave if you want me to.”
I remember the proctor who led the class and handed us the information asked me, “Why would you think that you should leave?”
I explained that my experience is different.
I told him that I am not built for this classroom shit . . .
He explained that I was mistaken and that if I choose to take my education to the next level, —he insisted that I’d do far better than I assumed.
“And if you can’t find someone to help you, call me,” he said.
“Because I think you were born to do work like this”
What the proctor doesn’t know and what no one else knows, except for you of course, is that I left the room after this conversation.
I went into another room elsewhere, away from the others.
And I cried.
I wept. . . .
I cried because I believed in this thing, which I called my own stupidity.
I wept because I had punished myself for way too long.
I believed in the inaccurate truths and the labels that I was given.
I believed in the words, “learning disabled,” and so, because I was learning disabled, I believed that this meant that I was stupid.
This is the best I could ever be.
I am stupid and that I would always be stupid.
In fairness, I have not stood up in front of a classroom and read a chapter, out loud, since I was in the eighth grade.
I used to leave the classroom if I was asked to read out loud because I would stutter so much and sound “stupid.”
Perhaps this is why I went to class on different psychedelics and stayed high on a daily basis. Maybe this is why I acted out so often or found myself on the wrong side of the principal’s desk.
I remember the first time I was asked to do a presentation in a high school classroom.
I nearly broke down.
One of the supervisors asked if I was okay.
And no. I was NOT okay.
And please . . .
I need you to understand that I was never in a high school classroom.
No, not me.
My classroom experiences changed after my second time in ninth grade. And to be clear, my involvement with the public school system changed after my last expulsion which is too harsh and too crazy for an entry like this one.
I will say this much:
I was bleeding by my own hand.
I shouted out prayers from the Satanic Bible.
I ended up in a chair beside the principal’s desk who appeared uncomfortable when I explained about my belief in the Devil, himself.
I was bleeding and scolded the principal.
“Look, at me. I’m bleeding.”
I exposed my arms.
“See? No one can hurt me!”
“How can anyone hurt me when I can’t even hurt myself?”
And yes, this was my last time in a public school system
I never went to high school.
I never sat in a driver’s education class.
Other than one time in sixth grade, I never had an advancement ceremony or graduation and I never walked with a cap or gown.
I never graduated like the other students. I never went to a junior or senior prom.
Or hell, I never went to a school dance.
Mental illness or depression and my anxiety destroyed me and my childhood.
Drugs and alcohol were only a symptom.
And to some people, this might not sound like a big deal.
Kids will be kids.
Boys will be boys.
Or to some, they might not understand the shame of standing in front of my classmates while believing I was stupid or laughed at.
I was laughed at.
I was humiliated.
Maybe no one knows.
Maybe no one understands how decades have flown by and somehow, I still have the same chemical changes when I walk in a classroom.
Fear is real.
And I don’t see this as weak or a problem.
No, I see this as my inner-self and my child within, urging me to make sure the past does not repeat itself.
And yes, there are times when I talk to “the old me” or the previous me before the classes start,
I talked to the younger version of me, a child too afraid to ask for help and too worried that something about me was flawed. I assumed that I was always going to be dismissible and that I would always be seen as a problem or as some kind of interruption to an otherwise perfect environment.
I was the blight.
I thought that I was the problem.
And so, I assumed that since it was me who was flawed, it was me who was the problem and that the best thing for me to do was to be elsewhere or disappear.
I plan to get back into the mental health field.
But some plans are on old for now.
I have altered my goals, due to an unexpected and unfortunate setback.
At the same time, I have kept one commitment, which is coming up soon.
I still do presentations at an advanced psych course and a substance and alcohol abuse class.
I do not talk like a clinician. I do not explain anything as an authority.
I expose all of my dirty truths.
I make myself human because., after all, this is what the students will have to face.
Real people . . .
Real problems.
Real situations.
This will be the business they’re in.
I speak as a person.
Not like an authority.
I offer myself as a person in this world and as someone who needed help and yet, the help I needed was never offered, —at least, not really.
No one believes me when I tell them how afraid I am.
No one believes that I have panic attacks before the class starts.
No one believes that I’ve had bouts in the bathroom because my nerves caused me to vomit before speaking to the classes.
And as for the kid in me . . .
As for the bullied kid . . .
As for the stuttering problem . . .
As for anxiety and the belief that I was stupid
And as for the kid who was acting out loud and screaming in silence, —I let him come out.
I let him show his truth.
I let him tell his story.
And I give him a voice.
More than anything else, I stand there with him, the little kid in me, and yes, this is me in the third person.
But this is true and more, this is very brave for me and extremely personal.
At the same time, the kid and I are tired of living like prisoners so –
this is our only hope if we hope to be free.
I have to remind the child in me that no one is around to hurt him anymore.
And I tell him.
Don’t be afraid.
I am right here.
I explain myself to him.
I will never let any of those things happen to you again and trust me, no one will ever laugh at you, or hurt you, or pick on you like they did.
“I will protect you!”
“But what if they find out that I’m only stupid?”
I let the child know, “son, if we were stupid, they wouldn’t bring us back and invite us every semester.”
I tell him, “if no one liked us, it wouldn’t take us an hour or more to leave the building because everyone wants to talk to us.”
The conversation in my head is real
“But I’m scared.”
I answer, “Me too.
“But the good news is, I am not small or weak anymore.”
“I can protect us,” I say.
“Are you sure?” asks the inner child.
“I have to,” I say.
“No one is coming to save us but ua.”
“Okay,” says the child.
“Do you think they’ll like me?”
Kid—
I don’t know who will like us.
But just know that I love you.
And nothing will ever come between us again
So help us God.
The Written Addiction 