And This? This Is More

Social media seems to know too much. Then again, so did the radio back in the day. Remember the way it was before technology took the place?
I say this because the so-called algorithms seem to know when heartache is in the air.
The radio used to know this too. Only, I was never sure how this was. Or maybe I was hypersensitive. Or maybe fate, God, and destiny have a sense of humor because the radio would never fail–at least, not when a break up took place. Somehow and suddenly, every song that had relevance and every song that had meaning between myself and my ex-girl came on the radio.
I saw this as fate’s cruelty or perhaps this was destiny showing me a new way, as if to purge the emotion and make me hurt so I can heal.

What I am about to say is something that I have to say again because I am still unsure.
I do not know if this is manly of me or not.
I do not know if it masculine to admit to these things. Then again, perhaps, my definition of being a man or manhood is in need of being updated.

Yes. Maybe this is it.
Maybe being a man is far more than being able to lift heavy things. Maybe being a man is more than chivalry. Or perhaps being a man is simply being your true and authentic self.
So, yes.
I try.
I weep.
I hurt.
I wish and I wonder and I pray.

Then again, when it comes to being a man or woman or anything in the spectrum or in-between, I think most people struggle to be true to their authentic self.
We all struggle, including those who swear to themselves that they are real or true.

I believe this is human. Or even better, I believe that we all have our battles and contentions and yes, I am convinced that we should all rest assured, everyone has their weak points.
We all have bad days, momentary lapses in judgement, and quite likely, everyone of us has been fake or lied or played the wrong game at least once or twice.

Of course I have regrets.
I am human.
I have feelings too.
I have a love that remained unknown and untouched and a truth that never went nurtured until life took place and then it was too late.

I think back to a memory, just after my biggest mistake.

I listened to a man describe what it was like to be a soldier in Vietnam.
I recall him well.
This was not long after 9/11 took place.
And  please, allow me to detail this a little –

I was in a world of confusion. I made a choice that I had regretted. I took the wrong shuttle train to my future, so-to-speak.
Or in other words, my body went left when my heart wanted to go right.
And yes, I had to pay for this.

I was hurting for more reasons than I could count. But such is life when everything is unfitting or forced and coerced.
I was working at a job that I assumed would be permanent. And yet, I report this to you as someone who assumed that I would “Do this just for now.”
I assumed that I would work my day job until I figured out what I want to do with my life.
I was 27 then.
I am 53 now.
Still at it.

And yes, this is my life, —still working in the same field and I am still wondering when my real life will begin.
However, there are good things and certain things that take place now.
This is a gift considering my addiction to a fear-based idea that this is the best I could ever be and that even if I hit the lottery or if my enemies died tomorrow; I will never have the life I truly want.

In any case, I was sitting on a park bench near 14th street. My heart was sunk from the tragic losses and the murder of so many people. So many died, including my friends who were killed at Ground Zero, The World Trade Center, September 11, 2001.
(Rest well, my friends)

I was there to see what happened. I was there to watch my City run in fear.
I was there to witness the horror of rubble-filled streets and learn the details of how my friend Father Mike (casualty# 0001) died after being hit by falling debris while reading someone their last rites.

New York City was in a state of numbness and repair.
And me?
I was angry.
I missed the chance to have real love and I forfeited my truth. I betrayed myself, even if it was all fake or a lie, this was the closest I felt to love and yet, I went left instead of right.
But this was only part of my battle.

I thought about some of my old acquaintances who decided to respond to the terrorists. They went to get revenge against people who had nothing to do with the attacks.
I suppose their innocent background, culture, and religion made them guilty by association and this led them to be victims to my angry friends. I was not there.
But I heard what happened.
I know why they did what they did but more, I know why I chose not to be partied with them.

Hate does not cure anything.
And I knew this.

I wanted to feel better, but I couldn;t.
I traded my truths for lies.
I wanted to think better, but I couldn’t.
I had too many arguments on the table. 

Some of my fights were political. Some were ignorant and yes, admittedly, I had different friends with lethal and crucial intentions. And of course, they were both ignorant and unfortunate. However, this is not the time or place for conversations about revenge or racial differences and hatred.
Hate cures nothing.
I know this because of my scars.

And for clarity and transparency, most of my discomfort and anger was at myself.
I settled again.
I took a trade.
I did not go for what I wanted and nor was I true to myself.
I was stuck.
I say this all the time: I lost to this the same way as water loses to a drain.

This is the best way I can explain it . . .
Did you ever fall and as you fell, life took on a slow-motion appeal?
You knew you were falling, but there was nothing you could do about it.
There was nothing you could do but take the fall and wait for the pain to hit . . .

My life seemed this way.
I knew I wanted something else.
I knew the life I had was not the life I wanted.
I knew the girl I had was not the girl I wanted.

I knew I wanted to get off the ride, but this was like the unwanted thrill of an evil roller-coaster.
There’s no way to stop the ride and to me, life seemed like, like, —everyone else was happy and screaming with a glorified fear, —all else were electrified and enjoying the ride while adrenaline surged like an injection better than a wild cocaine blitz.
But not me.
No. I was trapped.
I was miserable.

My life took on an unstoppable momentum.
This is the best way I can explain what happened.

I remember this. And please, if you or someone you know are on a ride like this, do whatever you can to get off now.
Do it now before it’s too late.

I had hoped maybe someone else would realize this. Maybe someone else would see that I was dying alive and pull the plug for me
But no.

I was stuck in the whirlpool of insecure decisions.
I was caught.
I hated  myself for lying.
I hated myself for not following my truths or my heart, but above all, I hated the poor solution of my despair.
Yes, I married the wrong girl who equally knew that she was married to the wrong man.

I sat on a bench at the park by 14th Street. I suppose another analogy would be to say I felt the same as when I drank too much and placed my hand on the wall to stop the world from spinning.
But drunk is drunk in either context, I was stuck in a similar despair without the gratification of an earlier high.

I was younger.
Of course.
I was confused.
I was alone in crowds and unhappy with my life.
I hated this.
I loved someone else who loved someone else.
And so . . .
I hated everything else

There was a man at the park with a veteran’s hat on.
He was in Vietnam and sitting nearby.

It is important for me to show appreciation for the service of our military to which I advised him of my respect by offering him the saying, “Welcome home, sir”
This is not something the soldiers heard when they returned back to the real world.
No, they were not welcomed home quite so well, which is why I always say “Welcome home,” when I see a veteran, especially those who served in Vietnam.

I was annoyed about a group of kids on the basketball court. And I assume this was obvious.
The veteran tried to politely redirect my thinking. He told me that he swore off being angry, just for anger’s sake.
He said that he promised himself this. He told me that life would be gravy once he made it back home and how he swore that he would never lose his temper or lose his cool if he made it home alive. 

I suppose things like this are far more real to him. I suppose most who argue and complain never witnessed their friends being blown apart or dying in their arms.

He told me about this because he saw I was getting angry with the group of teens who thought it was a good idea to be happy or laugh when meanwhile, there was still smoke lifting from Ground Zero and our country was at war.

I heard him talk about not losing his cool.
“How’s that working out for you,” I asked.
“Some days, I do better than others.” He told me.

“This is all gravy, son.” the veteran explained.

Of course, I paraphrase this because the conversation is old enough to have a driver’s license, a family, and buy a drink at a pub.
But whether this is paraphrased or not, the meaning to me is still poignant.

We often fail to see things from their better perspective. And I understand this.
We often complicate our lives and overthink and over-stimulate ourselves, —and we drive ourselves insane.
Literally.
Crazy . . .

We sensationalize and catastrophize our ideas and meanwhile, nothing is so wrong or so unfixable.
At least, not in most cases.
No one is shooting at us. We are not walking over landmines or tiptoeing through minefields, —and in fairness, I say this comparison from a literal standpoint.
However, we’ve all danced and dodged the explosions of emotional minefields.
And sometimes, we hit the tripwire and fell victim to emotional explosions and lost our legs in figurative ways.

We all have unseeable scars and invisible wounds. We’ve all tripped the wire and felt the trauma blasts that blew our souls into smithereens.
And perhaps this is an assumption, but we all understand the unwanted bonds that chain us to the demons in our history.

It is another Friday, decades later, and I am still chasing after a few of my wrong turns.
However, and with the most sincerity that I can offer, there is no way to relitigate the past or renegotiate the terms of what took place.

I understand the battle wounds and the invisible scars. And perhaps I was too shortsighted to hear what that veteran was saying to me.

Mom used to try and tell me not to sweat the small stuff.
She used to try and convince me to let go and live my life, but I was too busy gripping and holding the rusted chains to the weights that dragged me backwards.

It is sunny outside.
Winter is still in place, but the sky is starting to brighten at an earlier hour.
I suppose we are one step closer to the springtime, which will lead me back to the warmer days and summer mornings at Point Lookout.

I realize that temporary solutions can become permanent if we allow them to be—and the same as when I took a job “for now” until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life, I assume the same could be said about settling for a love life that was unfulfilling and otherwise undesirable.

Life is more habitual than we believe—and so is fear and insecurity; and so are the habits of doubt or shame-based theories that cause us to live in a constant state of unrest.

Well?

I don’t want to live in a state of unrest anymore.
I do not support my past decisions, nor do I support or find it fair to mistreat people or use them or settle for less than our authentic dreams.

However, I caution the world.
I warn the terrified masses and the insecure souls who live with the constant state of disbelief that their dreams can be real and owned, claimed, and achieved.

I remember someone sharing a line with me that said, “A year from now you’ll have wished you started today!”
I agree.

I offer this as a testament and to qualify my story and my mistakes.
Please, if you are out there, —stop settling for the love you don’t want and find the love you deserve.
Stop wasting your life.
Stop giving yourself to the people, places, and things you don’t belong to.

Give yourself a chance, please.
I don’t want you to hurt anymore.
I don’t want you to miss another dance or regret another step.

You and I cannot fix what happened. . .
We cannot negotiate a better past, but we can stop the bus right here and work towards finding a better future.My hope is we can do this together
and I will always want this
even if you don’t want it –
Even if I am dead, gone, and buried
I still want the dream

(with you)