And This? This Is More

And everyone says the same thing.
Don’t do it.
Everyone warns the next one. But no one thinks that “this” will happen to them.
I know I thought that I could beat the odds.
But of course, I was wrong.

No one expects the falls or the breaks or the pain from the bad things. And sure, we all think we can “handle it.” We all think that we know better and whatever happens, we all thing we can “beat it,” in whichever case or whatever the “it” may be.

I have to say though . . .
Love is a funny thing.
I say this because love comes with masks and often, sometimes love comes as wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing.
Not all promises are true and not everyone says what they mean or mean what they say.

I was promised something, which turned out to be a lie.
And so, fine.
I took the bait.
I fell for the trick.

I chose to take a step back this morning.
I realized the different between true love and supposed love is that one is built from an honest platform and the other is predicated on insecure worries that perhaps I might not get what i want. So, we settle and we trade and we mix ourselves in something forbidden or risky.

It’s all about euphoria
It’s all a great big high is what I say.

Love. Drugs.
Food. The gamble.
The tricks we see . . .
The rush we feel.
I do realize there is such a thing as a good high and bad.
I also understand there are certain addictions that are deadly and there are some that build us to make us stronger – so we can survive.

I do not see any harm in being in love or addicted to love in a healthy sense.
However, the settled or the supposed love is just as deadly as bad batch or a bag that kills like Fentanyl

I remember being drawn into a wild séance of different things which turned me on in such a way.
I was high in both the definitive and descriptive sense.
Drugs. Alcohol.
Sex.
I can see how this all leads to the same reward in our so-called system.

And this was cool too.
You know?
I remember when I entered my age of struggles and confusion.
I wanted more.
I wanted the world too but how?
How does someone get what they want when they don’t have the capacity to ask or have the language to describe what they need?

I was so young.
I was young and deeply misunderstood. Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed to attach itself in the sense that I was always confused by the people around me.
I was always searching, empty, lost, or looking for something (or anything) that could bring me an episode of peace or enlightenment.

(Love does this too, I believe.)

I enjoyed the celebratory drinks and the tiny substances that made me slip away.
Of course I did.
But like any other love, my eyes were blind to the truths that everything comes with a simple math.
if this, then that; and certain things are inescapable, like the downfalls that come with unhealthy connections. I was blind to this.
Or perhaps I was less blind and more intrigued by an idea that there is something that can rescue me. And I wanted this.
I wanted to be rescued too.
I wanted something to take me away from the sameness or the boredom or the tiredness I felt with everyday things.

I was amazed by the sensations which came over me—like some kind of grand and emotional orgasm which came to me, free of the weighty aftermaths of my discomfort.
I liked this.
Of course, I did.

Who wouldn’t like something that comes along and wipes away the pain?
Who wouldn’t like something that removes discomfort or the awkwardness and insecure notions that make us uncomfortable?
Who wouldn’t want something magical that comes along to stop the pressure? Or at least for the moment, who doesn’t want the relief of feeling suspended?
I know I wanted this.
I wanted to feel as if to defy the gravitational pull.
Who doesn’t love the feel of excess or the loftiness of being elsewhere?

I like being disconnected.
Absolutely, I did.
I like the feeling of being happily unattached to the outcomes or the distance I felt from the severity of my surroundings.
I liked the appeal of being untouchable or unreachable—and yes, I wanted this and I wanted more.
I wanted much more.
But drugs and short-lived high are nothing more than fleeting and short-lived.
This is why I was always left wanting or searching for something more.

I wanted to be cleared and removed from the bullshit.
Do you understand?
I wanted to be okay and not care about whether I was liked or disliked.
I wanted the blissful escape, as if to be weightless and no longer weighed down by the concepts of my looks or insecurities.
I wanted to be beautiful.
But if I can’t look beautiful, then at least let me “feel” beautiful.
So, I pushed the absence button to set me free.
I wanted to be elsewhere.
So, i took the only shuttle that made this so.

I was elsewhere, alright . . .
I was distant to say the least.

I do remember the drunken dialogues, alone, or sitting in an empty schoolyard at night, far from everyone else. I used to rehearse.

I remember rehearsing what I would say to the girl of my dreams.
But of course, I was out of my head.
I wanted to be seen.
I wanted to be touched and felt.
I wanted to be wanted but at best, I believed that I was made to sit in the distance.
I was sure that I was built to sit and watch people with envy— and thus, I could never touch what I wanted or have the girl of my dreams. At best, I would only be seeking their perfection and mistaking their fake or false life for something real.

I want something real.
Now, more than ever.
However, fears tell me that too much damage us done and therefore, I am otherwise ruined.

I remember thinking about girls when I was a teenager.
I remember thinking about the ones who stood out to me the most.
I wished I had the balls or the courage..
I loved what I saw and yet, I was told their beauty was not beautiful to other people.
I wondered how something like this could be true.

I never liked the typical nature of commercial beauty.
Or so I suppose.
No, my version of beauty is subjective to me, of course.
Yet, I was never brave enough to step out or declare my heart or my love.
I was a coward,
But I wanted to claim this.
I wanted to be brave.

I practiced.
I rehearsed.
I tried to come up with something catchy to say.

But again, I was out of my head.
I was out of my league and otherwise, I believed that I was ugly or too awkward, too unsightly or too uncool to be wanted in return.

And, so, I found myself in the delirium of stolen bottles of cheap gin. I was just a kid but an old soul who was lost and sad.
I  was otherwise too far gone and wiped away by a substance that had a hold on me.

But that was then.
This is now.

I still believe that love is euphoric.
I believe that love is a brand and to each is their own version of love.
And lust as well—lust is an extraordinary high.
Beautiful too.

Sexual exploration is a rush and so are the guilty pleasures or the kinky fantasies that break away from the standard. I love this too.
I love the ideas that deviate somehow from typical or missionary positions.

I do understand that sex is an addiction.
And I can understand why.
I understand that love can be an addiction.

And so—
This is my addiction and hence, this is intended to expose my motivation.
Yes. I have always wanted love.
I enjoy lust.
I enjoy the different atmospheres and the various fantasies.

I want to feel good.
And who doesn’t?

Who doesn’t want the feeling of beautiful excess?
Or who wouldn’t want the sweetness of a desired figure and a body that triggers the heart to be next to them or all over them?

I never dared to let myself “feel” dependent on one person. And like the drugs that I used, I saw sex as a similar opportunity to enjoy the explosion of a lofty feeling—high in a much different way but equally drawn in by the excess of something erotic and lofty.

Same as I had been beaten at drug spots and ripped off in the drug life, I had similar thefts and disappointments with both love and lust.
I had equal humiliations of being beaten or stolen, —and same as I swore that I would never let anyone beat me again; I swore that I would never let anyone hurt me or be so close to love me again.
But how?
How does one distance themselves from the social normalcy of love or lust or the simple cheer of finding someone attractive?

I had to change my dependency to be dependent on the act instead of the emotional attachment of what it means to be in love.
I became the same as my worst enemies.

I want more.
Of course.
I want to feel good.
That is true.

I remember being set up at a spot in East New York, Brooklyn.
They shot a man in the top of his chest, right below his left collarbone.
I saw him run and take off, holding his chest with his arm dangling lifelessly.
I remember surrendering to the idea that yes, this was it, and that I was going to die.

I was fine to die for the drug.
I was fine to take the risk and die for my high or let the euphoria carry me from the living to the afterlife.
This was the course of doing business.
Or so I believed.

I used to tell people how I had trust issues.
I would say that I will never trust anyone, —yet, I trusted the street chemists who killed people on a daily basis, and I gave them money with trust to sell me poison in a bag.
And I willingly consumed that poison to achieve a feeling or a state of mind.

As for love, I gave my trust to the wrong people.
I bet on the wrong person.
Absolutely.
And this happened to me more than once.

I had been beaten. I had been lied to.
I had my bouts with a childhood encounter that scarred and stained me and to me, I believed this would haunt me forever.
And then there were the times when i let my guard down –
I was called another man’s name in the act of lovemaking.
This was while I was being lied to and intimate with my first real girlfriend—and this happened twice.
Twice!
And yet, I stayed.
I stayed because I was afraid to lose that high or that euphoric feeling that someone and something external from me could deliver a satisfaction that lifted me above the world.

Someone beautiful wanted me.
Who doesn’t want that?

And it’s funny too.
I laugh because I was warned about the drugs and of course, I never listened.
I never thought that “this would be me.” and I never cared because I swore nothing “like that” was going to happen to me.
Until it did . . .

To be honest, getting high was no longer blissful or euphoric towards the end of my drug use..
It was a job.
It was work to keep from the feeling of being low or the opposite of high

Loveless sex became no different.
I had to work for the feeling of having someone even if this led me to having no one.
Loveless living was a job too.
I do not discount myself or those who I tried to love; and nor do I say this to insult those who loved or attempted to love me.
I admit to what I did.
I am accountable and guilty as charged.
I am . . .
My point is I was focused on the ritual and the selfishness. I was chasing the tail of an elusive dragon.
Same as heroin or any other drug.
I was too afraid of being beaten or being a fool or worse, I was petrified to lose the only relief I understood, —and so, I tried to take the sneakthief approach.
I tried to cover my best and beat the odds.
But such is life when life is dishonest.

Know what happened?
I found myself alone.
I felt the same kind of bottomless drop and lifeless abandon as when I went into a hospital because I was going to end my own life.

Everyone is going through something and believe this; we are all recovering from one loss or another.

I am a few weeks away from an anniversary that recognizes my last journey with a recreational drug. I am a few years out of a household that had its share of ups and downs.

I am trying to navigate myself differently.
I am not too far away from my last personal downfall or the mental and emotional quicksand that caused me to drown in thin air.

I’m not drowning anymore.
I am not where I want to be and nor am I with the person I want completely.
At least, not yet.

I do see her as euphoric.
I see her as better than any drug or antidepressant.
I see her as a rush.
And as for her body or the lofty appeal I have when I am with her, —no high has ever been created that feels as amazing as it does when I am beside her.

I love when I can smell her on my body . . .
Nothing feels as good as this.
I know that I was warned about love or the misuse of love.
And no. I didn’t listen.
But I’m all ears now.
I promise