Good or Bad, I Was One of The Ones

What does it mean to be wild anyway?
Is it wild to say that there was a time when I was fine to defy the world against me?
Was it wild of me to feel the music in some late-night place in the middle of New York City.
Or was it wild to feel rage or have an angst that left me on fire?

I think it is good to be wild. I think this is something the soul needs; to go wild or absolutely crazy or to stay up late or be out in the world without care and to toss your usual cares to an abandoned feeling, as if nothing else matters but the moment at hand.

I can say that I have seen some wild times. I have been to wild places and I have done wild things.
Before I go on with this, it is only fair to say that my needs have changed, however, and my association with being wild or going crazy is different from what it was.
Then again, my version of crazy is far different now. I am older, of course, and my body can only endure certain things, which is unlike the way I used to be when I was young and still resilient.

At the same time, I assume that something wild to me could be mild to someone else. Or maybe we all have our own inner beast. Maybe we all have our own hidden truths or secrets that perhaps paint a different or unseen picture of ourselves.
And that’s fine to me.
Really. It is.
There is a wild side to everyone and of course, there is a past and often a dirty secret that sits in the cobwebs of our mental libraries.
I remember being introduced to a crowd by a man I will name as Danny.
He knew me well enough to know some of my darker times. He also knew me as an older man, far from youthful and far from the disturbances of my earlier years.
Danny knew me and yes, he saw me as someone necessary to speak to a roomful of people who were lost, to some degree.
They were lost and hopeless and searching for an answer.
Danny introduced me as his friend. Danny was also a large man and told the crowd about his natural protectiveness of me and my life. Then Danny explained there is the saying, “Some are sicker than others, and Ben? Ben was definitely one of the some.”
The crowd laughed.

This was Danny’s way of explaining that no, I was not a boy scout and nor could I ever run for public office. But people like me (or us) can get better.
People can improve and there is a way.
People do recover, despite the stigmas and despite the enemies against them.
It is true, that while everyone has their own path and their own truth and their own journey, we are all gifted with the ability to change our patterns. We can all make changes and take new steps towards a better direction.

We all have a story. We all have something hidden that makes us both dangerous and interesting.
We all have items from the past which linger like an old story that happened to us in another life.
There are details and battle scars that remain unseen and still, they remain with us, same as the memory of a child’s first stuffed animal.
Our history grows up from the roots in the ground and branches out with moments and turning points that change who we are and fills the tiny pockets that we call memories.

It would be inaccurate to say that I above all others have endured more or that I have suffered or earned the most for my troubles.
No. This is not true.

It would be dishonest of me to say that I have endured the worst and it would be a lie to ignore the blessings and the favors that I have received.
Danny and others might call me “one of the some,” when saying that “some are sicker than others,” but it would be equally so to say that I am fortune.
I am one of the lucky ones.
Or one of the ones.

I understand the need to defy the law. And I get it. Being bad can feel pretty good.
I agree,
I have been like some of the wilder ones or the so-called cowboys with too much to prove. Yet it would be a lie to say the real and the internal version of me was anything like my so-called exterior.

I do have a wild side.
I have an angry side and a vengeful side.
I have a wicked side and an evil side.
but nevertheless, I have a gentle side and a loving side and an eager side, which dream and hopes and feels anxious to hold and be held as well

Like anyone else, I have the dichotomy or man or the contrast of personalities that are less visible than the surface levels of my life. 

I am far from small or tiny. I cannot say that I appear puny anymore or that I look like a perfect target in the sense that I present myself as fragile or easily beaten.
At the same time, I am afraid and easily intimidated, which triggers an onslaught of past demons and often causes me to unfold my inner beast in ways that can be unfortunate.

I do not think that I look like I can’t fight. At least, I don’t think so. And I know that I have been told that I appear intimidating to which I argue because at best, I would never be afraid of me (if that makes sense.)
However, I do not assume the way I speak comes off soft, unless I am showing my softer side. And still, as a person with fears and insecurities; I share my softer side in fragments and more often, there is only a limited few who see the softest part of me.

I listened to a video that was viral about being a good man or a nice guy.
The man explaine that he does not know whether he is nice or not and he does not suffer from that kind of moral dilemma. He insisted though, should anyone test or hurt his loved ones or the love of his life, then he would respond in such a way that the onlookers would find terrible.
I can appreciate this.
I can say the same thing, and that should my enemies approach me; I might not fire at will. However, should someone hurt the innocence of say, someone like you, the love of my life; I would unleash hell in the most gruesome form and yes, I assume the witnesses would find me horrendous. Yes. I can confess to this and in the end, I would sleep like a baby and not think twice about it.

Or maybe this exposes me more than I care to show.
Maybe this exposes my weak vulnerabilities, which is that I can take pain and I can take punishment and I can life on scraps—but not you. Not my love.
No way.

And maybe this is wild too. Maybe I have an inaccurate version of myself and see myself as that little boy who was picked on or hurt or touched—and yes, this is the only way I know how to protect that little boy, through masks of violence and from behind a veil of secret pain.

I can say that I am in shape. I exercise and look to improve my strength to the best of my ability.
Unfortunately, an injury has kept me on the sidelines. However, I am a fan of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu and working closely to my best level as a practitioner. I will do this until I can master my skills at a black belt level.

Either way, I am more human than heroic and certainly more vulnerable than impenetrable. I have weaknesses. 
I have emotions. I have feelings and doubts and like anyone else in this world, I have a series of characteristics that range from flawed to esteemable. I want to be good.
I want to be worthy but more, I want to be “enough” to be chosen and yet, the feeling of being wanted and chosen has been elusive to some degree.
I have been picked and chosen, but never fully, and when I was chosen, the reasons were not altogether honest or true.
I am no better or worse than the average human. 

I have a look, to say the least. I am heavily tattooed and I speak with a New York accent. I speak with what’s called a “dems and dose” accent to which is an older New Yorker style, which has changed over the years. 
The “dems and dose” mean that my words with “th” in them have more of a “d” sound. Not to mention, the typical “er” sounds are more like an “uh” than an “er”

So, to make this easier and for you to take on a voice as we narrate this together, the word “mother” sounds closer to “muddah” but not quite as intense

The word “bathroom” comes out closer to something that sounds like ba-troom, which I have heard feedback on.
And the word “things” sound as if I remove the “h” and the result is “tings”
I explain this in a way that is perhaps more intense sounding than my actual speech patterns. But if you are going to read with me and follow along, I prefer this to sound as if my prose is speaking to you or telling a story.

In all fairness, the only time I notice that I speak differently is when I speak to someone who has no accent. I notice this when I am out of town or on a trip and in all fairness, I can say that those people have an accent to me.

I do not see what others see when they look at me. Then again, I do not know what anyone sees when they see me.
Am I ugly to them or unsightly?
Do I offend people by being who I am?
Do I come off as weak or fake or do I seem like I am trying too hard?
And to be honest, I decided to drop the act a long time ago. I have no time to impress anyone anymore.
If someone chooses not to be a friend, they are welcome to join another column and be an enemy or anyone else they choose—but this is on them.
Not me.

I am often blind to my own qualities.
And I think this is another thing that makes me human.
I had read something earlier this morning about how a butterfly cannot see its wings.

I believe the quote says, “Butterflies can’t see their wings. They can’t see how beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that.”
This quote comes from Naya Rivera whom I cannot say I know by any means. At the same time, I have great appreciation for this quote. I appreciate this as someone who often struggled to see my own goodness, I love this quote from the most innocent perspective in my heart. I have ugly features which I have accentuated and so, everything appears amplified when I stare or look at myself in my mental mirror.

I am not sure where I came up with this mistaken version of me. Or better, I am not sure how I lost myself to an undeserved description.
I don’t know why I see myself as ugly or weak. However, I do remember the first time I stepped into a large cafeteria at school.
I was blinded and taken aback by the social differences. And I was scared. Wait, no.
I was petrified.
I looked at the kids in the school cafeteria. I saw the different levels of cool. I noticed the statuses and the different stations of cliquish or herdlike mentality.
And where do you sit?
Where do you fit in?
And keep in mind, where you sit and which table you choose has the ability to alter and change the trajectory of the rest of you life.
I felt that . . .
I endured that kind of pressure to the point where it nearly killed me.
Literally . . .

I saw where the athletes sat. I saw where the wild kids sat. I saw how the pretty ones gathered and sat together and I noticed how the tough kids always congregated at the same table. People sat with the same, like-minded and likewise kids.

I have often wondered where the rules of popular opinions come from. Where did the common description of beauty begin?
How did this start and who voted on this?
Who created the standards?
And what about those who did not fall within the lines of typical or commercial beauty? Was it fair for them to believe that are ugly, simply because they were never invited to sit where “the cool kids” sat?
I ask this because there were times when I saw someone beautiful to me. They were breathtaking to the point where my first vision of them was imprinted in such a way that I swore no one would ever impress me like this.

There is one woman above all who has made this impression on me. No one has ever imprinted themselves in my memory like this. No one is more beautiful and no one will ever take her place.

(and yes, that’s you, by the way. Literally, you!)

However, regarding beauty or what I saw as beautiful; I swore that what I saw was more beautiful than ever.
I remember this during my younger years.And I swore this hurt me because I swore this was like taking something beautiful away from me—and therefore, I was too afraid to see anyone as beautiful because what happens when someone else comes to tear this down and destroy this feeling again?

I recall telling someone, “I think she is beautiful,”  and my opinion was quickly destroyed and shut down, as if to be crazy for thinking like this.
I was put down and yes, as someone who was bullied and tortured and fearful of the ongoing bully-mills that eat and dismantle our social existence, I never dared to tell my truth to anyone else. I never dared to celebrate these things because I was painfully afraid that someone would take away my joy and tell me that I was ugly and because I am ugly, she was ugly too.

It took decades of growth for me to spill this here.
Then again, I am safe here
(with you)
I never dared to like someone openly or say how I felt or how I appreciated curves and buxom, or fuller figures.
I never dared to say how the inner beast in me eyes my love and sees her like a meal which I need to stalk and devour.
Even that . . .
even me telling you this makes me afraid that you will dislike me or disapprove and thus, I will be ostracized again for having desires which are natural to me.

This stems from the roots that were placed in my heart. But that was a long, long time ago.
At the same time, I always wonder who decided to corner the market on who is or who isn’t beautiful 

As for me, there are people in this world who walk in a room and for some reason, they are noticed and seen and regarded and valued.
I see nothing so special.
They have bad breath sometimes.
They shit their pants too.
They have ugly truths and hidden scars like the rest of us.
Yet somehow, all eyes are on them.
Why?

I think about the truest version of beauty. Namely, you, and how you avoid the crowds or the status whores and you avoid attention to keep from being looked at or seen.
All I know is I will never forget the first time I saw you come through a door . . .

I take this challenge I have about myself, and I date this back to my experience with the Junior High cafeteria.
This is where status was everything. Who you hung around predicted the wild night and the invites to parties and crazy things, like National Cut Out Day, which was not a real thing on the everyday calendar.
But still . . .
I saw the cafeteria as a model that depicts the social tiers of teenage life.
There were jocks on one end and the troublemakers or burnouts on the other.
The burnouts earned their name because of how they were.
They smoked cigarettes and they smoked weed and they drank and they rebelled against the world.
The jocks did this too, just on a different or more socially acceptable scale.

Everything was about status. And yet, there was a station for every life form in the cafeteria. 
This went from the brainy kids to the nerdy kids and of course, there was the ugly kids. And then there were unnoticed ones or the faceless ones who were socially unknown and always excluded.

No one remembered them or regarded them.
But they were just as real as you and I.

I never believed that I was noticed.
No, I had to earn my sit.

I was never that guy who walked in the room and heads turned because the attention shifted. No, I suppose my insecurity labeled me differently. 
I was neither perfect nor imperfect or good looking or ugly.
I was always my biggest fear, which is to be mute or in the middle and uncared for, unwanted and unnoticed.

I always assumed that I was that painfully faceless kid, unthought of and uncounted.

I swore this was a fate worse than death

 I swore that I would never go unnoticed or unheard, and, so, I decided to make my presence known.
I swore that I would burn the world down without the moral compass or the social conundrum between right and wrong.
I swore that if need be, I would return the hurt in droves and flood the world with my enemy’s blood for making me “feel” this afraid and this insecure.

I was that teenage kid

I was one of the lost ones and the rebellious ones and yet, I was one of the weakest ones too.
I was too afraid of my own shadow and thus, I chose to be a rebel in my own mind.
I was causeless and anxious, but as God as my witness, I swore to all the corners of Hell and with all the ugliest intentions, I would make a mark on this world. 
Blood by blood.
Or stone by stone.

I promised myself that I would leave a dent or two and that I would carve my name in the benches of hell.
I swore that I would do this before dying a faceless, nameless, and meaningless kid with no one to know or reason to be mentioned

Was this me?

Was that you?

I don’t know

But maybe one day
We will understand and like the old saying, one day we will look back and laugh

At least I hope so

I am not that kid anymore.
but the rest will be reveled in the journal entries ahead.
Was I one of the wild ones?
I was one of the ones. I know that much,

We all start somewhere.
This journal starts here.
I have to go now
But I’ll be back to see you tomorrow
(if you let me)