And so, in the case to find myself or to retrace the missing pieces of my life, I had to search through different dreams to see exactly where it was that I lost my place.
“I lost my place.”
Yes. That’s a great way to put it!”
I identify with these words.
And I have identified with these words for a long time.
At the same time, I identify with the ideas of losing my place differently now. Or maybe I relate to them differently each time I lose my place.
And each time I say that hey. “I lost my place,” I realize that this has happened more times and, in more ways than I could possibly count.
Be advised, no one wants to appear lost or wear that confused expression. No one wants to look like, say for example, the look an old person face when they are faced with todays much younger technology.
And for the record, this is me too.
I look at these so-called “smart phones” or the everchanging modern technology; and I wonder “is it me,” or is all this new shit just way too confusing?
Meanwhile I see these kids texting and navigating through all their smart little gadgets as if they were born with an external software as part of their lifelong appendages.
I hate it.
I hate that I have become the grandpa or that I look like my Father looked the first time we brought home a new VCR for the television.
I don’t ever want to be lost.
I don’t want to lose my spot or lose my place and yet, I know the tricks and the steps to take.
I know what to do.
But I lose my place.
I know how the logic woks and, still, I have to circle back and retrace my steps. I have to go back to the beginning because I always have the feeling or the fear of say, “Shit, where did I put my car keys.” or “Why do I always feel like something’s missing?”
I remember the days in the classroom when we were kids.
I know, I know . . .
A lot has changed.
They have new math now.
But I say fuck that,
I remember reading in class.
Fuck that too.
The teacher made us take turns reading paragraphs.
I hated this.
I hated the pressure.
I hated the fact that I could hardly read, let alone understand or retain the information from what I was reading.
I could literally read something and do my best to slow down or breathe or sound out the words, and put simply, I would have no understanding or even a recollection of what I read.
And I just read it . . .
I stuttered when I read out loud.
I hated this too.
First of all, stuttering is not the best look for anyone.
No.
This was not a good look or feeling, let alone for someone like me, a little scrawny kid who could hardly lift a chair, not to mention lift my hands to fight off one of the schoolyard bullies.
Not to mention how this impacts a child’s need to be wanted, included, or liked, and accepted.
Stuttering sucks.
This does not help anyone in the social pools of popularity. And while in fairness to the subject and in all actuality, most kids are trying to pay attention so that they understand the lessons for themselves; however, I always assumed that all eyes were on me.
Ego and insecurity . . .
Bitches.
Both of them.
I was afraid that everyone would see and then know that yes, I, myself, standing in the middle of the room and stuttering as I read was not only stupid, I was nothing more than a burden to the world around me.
I stuttered for sure. And I stuttered badly.
I had to put a stop to this.
But how?
I had to try. So, in an effort restore faith in myself and to avoid the fear that I would appear to be an idiot, I’d count the heads at the desks of the kids who sat before me.
Then I would count the paragraphs to find which paragraph was mine.
I would pray to the high and almighty scholastic gods that my paragraph was short or quick.
I’d pray with all I had and hope that by the luck of the draw, I would be fine to read a few sentences.
None of my paragraphs were ever short.
or better, they were never short enough.
Performance anxiety.
It’s a real bitch.
(You know?)
I tried to read the paragraphs to myself. I did this to rehearse but my attention grew confused. I always lost my place because while I tried to rehearse and read quietly, another student read out loud, —and, so, I did my best so that when it was my turn to read, I could pick up where the last student left off.
My goal was to do this and be fluid-like.
I wanted to be good.
I wanted to be “normal” and not stupid.
But I was always distracted and what was worse, my turn would come and there was that painfully awkward silence. Hence, this was my cue to read and then, almost always, the rest of the class would say my name.
“BEN!!” and they would shout this as if I was too stupid to follow along or keep up.
Or when things grew worse and my attention was drawn away in the middle school years and my mind expanded with different substances, I looked like a waste of space in the classroom.
And again, this was not a good look.
But it was better than looking stupid (r so, I thought)
Or maybe I assumed it was a better look to be a rebel and abstain and refuse to conform—which was my uniformed choice, by the way.
I swore I was stupid.
I swore that I had to protect myself or that no one could help me; therefore, I had to return fire.
I believed that I was stupid
But no.
I was not stupid nor have I ever been stupid.
I have been called stupid by people who supposedly loved me. But this was there tactics with emotional warfare because when people know you; they also know how to hurt you.
Quickly, painfully, and easilty too.
I lost my place.
This happened all too often and therefore, I assumed I was incapable and thus, I wore a mask to fend off the social demons and educational bullies.
I have done this differently throughout my life.
But back then, I let my eyes close to half-mass with a bloodshot abandon.
I let my mind enjoy the reaction to different chemicals, largely weed but more often, I endured the eight-hour trips that came with Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.
LSD . . .
Or mescaline
Or dust (as in angel dust or a street version of PCP)
I did what I could to insulate my soul and keep from the acknowledged pain. I lost my place. So. I hid from the insults that came from the educational bullies. And there are a lot of them.
I hid from those who looked to insult my intelligence by laughing at me or saying, “look at him . . . he can’t even read!”
By the way, I ran into a few of those social and educational bullies over the years.
I saw one of them at a book signing.
He looked at me and said, “Who knew?”
And one time, I saw a therapist who told me that I would never be professionally publish.
She was a bitch too.
I saw her when was sitting at a table in a store known as Borders Books.
I was sitting in a chair with a sign in front of me that said “meet the author,” and while the typical grammar snobs and literary germaphobes still dislike my prose, —I can smile and tell them all to kiss my ass.
The therapist saw me. She acted like she didn’t.
But she did.
I smiled and waved
but she averted her eyes as if seeing me would acknowledge she was wrong.
I saw an old teacher of mine who literally ridiculed me in front of an entire classroom.
He was a dick . . .
He was kinder to me than he was when I was his student.
I was also slightly less intimidated—only slightly, and I was certainly not small anymore, —or at least, I was not as small as I was.
And to him (or according to him) I had grown and he had seen me in the newspaper for something good, which was far different from my first appearance in the local news because there was a police helicopter chasing me through my neighborhood from Front Street to Prospect Avenue.
They got me, by the way.
I told the teacher about my memory. And perhaps I explained myself with a tone that suggested there might be trouble. Maybe I explained myself with an old hint that remembers his insults. And maybe, just maybe some of my stories and past interactions with the law were made clear to him. And maybe, just maybe there was a suggestion or nay, a hint of some kind of physical consequence that might be deserved.
The teacher apologized.
I smiled.
“Be nicer to the kids you teach. Would ya?” said me, the ex-burnout whom he said would be dead before my 19th birthday.
I offered my suggestion while grabbing and squeezing his shoulder and punishing the pressure point at the base of his neck.
(What a dick!)
I lost my place more times than I can remember.
I lost my place in line, especially when I second-guessed myself.
And then in my own haste, I stood on another line, assuming this line would get me to where I needed to be.
But no.
No line is ever quick enough for the mind of insecure thinking.
I second guessed myself. I lost my patience and yes, I lost my place.
It always seemed as if I’d have to circle back to see if my old spot was still open.
And then, I’d return. Ashamed.
I’d head back to see that the spot I had was forfeited or given up to someone else.
I had to go back to the end of the line. I had to start from the beginning (again)
I remember being left back as a kid and I was sitting in classrooms with much younger students and thus; they were kids and still much smarter than me.
I had to start over and begin my process all over again.
And each time was more degrading than the last.
I say this loosely and perhaps too vaguely, but I say this, nonetheless.
I say this because I was the one who started but never finished.
Or I quit before I tried.
Or whether I say this in a personal or professional regard or even if we take this from an emotional standpoint, I say this because I lost my focus. I lost too much and way too many times.
Above all, I forgot to follow the old suggestion and “keep my eye on the prize “
I am told that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
I’m sure this is true.
Yet, my mind goes left and right and worries too deeply about the surrounding minefields and the social casualties that might detonate, or explode, as soon as I step in the wrong direction.
There was a girl who started a new job while I started a new job.
I was 19 at the time.
We worked in the same field, and we sold the same equipment. I quit.
She stayed the course.
I struggled for years and she was financially successful.
Yes, I agree—momentum needs to keep moving.
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
But my life did not go that way and nor can I complain or explain my life away, as if I had it rough or life was too hard.
I do not disagree that life is hard.
Love is hard too.
Loss is hard.
Therefore, staying focused and keeping your eyes on the prize means we can’t be deterred and we cannot be distracted.
I get it though . . .
You have to look around to see the sights and realize how far we’ve come.
I agree.
“Don’t quit before the miracle happens,” am I right?
Sometimes, the miracle is in the moment or the miracle is that “we showed up,” despite the odds or the probability that somehow, you and I are gonna beat this minefield bullshit.
I have had a rough few years.
I lost more money than I care to think about. I lost friends and I lost a love which I had sworn was real—but alas, I believe that was wrong. And so, I lost my place >
I realize the truth now
Real love never runs away and real love never dies. Real love does not lie (or feel the need to) and nor is real love born from lies.
Therefore, in my search to find my place, I realize that “I am that one” and therefore, I must become that one who overcomes the odds.
I have to overcome despite the losses, despite my fears and despite the odds that say whether I can or cannot climb out of this mess.
I am that one who kicked the tripwire. And yes, the minefields are dangerous.
BOOM!
But do you know what else is extremely dangerous?
Waking up one day and realizing that “holy shit,” my entire life went by, and I never dared to do what I dream.”
To hell with that.
Full steam ahead, I say.
Are you with me, because if not, just know this:
I will miss you
Good morning, Monday.
I heard you have some things in store for me
Well?
I have some things too.
So,
let’s go
The Written Addiction 