Good Or Bad, I Was One of The Ones

I don’t know how I addressed my first poem.
Then again, I knew who the poem was for.
I always knew who I wrote this too, even thought I never met her.
(meaning you)
And if I met her, I never believed that I could keep her
(meaning you)

I’m not sure if I thought that anything I said would mean anything to anyone; and therefore, I suppose that I just wrote to write to you, or to whomever it is I write to.

I knew that somehow, something might come of this, even if nothing came of this at all, at least I staked my claim and took my shot.
At least I dared to say what I thought or felt and at least I let my heart bleed, out loud, and regardless of the critics or those who told me not to try.
I still tried.

I suppose that I wrote with the intention of “leaving it all out there,” and then I “send it out to the Universe” and hoped that somehow, the acts I followed would unfold and become the dream I’ve had since I was young and just a boy.
I hoped that somehow, this would find you and spark a flame or trigger your desires to want me or want b=me back enough to wake up the next day and call me.

I remember –
I made myself a promise.
I put away the 12-gauge and the list of crooked demands.
I put away the list of regrets and I made a promise to which, I have kept, by any means.
I did not quit.
Not once.
No matter how bad the critics ripped me apart.
No matter how many times I was told that I was stupid, or a loser, or regardless of the hate, I did not quit. I did not surrender and by any means, despite my energy or the sleepless nights; I came here every morning, just to find you.

The year was 06′
I sat alone and pulled out an old chair that was salvaged from the garbage. I started writing on an outdated computer that was salvaged from the same garbage and rebuilt and reprogrammed by a friend of mine.
I opened up for the first time, as if to say hey, this is me.

I know the first words I wrote down. And I know why I wrote them.
“My redemption has nothing to do with your response.”
I was at a low point. Or better, I was at the lowest and worst point of my life.
Everyone I loved was gone and everyone I knew was far away from me.
Including the close ones.

I was alone in a brand-new way. I was single for the first time in my life. My friends were distant and grew further away from me. Some of my married friends were told to choose a side. This was prompted because my previous marriage was the reason for our connection, and so, my divorce was the reason their wives made them stay away from me.
I suppose that some people believe that divorce is contagious. And maybe it is, —or maybe the idea of freedom from the bullshit seems too expensive to dare.
Maybe people are too afraid to start over again.
Or maybe the idea of divorce resounds with the stigmas of being a failure; and so, there I was, failed at marraige and failed at being a father.
I was certain to face parental alienation, which happened.

I thought everything was over.
Who would want me?
Who would love me?
Who would care?

But yes. There is life after divorce.
There is life after death.
There is life after a lot of things—and so, I go.

I go on and I keep moving because of course; what else is there that can be done?
Can one simply fold inward or turn down the lights and fold into some kind of permanent obscurity?
Can one accept failure and see the fading lights and sink deeply?
I assume so.
Either way, whether I accept my flaws and accept my failures, the world is still going to turn; and therefore, yes, there is life after failure.

I don’t know how I introduced myself when I opened my first journal, —least of all, I am sure that my introduction was not standard, or like it used to be when I was down in the 12-step basements and said, “Hi, my name is Benny and I’m an alcoholic.”
I think I spoke in written words.
I spoke the way two people speak with each other.
Not like two strangers but like two connected and kindred spirits.

I think I submitted to the claim that I knew this journal was an “either, or” proposition.
Either I quit and give in –
Or I take the first step and dare to do something I’ve always dreamt about.

My redemption has nothing to do with your response.
I still love those words.

I never thought that someone like me could be redeemed.
I never assumed that life could or would get better and that while I sat in the grips of my own aches and pains, my anger consumed me; and thus, I never assumed that love would find me and nor did I believe that I deserved the life of my dreams.

It is clear to me that nothing happens when nothing happens.
Nothing changes if nothing changes.
And being stuck is the worst.
Being stuck or living in the murk of your own ideas and failing to get out of your own way is both deadly and dangerous.
Trust me –

My redemption has nothing to do with your response.

This meant that I had to do to improve my position.
No matter what had to be done, I had to do it.
I could not wait for forgiveness. I could not hope for clemency or stay of execution. I could not hope for a pardon or to be absolved.
My apologies were true.
My pain or sadness was real.
My sorrow for my sins were fit for any confessional, but not all was redeemed and not all was revealed to me.
My lonesomeness was wholehearted and my emptiness was filled with the burdens of regret.
And so, I had to try something else.
Doing what I always did only got me what I always had.
And what I had was both wasteful and sad.
I never asked to be that one –
but I was

Maybe today is no different.
Maybe today is totally different.
Either way, nothing changes if nothing changes.
Something needs to give
Even if it’s me, something has to break the chain of habitual living.
Otherwise, be prepared for more of the same.

I knelt on the floor of my small apartment.
I looked up at the ceiling and with the contempt on my tongue and the rage in my heart; I found my supplication between me and The Lord to be clear and concise.
I had to make a change,

No better words were said than the words from the film, “The Shawshank Redemption.”

Either we get busy living
or get busy dying.

I want to be the one who lives.
Dying time is done.

It’s amazing how the world is both linear and cyclical.
I have come back, full circle, and my eyes are open enough to see clearly now.

I know what I want.
And I know what I need to do.

My redemption has nothing to do with your response.

I love those words, though, their meanings are not quite the same to me.
The core is the same—same as the core of my love is still the same
But nothing changes until something changes
and now, I’ve changed

So this . . .
this is what this feels like, huh?

Wow –