A Letter From Self

I remember trying to gather my thoughts, or at minimum; I wanted to gather my sanity and find out how to maintain at least a semblance of self and appear sane. But I am not sane.
I am not crazy or so crazy because I would rather believe that love is real or that love can exist, even in the imperfections of life or that two people can fit perfectly, despite their dissimilar edges.

But ah, that distant definition of sanity was all too crazed and all too far and all too blurry for me to see clearly.
This is it . . .
This is the jumping point or the platform to which we can either springboard or dive and fall and hit the bottom of our doubts.

Such is life in the aftermath of breakups and diovorce. And such are the fears of being umatchable and unwanted.
Such are the feelings that come when we find out that our truth was based on a lie, and such are the realizations that nothing was true (or real) enough and hence, the life we thought we had was nothing close to what it was.

And what was it?
An act?
A play?
Or is this just another chapter in our book of life?

I was down but not out.
Or maybe I was out but not as far down as I thought.
I don’t know the answer to this and perhaps the jury might still be deliberating in the back with a verdict of guilty or not.
Then again, the morning after is always a moment of awareness.
This is a time that comes “after the fact” and stares at us with better visibility because all is clear now. All is evident and the evidence has been there the whole time.
These are the things and the eye-opening evets which cause you to wake up and ask yourself the most unfortunate question:
“What the fuck was I thinking?”

Come to think of it, I can dig back into my memory. I can stretch as far back to the first time I ever got into an argument with a girl.
Her name was Dana.
I suppose it would be safe to say that she was one of the first girls that I had a relationship with. And nothing ever happened between us. At least, nothing physical. But there was something about her to me.
I liked her.
I did.
She liked me too but Dana would not do anything physical with me.

I liked our long talks on the telephone.
They went on for hours.
I liked that she knew me well enough to know what to say and how to say things without saying them.
These are great things to learn from and remember. And hence, these are the lessons I am using to improve my listening abilities so that when you and I transform; I will be this for you and you will be that for me.

I liked Dana.
I really did.
And I liked that she understood me, at least enough to know when or why I was uncomfortable or unhappy.
I liked that Dana knew these things without having to ask the silliest question of all, which is, “Hey, what’s wrong?”
And sometimes, you need to ask your lover these questions.
Not that Dana and I were lovers.
But again, I am stretching back to dive deeper into a learning opportunity.

There were other girls and girls that allowed me to venture beyond the kissing stages. Or when we talk about kissing; there was those who allowed the so-called “touchy-feely” stages of hands up the shirt or down the pants.
And there were some who allowed me to round the sexual bases in the game-like plan which we compared to the sport of baseball.

Kissing was first base. And then feeling up a girl’s shirt was second.
Having your hand down her pants was third and this is what led me to early and youthful homeruns, which led to the loss of my virginity. 

But for the record and to be absolutely transparent or abundantly clear; I was far from romantic.
In fairness, I was awful.
I was much further from being like Casanova or anyone with a Romeo-like charm.

However, I will say that I have always been preoccupied and distracted by the most beautiful and yet, the most lustful thoughts combined. I have no reason to hide my flaws anymore and nor can I allow my past to shadow the brightness of my possible future.
And yes, I hope.
one day . . .

I do admit that I have always wanted love.
I clearly admit to my faults and my self-absorbed and selfish needs. And regretfully, I admit to my unfair tactics to “score,” so-to-speak, I admit this freely and uncomfortably but I admit this no matter what.
I can never say that I completely lied to have sex. But it would be a lie to say that I was open or honest, or that lying by omission is not equally the same as lying to begin with.
I played the game but the games I played were painful and costly to the amount that I will have to pay the worst tax of them all.
Regret.
I regret the way I was. I regret the wrath I chose.
I regret my attacks and I regret my warfare.
I do.

I am trying to uncover the first time I felt love or at least the first time I considered what love might be like.
I was looking back and thinking about the times when I allowed the mask to slip or dared to show a glimpse of my truth.
And somehow, I bring these memories back to signs of rejection and feelings that coincide with being denied or refused. These things hurt me.
I attach them like an envelope that seals the letters that say I was not enough or unwanted, or unworthy, unwelcomed, or even worse, unnoticeable enough to be anyone of value.

There are different types of people in this world. They have different looks and different styles, different attributes, different figures, shapes, and different sizes.
There are people who can walk into a room and somehow; all eyes fall for them.
I have never been that man.
They are noticed and seen, celebrated and cherished. And there are people who share the same levels of attention but from an opposite side of the spectrum. This is the split between the ugly and the beautiful. And then there are the faceless or the void or the ones no one remembers or views because they are average to the point where they are otherwise undetectable.
This is a fate worse than death (to me.)

I go back to an offering I explained to a young friend of mine. She lived with the distraction that perhaps she was ugly because she was not as pretty or as desired or as noticed as her friends.
I knew her father.
She used to visit him at work and we would often talk for a while.
She and I shared a good friendship that was meaningful enough for her to call me Uncle Benny.
I loved that.

I understood her distraction. Or at least, I can say I understood this from my perspective.
And I understood the losses that come with the comparison to other people.
I knew the feelings of losing to someone else’s beauty or their figures and body shapes.

I was able to relate to looking in the mirror with a taste of contempt and disgust on my tongue.
I hated the way I was. However, my hatred did not come with words as much as they came with a sadness and the depressing content that drowned me in the swamps of emotional quicksand.
And here’s the bitch about sinking in quicksand; the harder you try to escape, the deeper you sink.
And the deeper you sink, the further you drown into your own thoughts and bad opinions.

The girl was young and still in high school. She was experiencing life.
She was told things like, “things will change” or that she was young and there was an entire life ahead of her.
I get that . . .
And she did too, I’m sure.
But –
I agree these are nice things to say.
However, this does not make sense or sound helpful or appealing when you cannot stand the reflection you see in the mirror.
Who wants to live with themselves when they cannot stand what they see in the mirror?

We used to talk about beauty.
We used to talk about the uncomfortable feelings that came when we would go out or be on the beach.
In fairness; it has taken me decades to be comfortable to be seen without a shirt or to wear clothes that fit in summertime.

I understand that looks and assumptions and opinions of others can be deceiving. And as for me, no, it would not appear that I was afraid to take my shirt off. It would not be known that I hated to walk the beach and be without a shirt to cover my body.
No one would know that I always saw myself as ugly or unsightly.
But more, who would care.
I was only average at best.
Right?

I told my young friend that beauty is a very interesting term.
I explained that beauty to me is not the same as beauty to anyone else.
I also told her that no matter how beautiful someone is on the outside; if they are ugly on the inside then they could only be average, at best.
Then I explained, “And you? You couldn’t be average if you tried!”

I remember seeing her when she came back after her first year in college.
She was a changed girl. Or maybe she was a changed young woman.
We talked for a while.
She told me, “I know that I’m beautiful!” and she said this with a smile.
I asked, “And how do you know that?”
Her answer was not what I expected,
Her face turned almost surprised that I asked a question like this.
Then she answered me with a conviction I had never seen before.
“Because my Uncle Benny told me so!”

I had to walk away –
I cried a little bit.
I never had the chance to be a real parent.
At least, not the way I wanted to.

I see people who battle their life away with divorce and spread their hatred through parental slander or alienation.
How stupid this is . . .
How hurtful . . .
how deadly and damaging . . .

I trace my outlines back to my earliest poems and to the secret writings that no one knew about.
I go back to my first real poem about love.

“If I listen,
I can hear you in my thoughts
and if I look,
I can see you in my dreams
and on the movie screens behind the walls
of my eyelids.

But my only hope is that one day soon
I will hold you in my arms
forever”

I think about the fallouts and the fights and the bouts of shame. I think about the breakups and the heartache and the emotional warfare, which appears to be nothing more than wasteful to me now.
I have wasted too much.

I think about the damages of insecurity and the preemptive strikes that comes from the fear of doubts.
I think about how they lead me to assumptions that eventually, you will hurt me too; and again, I will go unnoticed or unwanted, unseen, uncared for, or undesired and hence; I will be left to face the greatest fear of all:
Dying alone. 

I am not sure if I am beautiful or if I could ever be beautiful enough to be seen and heard and wanted or understood.
However, age has taught me an amazing concept. Time has shown how my insecurities blinded me and fears have limited me.

I do not have the so-called picture perfect body.
I am not sure if I am good or bad or wanted or desirable enough to make someone so proud to walk beside me.

I suppose my first real breakup damaged me. I suppose my second led me to understand more about regrets and an internal hatred and that caused me to miss the greatest of all things, which is the opportunity to be mutually happy, or to love and be with someone, as in exclusively happy, and together in the ways possible.

I am not dead and nor am I about to give up or fail to the comparisons of others.
Therefore, and effective immediately; I resign and surrender my place in the swamps of emotional quicksand. 

Am I ugly?
Am I known or seen or noticed and wanted?

Am I that faceless person who nobody sees because I am neither good or bad?
Am I somehow mute or too dim to brighten a room and be seen?
Am I unnoticeable?

I cannot hear the words, “You are a good man.”
I do not do well with compliments because my inner turmoil used to hate me too much..
I do not sit well with myself and be alone.
But life is about improvement.

I know one thing and I keep this with me.
I know there is love for me.
I know there is something waiting; and yes, the dance we will dance when the sun goes down will be amazing.
Beautiful
Incredible as in unforgettable.
I know tis

I’ll even bet you on it. . .
My soul for this truth!

So help me God

Life is about improvement, right?
Have I improved yet?
Imagine . . .
But I can promise you this much
one day . . . .
“There’ll be hell to pay in Heaven!”