Is it possible to say that I am not me and you are not you?
Of course.
We are not us at the moment. Then again, I am not sure about me, or you, us.
Or wait . . .
I am not sure about anyone anymore and to be clear, there are times when I am not sure about anything for that matter.
I find that moments like this are when those dreams come for me.
And one of them did.
Last night.
This is not a blast from the past but the dreams come along to signify something.
I know there is a meaning for all of this.
Then again, what are the dreams we dream anyway?
Memories?
Is that it?
Or is this just basic science.
Maybe this is my receptors and brainwaves overreacting to a subconscious thought.
I assume that my dreams are bursts of energy that fires off in the brain when I rest my head at night.
Not that I sleep much.
I do not have drug dreams like I used to, least of all the romantic ones where the ritual takes place. I never have dreams when I am using the drug. I might be in search for it.
And I might be at an old spot. But I never actually consume anything.
I have dreams that take me back to places I never want to see again. I would never look to revisit any of these places.
But that’s what bad dreams are for, I suppose.
Old memories resurface to act as a reminder that yes “this was me!”
And that was me once and somehow; the dreams have me fall to old predictions that no matter how I clean up, I will always be dirty. I will always be a bum. I will always be a thief or a cheater or a junkie.
However, I am none of the above.
I have this thing in me that whispers louder than screams. And I hear this often. I hear these whispers when I am at work or in meetings and leading my team on a costly project that proves my position.
I have these fears that eventually, someone is going to pull the curtain and they will reveal that I am nothing more than a fake or an imposter. I am a fraud . . .
Somehow, I will fall from grace and find myself back in the dungeons of old times.
And I know what this is. I know this is called Imposter Syndrome.
I have had lengthy conversations with highly successful people.
They have related to me in the sense that despite their title and their role, and despite their successes, they are just as afraid that someone is going to come along and pull their curtain (so-to-speak).
They will be revealed as nothing more than a waste, a fake, a fraud, or a loser.
I’ve been a loser before . . .
I know how that feels.
I have lived with this for as long as I can remember.
And the biggest bitch of all is that I have trusted this information with people in the past.
I loved them
They were special to me and I believed that I was special to them.
But not anymore. Not after I found out that everything I believed was a lie.
And, so, they were also the ones who used this information against me.
My greatest love and my so-called true love was not true at all. I say this because in the case of our split; she cursed me like a witch and placed an unbreakable hex on me.
She called me a loser.
She called me stupid.
She told me how everybody hates me
And she said this because she knows this would hurt the most, coming from her.
Mission accomplished, I say.
But digressing becomes a habit and rather than branch off into another direction, I think it is better for me to trace the outlines of my old recurring dreams and why I have them.
Last night’s dream took me back top an old place. I found myself back in a cellar, just like I did on the nights over by 134th Street right by the Willis Avenue bridge.
This was not a good place and to be clear; even the police would stay away from these corners
Not to mention, this was during a generation before today’s technology.
This is a dream. But everything is real.
There were no cameras on every corner back then. There were no cell phones.
No. We had to work to for our communication. There was no internet or emails.
This was way before that time.
I found myself at an old place where I used to find shelter from the wars in my head.
At the same time, there was nothing safe in this shelter.
There was just an old brownstone apartment which was owned by an old man named Pops. He was an old man who retired from driving a bus and used his retirement to fund his crack habit.
I was there . . .
He was the one who got me my first bundle of dope.
The name on the package said “KING” and yes, everyone bowed to the KING
The dream of course is hostile and eerie. Yet, all is quiet and dark.
I am at a familiar place. This is the cellar of the same brownstone that I last saw when I was 16, just before my 17th birthday..
The area was like something out of the worst inner-city movie.
A man was shot outside. Everyone ran.
This happened . . .
I remember this too.
This was real but he dream shows the body in a more animated way.
I do not recall looking too long or too much when I was there in real life.
But I saw what I saw.
And what I saw was enough.
The man laid dead on the ground. Arms spread out.
Head tilted off to the side. Red blood all over the chest of his dirty white t-shirt.
I remember wondering how long he would lay there before someone (if anyone at all) came to recover the body.
Like I said, even the police were afraid to come to this part town.
And it’s not like anyone would call the cops in that neighborhood.
I remember sitting beneath the sidewalk by the cellar window and listening to the dealers run the corner.
And I hid there.
I hid with my lighter and a glass pipe.
I had the indicative white burn marks on my lips.
I was sick in more ways than my words can express.
I was thin and pale like a ghost.
I was dying, for sure.
But I was far from dead in a different light.
I was not me.
You were not you and we were not us.
Then again, this was long before you ad I became who you and I are now.
Or wait. No.
You and I have always been together.
At least, I think so.
But in any case –
I was nothing at the time and simply waiting for the next attempt to be high to be my last one.
And that’d be fine for me.
See?
This is the thing about the so-called “drug life.”
No cares about death.
There were no worries about the last or the fatal overdose because in all fairness; I’d have slipped away, gently.
I’d have been fine.
I would have faded into the numbness of my own sad but perfect abandon.
There would be no recourse. There would be no last thought or sad and desperate recollection of my life.
There would be nothing but the final taste of euphoria and next, my last and final thought would be euthanized and gone.
There would be no facing my maker because to me, there was no maker.
There was no God and there was no Heaven or Hell.
There was just a life that was lost and abandoned long before the drug life took me in.
I dreamt about this.
I remember the hollow feeling and the emotionless content because there was no difference or contrast between living or dying.
Whatever happened would have been fine.
Or at least, so I thought.
I’d have been absolutely euthanized and drifted away.
My departure and my spirit would have been light as a feather.
However, eventually my body would have become stiff as a board.
Then again, I suppose this depends on how long it would take someone to find me.
I have these memories of moments in cellars.
I have memories of basements and abandoned buildings and seeing proof that yes, drugs do kill in different ways.
Some people are luckier and die quickly and never have to suffer.
Some live longer and they die each day.
They die alive.
Some catch bullets. Some find themselves in jails or institutions.
Some take knives to the gut. Some take a needle to their veins and shove a product that taints the blood.
Some will smoke their problems.
Some drink them
Some eat their way to hell
Some dose heir pills.
I do not like these dreams.
But yes. I have them
I’d prefer to tell you something different.
I’d prefer to tell you the Devil let me go after my last tour of duty, April, 1, 1991
But no.
My demons know me well.
They check in like old friends who enjoy getting a rise out of me.
My demons know me well and my beast knows me better than anyone else does
They know when I am insecure.
They know when my thoughts tell me that I am a failure.
Or like those who turned on me said; I am bound to fail and die alone.
But that is not me
This is not true
I am not me\
You are not you
And we are not us
At least, not at the moment.
It’s funny . . .
I am being considered for a global position that is far bigger than I ever assumed anyone would consider me to fill.
It’s kind of a big deal
And no . . .
It doesn’t look like this can (or will) happen.
Not because of my insecurity.
No, this is more because the company is experiencing other problems at the moment.
But yes.
I have to say it.
My fears about being revealed and humiliated are real.
Imposter syndrome is the biggest bitch of the all
And –
My beast?
He teases me
all the time . . .
Who they hell would hire you?
Who the hell would trust you after all you’ve done?
Who would love somebody like you?
Someone will.
Deep down
I know it.
The Written Addiction 