I know that maybe I say this too much. Or maybe I say too much period, and this is what causes distance between me and those who I wished were closer.
I know that I often talk about going back to the beginning.
But this is where I am . . .
I talk about the beginning so that I can turn back and start.
Or maybe this is the only way I can clear my history and hit the reset button.
Perhaps this is why I was told memories are not always my friend.
or memory is a liar.
I was told that too.
In the beginning, there was no yesterday.
My list of regrets was far shorter than my list of demands.
In the beginning, I can see why and how both lists grew in different directions.
There were no scars in the beginning. There were lies or tiny abrasions or war wounds or parts of me that were sore or tender to the touch.
I was untouched in the beginning.
I was unbothered, clear, and unmolested too, because the beginning was clear and clean, like sky during early summer mornings at the birth of July.
No clouds. Just a clear blue overhead, which was endless, like our hopes are
(in the beginning)
I understand the reasons why I see things better now. Then again, the birth of hindsight is clear and uncluttered.
Hindsight is always perfect once the facts or the moments of awareness are behind us.
And still, we dance
We laugh and we cry.
We live and we learn.
We walk and we run.
And sometimes, we pause.
There were no fears in the beginning because we were not made aware of our naked features. We had no idea that we would somehow lose to an eventual comparison and judge ourselves so harshly.
But now we see.
And still, we worry.
We learn to dress ourselves or disguise and hide the secrets and invisible scars that we naturally assume how the invisible things appeared obvious, or made us ugly.
We often thought that the unseeable was obvious and so thus, we tried to hide ourselves and cover our tracks.
But our eyes were distracted elsewhere and our hearts were unsure where to turn.
The fear of being revealed was worse than being uncovered because to me, being uncovered meant that I was marked like a sign or stigma. And to me, I always assumed that this defined me best.
Or, at least, so I thought
I admit to my sins and my distractions and yes, I heartily accept the truth which declares, “for every action, there is a reaction.”
We all have consequences to live with.
Whether I go or stay or if I hide in plain sight or come forward like a quiet player in a much larger game; for every action there is an equal or adverse reaction.
And so I pay.
I have seen beauty that went unnurtured. And yes, of course, I can say I have seen the most beautiful people in this world.
I love them
Or more namely, I love the only one.
The most beautiful.
Only, they never knew that this was them, even if only to me.
And to them, their worthiness remained an unknown secret, and yes, I see how they were further molested or distorted from their truth.
I know why this happened and I can see how they were stolen from their truths.
I see how the most beautiful people were poisoned by their so-called “others” who were supposed to love them. And, still, all they did was find ways to keep the beautiful ones in question; as if to make the most beautiful people question their worth and question their value and question their beauty. But why?
I know why
This was done to otherwise keep them guessing and uncomfortable or seemingly dependant.
“Who’s gonna love you now?”
“What kind of life are you going to have now?
(now that you’ve been poisoned, that is)
I know what it means to think or believe and live with the ongoing assumption that somehow, I am not enough. I am ugly.
I am the unwanted and the undesired and the unremarkable one.
Goddammit, I say because I am the same in this swing of events.
I am just as guilty.
Goddammit because I have contributed to this and given strength to the back and forth kind of fights.
I have been part of the inhale and exhale so that the cycle of codependency can continue.
Someone has to breathe out –
So that someone else can breathe in –
No?
I am on an island now, figuratively speaking, and isolated, stranded and shipwrecked like some unfortunate castaway and yet, I am here and alive and sitting in familiar crowds like a stranger in my everyday life.
I tell myself this . . .
You have to find your strength.
Find your endurance and learn to live.
Do this.
Assume that no one knows.
Assume that no one is going to help or rescue you.
Assume that no one feels what you feel or sees what you see.
Assume that you are your own special brand, and leave it at that.
I am no more stranded or alone than anyone else.
My scars are only visible when I point them out, including the invisible ones.
And sure, I know what it means to have someone weaponize my secrets.
I’ve had this done to me.
Same as I’ve done this in response.
No one wins the wars like this.
No one escapes unscathed.
No one knows what it takes for me to stand up or lift my head up, so I can see the light.
No one knows what it feels like to touch something from my side of the skin.
But do you want to know something?
I know.
And for now, that’s all I can run with.
For now, I am at the beginning and thinking how I wish there was a refresh button.
So, this is my way of clearing my history.
This is my light and my truth.
This is my only hope too.
And perhaps I am foolish or too dreamy and thinking that I can envision my way into a brand new reality.
Maybe I am a fool to foolishly believe that one day . . .
I will have the love and the life of my dreams.
One day
I think about the concepts of the plural, “they” or “them.”
I do not know what “they” did to you.
All I can do is account for what I have done.
And even if I have to go at this alone.
Then I will go from here
Alone. . .
if I have to
There needs to be a new page that opens up to a new chapter.
Hindsight is perfect from where I stand.
But where I stand now is far different from, say, where I sat this time last year.
Even if this fails me
I cannot give up
And so
Neither can you
I love you
The Written Addiction 