It is a trip to say the least and to say the least, it is a trip to turn around and realize that yes, age took place, time has passed, and years have gone by in a flash.
Wow . . .
I will be 54 next month.
This is life and again, I repeat the C’est la vie, this is life or such is life and such is age, and time, and such are the realizations which take place when we are old enough to look back.
Here I am, sitting in a waiting room to have my blood drawn.
I do not like doctors . . .
I am too young to be this old.
Or so I think.
But I am too old to think that I will be young forever.
I admit this is a nervous feeling because regardless of my outward appearance and despite the coverage of tattoos across my upper body, I am afraid of needles.
I am still petrified of doctors and doctor visits, same as I was as a little boy.
I knew that the needle was coming for me. I knew why I was there and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the needle came out.
I used to run from the doctor and the nurses. I would scream and cry. But no matter where I ran or how I tried to hide or defend myself, the pinch was was inevitable.
And now I am grown.
And no, the pain and the sting or the pinch from the needle is more of a psychological pain than an actual hurt.
Nothing hurts like it used to.
Nothing is as big or as frightening as the monsters that used to hide beneath my bed. And I mean this from a figurative perspective because of course, there are monsters in this world and as it turned out; none of them were hiding beneath my bed.
Perhaps, the fears of my impending dooms are worse than the actual problems themselves and so, we live and we fear and we work ourselves up into an ultimate stir.
We run ourselves ragged or make ourselves crazy, dysfunctional as ever, panicked, and all of this is due to an expectation or the otherwise anticipations of something we fear, which build like tidal waves of an approaching anxiety.
I hate this.
I hate the thoughts I’m having while sitting and waiting for my blood tests.
This was never “a thing” for me.
My health, I mean.
I never had to worry about my diet. I never had to worry about the foods I chose and items like candies and cakes and the beautiful result that comes when our tastebuds are pleased was never something that I had to pay attention to.
Once again, age stepped in.
My body changed.
My metabolism changed.
My sugar and my glucose levels are not where they should be.
I have to understand the consequences of life and my choices and my actions. I have to realize that my blood pressure and cholesterol are all things that need my attention.
Age . . .
I am in better shape than ever before. I exercise.
I work hard.
But age is undefeated.
I have fears and I have worries and concerns and of course, I understand that I am on the downward swing, if that makes sense.
I am closer to the end than I am the middle or the beginning of my life.
When I find myself worried or thinking about the impending nature of life or the inevitable natures of age; I prefer to think of myself in a position of peace.
I envision myself walking with purpose alongside the beach somewhere down along the southern coast of Florida.
I see myself here while the sunrise is making its way to the center stage and taking its place in the middle of the sky.
I had a dream that I had a drink last night.
I dreamt that I was thinking about some of the doctors and therapists who recommended that I am not an alcoholic by any means and i their opinion, I was just a product of my youth.
I decided to test their theory in my dream.
I sipped from a red colored, plastic cup.
The cup was filled with ice, vodka and diet coke.
I felt the sting and the bitter flavor washing around my tongue.
I felt an old familiar stir, which was related to a memory of me, years ago, sitting on the rooftop of my childhood home with a silvery flask, filled with the worst kind of gin that’s ever been created.
I never liked gin.
I never liked the flavors of hard liquor but then again, I never drank for the flavor of alcohol.
No, when I drank, I drank for the effects of bliss or the warm soulful appeal of some kind of alcoholic redemption.
In fairness, I drank so that I would never become a junkie and I got high to avoid the risk of becoming an alcoholic.
I have shared this in groups and rooms where anonymity was supposedly the spiritual foundation of the group.
I woke up fine and yet, I wondered and thought about the so-called professionals who told me about the disease of alcoholism.
And whether I was someone who lived with this or not, I understand that despite the distance between me and my last gulp of alcohol, which was in the summertime, August, 1989, I am still able to recall and reconnect the old scattered pieces of my memory. I am able to recall and touch a thought process which nearly killed me in places like East New York, Brooklyn and the corner drug-spots by the train near the train trestle by Atlantic or Liberty, or the methadone clinic on Archer Avenue which was three doors down from my place of employment at the age of 16.
I am far from innocent and far from anyone who deserves the graces or sainthood. I am perfectly open and well aware of my guilt or my otherwise usage of people, places, and things.
I am aware of things, such as the consequences of our actions.
And yes, I agree.
It is true when they say for every action there is a reaction and thus; I sit in a doctor’s office, awaiting the results of a blood test, which marks my numbers and tells me whether I am safe or one step closer to the grave.
And speaking of graves, I agree that each step and each day is another one closer to the finality of life in the flesh. I agree that the plethora of tomorrows ran out and that age has allowed me to open my eyes enough to see that time is valuable.
When I want to feel better, or when I want to soothe the internal alarms and calm the poisonous anxieties that rip me to shreds; I try and find my breath and think of something beautiful and often sexual.
This not to explain my thinking as some kind of orgasmic or mental form of masturbation. And least of all, this is nothing like the thoughts that cause me to explore myself and feel the sole and lonesome touch between me and my fantasies.
But more, I do this to recall and relive the amazing connection of skin on skin, flesh against flesh, and while age has changed my ability to reload and re-up or perform as I used to; I recognize the beauty of sexual intimacy from a different and more beautiful perspective.
Foreplay can last forever . . .
Orgasms are quick and short or fast and short-lived.
Yet, the art of the dance and the beautiful aspects of enjoying someone from head to toe is far more valuable to me now.
To kiss just to kiss.
To hold hands
To hold someone close
To feel someone’s touch or their warmth.
To find that certain connection which is otherwise unmatchable or elsewise, to be with that one person whom you could see for the last and final time before you close your eyes at the end and die with the truest vision of heaven.
Not long ago, I was offered the compliment that I looked good for my age.
I was offered the compliment to hear that I am someone who could have “a chance” to which I smiled and offered a polite thanks.
To be clear –
I was older than the girl’s father. . .
I explained this.
“Girls these days don’t care about that stuff,” meaning age.
Meaning my age was not a probolem
Meaning that they’d be willing, regardless of the age difference.
That’s not what I want, I explained.
“Really?”
“But age is just a number.”
No. It really isn’t
I want to know who I am going to take my morning walks with when I retire.
I want to know who will enjoy the beaches with me.
I want to know who I can lay with and be with and feel them with me.
I want to feel them and know they are with me, even in their absence and yes, of course, I want to know the person who I will know and love enough that even when I am by myself; I know they are with me and thus; no matter where I am or where I’ll go, I will never feel alone.
I hate these doctor visits.
Maybe they called me in to tell me how healthy and strong I am.
Maybe they needed to check my blood again to make sure that my numbers are where they should be.
Maybe there was a glitch in their system and the results were misread.
Or maybe, time is time and the schedules need to be filled.
Maybe the system needs to run and the bloodwork needs to be drawn so that someone can charge the insurance system and keep the medical profession alive.
Just to put this out there, but . . ..
Have you ever walked the beach alongside Fort Lauderdale when the sun comes up?
It’s a nice thing to see.
It’s nicer when you have someone to walk with, I suppose.
Maybe soon.
You know?
The Written Addiction 