What does it mean, if anything, to be someone??
“To be someone”
I re-enter this with quotations because no one is ever “nobody” and anyone can be anybody, depending upon the dream, of course.
Safe to say that I will never find myself as a starting guard in an NBA game.
Safe to say that I will never sell out Madison Square Garden with my singing voice.
Safe to say that my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu career will never lead me to a fight contract with the professional league.
But this does not mean I can never be who I’ve always dreamed to be.
I saw a famous speaker on video. He was approached by a young woman who told him she was going to be somebody . . .
one day.
What does this mean
to be somebody . . .
For example,
I remember sitting through a series of standardized testing in grade school. The help I needed was never the help I received, which I understand that in part, there was a different level of ignorance about social, developmental, or educational challenges. Not to mention, this was before mental health took on a different light and so, the way we faced emotional challenges was different back then.
In part, there were behavioral problems and in part, there were situational problems.
This was me.
There were understanding challenges, misinterpretations, misconceptions and certainly, there were plenty of misperceptions on my part.
I struggled with unaddressed and undiagnosed concerns and in part, I was struggling with this thing, which I call my awareness of self.
Was there something wrong with me?
Why did I have to be the way I was?
Why couldn’t I be like other people?
Why did I always seem so obviously and often painfully different from everyone else?
Why did I always assume the worst?
Or why did I always have the apprehension and anticipatory concerns that something was wrong and that the inertia of an impending doom was always “on the way!” and why was this so apparent, so heavy, and why did my thoughts or my assumptions and insecurities have to be so debilitating?
Why?
Meanwhile –
I always had something in me.
I always had dreams. I had reasons for excitement, which I confess that excitement can be daring when facing or processing the impending nature of depressive thinking and social anxieties.
But yes, there were times.
There were times when the sun broke through.
There were moments of glory.
There were times when I was safe to be a kid or a child.
There were times when I was safe to play and take turns, share, and not worry about the bullies who look to spoil things like this.
There were times when I was not thinking about my appearance or my differences and there were times of course, when I would dare or allow myself the bravery, just to be a kid!
No bullies.
No angry teachers or adults and no one to remove me from my space of innocence.
No one around to tell me that I was stupid.
No one to stain me with an unwanted hand or an unwanted touch, which was obvious and clear to me that something about this was wrong and not fair.
Yet, I was far too young to understand what was happening. I was just a boy.
I was just a little . . . fucking . . .boy!
That thief is dead now.
Hell has him too
And as for the other thieves and bullies, none of them can hurt me anymore –
because I won’t let them
There were times when I allowed my truth to be sufficient for itself and there were times when I allowed myself the safety to enjoy the moment.
I allowed myself to play, even if I played alone and no one invited me or included me.
I was free to play.
There were times when I was fine to be me and share and there were times when I allowed my light to shine through. However, I often regretted this because there were times when I allowed myself to share my thoughts or dreams or ideas, only to be burned, hurt, rejected, or socially crucified for showing my softer side.
I was brutalized because I opened up or stood in the truest form of my weaker self.
Or take this for example . . .
I was seven or maybe eight or so.
I told one of my childhood friends that I wanted to write a book someday.
I could hardly spell my own name let alone read words larger than three letters.
I remember what he said.
I remember what my friend told me because what he said was, “I guarantee that you will never write a book.”
I am not famous or wealthy or on the top of the best seller’s list.
But, I have managed to defy that prediction.
Fast forward and moving beyond the destruction of my youth.
Fast forward and moving past the social pariah or the rejection and the social leprosy that comes with bad teenage living.
Fast forward and moving past the pains and the emotional dismemberment that comes when young kids are chewed up from the gears and the cogs that spin the gossip mills and the rumor factories.
Past the social and emtoional assassinations.
Fast forward and past the private meltdowns and the aftermath of my response to all the harsh despair,
Past the desperate plea and the ideas of suicidal ideation.
And lasty, fast forward and past the self-destruction, which is mind-blowing that no one saw how painful this was or how challenged I was at the time.
I hit bottom
I found myself elsewhere and out of my usual circle of influence.
However, I was still me.
I was still afraid and somehow, I was told things were about to be better.
I remember a teacher of mine who in all fairness, saw me as a different kid.
I could hardly complete a sentence, let alone read a sentence without stuttering.
My lack of professional help and educational guidance was another debilitating challenge and yet, I was told that my life was about to be better.
Really?
The teacher told me to write a paper.
I never wrote paper before. At least, not really.
I barely went to class before. . . .
I was not even sure how to write, let alone pay attention in class, or let alone pass a class or exceed beyond the limitations of my so-called learning disabilities that were never addressed.
I had no idea how to do these things.
But hey, my life was about to get better, right?
And supposedly, or finally, I was about to receive the help and the appropriate attention that I deserved.
The school was unsure why I was unsure . . .
if that makes sense.
I did not know what grade I was in.
Was this due to my behavior?
Did I damage my brain?
Was I simply trying to be disobedient?
Was this another case of me being oppositionally defiant, or simply looking to defy another teacher or person of authority?
The English teacher was someone who intimidated me.
I admit that.
And hence, teachers like him are partly the reasons why I never showed up or had an interest in class
However, and in either case, I was told to write a paper.
So, I did
I can remember the room
I remember the expression on the teacher’s face to which, I remember swearing that one day, I would remove him from this life. I would remove him from his own body in a gross and violent fashion.
I swore that I would punish him (one day) for treating me the way he did.
I swore that I was going to empty his throat for talking down to me.
I remember –
I handed him the page from my notebook.
The teacher looked at it.
Then he threw the paper in the trash and told me that he wasn’t going to read it because “that’s not even English.”
Years later . . .
I saw that teacher.
My first book came out. I was doing a small and humble speaking tour.
Hence, this is when I saw the teacher.
I was speaking at my old school and talking about where I was, what I’d been through, and how I managed to get away and stay away from old demons and that emotional terrors always consumed me
I went to that school…
I spoke to 275 kids…
no one can take this away from me
And the kids?
They all listened and they all understood.
Perhaps, this was one of my best speaking commitments ever.
Maybe this was the most rewarding too.
The teacher was still there
I saw more of the world than he did.
I told him how I remembered my first interaction with him
I explained how he threw out my paper and told me “this isn’t even written in English.”
He laughed uncomfortably because he knew that he was wrong.
He also knew that I was not the same as I was and perhaps, maybe or possibly; I might have mentioned some uncomfortable thoughts or expressed myself in a way that could be reviewed as threatening.
But either way . . .
Times were different. Life was different.
And I?
I was a kid who that teacher met a long time ago.
I could hardly speak when he met me.
I could hardly hold my head up on my own shoulders.
My thoughts and thinking errors made my cognitive and developing years very difficult.
To be clear, I didn’t know what grade I completed before entering that school.
I never made it out of the ninth grade and I’m not too sure if I ever made it out of seventh or eighth grade math.
I hated teachers
Then again, I was partly unreachable and partly uncomfortable, partly detached, partly sad, partly dishonest, and partly out of my head and more; I was frequently in the middle of an uncomfortable process called “life.”
I was him
I was that kid
I was that one who could never remember what I read after reading it>
I was that kid who could never retain information.
. . .this is what my life was like.
This was me, regardless of the subject and whether the subject was life or if it was math or science, history, or English class, I was that kid who belonged in the special needs classes.
I was that boy who was unsure how to compete
or grow
or find safety.
I was him
Yes. I was.
I was that one who believed in the ongoing limitation that at best, I could save up every penny and at best, all I would ever be is broke,poor and stupid.
I am not that boy anymore
I have been beaten and hurt.
I have been in all kinds of trouble.
I have lived wealthy.
I have lived humbly.
I understand the fear of homelessness.
I understand the punishment of shame and I can feel this in my heart when thinking about how I found myself living in a basement (again)
I went from high status, to hardly any status.
I went to dirty basement after living in a big house with a big yard and with a mailbox that sent more things with kindness than just bills or troubled notices.
I was lied to and told that I was loved and that I would never be alone.
but lies are lies.
and pain is pain
yes.
it is
But I still have love in my heart
I remember being told that I was told that I was going to die before I reached the age of 18.
I’ll be 54 next month.
I was told that I was stupid.
I was told that I am a loser.
I was told that no one will ever love me or want me and that everyone always seems to hate me.
I was told that I was the reason for all the ruin in the world around me.
I remember being told by teachers that at best, I would be a laborer or dig ditches, to which I look back and laugh!
I laugh hard too because I am a union worker and as such, I have friends who are laborers and dig ditches and they make far more than most in any school teacher or those in the administration office.
I was told that I would be a minimum wage throw-away.
I was told that maybe I could get a job driving trucks.
I have been up and down.
I have lost money and remade myself.
I have been hurt worse than I ever conceived.
I lost everything.
Literally everything!
I have endured a pain far worse than any Hell could offer me.
And fine.
So be it.
I’m still here
(and I still love you, no matter what)
As I sit and write to you, I have been told that I am awful at this.
At writing, I mean.
I have had the grammar nazis and educational snobs look to shoot me down.
And worse than all, I was shot down and betrayed by loved ones.
And I’m still here
So, to them . . .
I say Fuck YOU!
Or not even.
Go live.
I’ll go do the same
At this point, I’m just looking to find my next success.
I am waiting for the wind to pick up so I can set my sails and get away from the world behind me.
And yes, despite the pain or the fights or the arguments; I only love one person.
One.
You . . .
And one day, same as I swore that I would write a book or beat the odds against me . . .
I will marry you one day
because YOU are The love of my life
I know it
I swear it
And this will happen or at best; I know that I will die trying.
Do you know why?
because to me, dying trying is better than dying alive and doing nothing.
Never let anyone beat you, I say
No one can
So long as you choose never to beat yourself
I swear
The Written Addiction 