No one ever told this was going to be easy.
Remember that.
No one ever said that all smiles are friendly and at the same time, not all threats are real or true.
Remember that one too.
I know . . .
I know all about the debilitations of the mind.
Sometimes I think I know too much and at the same time, I realize that no.
I don’t know anything.
Well, I know this.
I know there will always be a critic. I know there will always be a bully. I know that either of these or both can come from within.
Insults are only insulting if we invest in them.
And, well?
I think I have invested poorly too many times.
Understand?
I know the inner voice or that our internal narrative can do one of two things.
I know this can either make us push forward. Or this can hold us back and resign to us to our fears and thus, we quit.
“Get up!”
Get moving.
Look deep.
or dig deep.
Do it!
Do whatever it takes, no matter how much this hurts.
Do it!
Don’t ask.
Don’t argue.
Don’t complain.
Don’t explain.
Do you feel that thing beating in your chest?
This is your heart.
This is that thing that pumps blood through your veins.
This moves you.
This is what courses through your body and lets you go, be, and do.
Go, be, and do are three little words than are bigger than life.
I know what it’s like to run out of steam and be weak.
I know how it is to run out of gas and more than anything, I know what it’s like to run out of time and in the end, all that remains are the excuses and the facts that we failed to take the next step.
I know . . .
I’ve done this time after time and I know because I woke up in the aftermath of my regrets and looked around at the bankruptcy that was left behind.
There is no “I” in team
But there is an “I” in quit
And yes –
I have quit too many times.
I quit before I started.
I quit before the miracle happened.
I gave up and I turned around and ran home to my doubts, only to find out that had I stayed on course or had I kept going, I would have surpassed myself and my dreams. If I had just held on a little longer, I would have “made it” and all the complicated ideas that kept me stuck in an idea, which I call “More of the same.”
Distress comes in different ways.
And people show signs and they have “tells” which are more like a quiet plea or a sign for help.
They tell you to listen for someone who says they have a plan.
They tell you to look for an odd goodbye, like when my friend Rob called and he sounded as if he had found peace, which he had.
Rob made peace with his resignation and somehow, I knew.
I knew there was something about the call.
I knew he was trying to tell me something.
At the same time, I was going through my own troubles
I was in the middle of too many losses.
I had my own pains that blinded my usual perception.
I was weak and I was beaten.
Rob sounded calm, almost happy, and when we spoke, the tone in his voice was brotherly and endearing, as if he knew this was “goodbye.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
I never asked if he had a plan.
I didn’t ask if everything was okay.
I didn’t know what happened that triggered his decision.
I didn’t ask much, other than the basics.
How many times have we said things like, “I’ll talk to you later,” and not realized how this would be the last time we see or hear from each other?
I know . . .
None of this was my fault.
I understand the science of self-harm and I am all too familiar with suicide and suicidal ideations. And, too, yes.
I tried.
I tried a few times.
I tried in more ways than one.
I was in pain which was unthinkable and unbearable to me.
No one realizes that self-harm comes in different ways.
Self-destructive behaviors and the way we paint ourselves into a corner and lock ourselves into the worst-case scenarios are painful to say the least.
But each move is far more calculated and subconsciously chosen.
I know . . .
I’ve done this too.
I was young and believed that I should die.
At the same time, I was young and I believed that I would never live to be old or older than 18 or maybe 19.
And I was told that I would die young.
I was told that I would be lucky to be dead or end up in prison or homeless and begging for change like a bum somewhere, toothless and sad.
That never happened.
And, of course . . .
I am still here.
It is true.
There will always be critics.
There will always be bullies.
There will always be tricks and trades
There will always be pain.
There will always be something to heal from.
And, too.
There will always be the movement of time.
Seconds will always move.
Minutes will turn to hours and hours will become days and then weeks and months will turn into years.
Yesterday will grow more distant from us and whether we are prepared for what comes or not, tomorrow is always on the way.
Of all things that I know, I know this the most.
Get up.
I know how hard this is and whether we get up in a literal sense or from a more figurative perspective; we have to get up after we fall down.
We have to get back up because all else is gone and all else is lost and so are we if we fail to get up and rise again.
I know . . .
I used to explain to people that my depression and my anxiety come on like waves. Some days are better than others. Some days, the pains are unforgiving. Some days, I can manage. Some days, I am fine.
Some days, I am weak or beaten and some days, it is beyond me to think or believe that I can take another step.
And yet, somehow . . .
I do it.
There was an afternoon to which I allowed myself to resign to the floods of my emotion.
I decided to quit and give in.
1991 Kerhonkson, New York.
Veritas Villa.
I was on my way for a one-on-one with my primary counselor to discuss my plan after another 28-day stay in another short-term rehab.
They always wanted to know, “What are you going to do differently this time?”
The days were filled with different kinds of groups.
Mine went as follows.
I was confronted and called out. I was exposed, or so it seemed.
I was made to be the focus of an entire group meeting and in the end, I saw to it that I would make them regret talking to me or exposing me.
I wanted this to be on them, and, so, when the inevitable discovery of my dead body was found, all who chose to push and emotionally shove me would realize that this was their fault too.
“Fuck it,” were the last words I said.
The details and the dynamics of my attempt are far less important than the dream I had while I was unconscious,
I dreamt that I was brought to a school, like a scared little boy, or “the new kid,” and then . . .
I was brought by a teacher to the side of an old schoolhouse.
I was a little kid . . .
There were two little girls playing jump rope in the green grassy playground.
The little girls were dressed in white dresses that were blinding and hard to look at.
There was a little boy on the swings and he was swinging back and forth.
He was wearing a white collared shirt and white pants with black shoes.
The teacher who stood beside me pointed at the children.
I was scared.
She was pointing to them as if to ask if I wanted to play with the children.
Then the teacher turned me around, as if to send me back to wherever it was that I came from.
And then . . .
Then I woke up on the cold floor of a bathroom.
I came to the realization of where I was.
I woke up on the floor of an in-patient bathroom where I lived and during my last tour in a drug rehabilitation center.
I don’t know why I am here.
And if I am being honest, there are times when I wonder if the trip was worth it or if I have anything good to offer the world.
Why me?
Why was I spared? Or why was I saved to be tortured?
I may never reach the dreams I’ve had and I might never be the kind of writer I’ve always hoped to be.
But regardless of my mistakes and no matter how hard I’ve fallen, I still manage to get up.
I do this each morning, and make my way here
To you . . .
You can’t care who forgives you.
You can’t live in the problem.
You can’t lose if you never try but at the same time, you can’t win much either.
My biggest fears:
To be a failure
To die alone
To die unloved
To die untouched.
To die unwanted and uncared for
To die and fulfill the predictions that spoke to me like painful insults.
To die before the miracle happens
And another of my biggest fears is to quit because the rain was too heavy and moments after I resign, the sun comes out again . . .
like an insult to injury.
The thing about suicide is . . .
. . . it’s not that you want to die so much
It’s that you want everything to stop . . .
. . . you want the pain to go away
but nothing seems to stop . . .
. . . and nothing seems to go away.
So, the insanity makes sense
and the unthinkable
is thought of
and somehow
it all makes sense.
Dear person reading this
The world is a better place with you in it.
I know.
I know I want to go sometimes too
I get it.
But the world needs you
or at least –
I need you
So . . .
Stay!
Love always,
The person writing this
(for you)
The Written Addiction 