I understand what it means to feel lost or elsewhere and what t means to be or believe as if to be out of this hemisphere and more, I get how it is to seem like a stranger while alive and well and living here in familiar territory.
My best memory of times when I was supposedly well or fine enough to be welcomed is when I was alone or by myself. I chose to break free like a lion or a tiger who escaped and broke free from his cage. I chose the separation between myself and the crowd and so, I decided to go and find myself by walking around the streets of New York City.
No judgement.
no need for body shaming or sneering at those who chose to live or look different from the otherwise normal, everyday citizens.
I was fine to do this too.
I was happy to see the large, or BBW as in Big Beautiful Woman who was otherwise a transvestite on her old-world bicycle as she rode down by 9th and 14th and sung opera.
I thought she (or he) was brilliant and people applauded too.
See . . .
You have to understand that I grew up with a status-minded and status hungry crowd. I grew up around opportunists and social climbers and money hungry scumbags who would act like millionaires and be broke like degenerates who stole tips that were left at the bar for the bar-keeps and the bartenders.
See . . .
You have to understand that the life of someone who does not drink is different from the usual or the typical man in his so-called twenties and early thirties.
I suppose I have to understand that I was partially blinded and partially fixated on the idea that I was off-center, or that something about me was either incomplete or faulty or wrong.
I used to try to fix myself and sit with that special lean, almost like I put on my brave face and did my best to wear the mysterious bravado or James Dean
I was always the designated driver, which was fine for me because I had more control than say, if I had to depend on other people inviting me because they liked me. Instead, I was chosen for a necessary convenience and called upon to drive or to be part of the crew.
I was that guy . . .
I was the sober one and the driver and yes, I was that guy who made sure my friends made it home safe. Then again the term and the definition of the word “friends” is now subject for debate after the fair weather became stormy and unfair and times were more intense and I . . .
well, I became less necessary or les convenient.
I was also that guy who would have to clean up the messes and often enough, I was the one who had to listen to the drunken slurs and outbursts and the angry diatribe speeches on the car ride home.
I got in bar fights.
I lit someone’s hair on fire in the bathroom of a place called Merc Bar which was over on Mercer Street.
I had to contend with myself and the masses and be someone I never was in the first place.
I hated this version of me.
I only knew one person in my entire life who was perfect as they were and she . . .
She was amazing to me.
She was a hero too
We never ended up together, but out of the other billions of women in this world, she was the best of all of them
Everything about her . . .
Everything from head to toe . .
Everything about her imperfections as well . . .
All of this was “her” and she was never apologetic or worried or concerned about status.
She was the best I ever saw and to this day; I know she is the nest I will ever see.
I always wished I was smarter and braver like she is
Then again, this is the
Sometimes, enough was enough and oftentimes, I was tired of the crew and tired of the crowd and I was tired of following along and acting like I fit.
There were times when I chose to break away.
This was awesome.
There were times when I chose to walk the streets of Downtown, Manhattan, SoHo, or The Village, East or West.
I always appreciated the different versions or people. And often, I would see people who sat with their friends and went to outdoor places. And I would view them with both envy and admiration because there was no posturing and there was no acting, no pretense, no pretending, and there was no need to keep score or to “keep up,” because real friends do not keep score or count the round of drinks and point fingers about who paid last and who never paid enough.
I can say that I have only had one real and true friend in my life.
I can say that real friends know and they understand and of course, real friends “get it,” to the point where there is no need to say anything because real friends know when you need them.
I can say that losses are painful and when you lose things like love, or family or the love of your life; you tend to see the world rather differently from say, a person who never explored losses so deep or as great.
I will never see my old world or my old life
But should I see new hope or new life; I will value every second as if this were going to be my last.
I have always wanted to go and sit in one of those small theaters to watch a showcase or view the skits from a small play. I have always wanted to sit and listen to spoken word poetry and hear the different artists.
But I never did.
I never did a spoken word and to be honest, I might not have dared this much or kept up with this for as long as I have and for sure, had I never met you or come in contact with you the way I did; I might have quit this journey.
I might have died without knowing someone like you is real and alive and in the flesh.
I might have given up.
I might have let this dream I have die or figured, “what’s the use anyway,” because in all fairness; no one cares, no one notices, no one reads and no one responds.
No one is ever going to come and save me
No, this is something that I have to do for myself
Art and writing and sharing my soul is both lonesome and thankless.
But as lonesome and thankless as this is; i find what I do to be necessary.
Same as food and same as water and shelter and warmth, l I need all of this too.
I remember sitting in a small room and collecting my thoughts to put into one of my first journals.
I remember thinking, “If I am going to do this, then I have to do this,” and since I chose to do this, then I had to choose to shut off the need to be heard and the need to be included and accepted.
My redemption has nothing to do with your response.
These were the first words I wrote . . .
I had to keep this part of me pure. I had to realize that art is interpretive and that the written word, thoughts, poetry, and all versions of expression are open to interpretation.
I could not care what anyone else thought.
I had to go and move forward.
No matter what.
I remember doing a book review in front of a classroom for kids who read my book, Operation Depression. This was chosen to be mandatory reading material for an advanced psych course.
I was listening to a young woman tell me about what I meant when I was discussing suicide and the ideas of ending my own life.
None of what she told me matched my intention and none of what she said was true or true to me.
At the same time, all of what she said was true and true to her.
All of this was true enough that she began to cry when she spoke to me after the class had ended.
I wanted to die too, she told me.
She tried to kill herself
“Sometimes, it feels like I’m still dying,” I told her.
I felt that way for a long time,
She was alone. Just like me.
She wanted to die too. Just like I wanted to die.
She told me there was nothing left
She said she was done.
She told me she was hoping and looking for something “Or anything” to show her a sign. And this could have been anything, or anything at all, “But please, Dear God,” she told me. “Just show me something to keep me alive.”
I have seen things. I have seen great things and sad things and awful things that turned around and showed how victory can come after the losses and tragedy.
I have seen the odd and random sightings of butterflies, which I am told that these are visits from the spiritual world.
I watched two butterflies fly onto the head of a young woman, beautiful as one could imagine with dark eyes, deep and meaningful like Evita when she sang “don’t cry for me Argentina.”
I have witnessed random acts that one would be safe to argue that if anything were to ever present itself as a miracle; then what I saw was proof that miracles do happen.
You know . . .
I could use a miracle.
I could use a visit from the spiritual world.
I could use some help too
or a sign.
I remember an evening of doubt and angst and resentment. I was living with my own doubts and realizing that again, I found myself missing, so-to-speak, and in the depths of being ripped apart; I was alone in crowds and abandoned with the same people around me.
This was late summer, August 24th and I . . .
I saw something that could not be defined or denied and I . . .
I saw beauty. I saw love.
I saw the rare and random remedies which come when you see your true love walking in the middle of Grand Central Station.
In a sea of billions. . .
I am one of them
And she, more than anything, I found her again after being apart from what seemed like a lifetime.
I can see how life can be so crazy and so random and there are times when I look back or think back the ups and downs and all the crazy adventures and then . . .
then I look and I think and I regret and I lament, and I become like an old and tired and beaten man, crying out with the pains of lifetime and age.
I often see a post on social media which says, “We went through all that . . . just to become strangers again.”
I never want this to be the case
but time and life and love and the way things go are out of my control
I think the eyes of the world are connected to the soul and so, nothing is more beautiful than when you see someone’s eyes and think to yourself, “God, nothing is this beautiful.”
It is amazing to think how familiarity breeds contempt. It is amazing to me how contempt breeds more contempt and in the end, we become what we most consume, which is either contempt or regret.
I have had my fill of both
There was a walk that I took, years ago, and this was after a long night out.
I remember this walk very well.
It was on a Sunday.
This was in Early October, 2001.
I was waking up after a crazy Saturday night.
I left my friend’s apartment.
I chose to walk to Pennsylvania Station.
Alone
I noticed how friends gathered at the steps of their brownstones, downtown, and how they set up tables and chairs, and how they prepared food for each other to eat and celebrate another day of being alive.
And when I say the word “alive,” I mean really alive.
I don’t know . . .
I don’t know if I have ever been or felt that alive or so alive that the music was right, the sun was perfect, the time was great and the food was loving and the company was mind-altering
There is only one person who made this happen for me.
And I am alone at the moment
without them
Or you
There was a time. Once.
I remember it . . .
Have you ever sat with someone and ate until your heart was content and like a special picnic and like a rebellion against the wicked world or the times at hand; you had a time that was so perfect and if so, have you ever felt so at peace or so in love that there was no such thing as pain and nothing else mattered?
I felt that once . . .
And still, the feeling is in me
Alone, and missing my truth
I know what it means to wander aimlessly and hope to Dear God that one day, I will be home
Home . . .
I really do love that word.
Don’t you?
The Written Addiction 