"O. I. C. ", Said the Blind Man Pissing In The Wind, "It's All Coming Back To Me Now"
I was battered and bruised for the first part of this week. More of mental state of being than an actual phyiscal beating. Pain is pain, regardless of how it is inflicted and this weekend was a doozy.
I've already vented and droned on about being crushed by my latest crush. But this moment on Friday started the mental ball rolling when I scanned these lines of text I had seen or heard dozens of times before. "Look, it's not you it's me..." and everyones favorite, "...you're such a great guy, but..." It took me until today for everything to click into place and the memory banks opened like floodgates. Kind of silly how a few lines of text started this process and scanning a few more brought understanding.
I always do my best to laugh off my mental trauma. The scars I cary run deep and while they may heal, they are always there as jagged reminders of the things I try and forget. Slowly over time, I have built myself back up, replacing my awkward shamblings with a chin held high gait. Meekness gives way to flamboyance; holding rigid, instead of folding like a cheap lawn chair and lashing out my tendrils of intelligence instead of quietly playing stupid.
I was fucked over for finding myself. Tortured with words that were spat with venom, denouncing and chasitising what brought me joy as un-naturaul behavior. Mocked for my intelligence, lied to because I truly beleived that trust was something easily obtained. Beaten and belittled because of my gangly appearance and refusal to fight back; every time I did, I was always hit twice as hard and three times as often.
For three long years, books, computers and people from other cities (sometimes other states) were my friends. In my neck of the woods I was looked at somewhere between a homosexual version of Quismado and a nerdier version of Milhouse Van Houten. My parents never understood, my so called guidance counselor never cared, and the few friends I had were girls in my classes who would use me for my brain and one and all would respond to my first, tenative advances in kind, "Look, it's not you it's me..." and everyones favorite, "...you're such a great guy, BUT..." Oh yes, my scars run deep.
I remember fighting for control, and blindly reaching out for some outlet in which to release my frustrations. When you are lost it's hard to find your way, let alone a constructive way in which to pin your angst upon. Early on I was a vandall, then a drunk, a college drop-out drug addicted dealer, a player and for a span of time a horribly self-destructive combination of all of the above.
During these turbulent times I collected stories, a number of which I retold with such zeal and attention to detail that mental pictures were painted in the air before me to any and all that would listen. More than once people would confide in me, "man you should write this stuff down." I would scoffingly thank one and all for their appreciation and inform them, "i'm really not one for writing."
One day a number of years ago, my friend the Poet introduced me to such a medium for expressing my stories and I began to write. The more I wrote the happier I became, balance was acheived and then slowly tipped away from everything I used to be.
I write my dreams. I pen great tales of social distortions. I scribble out the angst filled contents of my tortured mind. These days, I vandalize with syllables, I'm drunk with double meanings, addicted to my thesarus/dictionary combo and while I do slang my stories, the only profit I seek is for those that read them to get a high from them like I do. And within these walls the price is always free. My "Playa" status was officially retired circa 1997, preferring truthful tales and mental prowess that make my quiet confidence attactive as opposed to swaggering arrogance, brutish lies and the thugish lines of "yo Baby, yo Baby, yo" that I never understood how or why they worked.
If you take away my words, I would be less than what I once was, probably worse. Word play is my savlation, my sanity, my outlet to spill my angst. And because of these words I now simply remember with a chuckle and nothing more. The days of rehashing these times with foreboding thoughts of doom and dread are long dead.
Even after all this time, certain phrases or situations will set me off. And occassionally I will stumble when I here, "Listen, it's not me it's you..." and everyones favorite, "...you're such a great guy, BUT..." Oh yes, my scars run deep. But these days, the mental knife simply can't slice that deep into me anymore.
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