My friend and fellow juggler, Lawrence, has let me stay at his place with my two other friends, Sean and Robb. I just got back upstairs after having a slice of pizza. I’m crying because of it. It’s such a stupid thing to cry about, but I feel so happy; so grateful. They got me a slice without asking or anything: just picked up dinner for me as well.
Normal, well-adjusted people are so alien to me. On a cognitive level, I know it is a perfectly normal thing that people do for others. But, there’s so much wrong with me that it feels so foreign. Kindness, without expectations? Actual unconditional love? Madness. That only exists in books and movies.
I can’t begin to express how much I value these people. They’re actual friends. I can’t fully accept that. A part of me is convinced that I am unlovable. In the past I have even confused my one friend’s caring attitude to be a sign that he was coming on to me. Basic human compassion is that black and white from the life that I have known.
It's mind-boggling how entrapped I was in the world I just left. Having learned where all the boundaries are from my father’s heavy hand and biting tongue, I felt unable to do anything but walk the straight line I have always known. There have been experiments where researchers have placed an animal in a cage, and shocked it when it goes to eat something. Having learned that trying to satiate its hunger will result in pain, it stops trying. Even when the shocking element is completely removed, the animal will sit there and starve.
I was provided for, had everything I needed to survive. But there was no love, and anything that was given was done in a way that made my father seem like he was bending over backwards for me. Life was a perpetual game where I had to jump over every hurdle, or else.
That game is over. There’s nothing tying me back to those patterns that have kept me from achieving my dreams. And while my dreams remain the same, I find myself asking, “what game should I play?” I feel like I don’t know what to do with my life, even though I have plans and dreams I am actively trying to fulfill. It’s more a matter of having lived a passive life where I just took whatever fate threw me, and now I have to learn to steer.
I see many avenues for how to succeed. It’s like the blinders have been taken off, and I can see more than the dire straights directly in front of me. I don’t know what to make of it. Part of me feels like I have sat on my “will” limb for so long, that the numbness has made me forget that it’s even a part of me. Free will forgotten, a person is just a machine, executing its programming.
There’s more in play now, more risks. I spent the day mapping out my safety net. I explored the city and figured out where to go in case I fall off this couch and can’t find another. I found food pantries, kitchens, and shelters. I wound up with some lunch and a loaf of bread to take back. It was not much, but on the way I found another lead for a food pantry that would be available the next week.
Something strange also happened today. A woman named Faith came up to me and asked if she could touch my beard. After the following hug, she proudly announced that she was an ex-crack head, and that she was writing a book about her experiences. She announced it so proudly, it caught me off guard. She was really friendly and looked like she had everything together, so I gave her my number in case she needed another pair of eyes on her story.
It was nice making a friend, but, I got something more from the encounter. The experience made me realize the power of my story. Obviously, I have attempted to write about the cult before, but it’s complicated and I feel I cannot convey my experience accurately enough. Similarly, I have tried writing about the loss of my mother, the abuse of my father, living with mental illness, and living as an outcast before, but have run into similar problems. I wrote a short story from the perspective of my PTSD-stricken mind, hopping around through different traumas of my life non-linearly. I published on Amazon, but it’s only 5,000 words. I don’t actually consider that a book.
Meeting people and getting myself out there is important. Simply talking about myself to someone on the street would have the ability to do more for me than I thought possible. Even if the person is someone I would never talk to again, I grow by forcing myself out of my comfort zone. And who knows who I will meet? How many “me’s” are out there, still hiding behind masks?
All it takes is a bit of bravery. That’s the hard part, but I have been working on it. My juggling has done wonders for my confidence and sense of well-being in public. I am light-years ahead of the paranoid, agoraphobic person I was just a few years ago. I am going to spend more time trying to meet people. I have to step out of my comfort zone. It’s now or never.
Birds will push their young out of the nest when they are ready and they are forced to learn to fly on the fall. I feel like I have a broken wing. Again, I know this is just my self-esteem. I have come a long way with that as well. There was a time where I felt unable to ever ask for any sort of help. Why does a worthless man deserve anything? I felt like I was worthy of receiving help today when I sought it out in the various bastions of this city’s safety net.
The people I asked questions to at these places were very kind. They definitely went into the work to be helpful. I want to help others. I have sacrificed much of my own well-being on the idea of doing some great deed for everyone. I have literally lived several years of my life with the sole, delusional intention of going on the cross for the greater good. Now with my sight realigned, I can instead focus some of that energy into more productive means. Healing is a process, not an act, but with this effort I imagine that I will be flying soon.
Hey, this is a journal entry from a project I am really enjoying so far. It's allowing me to write about my life as I discover myself, and reflect on the past while I do so. I want to turn this into a book. I really appreciate any support, in whatever form it takes. Thank you for taking the time to let me share this piece of myself with you.
