What I discovered during those fleeting moments of clarity seemed much too harsh to be real, yet as I grew older, I slowly realized life really was caustic and the truth was like some slow-acting poison that often times imprisoned a person within a state of emotional paralysis. Those people who claimed the truth would set anyone free saw the truth from a different perspective than mine. I often thought those deluded individuals might be aliens sent to Earth with the mission to infiltrate mankind with peace, hope and prosperity… a truly thankless and a positively no win job for those alien beings. For me, the truth was anything, but a warm, safe cocoon. To me, those alien creatures who saw the truth as an agent of freedom were misguided souls who lived a fantasy-filled lie. Although their days on Earth were numbered, those misguided souls were actually the lucky ones. They lived life not as it really was, but as they wanted it to be. They actually found the inner-peace, love and happiness they believed existed for all people.
For me, the truth was as elusive as that omnipotent wizard behind the curtain bellowing statements about his overly inflated self-importance to the less fortunate who were only seeking their hearts’ desires: a brain, a heart, some courage and of course, the most important heart’s desire… a way home to be reunited with those people they loved the most. Each step, each insight broadened my horizons and made exploring a life beyond my small corner of the universe a must-do for me regardless of any pain or difficulty I might experience along the way. I believed my heart’s desire was anything, but a circuitous route home. It was a way to find a new home and one very different from the one in which I had grown youthfully old.
Although my version of the truth was developed and deciphered through a mind severely impaired by several forms of abuse, my fate always seemed perfectly clear to me. Yes, my truth and my path was as easy to follow as following the infamous yellow brick road in the merry ole land of Oz and the path that lay before me was just as adventure-filled as Dorothy’s path. My adventures did not involve Munchkins, wizards, witches and flying monkeys, yet the things it did involve were as awesome and frightening as the ones Dorothy encountered. My grand finale did not lead me to the conclusion that “there’s no place like home.” My epiphany was more like discovering a half-cocked code to govern my conduct and to guide me along my way:
If the people who are supposed to love me will do things to hurt me, what’s the rest of the world going to do to me?It seemed my philosophy was simple and covered all my bases that allowed me to venture forward doing exactly whatever I wanted to do from moment to moment. Yes, life really is a bitch and then you die, but with my philosophy held close, I defiantly took one day at a time, one tiny step at a time into the treacherous world of self-discovery and real life.
I spent much of my younger years attempting to escape the pain in which life held me prisoner. Instead of using experience as a trustworthy guide and companion, I didn’t allow myself to reap the rewards of any glorious optimism or to benefit from learning certain valuable lessons until I was much older. My younger years were spent in a haze that I later termed as the beginning principles of “Karenism” or better known as “never taking the shortest route between two points.” Aimlessly wandering along any given path was an integral part of exploring life and doing my own thing. It also was responsible for the exploring tendencies I developed. I never allowed myself the luxury of embracing my own pain or even acknowledging it in order to make life more bearable. I simply ignored the obvious and instead, I neglected my pain and myself until my negativity almost completely devoured me.
It wasn’t until many years later that I realized it was okay to make mistakes as long as I learned something from them. Perfection was not required to go through life. It also took me a very long time to learn knowledge does not always have to come from personal experience. It’s okay to take advice sometimes. These concepts seem like such fundamental building blocks now, yet long ago, when I first discovered them, I was almost embarrassed that I could have overlooked something so obvious for as long as I had. I often wonder how different my life would have been if I had been blessed with the same tools most people have.
Apparently, my version of the truth was riddled with many holes. Some were so large that I could have buried a small city within them. I existed nestled snugly deep in my favorite hole blanketed by lies and misconceptions. I could have remained blissfully ignorant for the remainder of my life living buried in that hole, but I chose to emerge from the crevice in which I lived. I chose to open my eyes and to stumble from hole to hole until either all the holes vanished or they blended into one enormous abyss. At that point, I would have nowhere else to go and nowhere else to hide.
My struggle during those years felt like I was constantly swimming upstream against the current, yet somehow I always managed to stay afloat. One might think I would eventually grow weary and drown, yet the constant battle energized me in order to go another step forward towards the point of no return or to swim a little further upstream. Ironically, somehow I always accepted responsibility for my misguided actions, blatant blunders and intentional mistakes as I eagerly made each one of them. I wore that mistake badge with honor and always kept it well polished. Perhaps my willingness to accept responsibility was just another way of eagerly pushing myself towards self-destruction and self-discovery. Surely, one day my list of misdeeds would catch up with me and I would feel some guilt or remorse or maybe both. I felt certain that day would be the day I would fall helplessly into the abyss forever. That day would be the day I would finally die or maybe finally start to really live.
I remember one day sitting in court awaiting my fate. My crime was a deliberate union of stupidity and apathy or as I like to call it being willfully dense. Like most teenagers, I skipped school and cut classes, but unlike most teens who did it occasionally, I steered my punishment into being much worse than what it normally would have been. I skipped school for weeks at a time. What normally might warrant detention or possibly a brief suspension from school turned into a court appearance because I disregarded following anyone’s rules, but my own. To make matters worse I kept running away from home before my court dates. How did it all spiral downward so quickly out of control?
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| Utterback’s Private Hospital |
The official word describing my action was “truancy,” but nowhere in the legalese for my actions could the words “willfully dense” be found. Our legal system doesn’t properly account for such a thing when classifying an infraction of this type. That is a concept left for the lawyers to cleverly prove or disprove and to help psychologists earn a livelihood. In my case, if successful, a psychologist could have become rich and famous and a lawyer incredibly frustrated and confused by my actions. Yet, the truth was simple. My actions made no sense at all as I spiraled downhill.
With my mother seated next to me, I sat there wondering what would happen next. My mind was already busy trying to figure out Plan B before I even knew what Plan A entailed. Although the tense atmosphere was laden with my usual aloofness, for my mother it was just another golden opportunity to place the blame where it didn’t belong. It was always easier for her to blame my friends for all the trouble I had been in than to accept my unruly behavior as being entirely my own creation. Sitting there with me gave her the opportunity to have me as a captive audience. Each time she lectured me, I tuned her out, but now as I listened to her words I wondered if she really felt her youngest child and only daughter was some mindless drone incapable of thinking for herself. With my head hung low not from shame, but as a way to block out the reality of the moment, I listened to everything she said. With each word, I felt the gap widen between us. Did she see some weak-minded, misguided follower each time she looked at me? Suddenly, as I stared at the flawlessly polished gray speckled granite floor beneath my feet, I realized she really didn’t know me at all. I was no more than a stranger to the woman I called my mother.
That thought was such a sobering one that it suddenly made me sit up straight and instantly scan the room hoping to see a familiar face. Then, as I leaned back against the hard wooden bench trying desperately to get comfortable, I scanned the room again more slowly than the first time. This was my chance to finally make her look at who I am and what I’ve done to myself.
As I raised my hands motioning for her to scan the room also, I simply asked, “Do you see any of my friends sitting here?”
My mind was screaming, “Hey, look at me! Blame me! They didn’t do it! I did!”
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| Penobscot County Courthouse and Jail |