“Imagination and faith are the secrets of creation.” - Neville Goddard
I can’t begin to tell you how long it’s taken me to reach today. I suppose I could in terms of days, but if days were the correct metric, then why have I felt like I’ve been yearning for “this” moment in time for my entire life. Dating back before my drug addiction.
Back in those days when I was just the new kid on the block in California. “Oh yea, a little back story.” I was born in Oceanside, California. My biological mother had me at an age that many would consider young, even she felt it was an inappropriate age to raise a child of her own.
As the story goes - according to the many in my family who have told it, I had a dad who left during the time of my birth, leaving my mother, I imagine, in some incredibly challenging times. What would make me assume this? Maybe because of the other stories that were told on how I actually made it from that distant upbringing. I only ever had these stories to lean on.
With my mother in a compromising and lonely position, without my birth father, she decided it’d be best for her to give me away to whom she deemed worthy of raising me. I’m not sure how one goes about that sort of transaction, but I intend to do different, given I’m ever blessed with a child.
An aunt of mine had heard the news of my whereabouts and proceeded to confront my bio-mom in order to prevent me from ending up only god knows where. She succeeded in her efforts and I was rescued. No, not so simple.
You see, once taken in by my aunt -who was living in a boarding care home at the time, tending to elderly patients, I wasn’t necessarily in a position to get comfortable. Shortly after my aunt was advised she would need to seek another home for me because there wasn’t any room for a baby in this place of residence. Poor me? Life has an interesting way in revealing what’s meant to be.
My bio-moms mother, my grandmother had received a call from my aunt about the news and was put in a position to make a life altering decision. My grandma and her husband were in Japan due to him being stationed there. Not pleased with my bio-moms choice to give me up and there being no other option, she hopped on the next flight from japan to the one and only “Oceanside.”
Fast-forward, I know I know, there’s a grey area, but it’s never been told what took place once my grandma got to Oceanside, only that she had successfully retrieved me and got a return flight right back to Japan.
There my grandmother is with me in her hands, touching down. I can imagine my little brain firing off, “Whoa, we’re taking trips now?” “Cool new digs!”
My grandmother’s husband met her at the airport, staring from a distance, puzzled - but unaware of what she’s holding in her hands. (Forgot to mention, she never notified her husband what had taken place on her trip to California.) But yup, there we are. All 3 of us. Just as shocked to see one another.
Still suprised to meet this new woman who is my grandmother, I’m sure - especially after I was just a world away.
I’m surprised to see her, her husband, and he’s there in the airport being surprised she has a child with her.
Long story long, little did any of us know, but “this” was our new family. The choice was made between Master Gunnery Sergeant Smith and Mrs. Smith to become my new parents. Adoption was underway and there I was on standby to be welcomed into what would be my first family. No more hand offs. Now settling in with my little feeties with mom and pop.
As my pop would tell it, “I remember first seeing your mother in that airport. I’m looking through the crowds, I see something in her hands, but I can’t make it out. I’m watching her get closer and closer and I see it’s a baby. She never told me. not once. she was getting you. But I can tell you that the first time I looked at you and you looked back at me - I fell in love with you.”
This story from pop, combined with my mother making the decision to rescue me without a moment wasted, has been one of the many pillars I’ve held onto throughout my life, from a pup til now.
Having been severly malnourished, my pop was unsure if I was going to make it, being housed in an incubator and all, not to mention me being a premature baby. Pop would tell me he would be able to fit me in the palm of his hand.
Another story of these times consists of pop attempting to get medical attention for me due to my struggling conditions and the medical staff stating, “Your son’s going to be okay, will somebody contain the father?” How funny is that? My pop and I would share laughs about this the older I would get, when these sort of conversations were stumbled upon.
What does this have to do with writing you ask?
Much of my upbringing has been constant moving, literally, unfamiliar territory, and uncertainty of where I belong.
For goodness sake my own bio mother and bio father didn’t want anything to do with me. It’s okay though. I know who my mom and pop are NOW, and I couldn’t be more thankful.
Like the lot of you out there faced with trauma, uncertainty, fear, guilt, shame, loss, etc I’ve been paralyzed - like you, without a voice. Worried if anyone cared, or wondering who would listen? Lemme tell you, it has gotten me absolutely no where in my life. If anything, it has only placed me in positions to lose out on opportunities I could’ve had with loved ones, separated me from establishing connections with others while I’m here, or has left me wondering what conversations could’ve been had?
When it comes to writing, in the words of Sheldon Cooper, “It takes me time to get things going on an unfamiliar toilet.” That’s what this writing exploration of mine has been like, and I’m sure it has been for many others as well. Almost seeming like I wouldn’t allow myself to write anything until I was certain I’ve had enough harm done to me. Heartbreak check. Substance abuse check. Suicide check, oh wait, first time I’m mentioning it. Trauma check. Tragedy check, oh okay, lets try writing now.
Not to ramble too long on the matter but I imagine sometimes, what life may have been like if I allowed myself a voice sooner? Who may I have impacted? Who may have impacted me? I understand beyond us is a cosmic divine timing of sorts and it appears to me plenty has worked in my favor, where I’m in no position to complain, but I never was.
I’m always going on about addiction because I feel the underlying demons that are mainly found in addiction, in my experience, affect many others just the same whom have never touched a drug in their life. Exiting addiction “this” time felt like the right time to begin writing, enough holding it in. For anybody overcoming anything, we’re always at this crossroads of sorts, a door if you will. Is it an exit from a previous life, or is it an entrance to the next chapter? Well that depends. Which one do you prefer? Are you wanting to remain uncomfortably comfortable in your discomfort? See what I did there?
We’re always waiting aren’t we? We’re always expecting? We’re always so displeased with feedback or results when they don’t return to us in a fashion that we deem acceptable.
Growing up, my pop would always tell me, “Son, decisions are keys.” Having never had the mind for it earlier on, I would struggle with comprehending exactly what he meant at the time.
I’ve found myself at many doors these past 2 years coming up April 2024, none in which I knew what I would find once opened, closed, or explored for a little while. I never knew what I would run into or what I might discover. I tell you what, I wouldn’t have been in any position to DO anything given I sat and waited. This life isn’t promised, owed, nor forever, but we treat it so. To quote the great Martin Luther King Jr.
“Take the first step in faith. You don’t need to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”
We must build once we walk through that door of ours, that door which once appeared unattainable, in order to reach a new timeline. Otherwise, we’re just standing at the threshold of that door we once before were so desperately attempting to walk through or leave behind.
From youth to my 30’s life has been about “Which puzzle do I fit in?” Being overly critical, inflicting more harm than good within my self talks, and flat out stagnant. If anyone’s attempted to purify their own spirit by their own hand I could say I’ve signed that contract many times before. Again, gets you nowhere. If so, only temporarily.
Did feeling unwelcome, unwanted, and rejected as a child “need” to affect me for 30 years? Did acceptance, validation, approval, and conformity “need” to be prioritized in my 20’s?
Sure, one might say “Apparently, because you grew through what you went through.” Okay, what about the many others who don’t have that luxury?” Would we better off not considering them? Maybe. Okay. Maybe you’re right.
We could “ALL” benefit from adjusting our reactions and responses to these universal struggles that we all face. There’s a word for it, uh, Empathy, that’s it. So why write? If not for you, do it for another. We have absolutely no idea the impact our “useless” words could have on someone during their lives. We’ve heard it before “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” What you consider useless someone else may view as useFULL. Glass half full half empty sort of concept. Aren’t you aware that you are a library of experience? Aren’t you aware you are a well of knowledge? Even with the worst of your stories - no matter “how” you tell em.
I’ve considered quitting this writing journey plenty times. One time was when I went against my gut and created an instagram to share what my first year free from drugs looked like, for anyone interested. Wanting to allow someone out there to take a peak into what that mind of mine was looking like - considering the mental anguish was the most difficult part once I knew there was no turning back. How fearful I was having committed to clean living. Realizing later that the audience I was voicing my soul to wasn’t going to be on instagram the way I intended them to be. They’re out there chasing, running missions, and howling at the moon.
Or what about the most recent time I considered quitting this writing journey once I came over to Substack? Can you imagine, excited during this newly discovered platform, new to writing - with a story to tell, but wait, I began “reading.” My goodness, all I’ve done is run into publication after publication from people who are far more educated from me, with far more connections, with far more experience, with far more social capabilities.
Stepping into this new arena, during a new chapter in my life . . . .
Was it intimidating? Beyond measure
Was it overwhelming? Rapidly
Was it terrifying to open up with such incredible talent, already lifetimes ahead of “my” writing? Initially
So, what changed? . . . .
My perception. Understanding now, that no matter how many out there writing, no matter how “good” or “qualified” or “educated” or “talented” others may be, they aren’t me.
Understanding there is no comparison, we all have our own diverse, unique, creative approaches to this world of alphabet art.
Does any amount of worrying over the landscape change the fact that out there, somewhere in this world, is a person that may find themselves inspired, impacted, or connected to the experiences or the words shared? Shared! From me, from “you”, from us willing to make our writing accessible. Not hidden away locked in a cranium vault, chained by insecurities, insulated in self doubt, wrapped in worry, and anchored in disbelief.
“Thank you for continuing to write, your artistic service is greatly appreciated.”
On days I wanted to quit I came across many others, on many different days, from many different backgrounds, who inspired me to continue.
Whether it was a comment, like, subscribe, follow, short conversation, sharing a thank you, a read on your publication I am sincerely and wholeheartedly grateful for you. In addition, pleased to have come across your many life stories. Thank you for “not” allowing anything to stop you. I was that person in need, even on days where you may have thought about walking away, taking a break, or diverting your attention elsewhere to anything but writing. There’s an example of “how” I continue writing. And my attitude remains constant even on those extremely quiet days - when I hear from no person. “Why” I continue writing is much more simple, and probably could’ve been written in 3 words: empathy - compassion - altruism. Fancy words, eh? Why do I write? - for lack of fancy words… to breathe. And this is coming from me, a silly ol (former) meth smoking, heroin slamming, fentanyl fuming hopeless romantic.
“Hopeless romantic? Or romantically hopeless? Mmmm. . . . .
Thank you so much for sharing your story and stepping through that door of vulnerability. I can only say that you are as good a writer as anything I read on Substack. If not better. Why? Empathy. Compassion. Experience. You breathed in experience and you breathed out poetry. It’s definitely a journey. Empathy is the gate and compassion is the way. In the spaces between your words you meet us where we are. That makes all the difference. Keep writing.! We need you. 🙏❤️
Thank you for sharing! Your story is designed to be shared with others...I personally struggle with wanting to help others AND KNOWING that I am helping others. Yet, much of the time, you/me/we truly do not know who we are impacting.
So, as you elegantly pointed out with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, we need to take that step of faith without seeing the full staircase.