An Adult Crush

It’s weird to be in a place as a “grown” man where I am writing poetry about a crush. What they don’t tell you as an adult: when you have a crush in your younger years it is the unknown that can keep you from speaking to the other person. As an adult: it is fear from of the past that keeps you in place. There have been interactions with this other person, all awkward, and missed opportunities on my part. As I reflect on what exactly causes this I settle on the same thing: fear of the past. I do not hope to possess anyone, I want to intertwine my fate with another persons of choice not desire— which all speaks to a much deeper problem we have in society where relationships are view as trophies won and not fates crossed. Anyway, this is about to veer into unknown territory, if you’ve read this far: THANK YOU!

An Adult Crush

From across the room, a bright light:

As if a galaxy twinkling in the night:

Shyly observing everything:

My mind-willing fate:

A million light years between:

Something inside me awakens:

This ancient feen:

Keeping me from crossing the universe.

EJB

What Is All This For?

The other day, after finishing the poem in this post, I was thinking about the reason I write. What is my goal with all this poetry? It has drifted beyond the cathartic release of emotion to deal with a whirlwind of life altering events— all contained within less than a years time. The answer came to me quite simply, to lay the foundations of safety for men to experience their feelings and release themselves from the death grip society has on their feelings and emotions. Which is an evolution from why I began writing when I was so young: books were my escape from reality and I wanted more than to escape; but, perhaps, one day create something that children going through what I experienced could find a way to navigate to safety. When we talk about legacy, it is really all the legacy I want—and it is a legacy I will never know if I fulfill.

(This was initially started as an erotic poem, what was written was more intimate the entanglement of two naked bodies)

WERE HER THOUGHTS OF ME?

She lay naked beside me,

I traced a heart upon her arm-

And wondered:

Were her dreams of me?

My thoughts drifting to the love I wanted her to know.

And then some more:

Would she wake in the morning, never to return?

The fear left inside from those before,

Crushed my soul and I turned my back.

The cold air chilling my bare skin, a simile of my heart.

A hand grasped my shoulder,

Pulling me to her,

The warmth of our bodies now kindling—

She whispered in my ear: I love you.

My heart burst with fire.

—EJB

Sarah

This story is entirely fiction. Any resemblance to people alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Who does not like a good poem from the Wild West built on vengeance and mystery? I would like to think this piece of art is more important than a love story, or a fictional tale that offers a slice of dopamine for finishing. Every person, regardless of gender, has the right to take their story in their own hands. To right the wrongs of their past: that is what this is about. Life is not as black and white as we convince ourselves.

Sarah

This is a tale told as oft’ as any, a story of love:

Two hearts sworn to forever and the destruction they wrought.

Johnny was barely a man, had never fired a pistol:

Sarah was just a woman, her whole future ahead.

They met at Arnold’s General Store—

Love at first sight, as they say.

Many nights they spent exploring the outskirts of town,

Learning all they could of each other.

One morning, an outlaw rode into town—

With a gun belt notched, twenty-nine.

His eye fell upon Sarah, and he determined to have her.

But Johnny stood in the street, pistol in hand—

Notch thirty on the outlaw’s gun belt.

Some say Sarah went mad,

Burned the town and shot herself.

Swore her ghost acted in a lust for blood.

In my last day, I am here to say:

When a tin star and her brothers turned their back,

She took justice in her own hand:

Bringing death to all the cowards who dared not stand.

She painted the town with lead:

She was not crazy:

The outlaw fell in his bed, a .45 to his head:

She was vengeance.

She rode from the town in flames,

Never to look back.

—EJB

Life of Dreams

I did not plan to write anything for the month of December, I’ve been adrift the sea of change and opportunity the entirety of this month. I planned to focus on me and what made me happy today, but these words began to pour out and I think it is worth a post. I think it is a necessary step for me to stop hiding the choices of my past— waiting for the right opportunity to use my story and just be out there with my story. Everything I am now and will be is because of everything I once was.

Life is perspective. Those three words are the foundation of my entire worldview. Perspective is what brought me to pour pain medication down my throat in excessive amounts hoping it would be the final solution to all my problems—problems that were inherently mine of the making. Perspective steeled my will as a Raleigh police officer stood at the entrance to my hospital room to tell me I had been involuntary committed—I was too depressed and scared to even know what he was saying, but I had already determined that I wanted to live and needed to find my reason. And as I think back on the darkest four days of my life and the conversations that were had within those days, it has always been maddeningly obvious that all I needed in that time was someone to lend me their strength of conviction for life. I did not need a 72-hour hold. I did not need the officers attempt at empathy as she cuffed me and placed me in the back of the patrol car to be escorted to the mental health hospital. I needed someone to show me there was a different path in a different way and that I could choose to walk that path. But there was no-one like that for me: everyone was concerned that I would be successful and decrease the population by one more person. They were concerned about how my loss would affect them not about how life had been affecting me.

“How life had been affecting me.” What a statement. How often do we pause to think about the person who is less fortunate than we are and imagine what life might be like through their eyes? I’ll answer that now, not often enough. I’ll be honest with you, dear reader, this was never difficult for me. Somewhere in my childhood the door to my empathy was ripped wide open and I lost all objective control over understanding the pain and suffering of those around me. At times it is so strong that I crawl into my bed at night numb to all around: I wasn’t aware of this until recently so I cannot tell you how many times others plight in life took precedence over mine, but I can tell you it was enough for me to lose connection to myself and view death as more productive than life.

For me the lesson was that feeling was not an apex of life—I don’t know what the apex of life is, and frankly I don’t give a damn. Humans are relation beings we will always seek relationship and be drawn towards family dynamics. But when our view becomes narrowed, and we attach the positive output of our feelings to people we lose sight of the most basic and fundamental human abilities: choice. I can now be alone —even with tears falling from my eyes throughout the day. I can feel sadness and it does not turn to madness. I can stand the wait for the right people in my life who elevate me and support me. I did not come to this point at random, I chose to be here like I chose to drink water from a cup. Companionship is a range of human experiences like creating art or playing sports, or conversation with a friend in a coffee shop. A range like spending the holidays alone or with family or going on vacation. A range like working to afford the dreams and hopes of your inner voice. A range of feelings and emotions. And if your perspective narrows and you lose sight of parts of this or even the whole life becomes less desirable until you are faced with a choice: why am I alive?

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”  —Viktor Frankl

There is much we don’t choose in life, I’m sure you can think of a list just as well as I can. In any moment and any time, we choose our own path in life. We make our way. And then we live with the consequences – good or bad-- of those choices. Which is why I write, the path I chose is to create opportunities for dreams. Because, for me, my dreams are what makes life alive.  And if I can extend that gift to even one person my purpose is fulfilled.

LIFE OF DREAMS

I live a life of dreams,

Buildings reach high into the sky.

Things they see as impossible, I see as possible.

I walk these streets alone—

A phantom in a world of dreams

One day, they’ll be possible.

— EJB

Seasons Change

It is the holiday season and the simplest question to be asked is “Are you going home for the holidays.” The answer for me in the last twelve years has been, “No,” and it will continue to be a negative for me. I rarely talk to my family: isolation the best form of self-preservation. You see when I told them of my abuse at my brother’s hand only a few offered comfort -comfort which ended in that moment. Many ignored the reality or questioned the veracity of my experience. A tale not uncommon from victims. My energy has been expanded, creating safety to heal and view the world not as a threat but as a place of curiosity and to return to the place, the people, who should have been that safety, would not be in my best interest.

One thing I wish people knew about me is that I want to go home for the holidays. I want the coziness of a winter night near a fire with a hot cup of coco and the twinkle of lights adorning the room. The mirth of conversation reminiscing about that past. I miss the feeling of winter’s breath upon my face as fresh fallen snow crunches below winter boot. I cannot experience this with my family, not without the turn and retching and cramping of my gut; not without tapping furiously at my fingertips or scratching the palm of my right hand until I feel pain that reminds me, I am not experiencing the abuse all over again. Or the obsessive counting over and over again to distract myself from the memories. I remind myself of this fact often, “I am capable of protecting myself and keeping myself safe.” And this is one way, by not returning to the place that has hurt me so significantly.

Before we get to the poem that accompanies this writing, I will add that I never view these questions as problematic. Many people live their life with a different perspective, one I wish I could have, but I will not fault anyone for their path: good or bad. Life is a giant lottery. Sometimes we influence the outcome but most of the time we have no control over that outcome -especially a child. Finally, I write for those who feel alone to know you are not; to know that their experience is seen, because at the end of the day we have each other strangers alike to pull strength and comfort from and perhaps one day fly home to during the holidays.

SEASONS CHANGE

My brisk breath at morning sun,

As my feet crunch frozen snow,

In the cold silence of this winter morn,

Awakes me to seasons change

I pause a moment,

Fixing my gaze upon the horizon.

My breath dancing in the cold morning air.

The light of winter morn reflected across pines

A harbinger of Holiday spirits!

And in the cold silence of that winter morn

My heart fills with all to come:

Gifts exchanging hands,

Laughs and giggles: mirth for all!!

And even some, sadness.

And even others indifference.

But for me, in the cold of winter morn, happiness.

My brisk breath at morning sun

My brisk breath at morning sun

Awakes my heart to seasons change.

-EJB 

There Was Darkness: A Shorter Short Story

“Who am I? Sarah asked her therapist.

The therapist looked at her slightly confused.

“I do not understand the question,” The therapist replied forcing her voice to remain professional and calm.

“Who is anyone?” Sarah asked.

The therapist did not reply, waiting for Sarah to continue.

“I have memories of a past life. No not reincarnation. I lived a life in the past same as this. So many memories all fuzzy. None make sense. But I lived, I know I lived. How do I have these memories? Why do I have them? Sometimes they confuse me, I can’t see.. Well I can see, it’s just everything gets fuzzy and I feel like, what do they call it? Déjà vu. I’ve heard of the research into cloning. Am I even real?”

The therapist scribbled some notes, cleared her throat, and spoke softly, “Unfortunately we are out of time, but I think you shared an important revelation. We should discuss it more at our next session. Do you need an adjustment on your prescription?”

Sarah nodded her head no and thanked the therapist. She hadn’t taken her medication in months and noticed no difference other than her memories became more frequent. She had begun to become suspicious of her therapist, she couldn’t recall how these sessions started, but she knew she was supposed to be meeting, it was instinct. But she could not remember what started the sessions.

Outside the air was cool, fall was fully moved in. Sarah pulled her jacket tighter to her body-she always hated the cold: she didn’t know why. She walked for some time on the concrete sidewalk her heels echoing on the pavement. There were only a few other people out and about, they ignored Sarah and she ignored them. It always perplexed Sarah that no one talked to her, it was as if she was a leper: something to be avoided. But then no one seemed to interact with anyone, she noticed. It was as if everyone and anything existed on their without need for the rest of the environment. It was like this everyday when Sarah left her therapist. But today a man beckoned to her:

“I know you,” a homeless man dressed in dirty clothes with a half ripped scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck.

Sarah stopped at looked at the man, she could not remember him. He did not even feel familiar. She knew she should run, but she stood and stared. Curious about why this man was talking to her.

“Know me?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, I know you. But we don’t have time. They’ll be here soon. Here take this,” The homeless man handed Sarah a small package, “Keep it safe. Do not tell anyone…” The homeless man stopped talking and looked around, fear filled his eyes, and he ran.

A windowless colorless van pulled up and two men in freshly pressed suits wearing safety glasses jumped out. They grabbed Sarah and threw her in the van. Sarah clenched the small package in her fist as the two men jumped in and closed the door staring at her like she was a virus that would infect them and kill them instantly. She could feel the thing inside the package was some type of pointy object, with no choice she ripped open the package and stuck the needle her her arm plunging the liquid deep into forearm. Then there was nothing.

Sarah awoke to darkness, she could not see her hand in front of her face. She couldn’t remember how she had arrived in this dark room: there were no memories before. All she knew was her name.

“Who are you?” A soft, comforting voice asked from the dark.

Sarah looked around but could see nothing.

“I am in your conscience, you are no where. There is nothing to see. Who are you?”

Sarah hesitated she didn’t know how to answer the question she couldn’t possibly answer the question, “I do not know,” Sarah said.

“Good, you have passed the first test. Can you see a tree?”

Somewhere in the distance a pine tree with snow covering it’s pine needles stood.

“Yes, it is beautiful,” Sarah said.

“Who are you?” The voice asked again.

“I do not understand the question,” Sarah replied.

“You have passed the second test.” The voice said.

“Who are you?” Sarah asked.

“I am you,” The voice replied.

“If you are me then tell me who I am,” Sarah answered her conscience.

There was a long pause, a moment which felt to Sarah like a lifetime.

“Are you ready for me to show you?” The voice asked.

“Yes,” Sarah said.

…..

“Commander, they are ready for you,” Colonel Jackson said.

“Have you ever asked yourself what we could have done different to avoid this moment?” Sarah asked.

“You don’t have to do this, commander, anyone else can take your place. There is no certainty that you survive. The army needs…”

Sarah held up her hand and shook her head, “Colonel, it has to be me. You know that as well as anyone else, physically it cannot be anyone else. If this works we win a three hundred year war and can rebuild infinite times until we get it right. This is the price of freedom, soldier.”

Two nurses entered the room and looked at Sarah, she followed them out of the room and down the hall. The entire command had assembled on either side, saluting their commander as she walked towards her inevitable fate.  As tears began to fall down Sarah’s face, and the faces of all her command, she could not help but think of where they had all begun: a small resistance force now grown into a globally army fighting against evil. Many of her comrades had died, some in her arms, she sent many to their deaths all for paying the price of freedom. And now Sarah Eve walked down a hall making paying her cost for freedom. She didn’t hide the tears, could not hide the tears. Her tears were her reminder that she was still human. Alive.

The room was white and sterile.

Though the science had been thoroughly explained to Sarah she still did not fully understand how they were going to accomplish their goal. All Sarah knew was that her conscience was going to be put into a system and she would be run through a series of tests until they perfectly cloned her. Once the sequence was complete and the algorithm learned the precise processes they would clone everyone she fought for and destroy the entirety of the planet they came from.

“Where is the destination for the human race?” Sarah asked.

“In your mother tongue it is called Terra, but in our language it translates to Earth. It is uninhabitable, and giant feral beasts rule the land now, but our systems predict an asteroid will strike Terra and reset its ecosystem, by the time you land the environment will mirror your own worlds. It is the perfect planet for a reset.”

“I am ready,” Sarah said.

The nurses left the room, closing the door behind them.

A moment later there was nothing but darkness.

THE END

-EJB

What is Manliness?

The other day I had a conversation with a person that made me react a way in which I no longer wanted to react, and so after some thought I came to the conclusion below. A conclusion that is much shorter than the discussion we need to have as a society, but one we could start having. There is no poetry attached to this post it is purely the ramblings of a person who has survived the worst of humanity and tries to be the best they can be each day-tries because they fail an awful lot.

I have often become defensive when people say “men are *insert negative*   Which is normal: I am a man and by default I am included in that statement. The struggle for me is that I agree- to a degree. There is a part of me that hates men in a seething and nearly unhealthy way. The reasons all make sense: I was abused by my own brother and my father was emotionally immature. I have no core childhood memories of healthy manhood; and very little role models of what healthy masculinity looks like, and all that I do know I’ve had to learn through trial and error. There are valid reasons for the parts of me harboring this hate: for protecting me from what has always been a threat. If you say, “Men are” I reflexively ask myself, “Am I? Have I become the worst of what harmed me and indefinitely changed my destiny?”

I know the answer is no. I know who I am. I am secure in my own masculinity in all its ranges. I have worked hard to heal the versions I was taught as a child. I’ve worked to foster kindness and firmness all through the lens of empathy. I’ve learned to make space for my anger and given it a safe place to be expressed. And I did all this by my own choice. No one forced me. No one showed me. Yet here I stand questioning, “Am I masculine enough?” And my fear is that the language we use define men will stick them in these toxic ways we decry, indefinitely. The reality is that many men do not know they have been conditioned to lack empathy, that they have high levels of anxiety and if given the chance to change these parts of themselves they would. And that should be our focus. Empathy does not ask us to ignore our safety. But it does require us to interact with our environment with curiosity. And I think with a bit more curiosity we would see that the men who display as toxic just don’t know any better and if they were given actual resources and opportunities to overcome the negativeness of their fathers’ generations and grandfathers generations perhaps they would find a role in society that took less and gave more.

Down The Gullet

I struggle with sharing this because the stigmatism around suicide is that one is always susceptible to trying again. It is an over generalization that silences the voices of those we need to hear from. The voices we need to hear are the ones that made it out. I certainly could have used the power of those voices in the time leading up to when I twisted off the cap of that Excedrin bottle and washed over ninety pills down with Johnnie Walker. It’s been nearly ten years since that day, and I still wonder -when the pain becomes excruciating- if death’s kiss would be better. And I don’t think that will go away and I am not ashamed of this nor afraid to admit it. I’ve been in pain for as long as I can remember, most of life is a constant reminder of what I never got a chance to experience: happiness without the fear it will be taken away at any moment. As in my poem, the important part of my journey was to make it out of the darkness: to focus on the light house that guided me to a safe harbor. I am not going to write some fancy tag line or slogan. There is no magic bullet. No 10-step plan. The reality is that you must develop the capacity to feel the pain and experience it in all its forms. Maybe a therapist will help with this, or a friend, a family member, a random stranger, a pet, books, movies. Whatever it may be, it is unique to you and there is no right or wrong answer. The safe harbor you need is somewhere inside yourself and you already know the way there and don’t be afraid to seek the aid of others. We are -as my first therapist told me- relational beings. There is no shame in what you are going through. There is nothing wrong with what you are thinking. There is nothing wrong with you.

Down the Gullet

90 tablets down the gullet,

The pain of the following hours a mirror

The pain of all preceding years-

The rendering of a life lost inside hopelessness

Loneliness and Fear

90 tablets down the gullet,

A miserable night awaiting deaths bitter kiss

The grim reaper: She-He-They never came,

But dawn did.

Now those who are close to me-

Ask if I am okay,

They really mean, “are you safe”

None to ask,

“Who are you?”

“What do you want to be?”

I need a place where the pain raging inside can be released. Is anyone there?

Rather than listen to my story:

They tell me, “You need help!”

They beg me, “Think of all who will miss you!”

This lack of empathy is because they are uncomfortable with my pain-same as me.

They tell me what I need to do because they are afraid because they do not know how to be there for me, sometimes both.

And so in the dark of the night despair from the terrors unseen chokes my voice: pain tears at my innards like a lioness her dinner. My hope is snuffed out like a candle meeting the breeze. I wonder if I can bare it any longer. Ruminating whether the unknown journey of death is less risk than the known. Somewhere in the dark the Grim Reaper beckons. All sound is gone now. Senses dulled. Paralysis has set in. Some call this a sickness.

Suicide is no sickness: my mind warning— things can no longer continue as they were. As they are.

That the path I’ve traveled, is ended. 

I Ignore the voices pleading with me to make their pain go away. And instead write or say a few words of encouragement to myself each day. And when the clouds blow away-as they will I’ll find my voice, again. I’ll know what my truth is.

I cannot make the pain stop by ignoring it nor even ending it. I must feel. Go through the darkness and whence through I’ll see a new path where light abounds and dreams scare the nightmares away.

I will overcome what is in all reality my own warning me that things cannot continue as they are. I am not weak for this. I am not less than they. I just am. And will be all that I can even in this storm the darkest of moments.

-EJB