Afraid to be Human

This story goes all the way back to 2015, a formative year for my 24 year old self. After exiting my first relationship where love and desire grew—albeit in their weedy garden, I found myself spiraling.

Alone. Isolated. Filled with self-hate and anger, I descended deep into a pit wallowed by self-pity. In an attempt for connection, to not feel the universe press upon the loneliness I felt inside I found myself in a shelter.

I wanted a pet, something living that I chose and would eventually choose me. Responsibly, that meant adopting a cat; I had no experience with cats. I’d only really been around dogs. Growing up family friends had barn cats— feral fur-balls with pointing claws like needles. That was my experience with cats, not much. I remember visiting each room of the shelter, not one cat seemed right. With one room left to go I felt my stomach turn with the usual feeling of sadness.

Entering the room, there were a few cats. And in a little cupboard this black cat with beautiful eyes peaked his head out and stared out me. I walked over to him and he reached out for me. Reaching into his cupboard I picked him up. He fell into my chest and purred, rubbing the top of his head on my chin. I wanted to cry, but at that time I didn’t know how to allow sadness to flow through me: I just knew it hurt and I hated the feeling.

The shelter had given this particular cat the name Sherlock. Despite Sherlock Holmes being one of my favorites book series growing up, I didn’t believe in naming pets like this. So, in a futile act, I tried to changed his name. He was having none of it, he only responded to Sherlock. The name stuck.

Even with the highlight of adopting Sherlock, I was not well. There were feelings I had inside, and I did not know how to identify them. How could I express my emotions if I had no language for them? I knew I was angry, I’d been angry for the entirety of my life on this earth. I knew I was lonely, that too was a feeling I was familiar with and had no language to understand. They fed off each other. Consumed me. And I hated myself. Hated the world. Hated living.

Yet, this little bundle of fur who would follow me all over my 800 square foot town home didn’t seem to care about any of that. He’d steal my French fries and jump on the counter any time I cooked. Sherlock would curl up on my feet in the winter. Climb on my chest and night and fall asleep purring so loudly it was hard to think. If I felt wanted, needed even, I still did not have the language.

Three months after adopting Sherlock I fell the deepest into my depression.

Which, I pause this tale to warn if you face depression it is only something you can rise out of after you come to terms with your own self: no amount of outward things will help. Unless, the depression is a matter of brain function: in which case, medicine will help you. For me, my depression was not brain function. For some, it can be both: know this, you are not alone. There are people who can help. People who want to be there for you and to see you successful, you just have to reach out. It is healthy to ask for help. It is courageous to ask for help. It is brave to take care of yourself.

Some poems I have written describe reaching the bottom of hell; or a well of self-pity. Those are metaphors I use to describe my depression at it’s lowest: the point in my life where I attempted suicide. And while I lay on the floor in physical and emotional pain, Sherlock was there. Watching over me, bopping me on the head with his paw, booping my forehead with his nose, nipping at my feet. Letting me know that I must survive the night. He wasn’t going to leave my side.

Of the the memories from July of 2015, I remember most often Sherlock’s presence. His attentiveness to my struggle and his unwillingness to leave me alone. The persistent reminders, only a cat can give: I’m here and I don’t want you leave. Even as I write this, tears well in my eyes.

A week ago, a mass was found in Sherlock’s stomach. And I was faced with one choice: let him go peacefully into the void with love. In his final moments, when the anesthesia was at its highest he placed his paws on my arm in the way he’d always done and rested his head on my arm as he had so many times before. The tears fell freely, and this time I had words to describe my feelings and emotions: sadness; grief; sorrow; unhappiness. I didn’t feel despair, or guilt, or lonely. I felt love and joy for the moments we had, and gratefulness that I had the opportunity to be present for Sherlock’s last moments. If anyone really actually knew me, and my journey through life, they’d understand just how momentous and significant those last moments with Sherlock were.

Death is life. Sherlock and I were always going to reach this point. I knew one day I might have to make a difficult choice. Ten years ago I could have never made that choice, I would have frozen and that cowardice would have made me angry. The anger would have turned to self hate. These feelings rebounding until I hurt myself in frustration.

Sherlock was with me for ten years, and he always alerted me to when I was feeling sad, or angry. Often well before I had identified the feelings. It was through his love and kindness, his undying loyalty that I began to learn the language which freed me from self hate. And, as if the culmination of his time with me: I put all that together in the four hours from discovering he was too ill to continue on with life and his final breath to be present. In those hours, I felt the full spectrum of my humanity and I was not afraid to be human.

Afraid to be Human

I lay upon the ground, the pain in my stomach a mirror of the pain in my heart:

Eyes drooping, if only I could sleep then I would not wake:

And the pain would be gone.

But love would not allow those eyes to fall, not for long:

A bop with the paw;

A boop with the nose;

A nip at the toes.

I would feel the pain all night long, never getting my final sleep.

Not seeing the other side.

And in the morning, I would have to reckon with my choice.

Face the consequence of actions which led me to this floor.

A bop with the paw;

A boop with the nose;

A nip at the toes.

A kindness which made me question why I was afraid to be human:

Sent me down a path to find a purpose in this life.

A reason to live beyond the expectation of those around.

A path whose destination I chose.

A bop with the paw;

A boop with the nose;

A nip at the toes.

Unconditional love all through that night:

Which freed me from the cage of my my own making,

Unshackled me from the chains of my anger.

Opened my eyes to the beauty of humanity:

A bop with the paw;

A boop with the nose;

A nip at the toes.

Taught me to be resolute with my humanity.

John, Your Blood Runs Red, Too

Life feels surreal: the slow erosion of ideals, institutions, and systems that gave hope — albeit in their uneven, often unequal, and certainly biased way; giving hope, if you could but dream while gritting your teeth as you climbed to the top of that mountain. As these foundations crack, the reality is that what once was will no longer be. We are experiencing change: the culmination of centuries of hate and anger; the refusal to make room for everyone. An infected, sick collection of individuals who will stop at nothing for their freedom to hate— freedom society had once required be kept in the confines of the home now comes for anyone— everyone. It comes in a wave of violence: first, verbal: second, physical. Unrelenting until it runs out of energy or is removed like cancer from a cell. And in it’s place—we will have to rebuild.

This is not a happy poem; this is not a beautiful poem: this is a depressing, sad, and disturbing poem. It was meant to be so, because this is how I feel inside while I watch the long black train of hate slowly roll through my town.

John, Your Blood Runs Red, Too

A warm house upon hilltop.

Defiant blue eyes watch from behind blue windowpane—

As a tempest brews,

Violent drops of rain wet dry ground.

Safe inside,

The storm will not enter his home--

With stoop dry-

John comforts himself:

My ancestors taught me well:

look the same;

speak the same;

be ambitious the same.

They protected me from their harm:

Insured my future with their blood.

When sun rises:

The tempest will abate.

The aftermath seen:

Blood drips from the stoops of Their homes.

Reminding John of this twisted truth: conformity is greater than individuality.

Frozen in time, John watches:

To go outside; my blood will run like Theirs:

To honor an angry god, one I do not worship:

A lamb on an altar built by hands like mine.

John watches, his blue eyes ever more defiant.

A cold house upon hilltop.

Sun warming the last of green grass—

Leaves traveling gently upon winds wings.

None inside,

This day, enjoyed by nature’s stewards: alone.

Their ancestors taught them well:

look to the safety of each other;

protect all from those who prey;

be safe from the hunters— fight together.

They protect each other from harm,

Insure the future of their children with their blood.

The altar of their sacrifice a blessing from the past.

Because; John,

There is no safety behind windowpane blue.

When the sun rises upon your stoop—

John, your blood runs red, too.

—EJB

What is PTSD Like?

As I write this, I am realizing that I don’t read much from others perspectives on PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). I know my triggers, and the things I can during an episode to ride the wave of emotion that overwhelms my nervous system. Which, is perhaps, and area to improve in. However, this poem was not written for that: it is rare for me to have a full on PTSD episode in public— nearly all occur within the first few moments of intimacy with a new partner. Which makes sense, my trauma directly affects my relationships. Making today’s episode in the gym all the more rare, because lifting to me is a zen allowing me to focus on the one or two things I want to. But today, the floodgates unleashed waves of emotion that barely gave me time to just get to my car and catch a breath. And since I write after the gym I decided to try and describe it in a poem, because after all that is what this website is for: to bring light to the things that live in the dark.

I Do Not Have a Title for This

Thy heart beats a little faster,

A flutter in midst the crowd.

Like noon tide,

None notice rising emotion.

Thy chest heaves as if crushed,

A labored breath mid-task.

Silent as a panther’s step,

The memory grows.

They mind racing with thought,

To avoid menace amongst strangers.

Anger lies ready to protect,

As a bear, her cub.

Thy fear the past,

A present threat:

Memory, striking as a cobra,

Sinking its fangs deep.

—— EJB

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