Perhaps this is just another one of my episodes exploding to the surface. The version of me that’s stayed locked away in the dungeon. Locked in by others. Locked in by judgement. My judgement. For better or worse.
You see, as a child I was told not to talk back. I developed the notion that if my mouth was smarter than my mind I would be in trouble faster than my feet could carry me. Instead of talking back, I talked very little. As a matter of fact I became a walking mat for many years dormant under the feet of those I felt I needed to respect. Right or wrong, I didn’t learn to confront. I learned to adapt and from that a social butterfly blossomed from the cocoon that could fit any group he wanted to be until he lost his identity. A chameleon of sorts. All sorts of colors and expressions of anything but his own.
In my opinion, it’s a shame that it took twenty five years, five hundred bottles of booze, thousands of bottles of beer, a mental breakdown, three medications, ten days, seven hours, forty-three seconds, and a partridge in a pear tree to figure out who I really am. I am comfortable in my canvas adorned with my story in art and metal but still adjusting to my mouth playing Jekyll and Hyde. Is it me or my daily cocktail of mental medication that controls what flies off of my tongue faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, etcetera…
Am I funny or punny? Whitty or shitty as a person and a man for speaking my mind and telling you all how I feel? Honestly I can say that I truly have trouble telling the difference because this is so new to me. How often have you seen a doormat sprout legs and say “STEP OFF YOU OAF BECAUSE IT’S MY TURN NOW!”? No is such a powerful notion that when I set it in motion if never fails or falters to make me feel remorse… But it still feels good.
So good in fact that I keep on and on until I begin to feel nothing about what I’ve done until I really hurt someone. And then my tongue isn’t so tough anymore leaving me alone in my thoughts to sit in time out and think about what happened. Perhaps I should pierce it as punishment, like driving the stake through the heart of the mad man or monster behind the scenes of the obscene display that cries for attention. But is it really obscene or just the truth?
So my question to you is, where is the line? Am I wrong for finally taking a stand, defending myself, being my own, or being a jerk who needs to be slapped in the new found power that goes out of whack these days? Is it the meds or is it me because at this point, I don’t know what… Or who I am without them.