It's been a solid ten, twelve years that I’ve been rocking this Larry David ass hairline. I guess I’m used to it, I’m not shocked when I look in the mirror and don’t see the luscious golden locks of my youth; soft curls the colour of summer grass. And yet, for my empty follicles, additional wrinkles, and a growing list of aches and pains, I do not feel my age. At any moment I expect to get busted, at what I’m not sure. I feel as though I’ve snuck out in my parent's car, or I’m hiding my report card in hopes the row of C minuses will disappear the longer they stay in my backpack. A decade past baldING, I am sufficiently balD. Still with a hand in the cookie jar.
I think a good chunk of this feeling comes from the Michael Don’t narrative of my childhood where I was constantly told “Michael Don’t” to the point neighbours thought my name was actually Michael Don’t. Now, I can own the fact that I wrote that narrative myself, up until 5 years ago if I’m honest, but just because I wrote it, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt and hasn’t made a lasting impression on me.
These feelings I know to be signs of clinical anxiety, mix them with ADHD and there is a wonderfully rich breeding ground for addiction. I was lucky enough that my addictions were so violent and destructive that I couldn’t help but get help. Waking up in bushes, in handcuffs and psych wards being 240 pounds covered in tattoos and bawling your eyes out will eventually force people to notice that maybe this person isn’t feeling good. Totally not vibing. For all the pain and suffering I put myself and my loved ones through I was lucky.
I am lucky.
Not everyone gets a second at-bat.
Maybe someone you know, is working too much? Possibly they are eating too much, or have three gym memberships. Sometimes people can be addicted to anger and the ability to control people with their terrible behaviour. I could control my feelings with opioids, cocaine and hard liquor. And even though it was killing me, it stopped me from killing myself.
Addiction, with all its vile heads, seems to generally be a means to cope. It’s not a lack of self-control but a lack of self. I am not a clinician, this isn’t medical fact. My thoughts are anecdotal and based on observation.
To bring myself back to my true self I try and surrender my ego, a challenge of herculean proportion. I write this blog and am thoroughly grateful when people tell me how much what I write resonates with them. I’ve been trying to connect with some pals more frequently, again a serious challenge after we all seem to have gotten so comfortable keeping to ourselves during Covid. Tattoo Shops, coffee shops, places where motorcycles lay in disrepair are all spots I find
comfortable enough to connect with some like-minded folk. I try and pull myself out of the shell, get my nose out of a book and get some human interaction, but it can be a struggle. The quiet life, it turns out suits me just fine.
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