Unspoken Abandonment (25 page)

As Matt
was leaving,
Charles said, “
Matt told me
you had gone to Afghanistan. I just want to say thank you, and
I
want you to know that
what you did
means a lot
to me
.”

I thanked Charles, and
after talking for a while longer
,
he said he wanted me to get with him after the fight. He said, “I want to talk to you about something. So grab me before you leave.”

Charles left, and
Matt returned
a short time later. W
e
laughed and talked as we
continued to watch the rest of the event. As we were leaving, I saw Charles and
asked
, “What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh
,
hey
man!
F
ollow me,” he said.

Charles and I walked to a now quiet section of the event center
,
and
we
each
sat in
a seat. Charles said, “I really hope I’m not overstepping
any personal
boundaries
, and I certainly don’t want to disrespect you, but I feel like I need to ask you something.”

After a brief pause, he continued
in a serious tone
, “Are you ok?”

I laughed and replied, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why would you ask that?”

Charles said, “I’ve seen a lot of hurt in my life, and I know what it looks like.
There is just something you can see in a person’s eyes.
No offense, brother, but I am seeing a lot of it when I look at you.
I can’t walk away from that without asking you if you really are ok.
”

I insisted to Charles I was fine, to which he re
plied
, “Really? Who are you trying to convince
right now
, me or you?”

The conversation continued on this way for a few minutes, until I told Charles,
“
Maybe I’m not fine
,
but t
rust me, you wouldn’t understand. I don’t think anyone would.”

At that time, I honestly believed no one could possibly understand anything I was feeling. I think the truth of it was that I was the one who could
n
o
t understand it. I was the one who was unable to accept the facts as they were. Since I
had lost complete control and
could
n
o
t understand
or make any kind of sense out of
any of this, I assumed no one else possibly could
either
.
Insisting that no one could understand what I was feeling
was my
last remaining
defense mechanism
to resist facing the truth of the matter
.
Everything else had failed, and that was all I had left. I thank God Charles saw through it and pushed me to
deal with reality.

“You know what? You’re probably right
when you say
I would
n’t understand,
b
ecause no matter what it’s from, your
hurt is different from my hurt
,
a
nd
hell,
it’s all different
from that guy
’s
hurt,” Charles said while pointing to a man walking up a staircase. He continued, “
It’s all different, but at the same time, hurt is hurt. Now, if you don’t want to talk to me, you can just tell me to kiss your ass and we’ll go our separate ways.
I’ll hold nothing against you, b
ut if you want to talk, I’ll be the first person in the world to listen.
I won’t judge you, I won’t say a word, and I’ll just listen.
”

I said, “Look, you are right. I have a shitload of stuff I would love to let go of
, b
ut I don’t know how
.
I don’t even know where to begin.
It’s all very hard to talk about.”

Charles told me he understood. He said, “I know it’s hard to open up about something, but it’s the first step to letting go. Hiding from pain only allows it to grow stronger and stronger. It’s like a beast that feeds off of you.
It feeds off
of
you until you actually become the beast.
”

I asked, “Why are you so concerned about me?” I continued, “Believe me, I’m not trying to be rude, but why do you care so much?”

“Because
,
I learned something a l
ong time ago:
i
f you try to do
only
for yourself, you’ll only get so far
in life
. If you reach out to touch other people, you can fix your
own
soul
and move fu
rther than you can ever imagine
.”

Charles then told me a story which brought tears to my eyes. I will never repeat what he told me, but I understood at that point why he was so interested to help me. For the first time in three years, I opened up about everything.
I barely knew Charles, but I told him everything I had seen, everything I had felt, and everything I continued to
struggle through
. I
bared my soul
,
and
I
told everything
to someone who was almost a complete stranger
.

As I spoke, Charles barely said a word. He listened intently and offered the occasional head nod to
indicate he was following along with the conversation
. When I finished I told him, “And now, I don’t know what to do next. I feel like none of this is ever going to go away.
It just gets worse and worse.
”

The advice I was given next changed my life forever.

Charles asked, “Are you angry?”

I answered quite certainly, “No.”

He said, “I think you are.”

“I am?
What am I angry about
?”

He answered, “You need to figure that out yourself. Hurt, sorrow, sadness, all that shit is easy to let go of. It fades in time on its own. When we lose someone we love, we miss them and it hurts terribly, but it fades. We move forward in life. Anger
on the other hand,
is like an anchor. It doesn’t let you move forward, it holds you right there in one spot. No matter how hard life tries to move you forward, anger keeps you trapped.”

“But I’m not angry,” I said.

“Have you ever listened to yourself?” Charles asked. He said, “I can hear it in you and it’s plain as day. If I tell you what
or who
you’re angry at, it won’t be nearly as profound as if you figure it out on your own. You need to look inside and find it.
It’s right there.
”

I told Charles I
didn’t even know
I was angry, and
I
had no idea where to look.

Charles said, “
Do you know what you need to do? You need to get a huge stack of paper and just start writing.”

“Write about what?”
I asked.

“Write about everything,
write about anything, or just
write about not
hing;
whatever
you want
. Write every word you feel, as you’re feeling it. Whether it’s composed and
structured,
or just a bunch of words dropping on a page, just write. Put a pen in your hand
,
and let everything flow
through your arm and
onto the paper in front of you. Don’t do it on a computer, don’t type. Just
go old school,
use a pen and
paper
.
There’s something fundamentally soothing abou
t using your own hand to write
that allows it to flow
more
naturally and honestly.
”

“Ok, I’ll try it,” I said.

Charles said, “Don’t just try it, do it. I write all the time. Usually it’s stupid nonsense that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but to me…to me, it’s
pure honesty
. It allows me to let go of everything. Then I can go back and read it, and I see what’s really been hiding from me all along
.
”

Charles looked at me and said, “I believe you can do this. You just need to believe the same thing.”

Charles and I spent the better part of the next hour and a half talking about life and reality. I honestly don’t know what happened during that
time
, but Charles made me want to dig deep down within myself and bring out my best again.
There was something about that co
nversation that made me realize
not only
that
I could do this
, but I had to. I had no choice
but to at least try
.

My Las Vegas weekend ended, and
I returned home
. The days that followed were filled with recollections of my conversation with Charles, and I could not seem to shake the feeling that it was time to do something about the path my life was taking. Of all the things Charles and I had talked about, two
specific
parts
were
called
to
my attention, over and over again.

I can still hear his words as if they were spoken just yesterday, “If you try to do only for yourself, you’ll only get so far in life. If you reach out to touch other people, you can fix your own soul…”

I was also very intrigued by Charles claim that I had anger towards
something or
someone
,
but
I had no idea
w
ho
.
I was interested to learn
if I really could identify this,
through
writing, as
he
suggested;
h
owever, there was also a very significant part of me that was afraid to try any of this. What if I
did
face my fear
,
and I could not conquer it? What if I failed at this
,
as I had at every other step of the way to that point
? I
felt like this was my last hope
,
and if this failed
,
I woul
d
have nothing left to hold on to and
nothing
worth holding
on for.

These were the thoughts that invaded my every waking moment
for days
.
U
nlike
the
many other
thoughts that had worked their way into my mind over the last t
hree
years
, these invaders were
n
o
t unwelcomed. These thoughts offered a glimmer of hope.

Late one night
after work
, I was in
my
bed
, wide
awake
,
and just staring at the ceiling fan whirling ab
ove me. I could only think of my most recent panic attack,
which occurred at work earlier that night
,
and nothing else.  After conceding to the fact that I was not going to be able to fall asleep, I found myself in the kitchen with two sleeping pills in my hand. That very moment was
when
my epiphany
came
. All of my thoughts, good and bad, collided
,
and I realized, for the first time, exactly what I needed to do. It was almost is if
that magical
light switch had
finally
been turned on.
I needed to face my fears, and I knew
exactly
where I was going to begin.

As I looked at the pills in my hand, I remembered the journal I had written every day while I was in Afghanistan.
I realized then that the best way to look towards the future was to have a better understanding of
my own
past.
I knew
exactly where
the journal was
,
buried in
an old
footlocker
in the back corner of my
garage
.
I was about to
take Charles
’
advice and
begin writing
once more
, but I
knew the place to start was by reviving old memories
, no matter how painful
they may be
.
That is how I came to be on the cold cement floor of my
garage, reading an old journal
into the late hours of the night.