Boy Behind The Veil: A Mental Health Odyssey

in #childhood4 years ago

sad boy.jpg

a bad boy

yet, here was the
good child
the perfect boy

not a perfection of
pride
but the exquisiteness
of a nature
creation

not of his own doing
just the smiling face
of innocence

but the little boy
in desperation the little
boy
had to hide his purity

this little boy had
to take the lead role
in a play of fiction
actually

he had to be the bad boy
though he never was
any such thing

he was never overtly bad
no hellion no committer
of destruction

but to his own self

it was all where reality
seemingly in
a world
after all
that he can control
that he can create

to suit how things have to be
need to be

but it has been so strong
gaining power over half of a
century

replacing the real boy
with the suitable(?)
acceptable(?) boy

his momma told him
how bad he was
she is momma so
what she says must be true
has to be true
mommas do not lie
do they

it comes in
fits and bits and pieces
clarity
that is

it is truly rare
like the sun peeking out
of a hole in months of
dark cloudy skies

just once
just now
the clarity comes
the air tastes different
energy increases
and a feeling of wellness
appears

the glimpse
the sun
real me
okay me

just a peek
through the clouds

but why
why do i hide
in the grey
why is this my preference
it makes no sense

i feel me
good me
in brief clarity
but even in just a glimpse
is wholeness
purity

i know it is there
but i hide it
all the time
why

the clouds
the cloak of grey
i pulled over me
a long time ago
to cover up the good
little boy

he is not allowed to be seen
must play a role of
the not good son

the clouds
the grey clouds
were never a place to hide
or were they
oh my god
they were

i hid good me
true me there
there he would be safe
there he would be shielded
from the mean old hag

be what she says you are
the pure me is safe
he cannot be attacked
because she can not see him
she thinks she destroyed him

she purposefully did that
because she was sick
she was unstable
mentally so

and then here comes little me
first born
easy target
helplessly alone with her
while dad is off to work
and then meetings
he did not want to be around
her either

but he left me
with her
everyday all day
what could i do
nothing

as an inmate cannot walk through
metal bars
a boy
mentally imprisoned
cannot escape either

and he goes through
his childhood
all his growing up years
in jail

yeah he played with his friends
and rode countless miles on
his bicycle
spent idyllic summers
at his grandparents
beach house
seemed to be living a normal
boys life

even though he was free
he was not
he is not
his real self was hidden away
could not be revealed

he lived a false life
doing what other kids did
but it was not him doing them
it was the actor him
the fake him
the stand in

so yes
he was fucked up
is fucked up
fucked up mommas
produce fucked up sons

it is said that sons learn
from their moms
woe to the ones born to her
three sons
all three divorced
one twicely so

the little boy
has hiked the years
with a backpack of pain
heavy with the grey clouds

and now he is
social security retired
the pack straps
cut into his shoulders
so what
he quit noticing
after a while

he did and he did not
he does and he does not
it has been a battle
a perfect conflict
living a lie
and hiding in that
hiding in that
or hiding something in that
hiding himself in that

how to come out
how to stretch open the
glimpse of sun
the opening and step through it
cause if i step out
leave the back
of grey clouds curtain
then this grey will disappear
i will stand nakedly exposed
for the first time
since i hid me away

if i could do this
all the negative will go away

do not want hear how life is hard
and there will still be problems
no there will not
i know
that comes with grey clouds
and they will go away
burned off like fog
into nothingness
by the yellow sun

the mind is the key
and that is what i had to protect
just by instinct i knew
what to do
though it set me up
for a life of hurt
as sloshing through very wet mud
in heavy rubber boots
sloshing and slopping along and along

i paid the price
i killed my emotions
i killed my caring
even love i had to fake

but real me
somehow
fed me through the veil

i do not know
sparks of hope
remembrance of real me
so that i wasn’t totally lost
because controlled real me
is security
and if i am lost
real me is lost

so all of the days
some 23,000 of them
have been all conflict
a battlefield of the mind
war on the plains of thought

fake me
functioning while
true me observed
the observer and the faker
the faker and the protector

i am weary of it now
i have to wonder
why continue

can i let real me out now
can i end the game

as i stop the pain
notice i ask can i instead of may i
because there is no one to grant
any such permission

can i
yes

only fear holds me back

what scares me about finally
stepping aside
and allowing real me to be in charge
i am afraid for him

but i need not be

he is fine
he is the real deal
he can handle anything

to him
there are no challenges
no problems
nothing scary
he just goes with the flow

he knows what is what

he is real peace.

(Author’s notation: I have transcribed this from the hand written version. Your writer, here, has been going through some mental gymnastics lately regrading a health problem having to do with his heart. This story is typed out here just as it bubbled up within the author, in it’s staccato nerve-synapsing form. I sought not and did not edit it with proper punctuation, conjunctions, etc. This is my meager attempt to reflect the actual process that took place. Thank-You for reading.)

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