SHun

Introduction

Alright, this is starting to get freaking ridiculous. I've been staring at a blank piece of paper for, what feels like hours, trying to find the perfect word to start the opening paragraph of a chapter that when I originally wrote this book didn't even exist. It was just a few nights ago this idea came to me, and it's been almost 10 years ago to the month when I started writing this memoir. I was in jail then, and probably more statistically probable than coincidental I'm sure, but I am back in jail, so I have 10 more years of war and sob stories to tell, which nobody probably cares about anyway, and back to my original, I didn't want to start the first sentence with "I", and I honestly don't even know what I actually wanted to say anyway. I mean I had some ideas but wasn't sure how I was going to get there, but I assure you this wasn't part of the outline, and I'm so far off track right now and basically the only thing I've accomplished so far is not starting the opening paragraph with "I". Great! Ten freaking years in the making and this is the best I could do. Fuck me! It's like I have the Midas touch, but not King Midas, his shorter, less attractive, borderline insane if you adhere to the definition of insanity as doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results, step brother that was cursed with the gift of turning nothing in to gold, but everything I touch into shit, and is/ babied like a man child because of a history of volatile behavior and "mental health" issues, step brother whose minds transcription of this first paragraph is a peephole into the inner workings of a mind that challenges me to nearly the breaking point almost every day. Welcome to my world.
​Breathe... Now that that problem's solved, the fun can begin. Every journey starts with a single step, or some bullshit like that. Within the covers of this book is a work of non-fiction. The stories and events that are told are accurate and true to the best of my recollection. It was my recent decision to keep all names and places described within this book unchanged. Much like myself, what you see, is what you get, unless I want you to believe otherwise of course, and I could fool you for a little while before the Midas in me graced us with his presence, and he eventually did... he always eventually does. But that is not the case here. Promise. Changing names would only take away from the authenticity and create more confusion, for me. Because too many times and well within my comfort zone is the art of deception, so sometimes telling the truth is much harder than just telling myself or who am I kidding, yourself, what I want me, (but really you) to believe. And after all I'm doing this for me more than anyone else. I doubt I'll even show this to anyone. After all, it's been almost 10 years to the month that I began this, or more accurately nearly 34 years in the making. Even if I do decide to show this to anyone, after 34 years there are not too many fans hanging around to watch the grand finale. This is for me, (kind of). After reading and finding a sordid form of inspiration from books such as: Tweak, A Million Pieces, Scar Tissue, I hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Beautiful Boy, Leaving Dirty Jersey, and Go Ask Alice; I figured if they could write a couple hundred pages of their bad days, why couldn't I? Plus, a few years later Megan, my therapist from one of my many attempts at rehabilitation, would briefly encourage me to use my writing as a therapeutic tool. An outlet. A confession. A resurrection. A means to clean my conscience... Or conscious, shit which one is it, I get them mixed up every freaking time.
​Let this serve as a warning to any potential viewers. Much like the legal disclaimer in the first page or two of any published book, let this serve as mine. The events and situations discussed within the covers of this book, and from here on out, although at times are graphic and disturbing, are all true. This is not a dramatization. This book is not a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are neither the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely not coincidental. This is as honest as I can be, with exception. Because if I were to let all of my skeletons out of my closet... Who would keep me company?
​As much time and thought I took in writing this, the outline I created originally was sparse and rough. What I thought was complete direction and careful re-creations of events were void of much of the conversation and personal connection that created the impacts so significant in my life it made the final cut in my life story. Many of the stories will be elaborated on and re-enacted with much more depth and perception upon the official rough draft. Many more occurrences and situations will be made in addition as they either hadn't occurred yet or were omitted due to lack of connection to the original content. But I am going to write this the only way I know how and pretty much the way I do everything else in my life. Hard and fast. Finesse and subtlety are two traits that I have yet to embrace. I'm not the guy to make a job look pretty, but I am the guy who can usually get the job done. This book will probably end up the sight. Not impressive, but if it's the best I can do it will have to suffice. Average, at best. I wrote a poem entitled that. Reminder to look for that poem to include in EMOTIONS chapter. If things appear out of chronological order, out of place, out of relation to what it accompanied in pretext or context, just keep going. Hopefully, at some point, a picture will be painted and some level of comprehension will introduce itself. Maybe you can understand me a little better. Hopefully you can't identify with me too much. Shit, I'm rambling. I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore. It works for Dean Koontz though, why not me? What the hell, if I'm going to be honest I was tweaking when I wrote this. Just a little bit though. This is how my mind works when I'm on this shit. Re-read the first few pages and see if they make any sense to a mostly sober mind. P.S. I have a prescription for marijuana so I'm not faded, I'm medicated. Plus, honestly this barely affects me like that anyway. It's not what I remember from high school. Maybe Dean Koontz is a tweaker. Probably Dean Koontz is not a stoner. Who am I kidding? He's a successful and accomplished writer. Me, this is how I go through most days and leads to exacerbation most nights. Where there are so many thoughts racing through my mind with unbiased and revolving focus on past, present or future events, both relevant and irrational. Keeping up with me can sometimes or eventually create hopeless exhaustion. Understanding me can often be exacting. But beneath the chaos lurks an eerie order, right Aaron? The more I think about what I want to say and how I want to say it will completely disrupt and distort the authentication and possible revelations of what has come to be my pitiful and pathetic life. So I will not pay much attention to what I am saying or how I'm saying it. I will not completely censor my vocabulary or attempt to spare the feelings of those who may be included in these pages. Because in all honesty, if you happened to have crossed paths with me and were involved in any way shape or form to anything portrayed in this book, the damage has already been done. In most cases apologies have most likely been given. Sometimes it seems like apologizing is all I ever do. And mostly they are genuine and usually they have nothing but deep regret and the best intentions behind them. How does that saying go? The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Now that's prophetic! I wish I could come up with shit like that! But other times, the apologies come from simply telling you anything to get you to shut up or to get what I want. Either way, those words are always ready to materialize either by ritual or habitual occurrences. So lost right now. Focus up. I can tell you that there will be little in the form of rhyme or reason. I will say what comes to mind. I will focus on events that come to mind just long enough to re-create how the event transpired or the impact and impression it may have left. Depending on when and where I am writing will probably have a significant role on what makes the final cut. There is currently one more pending court case that could potentially take me away from my writing or alter the direction of the final chapters from minutely to potentially permanently. That makes sense in my head? Let's just say, after years of contemplation and 34 years of trials and tribulations I am ready to either give this project some sort of effort other than research or let it pass as one more thing to add to the list of things that could have changed my life... for the better. What do I do with it then? What is the goal? What is the reason? Is it for personal closure so I can move forward with my life free from the bondage that has been the cause of so much restriction and suffocation? Is it for me to share with as much honesty and openness I can allow with the few people left in my life whom, although I have undoubtedly damaged and disappointed time and time again, have still held on to some shred of hope for whatever reason. Maybe they can finally gain some insight and understanding as to what made me who I am. How I really think and feel inside. Or that none of what I've become or how I feel from a negative aspect is their fault. Or that I'm sorry, again. Dammit there it is again. Apologies. Your name here, I deeply regret and am truly sorry for everything I put you through. You didn't deserve any of what you have seen, what you have heard, or what I have put you through and the lasting effects it has had on your life. You didn't deserve it and I don't deserve you. You deserve much better than me. That should take care of the sincerities. Do you believe me? Does it feel genuine? If not, it's because the emptiness overshadows the sensitivity. If either one of these reasons reach any level of fulfillment than I could consider this an enlightening and sobering experience that was long overdue and highly anticipated. It would finally bring peace and resolution to a life of chaos and confusion. I'm sure to most, this would be the fairy tale ending. The justification for immeasurable heartache and pain, both given and received, for myself and those around me. This should be enough. But it's not. It never is. For some unknown reason, maybe I'm a megalomaniac or fantasize about grandiosity to overcompensate for my repeated failure. Maybe it is just a reoccurring and unfounded sense of entitlement. I want this book to be picked up by one of the publishers I've taken a mental note of to send the completed version to. Publishers that have already published books similar to mine that I've read, and honestly, some that I don't think are as good as mine. I mean, I don't know what a writer gets for royalties, but if I were to earn $1 a copy and sold a meager million copies... That would make me a millionaire. I would finally have the financial security and independence that even I could maintain, for a year or two before stupid Midas destroys it. After a small cross country book tour with Q & A's, lectures, signings, and a movie deal that would bring life story to the big screen. Now, I haven't put much thought into who would portray me, no I'm not that chauvinistic. But I have already selected some scenes that, when re-enacted, would look sick on the big screen.
​Seriously though, my expectations are low but my imagination in vivid. Is this how I always feel? Does this add to the depression and take me so out of touch with reality? Maybe this is a revelation. The beginning of an explanation or solution. Whatever it is, this is how I think. This is how I feel. This is why I am the way I am.