Warning: this post is honest and authentic. Read only if you’re cool with that.
Substack, you nosy nasty number of no knowledge neanderthal,
I was tagged in one of those games about writing about myself. Some people kept it real, so I couldn’t let it roll. Plus, for decades I’ve been the reliable strong silent type who keeps his mouth shut like a good closet alpha.
So, let’s do this. The funny part (to me) is some people think this means I’m depressed, bitter, angry, and other such emotions. D, this is baseline. I’m actually doing better than most times in my life, but I finally have place to exorcise my demons (these motherfuckers are doing jumping jacks). I am fearful, there’s no fearlessness here, but the greater fear is living in silence any longer.
Write about myself? Be vulnerable? The funny part is I haven’t even touched on the six or seven most upsetting events in my life. I likely will at some point. That’s all I do is bleed out, just like DJ Khaled when all he does is win. I’ve kept my mouth shut with a game face or half smile and nod since I can remember. Let’s recap: In July, I began writing on my phone. Memories I blocked out returned. I thought much of my life was normal, typical, or awkward. I guess not.
Growing up, I moved as a hobby. We’re talking four schools, four years, four major cities. I couldn’t keep friends well. I was going through much of childhood in a haze. I’ve written about some of it, but I still don’t remember how or when I was a shadow of myself. There was a time when nobody ever put a hand on me. I guess that changed at some point. I became an easy target.
I was chased with a knife, jumped at a locker, shot with a BB, assaulted by my friend’s sister’s friends, had a panic attack, was in-patient hospitalized, and that was before age 14.
I was placed in a private school (Clarence), was raped in a locker room, groomed and abused by my friend’s stepmother from ages 16 to 23, never had a date until later college, and consistently had no idea what I was doing. I already learned I was nothing, and I guess it showed.
I was great at basketball though.
Oddly enough, I never have been scammed or robbed aside from when something was put in my drink in New Jersey. I haven’t written about that yet.
I went from getting beat up and knocked around to feared. I learned to fight through pro UFC fighters who’d knock me out if I went soft (no anger — they’re my brothers). I’ve never needed to use these skills since I learned them. I somehow became a fixer, and everyone notices it now. I am asked, regularly, to handle something or do what I do. I guess I’ll do the dirty work nobody else will. I once asked a school artist working on a mural to paint a small heart above my door since everybody wants to tell me their problems.
I ended up moving four more times in as many years once I graduated high school. I disappeared a few times without a trace. I lived overseas. I learned multiple languages, and I felt more at home in certain other places than the US (France, Turkey, Colombia, Uganda, South Africa, Tanzania).
I decided enough and tried to kill myself at 24. The fucking cat stopped me, and it took a year or two to get back to decent. The other side of the hospital was/is one of the highest points of my life. I haven’t written about the times when I was younger, and maybe I won’t. I ended up finishing my master’s in special education, became endorsed in English and Social Studies, and I’ve taught all students. My focus, coincidentally or not, became students with emotional disabilities.
At age 25, I was told I had autism; this past April, after batteries of testing, I was informed it wasn’t autism but trauma-based ADHD. Around that time, I tore my Achilles (the first time), fucked up my knee, broke my spine, and began having jaw issues.
I played basketball and performed comedy once a week in the city. My marriage was in the shitter for years. My soon-to-be ex-wife helped reenforce the belief that I only mattered when I helped. I assume my fixer skills got even better. The only reason we were together so long is since she was my first girlfriend. The skills and ways you all know how to manage with others never came naturally to me. After one of our many separations, she was pregnant, and I had to uproot again. It’s been hard, and Substack is the one place I don’t have to be a silent strong silent type.
I love Jesus; with that said, there’s church trauma in there, too. I haven’t written about that yet. I’ve written very little about how my mom pulled a few and gaslighted me recently. I said for my 40th birthday last month, all I wanted was to be left the fuck alone and pretend it’s any other day. I don’t want a day to act like it’s fine when it’s not.
In August, my soon-to-be ex-wife left me in Colombia. I stayed, got very sick, and was in bed for three days where I wasn’t sure I would make it. It’s not Colombia though: I arrived sick. I wrote my first book, Too Soon et pero Too Late, in that bed.
July to August on my phone I had 800 pages. I was done with the manuscript by mid August. I really wrote it in four sittings.
Of those two books that are finished or near finished, one is me realizing what I blocked out and how I responded.
One line from the first book:
I will fall and it will hurt. It will devastate.
It might put me back. I don’t know where.
But I’ve seen worse. I’ve lived far worse.
But still, I know I will return. And not even because I want to. I can’t stop. Even when I want.
In fact, fuck it all some more. Fuck this theatre. Fuck the noise. Fuck the machine. Fuck my fears. Fuck my tears. Fuck my shame. Fuck my medication. Fuck the labels. Fuck the titles. Fuck those that enabled and
LET IT HAPPEN.
YOU KNEW THIS and you
LET
ME
BELIEVE
IT
The other book is realizing how my school put me out to pasture and why.
One line from that book is
Staff often mugged younger teachers asking who was the hottest teacher. It was a weird gossip thing, I guess. I always said Principal Gregory Melvin. They were disappointed with my answer. I said, “He walks the halls every class break, and everyone in the school knows him. That’s hot.”
***
Year ten, they asked me the same question, but they had a specific answer in mind: Colleen. I gave an assistant principal.
At lunch one day, many were really bagging on Colleen. Trading off. Alternating insults. I guess it was my turn. I was asked from which direction I would… well… I felt my stomach turn, my breathing slow, and my knuckles turn to a fist.
“It’s never okay to talk about anybody like this, especially Colleen.” I stood up, grabbed my lunch, and went to eat elsewhere. My back was to the door. When I turned around, I’ll be you’ll never guess who was there? I then avoided Colleen for a year.
***
Colleen ended up helping me get out of that school.
***
Colleen is now an assistant principal elsewhere. I sent her a coded email to see if I was crazy or if this all happened the way I thought.
What’s crazier than a coded email?
A coded response.
I was right.
One book is about memories, masculinity, how males become victims, become gaslighted, and take back their story.
The other book is about my first twelve years teaching, and how I was retconned and thrown to exile since I dared go against the grain.
I have 1500 pages finished now, two other books done, and two more books I’m working in.
I ended up here, and I’ve never felt like I actually mattered and wasn’t just a burden to drag people down. I’m so fucking grateful for so many of you, and it breaks my heart that I can’t be the real me. Though, really, Hawtorn is the real me. My life name, stuck where he is, was never me.
Anyone is welcome to go back and read older posts.
Who wants to do a Substack spring break and/or summer trip? I can’t show my face, but I have a mask. It’s not weird. Don’t make it weird.
I’d love to know what people want me to write more about. Say anything. I won’t make it weird. The worst I’ll do is say no.
One part about keeping it so real here is who ends up in my feed or whose feed I end up in. I can’t tell you how many people writing about pain end up in my feed, and I can’t tell you how many hit sub or follow who also write about pain.
I was tempted to try to make it “easier” for readers, but also, you never have to read it. I’m pretty good about advisories and trigger warnings. I may not post at all on some topics, not due to being ashamed, afraid, or worry of losing followers. Who cares. It’s since I make such compelling cases for poor choices, and even though I don’t make them like that anymore, I don’t need younger versions of myself reading it.
I’ve also decided to triple down on the darkness and discomfort. I offer no resolution or comfort, or at least, not directly. You’ll have to infer most of the time.
If you want happy, I know Disney, though Disney ripped off The Brothers Grimm, and they didn’t do castles.
So, with that being said, tell people about my book if you want me to blow the whistle. I’ve got many who escaped consequences. I’ve blown the whistle before in an anonymous virtual meeting with a pseudonym, tertiary number, email, and documents. The story ran in the paper. We also all got our raises.
All my socials, buy me a coffee, and linktree are available.
If you want me to grow, highlight words that mater, click restack, and write a comment. It’s even better if you tag one or two people.
I’ve learned how this algorithm works, but I don’t hide it. Maybe I’ll make a post on how to make the algorithm work for you. Maybe I’ll say DM me.
If you want to be hyped, promoted, or seen by the algorithm, let me know. Drop your pieces in the sub chat, DM, or below.
Also, please take my poll.
Lastly, I Fell in Love With a Prostitute Part 2 drops at noon, EST (New York).
Lined it up on my reader for when payroll comes again. You get more dosh on the digital right? When I was selling through Kindle PoD the margins were rough.
I’ve told you this several times, but I admire your integrity and honesty so much. Writing is truly your gift, and the fact that you were able to remember and write so much despite being in horrific situations (like what happened in Colombia) is truly inspiring. As for your book, I would totally purchase it if I wasn’t unemployed at the moment. But when I find a job here, I will certainly buy it.