Return From Oz

I grew up isolated from people. This was partly due to the fact that, in rural Montana, there are few people around -- however, it was mostly due to being "mommafied", which led to believe I was the number one most special son. So when I did go to public school, I met the regular cast of characters. But, even though I thought I was the King of the World, the boys and girls who knew lot more about this world disagreed, and they made it clear to me my rank in comparison to them.

The result of this battering, both verbal and physical, was a full retreat into the wild trappings of my mind. A place that I will call 'Oz' for the sake of metaphorical generalization.

When I left for college, I had no acceptance of the disparity. Because I had discovered the fantasy-world of comic books, I had aligned myself with a notion that there was not only a career for me, but potentially fame and recognition for having developed my imagination. So I believed I had no incentive to see the world clearly.

So I cast-off on this journey, which led me ultimately to Los Angeles.

Thus began my formal adult education: A 15 year( and continuing )oddesey into reality.

At first, I relied solely on youthfulness, naivete, and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I realize now, these gifts are not what gets a person to their goals.

Rather, my charm accomplished as much as it could accomplish, and I had many wonderful adventures. It was as if the world wanted to lure me out of my shell, and it did so with tantalizing opportunities to work, to travel, and be intimate with beautiful women. The only thing even partly wrong with all of those memories, is that they came as fast as they went, and because of my mostly mental relationship to it all, the net result was nothing.

All the while, I was projecting on those events a wild fiction with plot leading to some fantastical destination of my imagination. All of it slipped through my fingers while I was counting the grains of sand.

Now I can see emptiness, it is on all sides of me. I have become well-acquainted with my ability to cast illusion on the life going on around me. Because all of that effort actually created nothing other than what was already here, life, I find myself feeling so tired of my old ways.

But alas, I have no other scripts to read -- who will I be? Who am I?

I feel...mostly sad. Sad for the great love I have received via the hearts and souls of people who are no longer in my life. I had believed my passion would lead me to their love, not away from it.

I am not berating myself. I have been foolish, but it was destined to be so -- I did not know then what I know now. I recognize that the rasberry has no idea the size of the patch until it has been plucked and taken away from the garden.

It seems I have no choice other than to learn to love myself, with the same strength and fairness that has been demonstrated by my lovers and friends of youth. I should begin by being more thankful that I have such a fine group upon which to draw examples. I was taught to be intelligent, well-spoken, athletic, ambitious, humorous, gentle, caring, strong, independent, and good-looking. With these tools, I really should be able to do something with my life.