The Reward of Not Knowing: A Hero's Inward Journey

THE

REWARD

OF NOT KNOWING

A Hero’s Inward Journey

ALEXANDER DEMETRIUS

Copyright © 2012 Alexander Demetrius.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Edited by James D. Jackson

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5964-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5966-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5965-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918211

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/19/2023

Contents

PART I Heeding the Call

CHAPTER I: What’s in a Name

CHAPTER II: A Prism of Personas

CHAPTER III: The Laughing Academy

PART II Departure

CHAPTER IV: Leaving the Nest

CHAPTER V: Living the Dream

CHAPTER VI: A Friend In Deed

PART III Initiation

CHAPTER VII: The Webs We Weave

CHAPTER VIII: Wisdom of the Ages

CHAPTER IX: Moving On Up

PART IV The Return

CHAPTER X: Keeping A Promise

CHAPTER XI: Wisdom In Wandering

CHAPTER XII: The Divine Mother

AFTERWORD

PART I

Heeding the Call

CHAPTER I:

What’s in a Name

In the stillness of morning, sunlight cast a warm glow upon our kitchen table. Mother and I sat together, panning over my birth certificate: a secret lay concealed within its folds. With a purposeful glint in her eyes, she asked me to try and find one detail within it that stood out to me. My gaze fell upon the spelling of my last name, distinct from that of my father’s, and an unspoken question lingered in the air.

I leaned in, eager to unravel this mystery that had subtly shaped my identity. Her face softened, and with a tender smile, she plainly confessed that altering the spelling of my name hadn’t been a mere whim or casual decision. Instead, she had intentionally chosen to redefine my name, forging a fresh path that diverged from my father’s side of the family. Her motivation was rooted in a deep belief in my individuality and the significance of charting my own unique journey.

This seemingly small adjustment was on par with who my mom was at her core. It spoke volumes about her unwavering love and deep desire for me to be liberated from the constraints of predefined expectations. She wanted my name to reflect my own choices, my own experiences, and the person I was destined to become.

As the weight of her words settled within me, I realized the extent of her love and the depth of her commitment to my well-being. The altered spelling became a symbol of empowerment, a reminder that I held the reins of my own destiny. It liberated me from the shackles of the past, urging me to embrace authenticity and forge a legacy that was uniquely mine.

At the time of this revelation, however, I was about sixteen and going through a rebellious phase. Only it wasn’t a period of skipping class, getting dreadlocks, or even running around with misfits. Instead, I was struggling with the thought of leaving home, quite possibly for good.

My mother suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), otherwise known as Multiple Personality Disorder. This affliction resulted from abuse and trauma she had experienced during childhood, brought about by her own mother. But at the onset of her symptoms, little had been known about the disorder, leading doctors to frequently misdiagnose her as bipolar. Living with her was like playing identity roulette, and nearly every day became an exercise in expectation management.

Amid this unsettling landscape, my mother eventually introduced me to the world of hypnotherapy. During my adolescence, I learned how to imitate her hypnotherapist and together, we would embark on countless profound hypnosis sessions that brought forth fleeting moments of positivity. But throughout our day-to-day lives, her more aggressive personas acted out erratic behavior that brought about constant confusion and turmoil. Once their appetites for disruption were satisfied, they would lay low until it became time to create chaos all over again.

Endeavoring not to disturb her fiercest personalities had me walking on eggshells for years. As a result, internal conflicts started to manifest within my body as tension and depression. Overwhelm and frustration transformed my emotional state into a turbulent battleground. It felt as if an invisible weight pressed relentlessly upon my shoulders, seeking to suffocate my very being. The raging storm of my emotions cast a gray filter over my perception of reality.

The world outside might have been vibrant and inviting but, to me, it morphed into a distorted canvas. Colors seemed to lose their luster, fading into muted shades of gloom. Even my mom’s familiar face appeared distant and inaccessible. Her kind expressions, which I had loved as a child, were now shrouded in an impenetrable haze. In the mirror, I could see how my gaze, once filled with curiosity and wonder, was now turned inward, clouded by a veil of melancholy.

Time itself also seemed to warp under the weight of this punishing internal turmoil. Moments spent contending with her various personas stretched into agonizing eternity, shortening each breath while amplifying every heartbeat. The rhythm of life quickly became an oppressive symphony of dissonance, each note reverberating within my fragile psyche.

The world’s details, which I had once noticed and cherished, receded into the background. The subtle beauty of nature’s creations started to go unnoticed, eclipsed by the overwhelming darkness within. My perspective steadily narrowed over time, and I could only fixate on my internal struggle, blinding me to the small joys that once offered solace.

Yet, even in this suffocating state, glimmers of hope never ceased to emerge. A fleeting moment of connection, a gentle word of compassion, or an unexpected act of kindness from my mom or even a total stranger could lift me out of the dense fog, momentarily illuminating the path toward relief. These moments, however brief, reminded me that there was still a world beyond my internal anguish, awaiting rediscovery.

Still, existing within the grip of that tension and depression inevitably skewed my view of the world so much, it became a distorted reflection of my inner turmoil. From a very young age, I was already faced with the challenge of navigating through this fog, constantly searching for the faintest beacon of light that could possibly guide me toward understanding, healing, or even just the restoration of my connection to the world itself.

But whenever my mom would experience occasional moments of clarity, there was no one else I’d rather have by my side. Though I relied heavily on her as a child, she steadily became more codependent over time, leaving me to assume the parental role – a classic case of the blind leading the blind. My degree of psychological bondage didn’t even become apparent until I finally mustered enough courage to threaten to put some distance between myself and her. Beforehand, it was as if we had both built our own prison, cohabitating like a pair of cozy schizophrenics. As both caretaker and prisoner of this unsettling reality, I could never imagine leaving, much less perceiving it as a form of imprisonment.

Nestled on the east side of San Antonio, Texas, my childhood home stood on an acre of land, positioned nearly the full length of a football field from the road. A gravel horseshoe driveway offered both convenience and a touch of rustic appeal. Entering the property on one side and exiting on the other, the driveway served as a pathway toward the heart of the house.

To the right of the property, commanding attention with its majestic presence, stood a magnificent pecan tree. Its sprawling branches provided a natural canopy that cast shade over a vast area below. I often found solace by climbing up to the sturdiest branches to sit while allowing my feet to dangle freely in the air.

Amidst the vastness of the property, a few mesquite trees added a touch of wildness to the landscape. Their gnarled trunks and delicate leaves reminded me of my mom’s resilient spirit: a mixture of brute strength and fragility. Interspersed throughout the land, several elm trees stood tall as their branches reached toward the sky, offering a sense of tranquility as their leaves danced with the wind.

The house stood as a modest yet majestic single-story edifice, spanning just over 1500 square feet. Its outer walls were a tapestry of craftsmanship, textured with masterfully manipulated stucco mimicking the rustic charm of large stones stacked atop one another. This feature radiated an enduring elegance that merged seamlessly with the picturesque natural environment, creating a beautiful symbiosis between architectural design and artistry.

Serving as the property’s eyes to the world stood tall glass panel windows that punctuated the front facade of the house. These windows, much like silent guardians, offered an unobstructed view of the surrounding landscape, inviting the soothing morning sunlight and the tranquil evening hues into the heart of the home.

Further enhancing the house’s unique charm was a green rectangular stained-glass window in the living room, near ceiling height. Its vivid color radiated across the room as the sun’s rays filtered through, casting a kaleidoscope of light and shadow that added a dash of serenity to the atmosphere.

Anchored to the front of the house was a spacious concrete patio where I earned a salary of 50¢ per week by sweeping it clean, a small fortune in the mind of a young child. The patio served not only as a functional space but also as a testament to my earliest ventures into responsibility and the rewards that came with it.

Together, these elements made our home appear like an idyllic retreat on the outside, while chaos and strife unfolded almost daily within its walls.

There wasn’t even a secondary parental figure to lean on for support, as my father never lived with us. There were, however, vivid memories of him enduring his fair share of verbal assaults over the phone anytime my mom would dissociate into one of her brutal personas. But because little was known about DID at the time, he could never make sense of her sporadic outbursts.

On one occasion, my father pulled into our driveway for what was supposed to be a routine stopover to pick up my older brother and me for a weekend visit. We were roughly seven and five. But as our father began to approach the house, my mom was already standing on the patio as if waiting for something to occur. Suddenly and without hesitation, she pulled out a pistol from behind her back, pointed it skyward, and fired off one round. I distinctly remember flinching from the loud boom as my brother and I watched this scene unfold from a nearby window. Our dad made a sudden about-face, frantically ran back to his car, and sped off, never to return. Their divorce soon followed.

The divorce always seemed like such a tragic occurrence to me. Musically speaking, they were the proverbial perfect match. She composed the songs while my father wrote the arrangements. They even played with some of the biggest orchestras in San Antonio and Mexico City! Nevertheless, my mother always maintained that my father’s lack of vision was to blame for the ultimate demise of their music careers. Her mental disorder – coupled with memory loss – wreaked havoc on all their endeavors.

The memory loss was the result of a car accident that occurred during her first marriage. Her husband was a special education teacher with aspirations of becoming an attorney. Though their combined income was quite modest when they first married, their fortunes would quickly change.

Like many who lived through the Great Depression, my mother’s parents were extremely frugal, building up considerable savings over the years. When they passed, my mother inherited a large sum of money that she used to purchase a few investment properties while also putting her husband through law school. With his law degree, he secured a respectable position with the US government. They eventually had two daughters who, from a young age, traveled alongside them on trips abroad, as he was frequently called away for work.

The car accident responsible for her long-term memory loss occurred during a trip to Istanbul. As my mother told it, shortly before the accident, she was at a lavish ball with some high-ranking military brass. She saw her husband flirting with a woman across the crowded ballroom floor, which infuriated her to no end. She immediately stormed over to confront the two of them before making a hasty withdrawal. The next thing she remembered was being airlifted by a military helicopter to a nearby hospital, with no memory of how she got there or what transpired in the interim.

While she was recovering back in the States, her husband introduced her to the man who would later father my brother and me. His name was Luis, and he was a musician who played the tenor saxophone in his own orchestra by night while writing musical arrangements for other orchestras by day. As the story goes, my mother’s husband employed my father as a musical coach. His primary job was to help restore her piano-playing capabilities, which had been on the decline since the accident.

However, she was taken aback when a petitioner served her with divorce papers alleging an affair with Luis. Given her highly unreliable memory, she sought the guidance of her attorney, who suggested that she marry Luis. According to the attorney, once the child custody dispute began, it would be advantageous for her to already be in a committed relationship, thereby exhibiting stability.

Armed with the advice of her trusted friend and attorney, she married my father while always maintaining that this decision was strictly business. Aside from son of a bitch and bastard, our mother never exchanged any sentimental terms of endearment with our father. From my earliest memory, she always referred to him only by his first name, Luis. As a result, I never thought to call him anything other than that, either. Father, Dad, or even Papa just weren’t in the cards for him. Even so, I still felt an inner sense of belonging, pride, and reverence toward that man, son of a bitch or not.

At the onset of the divorce, my brother and I were still in elementary school when we were placed in a local children’s shelter. While the legal separation was adjudicated over the course of a year or so, we would be forced to reside with complete strangers. I never understood why our parents were separating or why we couldn’t just stay at home with our mom. The details surrounding that phase of life were never made clear to me – not to mention that I never cared to investigate further.

As young boys, there was no other choice but to accept this dramatically different living arrangement. The day we were taken into custody, my brother was visibly upset, crying almost uncontrollably. Growing up alongside my older brother was like navigating a labyrinth of emotions, with frustration being a constant companion. From an early age, I assumed the role of caretaker, thrust into the delicate dance of mediating between my mother and my brother, who bore the weight of a learning disability that set him apart. His education was marked by the segregated halls of special education classes, further accentuating the gulf between his world and mine.

But our strained relationship with our mother cast the longest shadow. As a referee in their ongoing battles, I grappled with a conflicting sense of responsibility and helplessness. Each argument felt like a storm brewing within our home, with me caught in the eye, desperately trying to restore calm.

Amidst this tumultuous dynamic, the specter of my brother’s epileptic seizures loomed, a constant source of anxiety. Their unpredictable nature and ability to strike at any time, any place, filled me with a heightened sense of vigilance. I became acutely aware of the vulnerability of his existence, a fragility that echoed through my own being.

Yet, it wasn’t just the seizures that weighed heavily on my shoulders. My older brother’s inability to contribute to our household chores left me shouldering the burden alone. I felt like a lone wolf, navigating the complexities of daily life while carrying the weight of responsibilities meant for two. The frustration of shouldering this unequal load seeped into the very fabric of my being, a silent outcry for support that never materialized.

Amid this intricate web of emotions, I learned resilience and self-reliance. It forged an indomitable spirit within me, even as I longed for a sense of normalcy that always seemed just beyond my reach. So while my brother continued to fall apart, I just sat quietly in the chair beside him, attempting to shed as few tears as possible. My fear of embarrassment from crying in front of strangers was subdued by a stronger influence. I truly didn’t want to disappoint my mother, who had always stressed the importance of exhibiting self-control regardless of the situation.

Therefore, concealing my emotions became a habitual coping mechanism, a mask I wore to hide my constant disappointment at being dealt an unfavorable hand in life. Little did I know that, as time passed, my suppressed emotions would gather strength, demanding to be acknowledged and released, an unstoppable force rising to the surface.

This struggle for inner control reflected a stark contrast to the orderliness of my external environment at the children’s shelter, where the layout of our room exuded an air of sterile efficiency. It was meticulously organized, with rows of twin beds neatly arranged on either side of a central aisle. The room felt more like an institution than a warm and inviting home.

As I walked down the aisle, I couldn’t help but notice the pleasant yet sterile odors lingering in the air, reminiscent of the citrusy aromatics commonly associated with commercial-grade cleaning products. On one end of the room, a door led to the central foyer, while on the opposite end, another door opened into an outdoor common area. The girls and boys had separate sleeping quarters, mirroring each other in design and layout. It was a place where children of all ages, races, and backgrounds were brought together, forming a diverse and unique community.

One evening, in the dimly lit boys’ dormitory, the atmosphere was filled with whispers of mischief and anticipation. A few of the boys, seemingly fueled by a sudden burst of energy, instigated a spontaneous pillow fight, igniting a sudden outburst of joy and laughter. The once orderly space transformed into a playground of wild abandon and exhilaration.

At first, I hesitated, my cautious nature urging me to resist the temptation. But the infectious spirit of rebellion took hold, and I couldn’t resist the lure of freedom any longer. With a mischievous grin, I grabbed a nearby pillow and joined the fray, unleashing a torrent of swings and strikes. The room erupted into chaos as pillows flung about everywhere.

At that moment, something extraordinary happened. The weight of my past, the burden of constant control, lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I felt a surge of liberation coursing through my veins. All the rules and restrictions that had governed my existence seemed to vanish, replaced by a sense of being a normal, carefree child.

As I swung my pillow with abandon, the worries and anxieties that plagued me faded into the background. Time ceased to exist as the joy of the present moment consumed me. Laughter erupted from my chest, blending with the infectious giggles of my fellow comrades in mischief.

But just as our jubilation reached its peak, our assigned chaperone stormed into the room. As his stern gaze pierced through the chaos, the atmosphere shifted abruptly from one of exhilaration to one of apprehension and guilt. We froze in our tracks, pillows mid-swing.

Although our revelry had been cut short, the memory of that fleeting moment lingered. It was a taste of what it meant to be free, to let go of inhibitions, and to simply be a normal, happy kid. From that day forward, I would carry the memory as a reminder that even amidst adversity, moments of unbridled joy and freedom can exist, if only I dared to embrace them.

For whatever reason, he sent everyone back to bed except for me. He escorted me outdoors, where we were both cast into the dark of night.

As I stood with my back against the wall, he peered sternly into my eyes and said, Out of everyone here, I’m the most disappointed in you for taking part in all this!

His assertion absolutely devastated me, particularly because I would have all night to think about it before eventually falling back to sleep. Why was he holding me to a higher standard than all the other boys?

As his words echoed in my mind, I became burdened with a sense of relentless scrutiny. It seemed that wherever I went, whatever path I traversed, I couldn’t escape the shadow of heightened expectations.

Why was I held to a higher standard than my peers? What was it about me that invited such unwavering scrutiny? Was it my innate abilities, my perceived potential, or simply a misguided perception that set me apart? These questions gnawed at my thoughts, spinning a web of self-doubt and introspection. I sought solace in the darkness of night, a sleepless observer of my own shortcomings, grappling with the unfairness of it all. But the answers eluded me, drifting beyond the realms of comprehension.

Yet, as I wrestled with these doubts, I realized that this recurring pattern was not confined to a singular encounter. It was a theme woven into the tapestry of my existence. Countless others would cast their aspirations upon me, expecting more, demanding more, as if I held some secret reservoir of untapped greatness.

In the face of these relentless expectations, I grappled with a duality of emotions. On one hand, I yearned for recognition, for the validation that came with exceeding these lofty standards. On the other hand, the weight of these expectations threatened to stifle my true self, to confine me within a narrow corridor of predefined success.

Despite this inner conflict, a part of me felt that these nearly impossible standards were intended to prepare me for the difficult road that lay ahead. And though I would continue to disappoint my fair share of people along the way, a subtle shift of perspective began to take root mentally as a direct result of my continuous defeats and disappointments.

I came to understand that this burden was not a reflection of my inadequacy, but rather a projection of others’ insecurities and perhaps even their unfulfilled dreams. Their imposition of unrealistic expectations started to feel more like a testament to their own desires and aspirations, overshadowing my own journey of self-discovery and personal growth.

As I ventured forth on my path, I made a silent vow to navigate through the maze of expectations with resilience and authenticity. I would define my own measure of success, untethered by the judgments and demands of others. The pursuit of my own dreams would become my compass, guiding me toward fulfillment and self-actualization.

While I may never decipher the actual reasons behind these expectations, I would refuse to allow them to define me. I wanted to become more than the sum of others’ projections, and that night, I became hellbent on forging my own identity, carving out a space where my true potential could flourish, unburdened by the weight of impossible standards.

As the divorce proceedings dragged on, my brother and I transitioned into a series of foster homes. But as anyone who’s ever experienced foster care can attest, there are good foster homes, and then there are others. My brother and I were about to get a crash course in the others.

The first home we were transferred to was in a tranquil suburban neighborhood. The house itself was quite modest and surprisingly smaller than our family home. The exterior of the house had an unassuming facade adorned with textured beige bricks and a neatly manicured front lawn, dotted with vibrant flower beds.

Upon stepping inside, we faced a hallway lined with doors that led to the bedrooms, while the living room was located off to the immediate right of the entryway. Oddly enough, I have no memory of the remainder of the house. The room my brother and I would share had vintage posters of the iconic band Kiss and two beds that looked freshly made when we moved in. Soft natural light filtered through the sheer curtains, which cast a serene ambiance that felt inviting.

The matriarch of the home was a single mother of two teenage boys. In her presence, they were perfect little angels. Little did we know our torment would begin on the first day she left for work.

For whatever reason, they both had an immediate aversion to my brother, often subjecting him to endless name-calling or pelting him with small rocks. The treatment I received wasn’t much better. While one of the brothers hardly noticed me, the other one took far too much interest.

One day, when their mother left for work, I immediately retreated to my room to be alone. I had just laid down for a nap in the comfort of my bed, embraced by a soft, sunlit haze that filtered through the partially drawn curtains.