If I’m going to continue this journey with you all, eventually it will get grimy. When I was writing my last piece (“The Barrrr( roll your tongue)istaa”) there were things I wanted to say but couldn’t without sharing some stuff about me. I suppose it’s fair for y’all to know where the darker side of my humor comes from. From the ages of 20-30, I did not say no to anything that had to do with pleasure.
Drink? Yes
Drugs? All
Women? When I could
Many of you know this. You witnessed it. You laughed about it. Many, many of you prayed for me during my darkest times. For that, I sincerely say thank you; they were not wasted prayers or tears. Some of you may have said, “Omg, Bardin? I haven’t heard that name for ages, I figured he was dead.” You wouldn’t have been far off. But yet I breathe, by the grace of a just God who has an unending supply of mercy, Bardin Boyd, the waste of talent, speed-ball addict hasn’t died yet. In fact, I’m more alive than ever.
My life is much, much different now. God woke me up from the sleep I was in and saved me from the death I was headed for. He took my shame and made it a jewel that acts as a lens through which I can see the world in a new, beautiful shade. This is only something that a completely supernatural being could do. Trust me, I’ve seen the world through the lens of every psychedelic substance I could put my hands on. This reality is far, far sweeter.
I hope you all enjoy these stories, but just so you know, sharing with y’all the last few days has been the most spiritually cleansing refresher of my soul that I could ever imagine. Therapists tried for years; all it took was a little honesty and vulnerability.
If you’re struggling, just know, life is always right over the next hill. We can always climb it today, and if needed, start over again tomorrow. So smile and breathe and find life.
Posted below are two poems. One I wrote when I was hopelessly chained to a $1500.00 a week heroin and cocaine addiction. The other is one I wrote recently. I had shown my mom “Death” after I wrote it. She couldn’t even finish it, as she looked at me through tear stained eyes, she said, “I can’t read this; it hurts too bad. I’ll read when you have hope to spread.” Tonight, when she read “Life”, she looked at me through those same tear stained eyes and said, “Now I can read, and I’m not talking about your poems. I’m talking about your life.”
I put ink on my arms to cover the scars from hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of heroin. The Third Eye Blind lyrics, pictured on my arm, tell of a different story than the one I was writing. Eventually, I decided it was time to start living the promise.
Two different lenses, changing the view, while living in the exact same world.
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