In this spoken‑word poem, Antonio Matta delivers a raw, first‑person confession that maps a lifetime of compounded trauma, abuse, and loss. He recounts being motherless, abandoned, sexually assaulted, and psychologically violated by caregivers, while also describing chronic economic hardship, homelessness, and the erosion of his professional identity by the COVID‑19 pandemic and AI displacement. The poem chronicles a relentless cycle of self‑sabotage, social anxiety, suicidal ideation, and feelings of unworthiness, juxtaposed with fleeting moments of hope, chosen‑family support, and a yearning for redemption. Throughout, Matta reflects on the paradox of being addicted to his own suffering, the weight of existential loneliness, and the desperate desire to persist despite believing his best is never enough. The piece ends with a tentative resolve to keep trying, acknowledging the uncertainty of whether any future change will materialize.
Chapters
Take away a mother, a motherless child deprived of a father, a bastard, premature, neurodivergent runt, emotionally and physically abused throughout childhood development, psychologically raped by a foster caregiver, sexually assaulted at every pivotal milestone of my life even as I neared 40, a traumatic birth, a traumatic upbringing, traumatic toxic relationships, traumatic suicide attempts, traumatic economic roller coasters, trusting all the wrong people, betrayed by all the supposedly right people, finding myself over and over only to be lost again and again, gaining so much materially and losing it all accidentally, but cosmically and karmically on purpose. From homeless to penniless, from powerless to hopeless, adopted by a chosen family with vows of devotion and unconditional regard and respect, who have abandoned me as if I've vanished off the face of the earth, left desolate by the wayside on the shore of solitude with only a school of thought and a new surrogate family connected through divine light and one quintessential spirit all in one. But who knows me here? Who wants to take the time? Who am I to even matter? I'm not worthy. Once financially secure and stable, but foolishly and irresponsibly watched my fiscal earnings fall deep into the aftermath of COVID and the Armageddon of artificial intelligence that swooped in and made my life's dream and profession practically obsolete. Disregarding my natural intelligence, the state of my current affairs finally confirms my once humorous claims that I'm an intelligent idiot. Now, alone in a studio apartment, held hostage by social anxiety that prevents me from leaving its walls, and unable to fund the most suitable accommodations to carry me regularly to a place where I can sip from the cup of wisdom, serving the truth and reality checks most needed to build my spirit man at institute instead of a psychiatric institution where I feel I belong because of the intrusive thoughts that invade my living space and most private part, my mind, with suicidal and self-harm ideations. I don't dare act on them or I will never know with certainty if my life and who I am were meant to be a failure forever or if there is a chance I can change and evolve. But then again, who would know the difference? The loneliness crowds around me more than a congested Times Square on New Year's Eve. I want to give up because I've been down this road of wanting better, motivated to do better, doing better, and then plummeting into the abyss of failure, self-pity, sabotage, and hopelessness, giving birth to a new child of renewed hope and desire for a brighter day and change, only for the insidious cycle to begin all over again. I'm so sick of it. So close to the truth that it burns. Third degree. Masterful words spoken to me through booming amplifiers of how people suffer for decades, doomed to repeat the undesirable mistakes until their grave because they are not connected to their lives. That hit home because hearing someone talk to me without talking directly to me was divine intervention. I'm doing the best I can, but as my life has shown historically, my best isn't good enough. I'm addicted to my suffering, to the pain, and I need rehab. When I think of all the times I thought I was heading right and going to make the difference, I need to improve my life and well-being and was only let down by getting in my own way, falling, failing, and fornicating with my sadomasochistic nature. I feel like I'm wasting the time of everyone who has ever cared, does care, or will have any concern for me. What proof do I have that I'll be anything better than a pathetic loser at some point in life, even if I have to wait another 40+ years? There's too much uncertainty, and that breeds unbearable anxiety. I find it so hard to love myself Despite my attempts, I feel like such a waste. I'm flawed, damaged, dysfunctional, hurting, lonely, afraid, depressed, hopeless. The problem and the solution. The screwed up paradox of my existence. I'm below rock bottom, suffocating now in the arteries of the minds of being, and would give it all if I had something to be at rock bottom. I'm accumulating energy, but I have no assurance that these perpetual second chances I've been graciously given for the last 16,000 64 days since my birth will bring me any closer to ascension and change. But I'm stuck. If I give up, I'll never know if a possibility will ever become actuality. So I'm here. I'll do my best each day until the days are no more.
