I don’t really know what to write. I’m starting this post, knowing that I have something inside that I want to get off my chest. At the same time, I have no clue exactly what it is. I have some ideas, but I don’t know exactly what I want to say about it. I know that i’m unhappy. I’m depressed. I’ve been depressed for a long time. I think I’m probably manic depressant cause I have times when I’m ecstatic and happy, but then things can flip in an instant and I’m on the floor. I’ve always had a low self esteem. I don’t know why I’m baring this to the open internet where it can be seen by anyone, but I think that it’s important to be honest with myself above all. My blog is the best outlet I have. So, if being honest with myself means writing it down here, well, so be it.
My dad had low self esteem too. In our family growing up my dad was a stay at home dad. He took care of us. He was also manic depressant… and bipolar. As I say in my prologue, it wasn’t easy growing up. It could have been worse, but it wasn’t easy. I know my dad did the best he could with the tools he was provided, but I also know that he was never fulfilled in his life. Growing up my dad was always a ‘writer’. He was “working on writing his book” I’d be told that on many occasions, as my dad locked himself in his office with the only computer in the house. He was a poet, he was an artist, he was a writer. One day, my dad was lecturing me for something I did wrong. To put this in perspective, a lecture from my dad typically lasted for HOURS. He would go through several moods while lecturing. So it was kind of all over the place. But at one point, during this particular lecture my dad told me that he hated writing. I still don’t know why he opened up and told me this. But he told me all the same. He told me that he wrote because it’s what everyone else in his life told him he was good at. However, in his whole life there was only one thing he was proud of, his children. At over 50 years old, he never felt any pride in anything he had done other than raising 6 children. This is why he never finished writing his book.
My dad died on September 11th, 2007. Of all days, it was 9,11. One month later, on October 4th, 2007 I was in a bicycle accident and broke a total of 7 bones. Another month later, on November 5th, my grandfather died. Remember, remember, the fifth of November…. Then in December, by this time I can’t even remember the date, my younger brother was diagnosed with cancer. Yeah, 2007 sucked. Although it was over, it was really just beginning. When my dad died, I was always told by that I needed to finish his book. They didn’t know what I knew. I was given his computer so that I could finish what he had started. I searched for his writing. There was a lot of music, which I’m glad I still have, but there was no book. There was no writing, no drawings, nothing that he had started and left unfinished. Going into it, I didn’t really have high expectations; knowing what I knew. I know that the book was basically supposed to be a collection of his stories, his poetry, and other things. Things that he had put on paper in his life. I searched, but there was nothing there. He had never even started writing his book.
At 33 years old, I have started books. I have started writing at least two that I can think of right now. I know there have been more. I wrote until I got to the point that I needed some feedback, provided what I had written to others, and never heard anything back. That’s the biggest f’ck you ever. I put myself into what I wrote, gave it to people I cared about, and never got any feedback. That’s why I haven’t finished anything I’ve started writing. If my friends and family wouldn’t even ready it, why would anyone else?
I was going to go somewhere else with this, but got sidetracked by my own self. Maybe I’ll continue this thought another day.
~Nate~
