Skip to content

Just a Boy & His Subaru

On a Journey to Find Themselves

Tag Archives: purpose

The simple action of sitting down to write this piece makes me feel exhausted. It makes me feel crazy, out of it; I’m nothing like myself anymore. But it has to be done, it has to come out or I’ll implode like every other member of my bloodline.

I’m tired.

As long as I’ve avoided admitting that to myself or anyone else, the reality is that life has me beat down right now. And to be even more correct, it has me beat down further than it ever has before. Even though I know deep down that life is a series of peaks and valleys, I’ve also never seen a valley so low and so never-ending.

But you know that a king is only a man
With flesh and bones, he bleeds just like you do

Four months ago things were better. And worse. There were things I didn’t know, but also things I did, each balancing the other to maintain a sense of normal. For instance, I didn’t exactly love my job, and I knew that, but I was becoming content in the fact that it paid the bills without much worry. On the other hand, it’s not like I was wishing stage four metastatic lung cancer on my mother.

After leaving to be with my mother and almost immediately losing my job at a company that cared about function over family, I thought our blood family was stepping up to the plate. My mother’s brother elected to step up to the plate and get her back and forth to appointments; to make sure she didn’t want while I went back to Denver to figure out what to do with my belongings, my cat, etc. It didn’t take long until the ‘burden’ of that was passed along to his wife, and her discontentment was obnoxiously clear right out of the gate.

In the short time that I was back, I found a job as a server with some amazing coworkers who quickly became the support system (and distraction) I so desperately needed. I was working as much as possible to make enough money to allow for my extended absences as I anticipated traveling back and forth to help mom. Being 14 hours away makes it difficult to drop everything and rush back, and it goes without saying that there is some planning involved.

When the time came, my mom’s brother and his wife (I’d call them my uncle and aunt, but then again it’s clear we’re not family) insisted I return right away. Someone needed to be with my mother 24/7, she was slipping away before their eyes, and they, “couldn’t do this alone.” Once I arrived I realized that they had stretched the truth, lied, filled in the blanks, whatever it took for them to be done and not feel guilt that they decided they were too burdened; if they couldn’t do it alone, apparently I could, because I’m the golden the child; everything hinges on me, and it is all my responsibility.

So here we are today. Many mornings I wake up feeling bitter, then immediately following comes the feeling of guilt for feeling bitter. I suppose I’d have liked if everyone was a bit more upfront about things. I’m happy I can be with my mother and help ease her mind, but I’m also pissed off that it wasn’t her choice or my choice for it to happen right now. It hurts that grown men and women (reference to age, not maturity) feel the need to lie instead of just laying it all out. It’s frustrating to me to that ‘family’ lives in the same town as my mother (a town of 400 people, 30 minutes away from the nearest gas station and 14 hours away from my home), but simply cannot be bothered. Even if I use the excuse for them that it’s the only way they know how to process, I still can’t come to peace with it.

I find myself with an outlook on life that feels like there is no way it’s coming from inside of me, as if I’ve been possessed. This, the process of writing, as I knew it would, has helped me to feel a little less crazy as I align my thoughts and feelings, but I know my work is cut out for me if I’m to shake these feelings of anger.

At the end of the day, my mother is dying, and that’s the real root here. She’s too weak to start chemotherapy, too stubborn to ask for more help throughout the day, and too proud to tell people that she’s feeling as terrible as her face and body language tell me she is. But to say it’s not all about perception would be a lie; this situation is ultimately as I choose to see it.

Be weary of the ways of the world.

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Over the years many of my peers, and even some of my professors and mentors, have suggested I write a book about my life.

Doesn’t that sound incredibly pretentious? The majority of people who sit down to write a book about their life are entirely too into themselves. (They have too much money.) So the book is really about how they had a decent childhood, lived a full high school and college-existence playing varsity sports and landed their dream career as someone who is allowed to be out of touch with reality. I’m not sure who buys these books, but I can tell you right now I’m not the only person who feels this way; I can’t be.

But then I thought, what if that’s the point? What if what everyone was trying to tell me was that I should write about my life because it’s actually quite fucked up?

You can’t honestly realize how entertaining your life is to someone else unless you’re a story teller. It just so happens that I love a good story, especially if I’m involved. (Make me the main character and I’ll pour your drink myself just to get your ear). A large part of it is my love of talking. The other, larger part, is making people laugh while I revisit my favorite memories. If I don’t revisit them, I’ll forget them, so the more I tell them, the better!

“Stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity.”

I’m in a very good place in my life right now. It hasn’t been without a few difficult months, some unexpected twists and turns, but that’s life.

As I’ve been settling into Colorado, the main question is, “What brought you here?” There’s a short answer to this that sometimes sticks and sometimes doesn’t: “I was unhappy with my life back east, so I decided to move west and start over.” Every once in awhile, naturally, people want to ask, “What was making you so unhappy out east?”

Now at first, I loathed these people. Obviously if I was unhappy, there are details I wish to skip over by generalizing my life. The problem with going into details, was that one linked to another and it wasn’t a simple singular reason. It required me to go all the way back to July when I was hit by that drunk driver (for the second time in a year and half), then my job loss, then my relationship ending.

Think about those words coming out of your mouth as you’re talking to someone you’ve just met.

“Well, I was hit by a drunk driver doing 50 mph, then I was laid off from my job, and then my partner of three years and I split up, so I just figured now was as good a time as any to pack up the car I bought right before I lost my job and start over somewhere fresh.”

Wait for the look. It always comes. They think, “Is he fucking with me right now? That kind of shit only happens in Lifetime movies.”

It’s the truth. My life is a Lifetime movie without the estrogen. (There’s some, lets be honest, just not enough to actually get picked up.)

The most common response? “Oh.. Wow. Welcome to Colorado!” That’s why I like it here.

Sometimes I get an attempt at consolation, which I do not need and have not needed since my life started to become humorous. My consolation comes from finding the laughter in my life; it comes from thinking as each twisted event as a well-written story developing right in front of me. Why not? Do you know how broken I’d be if I didn’t laugh at the stuff in my life that I’ve had no control over?

There’s no possible way someone would buy a chronological publishing of my life. What if, I said to myself in my best Jessica Fletcher voice, I wrote short little essays about events in my life that I found the most obscurely entertaining?

Yes, I admit that this is bordering on Girls material, but the sexuality of it would be a subset. And plus that bitch isn’t original. All artists steal. (Just like I stole those last two sentences.)

I don’t plan on attempting to have my stories published. I’m no English major, and really the only thing that qualifies me is my inherent ability to lead a life of twisted, dark humor.

I do, however, plan on making a little collection for myself. It will likely be put on here, so if you’re following me you’ll get a good taste of my life as I see it. In the last week, as I’ve been glued to the couch awaiting the arrival of my root canal, popping Percocet, I’ve made a short list of starting stories.

It’s not like I don’t have the time.

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,