6:00PM Played guitar last night until my fingers were sore. First time I ever played with other people. It was with a couple close friends so it was really comfortable and fun. Got us talking about music, craft, life. Our little ones played around, trying to figure each other out. I delivered guru, sage Dad advice. No, two children would not be easier. It’s not a halving but a doubling. You will be doing a hundred percent more work. Don’t kid yourself.
Woke up like 7:30AM everyone was sleeping in from the late night. I went downstairs tried to wake up. Panic and despair circled the peripheries of my reality. I want to share with you the truth. The “you” of course is myself, but also my wife, my kids, and you random person who has some way found yourself here. I want to be honest with you. Make this a worthwhile exchange, but things are so complex. You try to tell one thing it veers of into a whole history.
Today will honestly go down as one of the worst days in my life. I don’t say that flippantly, or rashly. It was. If I painted the picture for you, which I don’t think I could or would, it would ruin your day too. Still the emotions, and ideas swell, and journaling and writing are my outlets, so I sit in the lab trying to make sense of it. That doesn’t even capture it. Writing is a second self, a second skin, another me. I teetered on that edge as I showered this morning, the edge of disassociation, schizophrenia. Leave yourself behind, the dark side pushed. You aren’t you. You don’t have to care. It made my soul ripple. No, I told it, I will never take that way. I will stare into the abyss. I won’t run or look away.
I think about that a lot, how I wish I could be completely honest on the page, to really capture just how magnificent and terrifying my world is. Probably your world too. I should write, thee world. Why? And how do we endure? Why are we not all screaming at the top of our lungs, why!
Maybe I will tell the true story, one day, when I am braver. Maybe I will tell you about an old woman with shaky hands, that put the glasses on her face crooked, broken like a child, maybe about Jesus’ hands and feet, maybe about the Hittites, maybe about how only the good die young…
I won’t end it like that… I love you. Yes, you. Whoever reads these words. And those that don’t too, I love you as well. I’m sorry too, that I couldn’t be there to help you when you needed it. You know you’re pretty special, and you’ve made me proud with what you’ve done with your life. I know sometimes life can be hard. We all go through it. I just hope next time you’re going through it, you remember that I love you and you’ll make it; we are more than the sum of our parts.