What Makes You Happy?

What Makes You Happy

 

I haven’t written in a long time, part of me felt like it was maybe because I’ve been doing better. I haven’t been feeling as depressed. My life had seemingly come together, even if just the slightest. I always told myself that when hockey ended, I was going to become an author, a literary wizard; I was going to write every day now that I had a bit more time. Well, hockey’s been over for about six weeks, and I am just starting to write at 10:56PM Easter Sunday.

Sure, I’ve been busy with things in the meantime, but if anyone knows me, busy, is not an excuse. If you want something bad enough, you’ll find the means to do it. Busy doesn’t exist in my world. It’s not because I don’t ever do anything, in fact, that’s probably quite the opposite. I probably have more going on than most folk. Actually, I could almost guarantee that. I just don’t feel the need to let everyone know how I preoccupied I am. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. It makes me sick when people say they are too busy.

Why? I remember years ago, my sister tried to chat with me through Facebook, through simple Internet chat… and, I recall looking at the messages, the message read something along the lines of hey, call me when you got some time, want to know how college is going. I looked at it, thought, meh; I’ll call her later… I am busy. I never called her. And, I don’t know if I ever talked to her again. She committed suicide a couple of months after, and I’ve never been too busy since.   So when people tell me, they are too busy. It doesn’t sit well. At all.

So, to say that I haven’t been writing, because I have been doing well, or because I have been doing poorly… I don’t even know the answer. Sometimes life has a tendency to just happen, and just leave me trapped in the motions that I just can’t comprehend the appropriate emotions, and feelings.

I know that writing provides me with the single most joyous experiences of my life. So, you would think it’s easier to do so. But… for some reason, it’s been getting more difficult, and for the first time, I feel like my writing is actually good. In the past, all I did was write about how I felt. That’s it. There was no scientific method to it; there was no English specialty behind it. Simply, just how I felt. I have such a difficult time re-reading my pieces, for a variety of reasons… mainly because I feel such a huge disconnect with the person who wrote that very piece, but also because… I think it’s shit. I looked earlier, and I have posted 47 entries to GAB. This being 48. I can honestly say that 1 was of quality, Your Move Chief. So, as much gratification as writing brings me… I don’t know if it’s from the actual writing, or the feedback. As pathetic as this may be, I seek so much approval, and accreditation, from… whomever, predominantly from my mom, and from my fiancé…. It’s pathetic, if I don’t hear anything within a day or so, I am texting those two asking what they thought… It drives me crazy that I do this. But… I do. And, I can probably recap every single compliment, or piece of positive feedback I have received from my blog. There is truly nothing, and I mean NOTHING more gratifying than when I hear about people who have read my blog, and find comfort from reading. Whether, I know them or not. I spend so much time wanting to write, then I spend such little time actually writing, and I conclude with spending even more time looking for approval on my writing. From, my family… my fiancé… my best friends… my friends… strangers… When, I receive this, it’s pure happiness. Joy. Elation. You know that feeling where you just can’t wipe that smile off your face. This is the only time I’ll feel it. So you’d think I’d write more, with this being the case. But, truth is… I think I have become a bit scared. My unrelenting life standards have once again trapped me with failure. Where, I need simple accolades. However, that’s slowed down significantly. I don’t know if it’s because my writing has gotten stale, or the content has. Or maybe, I am just without the random viewers from Europe. Or, perhaps, the people who have already graciously patted my back don’t feel like they need to tell me good job every single fucking time. Though they shouldn’t. However, I feel like, unless I get that… I am failing. I want to know what every single person thinks of my writing, even if they think it’s complete crap. I just want to know… because; I think it is too, I can’t even find myself appreciative, and satisfied with my own work.

So, in getting to the point of this entry… the great folks at Mind Your Mind proposed the question, what makes you happy? I thought about it for a long, long time. There are so many things that I enjoy, so many. But, to label them as something that makes me completely happy would likely be false. I think at any point, doing makes me happy. Regardless, of what it is that I am doing. I think sometimes you can find temporary joy in that, and I do. But, I tried to really think of something that makes me truly happy. True joy. I almost couldn’t think of anything, till I thought about writing, then I thought about all of the positive feedback I have received over the two years, and the people I have been able to help, if even just to help them temporarily. This has brought me pure joy, and continues to do so. It’s the only thing that allows me to feel self-pride, and self worth. Regardless, of the success I have at work, or in coaching sports, or my daily life even. I always seem to be stuck wanting more, and eventually get a place where good just isn’t good enough. But, with writing, that’s different. Even, if I receive two notes about my latest post, to me it was a success, and it provides that feeling. That feeling where I can’t stop but smiling, even if it’s a random stranger at an arena that says, “hey, you’re the guy that writes that mental health blog” … Yes, I guess so. These are the things that keep me ticking, and continue to remind me just what it is to feel joy, and to feel good.

You just hope that somehow you can find a way to enjoy, accept and appreciate your own bravery and work. Sometimes there is just far too much pressure on writing purely for the audience, and hoping to help them find joy, and hope. I need to find my own first.

Rest easy, and rest happily Max. I hope you can still find some time to read my blog, and I hope that you’ve found true joy.   I know you and Jen are hanging out as we speak. Listening to music, watching over us, and laughing at us.

B 

Sometimes… All I Want is that Kraft Dinner.

DEPRESSED people live in the PAST

ANXIOUS people live in the FUTURE

PEACEFUL people live in the PRESENT

– LAO TZU

Good evening.

Sure hope life has been treating you well in the last handful of weeks.  Last time we spoke via goneawayboy, I dug into Ayn Rand’s – “John Galt Speech” piece.  I’ve never really re-read the blog entry subjectively, but I know that piece was probably one my favorite ones that I have put together.  I think I just channeled the time and energy it takes to write differently for that piece.  It was like writing an essay for school, having to prepare by researching and drawing your own thoughts, and ideas from the pieces you’ve read.  Except this time, I wasn’t getting docked 10% because I messed up the fucking APA Bibliography.

But, with all that being said, pretty fucking hard for me to comment on which posts of mine I like, and which I don’t like…  I don’t think I have re-read one of them in their entirety with the exception of immediately after to hunt for double spelled words, missing words, the odd comma, or period.   Though, till today, I’ve never really asked myself why I don’t re-read them…  It’s never really struck me as a big deal, or a concern, if it even is.  But, I talked about it this morning at my therapy session.  Why don’t I read any of my blog entries days, months, and years after I write them?  I think, in a nutshell… because, I am scared.  I know I have read bits and pieces of certain ones, though never to finish.  I just feel such a distant disconnect that I just can’t believe that I wrote that.  And, not in the sense that, “wow, they’re so good.”  But, in the sense that… I was really feeling like that? Is that how I feel, or was feeling?  Fuck, that’s scary.  When your in these deep, intense emotional phases, where I generally write, they’re just that, so deep, and so intense.  It’s difficult to read things afterwards when I’m not in that state of mind.  It’s hard to go back to that state, it’s hard to imagine it, hard to see it, and as a result can be hard to read the product of those deep, and intense emotional phases.  When I have tried to read bits and pieces of my work, it’s been when I am typically feeling good, or… fine, if you will.  Usually something will drive me back to a specific entry, perhaps a comment that I need to approve, and after reading the comment I go back and see where I was when I wrote something that struck with this person…  But, I can never finish reading them. Ever.   Or, perhaps, it’s someone sending me an email, text, bbm, facebook, tweet or instagram, (Did I miss any) mentioning something I said in a certain piece.  I then retreat back to the entry to read bits of it so I can appropriately reply, I guess?  But… I never finish reading it.  I just reply…  thanks.  I just can’t read them.  Part of me, as I write this… I want too.  And, often times I think about writing a memoir, or putting all of these pieces together to build something else.  I think about it every day.  But, how the hell am I going to do that when I can’t even read the fucking things.  I think that’s why I have completely stalled the shit out of that idea.

It’s a pretty weird, scary feeling to write what I do, and then several months later, visit it again only to get through a paragraph and have to stop reading because the disconnect between myself at that point, is such a drastic difference to myself at the point of writing.  I know it’s me that wrote it.  But, when you have to make a conscious effort to understand that 4 months afterwards, It’s…. fucked, It’s…. difficult.  It’s not what I want.  I know that my writing has had such a phenomenal effect on some people’s lives, and I am completely honored by that, I truly am.  I feel so happy, and flattered that I can help others by sharing my own story.  This is why it’s all the more difficult knowing I can’t even read my own posts, and revisit my own story.   Www.Goneawayboys.wordpress.com is something I should be completely proud of… But, I can’t even read it myself.  It’s… Sad.

This was just something that got brought up today during my weekly therapy session, and I thought it was intriguing. My therapist had asked me a question about the subliminal messages I sometimes write.  She had asked for a specific example, and though I’ve written 28 blog entries, maybe more.  I couldn’t provide one example.  Just said… I don’t really know, I’ve never read them.  I write it, I look for glaring grammatical errors shortly after, and I don’t even look at it for, well, forever again.  I’m scared too.  I bury it.  ^{HOW IRONIC?}

A few weeks ago I was faced with a challenge.    In August of 2012, I had put together a blog entry about my experience with psychic Patricia Monna at Our Angels for Our Wellbeing, and how positive it was.  I’ve never ever gone back to read “We Carry On… Like it’s easy, a better happier.”  Then one morning, about 10 days ago, I recieved a comment from Patricia reaching out to me, fourteen months after I had wrote that entry, saying that she had a message from Jen.  I had no idea what to think.  I approved the comment.  Put my phone down. Pretended that nothing had just happened.  Having a terrible poker face, Amanda knew something was up.  So, I showed her the comment.  Her eyes welled up, and I began to feel a tad bit of emotion as well, and a tad bit that I did not want to encounter at that very moment.  So I put my phone back down and didn’t look at the comment again.  Fast-forward a few days, I had probably gone back to read the comment over 15-20 times, and twice tried to read the blog entry in which she commented on.  The first time I hardly got past the fluff, and the second time, I went to the paragraph that I initially mentioned Patricia, and then attempted to skim the rest of it… Which, I couldn’t even do.  Same result occurred.  I shut it off, and put my phone down to just lay there like nothing happened.  I guess if I lay there like nothing happened, maybe it will go away.  No.

It took me a few days to gather the courage to contact Patricia and take her up on reaching out to me from Jen.  I think I knew that I always was going to, even right after reading her comment the first time.  I knew I’d call her eventually.   But, it took me a few days to get to that point.  I can even remember last week, when I had my phone in my hand and her number dialed, it took me… ahh, about an hour to touch call.  I tried to just do something else at the moment, and hope that I’d maybe forget.  I tried to think of what I’d say if she wanted to talk right then.  Or, if she wanted to meet today.  I wasn’t ready to meet.  I was hardly ready to click call.  A million thoughts ran through my head.  I played every scenario.  Fuck it. Call. Receptionist took a message for me.  Hang up.  PFEW.  I don’t have to deal with that emotional monster today.  I just had no idea what to expect.  Patricia called me back later that evening and we set up an appointment for the next week.  Once I got to chat with her on the phone about booking an appointment, I right away felt at ease, and felt comfortable.  There is just a kind, gentle aura to her.  One that just made me feel relaxed, and like this was going to be O.K., this was going to be a good thing.  I wanted to listen to her.

I met with her this evening, and in the week preparing to meet with her from when we had spoke on the phone last, I think I felt everything from excited, to nervous, scared, happy, sad and everything in-between.  It was a great experience, it was emotional, though I held it together much better than expected.  She had told me so many things that she was just bang-on accurate about.  It was crazy.  Things that I know I need to do, I know I need to take care of, but I don’t.  I “stall the shit” out of it.  I’ve just been stuck.

One of the most painful things I experience every day since we lost Jen, is not being able to go to her to talk, not being able to go to her for direction.  Jen was always a very intelligent, and wise person.  I always looked up to her.  If she listened to certain music, I listened to it.  If she watched a certain movie, I watched it.  Even if it were Steel Magnolias, fuck, Clueless was my favorite show!   If she read a book, I wanted to read that book.  If she had some new west coast lingo, I had some new west coast lingo.   What Jen did, I wanted to do.  I idolized her so much.  Since she’s been gone, I know she is still here, there have been many, many instances where I can feel her presence, or something happens where I know Jen helped pull that miracle for me, or something stupid will happen, and I know it’s her playing a joke on me.  Having some fun.  I love those moments.  Times where Mom and I will just look at each other , or sometimes it’s Amanda and I, and we’ll just laugh, look at each other and just say “Haha, Jen!”.  It’s that special moment where things just seem to slow down, and stop for that very moment, you realize that even though you’re encountering some silly nuance, you enjoy it, because you can just feel Jen watching, laughing, happily… though at our expense.   That’s fine.

I catch myself every day at least once a day, just saying “Please Jen, Please” “Help me, or, guide me through, or give me a sign.  I feel stuck”.  I’ve been saying the latter a lot the last 4-5 months.  I feel stuck.  Please Jen, give me a sign.  And she does, and I know them at the exact time they happen… But for whatever reason, It’s sometimes difficult to get past the fact that I feel like I am communicating with her, and it’s such a special experience… I almost forget to listen to her signs.

After speaking with Patricia today, looking back, Jen’s been leaving me so many signs helping me out, trying to push me in a certain direction.  The weird part is…  Patricia pretty well told me the exact same thing I know now that Jen has been trying to tell me for the last few months.  It was as if, Jen couldn’t stand watching me stuck like I have been, and I know she just thought, for fucksakes kid, if you won’t listen to me and figure out these signs, I’ll draw the damn things out for ya!  Queue; Patricia. It sounds completely fucked, and you probably think I am absolutely crazy, drunk, high, or all.  But I am neither…  (Maybe a bit the former)  But, I really believe this.  Jen’s left me so many signs trying to guide me, little hints all over the place trying to push me along, just continuing to be my big sister, just from afar.

Patricia then comes out of nowhere and tells me she has a message from Jen.  This, 14 months after I spoke to Patricia last, and at that was just one of many people she probably see’s throughout the day… Jen had got in touch with Patricia to kick me in the ass, and get me out of the mud.  She’s right.  I know she is.  I never believed in this stuff before either, ever.  I thought it was absolutely crazy.  Nuts.  But, the practices I used to try and help myself, before, well, they don’t fucking work.  So, I needed to open my mind, and I am glad I did.  Things have just become clearer in the last twenty-four hours for me.  Beginning with my therapy session this morning when we struck a few clarity moments, to ending my evening talking to my sister, through Patricia.

Call it crazy. Call it stupid.  Don’t believe it. Form your own opinions as you will.  But it’s far too coincidental for it to be some stupid fake crap. But, if anyone that’s reading this is going through a tough time, and you just feel stuck…  Book an hour with Patricia.  Just go.  It’s a different experience.  I can’t really explain it, other than how I’ve wrote about it.  But, It’s something I would strongly encourage.  Especially, if you don’t believe in “that crap” … I didn’t either, but at some point you just get tired of doing the same old, and continually being just stuck.  Time to try something different.  Am I ever glad  I did.   As I challenge you to try something different, something out of your comfort zone.  I am going to challenge myself to sit down and read what you read.

As always, Thank you for reading, even when I can’t read, it still means the absolute world to me that you can.

I hope that you enjoy, and somewhere in this…  this massive pile of words, and sentences you find what you’re looking for.

 

Cher, I don’t want to do this anymore. And my buns, they don’t feel nothin’ like steel.

– B.A.C. – 

#BellLetsTalk The Worst Crime is Faking It.

The Worst Crime is… Faking it. 

Welcome… Too a few things, first off, back to goneawayboys! I know it’s been sometime since I contributed something more than a half ass article that I wrote amdist my boredom in foreign islands, or in an airplane over the pacific.  But, here I am.  Sounds like it was a really tough break, doesn’t it?

Truth is… I contemplated giving up this blog entirely, and just riding out what it was, this blog and the sunset.  Her & I together.  See ya. Why? I’m not entirely sure.  I felt like there was almost nothing too write about anymore.  I thought,  I’ve wrote so much about my own story, my own fight with mental illness, that what else can I do, except write the same thing over and over again, because, basically, that’s almost how I feel every day… Over and over again.  Or often enough anyways.  And, being a half-ass smart kid, or so I would like to think, I know that the audience doesn’t care much for repetition as much as they appreciate new quality content.  So, I thought… What else can I do?  Welp, the NHL came back.  I thought then, after each week, I would put together my thoughts on the NHL – My viscous opinion after the week that was.   But, then I thought, wait…  nearly >400,000 writers have had that same idea.  What is going to make the opinions of yours truly any more readable then the rest?

Other than… well, what I would write would, likely be 100% correct!  But, essentially, that would grow old really fast, because people would be either a) tired of agreeing with me every single time, or b) simply wouldn’t give a shit anymore.  I’ll tend with the latter.

I have also been long thinking, that since its February, and apparent Mental Health month, depending on you who you ask… It could also be heart month, or limb month.  Either which way, I choose its mental health month, though, for me, every day is.  I do appreciate such  initiatives that are looking to get the word out.  Especially, the words that are mental illness, and, for that, I sincerely applaud Bell.

I continually go back and forth right now between, Twitbook & the fridge.  Twitbook is my reference to facebook & twitter, which have now become one and same annoying usage of social media, though, I disgruntle at times. I am the worst for it.  Fridge, well, beers don’t stay cold on the deck.  Soooo…..  Don’t judge me.

I’ve made a few posts regarding this #BellLetsTalk day, and I have changed most of my pictures on the 17 different social media sites to that of my sister; Jen. Simply, too remember her, and too show everyone her smile, and how beautiful she was.  As most of you know, from hopefully reading this blog, Jen committed suicide back in May of 08. May 7^th. 2008.  No matter how many Sunday mornings I claim are the worst day of my entire life, nothing even comes close. Nothing. I still remember the day like it was yesterday. I even know what I was wearing… Black Mount Royal sweatpants… That I have never worn since, along with a plain white zip-up hoodie… That I have never wore since.  You might wonder why I was dressed like such a slob. Well, I was at one of my best friends place, and we were cruising the net, entertaining the option of house-boating in the coming weeks.  Then, my phone rang.  My interest in house-boating has simply never been the same.  And, of course, I can’t blame my sweater, sweats, and houseboating on what had happened that day… But, if you know, I am annoyingly superstitious… And, these things stick with me, they do.  Maybe it sounds stupid, but I really hope you just don’t get it. I wouldn’t wish this upon my worst enemy.  I remember my Uncle Jeff was the one that called me, and told me I needed to go home ASAP. Didn’t give two fucks what I was in the midst of.  That’s when I knew something was wrong.  My uncle and I have a typical boys relationship.  We chat every now and then, and when we are able to meet with each other, we do and it’s great. Thus, when he called me telling me to get home ASAP, I knew something was fucked up. I don’t think he had ever called me before. Ever… Skip the part where I break down, and throw 9 atavans in me…I had found out my sister had committed suicide.  You want too talk about a shitty fucking day.  Fuck me. I am terrible for being that guy, that when something bad happens, I immediately resort to the prototypical “OMG WORST DAY EVER” No… And, then I instantly feel my teeth, or my body hurt and I know its Jen kicking me. Her way of telling me, like fuck kid, get over it. Don’t be that guy.  You whiny, selfish weiner… And she’s right.  I hate myself for acting like that.  That was the worst day. That was the shittiest day. I can’t fathom another day worse.  And, it’s not like a pretty white dove came and sent the message peacefully, and all was good.  No, It was my mom, who too this day, I will knock out each and every tooth you own if you argue me that you know a stronger person…. Anyway, it was my mom, she came in through the garage, walked… Hmm, I suppose it was 12 feet. I was sitting on the couch, on the right hand side, in the same slug clothing I had on previously, and I remember her, she was wearing black, she kind of just crawled… crawled into the middle of the living room, and she just fell too her hands… and I knew… something wasn’t right.  But, still had zero idea of what the fuck was going on.  I still couldn’t imagine what I was about to be told….  Your sister killed herself…. And, crash. My mom fell to the ground, my Dad (the tough fuckn’ bullrider) who knew tried to comfort me, but I just immediately lost it.  I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t believe it. I had all these other pre existing ideas in my head of what was actually happening too our family at the time, and never once did I think it was Jen… I thought she was doing OK? but, maybe, how the hell was I too know? Did I ever care too check in?

If any parents are reading this blog… I want you too imagine this, while you think you’re the shit cause your child has the latest… Well,  You are told on a friday night, that your daughter, your fucking daughter has just committed suicide. Hey, happy friday. Guess what.  Now, you must go turn around, drive along the lovely paved highway till you get home, and you must tell your 18 year old, and 8 year old that there sister passed away.  Now? How? What? … No? Fuck off.

… Yes. I still to this day, do not know how my mom did that. I don’t know. I know this though, she is the single strongest human being I have ever met in my entire life, for being able to do so. And, she didn’t try and hide it, she didn’t try make it cute.  She told us. How the hell….  Think about this one for a second.  And, if anyone knows my mom.  If for a second you don’t think she is one of the best… Do me a favor…  Grab your two front teeth, knock them out, and go give her a hug.  No one deserves one more.  Even if this was 4 years ago.  No parent in my mind should have too worry about passing along the news of a passing child, let alone, after that have too be the one too break the news to the little brothers.

Sweet fucking crocodile rock.  I can’t imagine. I can’t.

It honest to fuck, took me 4 years to believe it. FOUR YEARS! There are times even today, and yesterday, where I still didn’t really believe it. Maybe that’s why people think I have done such a good job dealing with this, that combined with, I just do my best not too talk about it ever.  Which, I know is wrong.  But, I feel like, the rest of the world will stop and care for your tragedy for a maximum of 2 days… While, you may struggle the rest of your life, I feel like people only understand, care, and pity you for 2 days max.  Not that I want anyone too pity me. EVER. Please don’t.  But, you know what… That day, and my sister is someone and something that cross my mind daily.  Maybe one day, when we are out for a beer, or a coffee, maybe just ask, How I am…  Ya’ know,  I know, as the other fella.  That may be the most difficult question ever, how do you ask that…. But there are times, and nights, where nothing else is on my mind.. I’d be enthralled to give you an answer… I know it happened 4 years ago for you, and everyone else.  But, for me and my family… It’s every day.

….. It’s hard.   Anyway, I said I was going to skip the details because I didn’t want too exhaust too many atavans, but I managed to write, and get through those few lines without taking any! Can you believe that.  It may have took me almost over an hour to write that… But, I did it…. Right, and that’s a step in the right direction.

For a lot of my life, particularly since Jen passed away suddenly.  I have denied almost…. Well, everything basically, and thought I have tried my best to come too terms with what had happened, obviously I couldn’t, and I don’t think I ever will.  And, I tried my best too get myself back on track, and though, I think I certainly leveled that challenge out, depends how you do define back on track…. But, do I go a week without falling back in my own depression, do I go a week without thinking about my sister, do I go a week without any anxiety.  You bet your sweet pineapple; No. I do not. That said,  Nor do I think I am at rock bottom anymore,  I was, and I am fortunate enough to be alive today.  But, though, I believe I may have my depression under control, its still something that I suffer from.  And, though, I may have handled the death of my sister all on my own, without any professional help, with the exception of two complete wieners, I think I have done OK, just OK.  But, there are days, like today, where OK just isn’t good enough.  I still have nighs where I will lay in bed for 45 minutes and I will just talk out loud.  I am talking too my sister, and I believe that she listens to every word, but the rest of the world must think I am fucking nuts.  Seriously. I would!

I have gone to 2 therapists in my life since Jen passed away.  But, too understand what that means, you must understand me. I am, or I try too be a very independent, proud individual, I don’t like too get help. I am a guy. And, I remember going to see a psychiatrist, I don’t think it was long after Jen passed.  But, he was a nice fellow… but, I either just wasn’t ready, or just wasn’t drinking his Kool-Aid, but it was the last time I ever went to a “big dog” and it left a completely sour taste in mouth for the entire experience.  I saw a therapist a few years later at my university, and that was equally as worse, if not more. Actually, it was painful.  It’s was a struggle, it really was. And, you know what, I understand both sides… But, they want me too book an appointmen, say, Thursday at 1:15pm! OK perfect! Can’t wait! Oh gee, me neither! Woo hoo! So, Thursday comes along. Enter the small, dark, plain, gloomy room of Ms. Therapy.

BE READY TO REVEAL ALL OF YOUR PROBLEMS AT THE BLINK OF AN EYE SIR!! YOUR APPOINTMENT HAS BEEN BOOKED!!!

“So Blair, what brings you here”

“My mom”

“Oh, really, what do you mean by that?”

“Meh, Nothin”

“Did you mom suggest for you too come and see me, am I the therapist you’ve seen?”

“Kind of, not really, and No”

“Well, what else can you tell me, Blair?”

…. Silence, maximum efforts too collect my breathing….

“My sister”

“Oh! Your sister!” (As if she was expecting the typical my mom won’t pay for my textbooks this semester – story) Tell me about your sister”

… And well, you can imagine how the remaining 7 minutes of this meeting went.  It didn’t last long, my answers remained a word or 3 in length. I just didn’t want too be there.  I didn’t understand why I should tell this lady anything? After all, did she even understand? Or, did she just read a damn fucking textbook and learn what too say?  Because, that’s what pisses me off.  There is a huge difference between truly “getting it” and just “knowing what too say”

Again, I either, just wasn’t ready, or wasn’t drinking her bullshit (denial)

And, since I have talked too no one, except for Microsoft Word, as I continue to write in my blog and spill the juicy details, and that has made me feel significantly better, although unlikely it’s long-term.  It hasn’t quite replaced the complete feeling of nothingness.  But, you know what… There are times, where… I don’t mind that numb feeling that I live with, and I live with it by the day.  Sometimes I wonder, is it better too feel numb, or too feel nothing at all. Or, what the fuck is the difference.

It’s been a tough stretch since we spoke last, but, I do miss you so much Jen, I think about you every day, and there are days where I truly believe that if I just squeeze a little harder, just a tiny bit, maybe you will come back, even if just for a brief chat, I feel like you will be there.  And, you know what… Maybe you are there, I just can’t see you. But, I want too. I want to see that smile.  I want to talk to you, and I want too hear your voice.  I want too remember your voice, Jen.  Please. Come back.

In the meantime, I’ll talk, I’ll talk for both you & I, and I will count the days till I see you again, someday.

God Damnit, I love you & I miss you. So much, it hurts.

– Kid Brother –