I had an urge to write. I was going to write on my ‘real’ blog, but apparently I’ve let the domain lapse.
It doesn’t matter. No one reads that or this. That is what happens when you have a website you don’t update.
But I had an urge to write. Partially because my kid was telling me he wanted to write a book. He’s ten. I gave him some pointers. Some writing excersises. I also told him that not many people can make a living at writing. I’m a bad dad. I’m supposed to tell him that he can do whatever he wants, if he puts his mind to it. But I know that isn’t true. I did tell him that it was good to write, made you think about things differently… and that’s a good thing even if you don’t get paid for it. I’m not an awful dad. Just not a good one.
And he asked me, do you write?
I told him that sometimes I did. I should have told him, I used to write all the time and I really enjoyed it… but I’ve let life get in the way of that. I should have, but there is only so much truth that you can burden a child with.
Which brings me back to, I had an urge to write.
Of course, I’m a lousy writer. What I usually write about is the meaning of life, and my search for it… or lack thereof.
Which is where I am at. Again.
I feel rutterless. My life has no particular meaning or direction. I’ve felt this way before. But I always thought that one day I would grow up and get past this.
Now I look at my reality, I’m 40 years old, live in the basement of a very nice chinese family. I work too much, with too little compensation. I see my kid every other weekend and feel him slipping away from me. The house I bought, to raise my family in, is in foreclosure. The best case scenario there is that I will be able to short sell it. I have a girlfriend that I love and spend time with, but circumstances outside of my control keep a distance there.
This is not where I wanted to be. This is not where I want to be. I’ve lived, worked and loved…. and find myself in the same kind of place I was when I was 25.
Fifteen years of effort. Of life. And no gain.
That’s not quite true. But it’s close enough to the truth to make me very unhappy.
I don’t feel like I have a life.
It’s a shell of a life.
I work. A lot. I see the girl. I see my boy. I sit home. Alone. I have no friends to call. (Undoubtably, you think I’m wrong… that if I reached out I would find that I have friends. Believe me, I reached out tonight. Only one friend was there. She knows who she is… and unfairly at this point, she is my lifeline.)
But that is not what has me bothered.
I feel that I am living a shell of a life. And what if that is all I am capable of. Go to work. Go home. Drink some (beer, wine, bourbon… fill in the blank,) try to sleep… but toss and turn with vivid and disturbing dreams… and then rinse and repeat.
If that is the rest of my life, I don’t know what the hell I have to look forward to. I used to look forward to: when things were more stable, to when my career was further along, to when I was in a relationship that made me happy, to when I was a grown up.
I’m older than half of the people I work with. But I don’t feel like a grown up. I feel like that kid who is trying to figure out what the fuck he is doing with his life. I hated that feeling at 25. At 40, it is crushing me.
I must sound like I am feeling so sorry for myself. And to some extent I am. But mostly I am looking at my world and wondering, is this all there is? And I’m terrified that it is.
I’d love to know that someone heard this… as unlikely as that is. Leave a comment. Email me…. firstname.lastname@example.org.
And i’ll try not to wait this long to write again.