I’ve always tried to live a regret free life, you know, not apologizing for existing, being comfortable in my skin and pretending I made a difference in people’s lives( BTW: this gives me an idea for my next blog: the relevance of my existence in other people’s lives), and I most of the time succeed…when I’m engrossed in something.
People constantly wish they had more time to think, more time to organize their minds. And I’m not saying I don’t enjoy this time I spend, exploring my inner maze which is my mind, however it can be dangerous.
A wise councilor or madrich as we called them, on a grade 11 week-away from school once told me something that would circle my mind for years. I was a loner back then (not so different from now except now I’m a social loner, if you can digg it), and he saw me, sitting alone, listening to my mp3, looking at the stars and keeping away from everyone. He came over and said to me: “whatcha up to?”, “nothing, just thinking”, “don’t think too hard, it can be dangerous, and take you places you don’t wanna be, now come on and join the fun at the fire”. And I did. And it was good…because I could not think.
And I try occupying myself with things to keep my mind going inwards. I write, read, party, chill with friends, watch movies, get shit-faced, etcetera etcetera. However, it times like these, when I space out into my wall, or stare into my COD: MW 2 background that my mind starts to chew on itself, like a stomach might chew on itself when you’re starving. I start thinking about my life, and all those efforts go to waste. I become depressed, and feel unworthy. I begin to think about everything. Absolutely everything, such as those I have lost, and those I could have gained. I think on my life, reliving bad experiences, and finding ways to make them better, wished I could have acted how I now know I should have acted to make them into a better experience, and seeing good experiences, and thinking of ways they could have been better, and wishing that I behaved that way. I start down a self-pitying spiral that makes me feel unworthy, not of living, but of love and finding someone special to love. I feel unworthy of their company because haunting voices of the past spiral through my head, making me believe what they described me as: Weird, a freak, a loon, you guys know what I’m talking about right? I’m not saying you’ve felt like this as often as I have, but I’m sure you have. When you lie awake in bed, unable to find the comfort of dreams, and you start sieving through your memories as a clerk might through a filing cabinet, and you begin to think, “wow, now that I think about it, that situation could have panned out so much better if I did this, or said this, or even didn’t do or say what I did”, then you play out the consequences, and if you’re creative enough, could have seen how your life might have played out til this moment in a completely different way, and for some reason you see yourself happier in this edited way, so you feel not-so-great, then sad, then depressed, then regretful, then self-pitying, then you feel like plain old shit. And then it’s easier to fall asleep because this whole thinking process drains you.
Personally I think of two occasions, and the first I’ll bore you with is school.
School is the 1st step in human social interaction, and tended to trip on that step quite often. Not to say I didn’t have friends. I was constantly surrounded by a few people that I called friends, but they still thought I was weird. I’m sure you have a friend in your group you label “the weird guy” (BTW: If you can’t think of anyone in your group as the weird one, it’s probably you ;)). I had so many chances to start over, coz I constantly changed schools, and every time I’d fall into the same position because, sub-consciously I believe, I was socially self-destructive. And there are so many points I could pinpoint where I went wrong. And so many things I would change if I could, so many wrongs I would right, and so many rights I’d make righter.
The second thing is my late father. He died when I was thirteen, of a freak accident of freak accidents. He was at home, when a wild swarm of African killer bees decided to migrate, and he happened to be in the way, and was thus stung to death. But this description doesn’t do him justice, so I will describe as best I can all I can remember, and thus make a movie for you out of words of this day:
It was a Saturday, the morning started off normal enough, me and my dad sat together for the last time, and watched Dare Devil, which was kind of ironic due to the kid’s dad’s death, but never mind. I went to a Magic the Gathering tournament and my mother went to her friend’s house. My father wanted to take care of some errands so he stuck around, and me being a bratty 13 year-old, I asked for my mom’s phone so I wouldn’t wait forever for her. Around one o’clock, I was playing a friendly match with someone and I defeated them with a card called killer bees, which was about the same as the time of death given to him, freaky huh? Never mind. Anyway, I came in 17th, I was pretty proud of myself. And my mom came to fetch me and lo and behold, she had my best friend in the car. “Wow!” I thought to myself, “This is turning out to be an awesome day!” On the way home me and my friend were joking and laughing, but when we got home, my mom parked the car, went over to open the gate and let out a shriek. Thinking my dogs did something wrong, I angrily got out the car to see what they did, and there lying in the middle of the driveway, was my father, covered in a foiled blanket (even as I write this my throat is closing up). I can’t really remember what happened from there because I have blocked out the memory, but for three days I woke up and cried, and fell asleep crying. After those three days however, I never shed another tear again. But what really troubled me a year later, after watching a final destination movie, was how convenient it had been. And to be honest I held myself, and against what everyone has said to me, still hold myself responsible for his death. Because I took my mom’s phone, my dad couldn’t contact here in a last effort of survival, and couldn’t.
From this event, I feel regret at not taking advantage of his time with me, not learning from him, spending more time with him. And those, unlike the regrets at school, those are times that can never be replaced.
As always, I feel a lil better in writing, however the common question is, if I could, would I do it all again in the exact same way? Fuck no. I would change it a whole fucking bunch! Consequently I look at the time, and it is roughly 00:20, the day my father died. Yet another coincidence? Disputable. Life is full of them. If you search for them that is. I write this roughly 7 years after my father’s death. And as always, my blogs tend to take on a new direction, separate from the title or message, so I see it appropriate to dedicate this to my father, who was my crutch of sanity. And even know I struggle to find balance in my head. This too will probably be a topic of another blog: how my father’s death paved the way for my steady decent into self destruction.
However, I sign off dedicating this blog to my father. As I type this I look at my father’s photocopied picture stuck onto my monitor. I love you dad, and miss you. Now more than ever I need your guidance, which I cannot receive. You shall always be in my heart, a gaping scar from my past I fear to prod at.
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