Upon your death bed I promise this
(These documents are not edited to perfection. The first drafts are always sown verbatim. To show whom ever might care my actual thoughts. How they appeared on paper. How I edit them later. There is nothing more important then never censoring yourself. My lack is also my gain. These words are my personal feelings, and I dont need to edit it to the English standard.)
When my grandmother was dying a few weeks ago. Her 92 year old brother drove down from orgeon to see her one last time. When I was 13 he took me aside. Bought me a plethora of writing books, and asked me to keep writing. That i had a talent, and that I had a voice.
I have tried to keep that in my heart since then. I have faltered of course. Feeling my lack of distict education, and my quirks made my musings obsolete.
I was also teased mercilessly as a child for having a vibrant vocabulary, so i stopped speaking eloquently. Which mad me lose the flow, and the ability to speak intellectually.
Throw in a Depression, and umbrella term of mental disorder I honestly thought my thoughts broken. Repeatedly told I could never do this or that from medical professionals, and some family.
I also had horrible friends. Who always me feel inadequacy. Less than them. Which I let them do and i create dmy own infuriority complex.
I suppose you have to understand my short comings to understand the signifigance of what my uncel told me two weeks ago.
Again he took me aside (or found me aside one or the other) and asked me if I was still writing. I remember feeling this horrible guilt crawl up in my stomach. My uncle was not the only one who asked me to write a book before they passed, but my Mum, and grandmum. To be honest I have tried for over 15 years.
I had come very close once to being published but that fella part as well. Which hit my confidence and broke a lot of hope. This year I had also lost my writing partner. It was the first year in 15 or more years that I had not written a thing. I used to write every night.. now I can bearly put anything on paper.
Add in my illness and some days I can barely lift my hands to type a few words.
I am taller or just as tall as my Great uncle now, but he was standing on my mother ramp above me. The sun shinning down on his white locks,a nd I couldnt help but remember hwo much he looked like his mother. To whom myself and mother cared for her death in the same room my grandmother would be passing in.
“ i’m a complete failure” Is what I thought the second he spoke. I grimaced and turned my head to the side ashamed. I think I toiled about work, and stress and wedding. With illness.
The real reason though was I gave up on myself. My voice teacher said I lacked my soul. That I could imitate anything. However I had lost my heart. When I sang “myself ” wasnt in it.
He was right of course. No matter how hard I tried to sing with … real emotion I fell short.
My lack of self confidence, self approval, and respect had muted me. I knew it then when my Uncle spoke to me. I knew the reason and it hurt even more because I felt like I had let down my uncle, and my grandmother.
Four days later my grandmother passed. I bathed, cleaned, took care of her the best I could. There was a lot of trussing with it though. I am the only medically trained person in my family that day. I was literally her CNA since the bitch never even showed up to take care of her.
I was pretty weak though, and had already pushed my body from when my uncle died three or more weeks prior to this. I would sit down and someone would ask me to check on grandma. Then another person would ask when I sat down again. Which made me even more frustrated was no one listened to me in her care. My mother I know was upset and in her own mind, but when the nurse LITERALLY told her everything I had told her I lost my shit!
I have taken care of dying and elder patients in my clinical and Nursing. I could of re leaved my grandmother suffering if someone JUST LISTENED to me.
I realized then that is what I have been doing my whole damn life. I just want someone to listen to me. To look at my ideas and my heart and tell me i’m not … that my essence my self is not broken or mutated or something. That I had merit and that I knew how to help.
Coming back home I was reminded of my frail body. I have been extremely bed ridden since I returned to California. The pain has increased, and I am very weak. For the first few days I continued my search for a writing partner.
Some part of me still trying to keep my promise. However I came up with that same problem. The inner jexy was muted. I couldn't sing or write.
To be honest this spiraled me into some suicidal depression. The one thing in the world that could save me from my own depression and sadness was me expressing myself. I couldn't even do that…
Today I feel alone, and miserable. I want to keep my promise. I want to write. I want to be heard. I want Fanfiction of my characters damn it… So how the FUCK do I get myself back? Before I destroy myself?
If I was 1890’s poet I’d be a tragic romantic idol. I didnt as for this Oscar wild shit! At least that man knew how to party.
After this long excerpt.. I am still at a loss on how to find a way to bring myself back from its weird apocalyptic slumber
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