life story books
Same country of birth
United States
Same year of birth
1994

anonymous anonymous

Country of Birth:

United States

Year of birth: 1994

Places of Residence:

Port lavaca

Brothers/sisters: Ray/Brittany/Samantha

Debriefing.

I am by no means old, nor do I pretend to have an abundance of life experience equal to maybe most the writers on this website. Or maybe I am, I can't honestly say I've investigated the subject extensively, nor do I plan to. I suppose you could just say I'm passing through venting my thoughts as I go along. I don't really expect anyone to actually read this, I guess in a way I just want to have the belief that someone will read it. I'm sure someone more psychologically inclined can read more into that, but all I know is that in a way, this makes me feel better. I'm not some depressed teenager that's here to rant about how bad their life is and how they hate everyone around them. Not that I take depression lightly, I'm just trying to make it evident that while I'm not an older person perserving my life, as I'm sure most the inhabitants who comprise this site are, I'm also not a depressed teenager. I suppose the point I'm trying to prove is that I, at the very least, want to be taken somewhat if not completely serious, assuming anyone actually reads this.
End chapter 1

(Awaiting a good title)

Once again I find myself back onto this website after an accidental hiatus. I say hiatus, but really I don't think that necessarily applies as I've only made one post. My return to this website and renewed interest can be contributed to various circumstances coinciding with one another. Though, in retrospect, I suppose that's any event in all life. I find myself in a daze, as if life is continuing around me in fast forward and I'm standing still, like some scene from a tv show. It's two a.m, though I swear I just looked at my clock a minute ago and it was twelve o'clock. I've always had this habit of getting lost in thought, and finding myself contemplating the mysteries of life and how they relate to me. Then I start comparing myself and my thoughts to other circumstances. Humorously enough, I always end up comparing myself to PAC MAN. PAC MAN should be the go to analogy for life in any given example. I mean we're all just trying to get the highest score possible and sure we enjoy the occasional fruits here and there, but as much as we want to believe we can go on forever, we all lose. Life keeps getting harder, until those ghosts that seemed so far away at the beginning of the game are right on your ass near the end. Inevitably so, we all end the same with the black and white game over screen. Who knows what happens to us next? Maybe we turn into the ghosts that plague the new PAC MANs to come, or perhaps someone presses "play again" and we start anew. It would be rather boring though, if in the end we're just stuck looking at that same game over screen forever though. I suppose that's why religion was created, nobody wants to believe that in the end, there may not be anything interesting that happens. I'm not a particularly religious person, and who am I to say what really happens after we've all gone and bit the bullet, so I'll just leave it at that. I don't particularly ponder mortality often, but my grandmother was just diagnosed with liver cancer and it's looking as though this might be it for her. Me and her were rather close, she was the sweetest lady and I wish I were better at conveying my feelings verbally. I recently returned from the hospital where she's being treated and I keep beating myself up over how little I was able to say to her. She didn't look so good and had all sorts of tubes running out of her. It was hard to hear her from the breathing apparatus she had but every time she spoke, it was weak and sounded as if she were out of breath. Her skin was yellowish as if she had jaundice, maybe she did, I don't know, I'm rather ill informed about the medical details. Mostly in part because her condition is something that I can't cope to talk about, and when the matter is brought up I just want to deter the subject. I'm like that, I can't talk about serious stuff when it concerns people I really care for. I'm a closed book in person I suppose. Maybe that's why I'm writing it down, it's therapeutic and keeps me from breaking down like some manly sports aficionado rehashing suppressed memories with his new therapist. What really broke my heart was that even though she was in such a state of disrepair, all she could talk about was my well being. I recently got into an accident at work where I split my nose in half and had to see a plastic surgeon. My paid leave was why I was able to make the almost three hour drive to the hospital where she was, to see her. My nose still looked pretty bad, naturally, her grandmotherly concern for me was on her mind, and my well being was mostly what we talked about. I felt terrible and selfish talking about myself while she was in such a condition, but it was hard mustering anything. My mind went blank trying to keep composure fighting back the tears. I felt like some awkward teenager with problems socializing. I kept telling myself in my head to talk, to say some thing, but nothing would come out. So in essence the only things I was able to say were responses to questions and concerns about myself, I failed to bring any verbal concerns about her to the table. My sister on the other hand didn't hesitate to bring up troubling concerns and difficult questions, I wonder if this is that barrier separating men from women that people talk about. If so then I can't help but acknowledge how much more cowardly men are to the overwhelming courage of women. Men are such simple people, it's hard for us to talk about things so complex and troubling. This isn't my fist time dealing with death, my dad dead when I was eight. I remember being so torn up about his death, now I can hardly remember what he looks like without looking at a photo. The sound of his voice is so distant, I've forgotten it's tone and the personality behind it. That's what they call moving forward and not dwelling on the past, it's supposed to be a good thing. Well if that's the case, good things are awfully frightful.
End chapter 2
I read your piece and though you didn't write much, it is obvious you have a way with words. You should keep writing.
18 Aug 2014
Suzan