The Birthday Introspective: Version 2015

Well, my dear readers, it's about that time of year again. Each year in late July I pen a post that's a little raw, a little dark, and entirely me. I can't help it. I've been doing this for several years now, and by this point in our relationship as writer and reader, you should have come to realize that there are those times when I hold nothing back. I tell you, my friends, my loyal readers, and anyone who should stumble across this blog what's on my mind, with no filter. A lot of times these posts aren't pretty; they're not meant to be. Do I over share when I do this? Probably. Do I give a fuck? Not in the slightest. Believe me, the irony of the fact that I will spew my deepest and darkest here on these pages, yet often close myself off from those closest to me, is not lost on me by any means. And I have no explanation for it other than the fact that writing is easier for me. Speaking? That's another matter, but writing? Writing is a part of me. It's an extension of me. Whether you like my writing, hate it, or are simply indifferent, my writing is important to me. While I strive to reach my readers, entertain them, invoke feelings within them, at its core my writing is for me. The trouble lies in the fact that I need more than me, so to these pages my words go, shared with you to take from them what you will; to take from me, to take me. And that too means something.

 

Just this morning a dear friend shared this quote from Ernest Hemingway with me: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." In this one phrase rests the genius that was Hemingway, and the very essence of how I write. I have no shame in admitting that reading that quotation nearly brought me to tears this morning, as it couldn't possibly have been more timely, on point, and illustrative of the fact that at least someone out there understands why I write what I do, and how I do.

 

This week each year is difficult for me. In four days I will be forty-two years old. Another year has gone by, and with it the passing of more opportunities, more opportunities lost, and more introspective reflection on a life that's taken a path I never intended it to follow.  No, I don't do well with birthdays, and in these last several years they've become more difficult because of memories created, and tainted. Many people love to celebrate birthdays, whether their own or others'. For them, well, that's great. I applaud you for doing so and, believe it or not, I may even join in on your revelry. But for me, birthdays are just anniversaries on which to reflect.

 

Those that have been with me a while know that I've battled depression and anxiety for years.  I've seen doctors and therapists, taken medications, meditated, wept, laughed hysterically, and done whatever else I was able to do in order to balance myself. I say this without shame because it is me, and if I don't show you me, I can't expect you to understand or appreciate me. If my admitted weaknesses somehow offends, surprises, or disturbs you, that's your problem. Stop reading, if that's how you feel.

 

For the last two years I've reflected on the year's passing through song lyrics. Jimmy Buffett's A Pirate Looks at Forty succinctly summarized my fortieth birthday, while Kip Moore's Faith When I Fall captured forty-one. This year I'm drawn to the words recited in Imagine Dragons' Polaroid. Though the lyrics portray a life that admittedly seems more downtrodden than mine, I still relate to the sentiments expressed. If you know me, you'll understand why.

 

I’m a reckless mistake
I’m a cold night’s intake
I’m a one night too long
I’m a come on too strong

            Perhaps "reckless mistake" is a bit strong, but I firmly believe we are less the product of our actions than we are the sum of our mistakes. The greatest lessons are learned through failure, the ability to accept that failure, and the wherewithal to see the failure, and not just acknowledge it. Sometimes I may dwell on it for a night too long, and sometimes, as with this writing, for example, I may come on a little too strong. Sometimes I close my eyes and breathe the cold night's air in so deeply it chills me to my core; but then, as I exhale, I find that the pain I may have been harboring escapes with my breath, and that's not such a bad thing.

All my life I’ve been living in the fast lane
Can’t slow down
I’m a rollin’ freight train
One more time
Gotta start all over
Can't slow down
I’m a lone red rover

            There's no question that when I'm in, I'm all in. Whether it's love, work, my writing, my sorrow or my elation, I do it with sometimes uncontrollable passion. There are those times I simply can't back off the throttle, and I charge forward. It's led to successes and failures alike. It's brought me to unbelievable joy and unspeakable sorrow, but I can't slow down. It's what I do. It's me.

I’m a hold my cards close
I’m a wreck what I love most
I’m a first class let down
I’m a shut up sit down

            As I mentioned earlier, I cannot adequately explain the reasons why I have such difficulty opening up on an emotional level to those closest to me, yet write these words with ease. There's no doubt that this flaw of mine has at times cost me what I loved, though I suspect in most instances I've been far more of a let-down to myself than I have been to others. At least that's what those close to me have told me. And when I express my lament, when I self-deprecate or get down on myself, they let me know, proverbially or otherwise, that I should sit down and shut up, because I'm not the failure I sometimes feel I am. And I am so eternally grateful for those who love and care enough to shower me with that kind of honesty.

I am a head case
I am the color of boom
That’s never arriving
At you are the pay raise
Always a touch out of view
And I am the color of boom

            I am a head case. If you haven't figured that out by now, you haven't been paying attention. It's not necessarily a bad thing. I am who and what I am. And sometimes my feelings, my words explode from me in a manner that, if it took illustrative form, would likely exhibit a cacophony of color, swirling, splattered, booming forth. And yes, there is something there, always a tad bit out of reach, just out of view. I don't view this negatively – I view it as something to which I can aspire, something to achieve, and inspiration to keeping reaching.

 

Oh
How did it come to this?
Oh
Love is a polaroid
Better in picture
But never can fill the void

            Another year has passed and I have absolutely no idea how I arrived to this point. The memories blend and blur until I open my eyes and look around and remark to myself "well, shit. How the hell did I get here?" I admit that for me love has been the proverbial Polaroid – a snapshot in time capturing a moment of elation. Moments pass, however, stealing from you that which they held in them. True, the picture of memory cannot fill the void that's left behind, but I don't think I believe that all love is a Polaroid. It doesn't all fade. It can't. We cannot survive otherwise. Love captured by the Polaroid is destined to fade. Perhaps as I continue to evolve, as a person, as me, I'll learn better ways in which to capture it.

I'm a midnight talker
Oh I’m an alley walker
I’m a day late two face
I'm a burn out quick pace

I am a head case
I am the color of boom
That’s never arriving
At you are the opera
Always on time and in tune
And I am the color of boom

 

            I am a midnight talker – an insomniac whose brain refuses to rest. I walk along proverbial alleys, searching for that something that eludes me. Sometimes it's something as simple as rest. Sometimes it's as complicated as love, or belonging, or understanding. I can hear the dulcet and soothing tones emanating from the opera hall, but I cannot for the life of me locate the entrance to the theatre. That's when I burn out in frustration. Just recently I've employed a new doctor, one who I believe gets me, as a person, as a patient, and one who has finally prescribed me a sleep aid that addresses my underlying issues. Lately I've been resting, sleeping soundly, and awakening with purpose, energy and desire. And I believe that the entrance to the opera is just around the corner.

I’m gonna get ready
For the rain to pour heavy
Let it fall, fall
Let it fall upon my head

Again, those regular readers, and my friends, know that rain and water, and the cleansing properties thereof, play a huge thematic role in a good portion of my writing. With the rain comes revelation. For me, it's been the revelation that I'm not a failure; that I'm not nearly as lost as I thought I may have been; and that I have so many wonderful people, and experiences, in my life that offset any lingering misgivings or misguided self-loathing. My life is better than good – it's fulfilled.

 

oh
How did it come to this?
oh
Love is a polaroid
Better in picture
But never can fill the void

How did it come to this? It came to this by virtue of the steps I've taken, and the decisions I've made. It's come to this through my successes, my transgressions, my hopes and my misfortunes. It's come to this because this is me, and I shouldn't be afraid or ashamed of the "me" that "this" has created. I'm turning another year older, but I do so surrounded by family and friends, including all that read these words. I turn another year older and I know I'm not alone, that I'm cared for, and that regardless of me, the better and worse that I am, the love in my life isn't just a Polaroid destined to fade into oblivion. And if it is, well, perhaps it is better in picture. Then I can tuck it away, throw it away, destroy it, or preserve it, should I choose. I won't need it to fill the void – there's plenty more in my life for that.

 

Thank you. Thanks for sticking around, hanging out, and sparing your time to read my words, to watch me bleed at my typewriter. Thank you for your love, your support, and for your honestly. I don't like birthdays, but knowing you're there makes each passing year worth every moment.

 

 

~JJ

 

 

© 2015 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.