To write and to be read are very different animals. To write? Is to be so vulnerable so profoundly naked in the skin of yourself that you don't even feel you deserve to wear. Then there is to be so broken. So damaged and want to be loved or liked.
If you're the ONE person reading this blog. That ONE person following my Instagram or the ONE person who read my book? You get it. Even with my two children in bed. Knowing that my wife is shouldering the weight of a million breadwinners while I shoulder the weight of domestication...we will argue again. We will argue over who is doing what and what that means.
Its an argument that gets SO exhausting to me. She is special. I am special. Yet, I will succumb to the specters of ambition and always fall back into the arms of disappointment. I want to be understood, loved, or acknowledged and I don't even know why anymore. The more I try to promote this book the more fearful I become of how people walk around in my head. That's what the book is, its an invite to my head. I just....I SO badly want to be loved or accepted to the point where I have existential meltdowns about it. One of these days I just hope I figure it out. I can run the streets screaming about how I figured it out and I can grab my boys and hold them so tightly and tell them....What the fuck am I chasing? I only needed you two. I only needed you. Why am I still chasing acceptance? I know what its like to grow up with parents who just gave up. I look forward to the moments when I can run toward my kids and tell them...I need to hold you, daddy did something great today. I hope you love me.
I need them to see me chasing after love. Because it means that I am still trying to impress them.
There is nothing I won't chase or try to be so that they love me.
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AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
September 2021
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