1,000 Stories Never Told

That’s how I feel today. Like I’m full of stories that are locked away in some part of my brain, and cannot escape. Like I’ve squeezed off the potential for more stories to be born because of my own weakness and fear. Like I’ve been afraid to even share the day-to-day stories here because I know there are people who are reading this blog who are just waiting for me to fall on my face.

On behalf of the late, great Harry Hersh, I say “Fuck you Haters”. Your doubt and disbelieve have held me back and made me doubt myself for far too long. I may have had some spectacular failures in this life, but with each came a host of lessons, which have shaped me into the fairly decent person I am today.

I will continue to fail – fail myself, fail others – but this is how stories are born, and nothing that is born does so without a lot of pain, blood, and gore. For Harry, and Jackie, and Nicky and Bert, for Scott, and Sadie, and Lucienne, for Gail and for anyone else I haven’t named, I will spread my arms and spectacularly fall flat on my face. The same tried and true friends will help me up, dust me off and watch as I, Bambi-on-the-pond, attempt it all over again. Because I need these stories. I need these chapters to feel like I am alive in the world. I need the soaring victories, the enduring conquests, and the despair-riddled fuck ups. I need to build my own legacy, my own way.

I feel like I’m doing the best that I can, with my own resources. I see the pitfalls and the snags. I see my own limitations, and struggle to move through them.

I miss my dog with a visceral pain that is unrivaled in my life. On days like today, twenty minutes with him in the park was enough to make me sane again. With him, I could just be. He was never disappointed, never hurt, always just happy to be there, sweating and panting by my side. Taking my dog away from me out of spite was the last shitty thing I will ever allow anyone to do to me by putting myself in an unnecessarily vulnerable position. I pray for the day that I won’t silently pray for Karma to wreak vengence upon that person.

I find peace in the pages of my journal, in the book I’m currently getting lost in, in a steaming latte, in music, in knowing that I’ve done the best I can. If you do the best you can, and fail, is it still failure?