Bleeding Words

You got a right to say!

“Right, (Right), you’re bloody well right
You got a bloody right to say
Right, you’re bloody well right
You know you got a right to say
Ha-ha, you’re bloody well right
You know you’re right to say
Yeah, yeah, you’re bloody well right
You know you’re right to say”

— Supertramp, “Bloody Well Right”

Housekeeping note: Thank you to Wildwood Writer for giving me some inspiration tonight. Hope I did your work justice.

I wish I had a couple things at my disposal:

1) Infinite patience, and

2) Musical inclination

I do not have much of either.

Patience is the trickier one. Anyone who is a parent must have a certain amount of patience. It is part of the job description. LOTS of parents will reminisce fondly about their children growing up and teaching them to eat with a fork or showing them how to walk or…throw a baseball or…recite the alphabet or…be toilet trained – “it was never a chore; I loved every single second…” being the common refrain from parents.

I may be going out on a limb here, but…that is a lie.

There were plenty of occasions raising my daughter when I wished for everything that was good and decent that she would figure out the alphabet and multiplication tables without any help. Both her mom and I needed some fucking sleep, and we weren’t getting enough. And I kid you not…I am thankful at least once every single week that she was toilet trained exactly when the pediatrician predicted she would be ready. I read stories about families that agonize getting their children to use the bathroom on their own or waiting day and night for that first step to be taken, and I count myself pretty damn lucky my kid hit her marks like a pro.

But…

…“I loved every single second” when referring to one’s raising of children is a triggering phrase for me. It is proof positive someone is lying to my face.

Don’t get me wrong. In the grand scheme of things, being a dad is something I love being. Without a doubt. Being a dad is awesome, and I happen to have an amazing kid who makes me look good as a result. I fully recommend parenthood to anyone interested, but…it isn’t always roses and chocolates. Don’t pretend it is. Being a parent is great. It IS the greatest job you can ever have, but it is the hardest job one can possibly dream up. Patience is essential.

As for musical acumen, I have none. I had guitar lessons when I was in fourth or fifth grade.

The lessons didn’t take.

I cannot read music, and I can barely whistle. Karaoke is not my friend, and I am pretty sure the CD player in my car no longer works because it could not take the verbal abuse, I subjected it to on my long commute days, and so it finally decided to tap out.

My brother taught himself the guitar within the last fifteen years, so I know it is possible to learn if I put my mind to it. But my lack of patience precludes me from putting in the necessary time and effort. Clearly, this is my daughter’s fault, since I expended my reservoir of patience raising her. (Just kidding, kiddo)

So, why do I wish I had these things when I clearly am not cut out for either?

There is no socially acceptable way of expressing one’s frustrations with life, with work, and with people contained within your own private orbit that is better than rock ‘n roll.

Writing comes close. In fact, one of my new friends via Substack phrased it perfectly, just tonight:

“I was never trying to be loud; I was trying to bleed honestly enough that silence couldn’t survive me.” — Wildwood Writer

Every writer should feel that way when you are desperate (or confident) enough to put yourself out there. Being clever is nice, and can be helpful sometimes, but I want to feel a writer’s words and hear the colors when they are scratching, clawing and begging to be heard. I am privileged to see a lot of this kind of writing each day when I visit Substack, and I am just trying to keep up.

Being depressed provides that opportunity to bleed honestly. Almost counterintuitively, depression can help focus one’s thoughts. And since I can’t read or write music, writing is the medium I am best equipped to use to figuratively shout from the rooftops that some things just suck sometimes; people suck sometimes; work (if you have it) sucks sometimes. No roadmaps exist that will get you out of here safely and cleanly. You end up marked up no matter what direction you take.

I hope, whoever reads this, by the time he/she/they are finished reading whatever it is I write, they are left without doubt – “that guy? Phew, he left it all out there, didn’t he?”

Silence did not survive. It never had a chance.