September 23rd, 2024 - Autobahn
Dear TNY,
Today’s story is “Autobahn” and I think it’s worthy of my time.
The sentences are clean and clear, not overwrought. It’s just one scene, which I appreciate, even though it has quite a few flashbacks. And it unfolds in a tidy way. Doesn’t leave loose ends that have to be wrapped up later. And maybe it’s just a little relatable to me, you know? A guy on compressed timelines, existing in many planes at once. In fact, it seems like I’m in all my memories at once these days. The pacing is balanced, it doesn’t get ahead of itself. And the word count is very reasonable, coming in at a hair over 3k. I’ve always been a believer in big plot with tiny points of transcending light. Like, that the main character accidentally stumbles onto beauty in a place it shouldn’t be. That’s what this piece has going for it. And because it feels accidental, it doesn’t feel like you’re manipulating me or touching on some hot-button, socially relevant subject (you got close with the German terrorist shit though, but I see the point of using it as a mechanism to move the narrative where it wanted to go). Just a guy, walking in the snow at gunpoint, remembering his complicated relationship with his father.
And that’s good enough.
Speaking of complicated relationships with fathers…
The number one counter-argument I get, when I say I feel like I’m dying and I don’t think I can take this anymore, is my kids. Yes, conceptually I understand that it would be horrible for them. They would be so angry. And disappointed. But eventually they’d get to where I am with my father: sad. Because no matter how much he belittled me as a child, how small and pathetic I was in his eyes, the amount of times that he screamed at me for peeing the bed or accidentally shitting my pants or breaking my bones or puking up his Fruity Pebbles immediately after I ate too many, or his calloused hands with thick, yellowing fingernails popping me in the back of the head and hearing the phrase, “What are you, fucking stupid?!” For all the times when he yelled in my face, his spit gathering in the corners of his mouth, for all the times he stabbed me with a fork in the left elbow because I couldn’t figure out how to eat without it on the table, for all the times he intentionally embarrassed me in front of strangers at the grocery store by farting loudly and then yelling at me, making it look like I did it, for all the times I couldn’t shuffle cards when we played poker, for the dozen or so times that he asked where was that skateboard that he spent so much money on for me, him knowing that it was in the back of Phillip’s car and I’d never get it back again, before berating me for not giving a shit, and time I got arrested and he showed up at 1:00AM at the sheriff’s and on the drive back home, after all the yelling, after cutting me into a million little irreconcilable pieces, after he’d lost all of his steam and just sat quietly, he said, “You’re no better than I am.” After all of it, the thirty or so years we shared on the same planet, I loved him. And I forgave him, and I’d give almost anything to have him back.
The more I learn about all of this depression and our fragile human condition, the more I learn that he was broken. I’m broken. We all got fucked by our parents because they got fucked by their parents. And if everyone is broken, maybe we should be a little kinder to each other. A little kinder to ourselves. Most of this shit, it isn’t our fault and we aren’t doing it on purpose. You think I want to be like this? That I want to push all these people away? That I want to hurt people like J, and watch her fucking leave? I don’t. And I’m working on it. The therapist and I are starting work on self-worth this week. I’ve got a real problem, guys. The data shows I struggle to hold down relationships. And a lot of that comes from self-worth issues. But it extends so far beyond that. I have friends. Family. Children. Hell, somehow in the last 11 years ten women have fallen in love with me.
But I can’t feel value. And it’s gotten worse.
I believe on the other side of this, if I make it out, I can be a good partner. Husband. Lover. Parent. I just got pushed so many times and there’s a little kid inside of me just trying to survive so he hurts back. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry to everyone.
I was telling a friend last night that I don’t have any value and I don’t matter. And she spoke about it in a way that I really understood, maybe for the first time. Objectively, these people tell me I have value. I see the words. Hear them on the phone calls. I know people are concerned. But I can’t feel it. And this friend says it’s like anorexia. I have body dysmorphia of the mind. When I look at myself, I see two warring factions. I see a huge piece of shit who is deserving of nothing. A monster. But I also see someone who is so capable, so skilled, and I can be so fun, and so funny, and kind and caring, but I see that caring person is alone and I’m angry and sad about it. Like, why don’t I deserve love as well? But I’m saying that to you right now knowing that a few sentences earlier I told you I’d already had it. I’ve had it in spades. I just…I can’t feel it like I’m supposed to.
And I’m fucking stubborn. And arrogant. And I have a huge ego. And this time I know I need help. And I fucked up all my help. And I can’t do a fucking thing about it.
I’m trying to do this work. But I don’t know, guys. It all just hurts so much.
I did things this week. I made travel plans. Work plans. I shaved. I did a drunken backflip off of a huge cliff into a river. I still don’t have answers. I think in this case answers aren’t coming either. Last night, when not sleeping all night long, just in the dark watching YouTube, I thought about wandering off into the desert. Maybe the answers are there.
I just want someone to hold my hand, you know? I have an idealized view of the world where if I do enough work, pay enough into the karmic bank, that when I need to withdraw, there’ll be something in there for me. But life isn’t fair. We all get fucked. And that’s okay. That’s got to be okay. Or I don’t have too much longer here.
Anyway, I’m still here. One more week in the books.
Nick
