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Misdirection
This is a story about mistakes and lessons. I suppose it’s about more than that, but essentially, that’s what it all leads back to. Whether the mistakes were my own, my mother’s or the world’s, I’m not all that sure, but without them I’d have no story to tell.
My name is Jeff Wilson; I was only 17 when I decided to leave my home. It’s not like I was doing all that much there anyway. I had dropped out of school and lost my job. My father was long gone, my mother was an alcoholic and my grandmother, our sole provider, was dead.
Simply put, my life has never been easy. I grew up in a household with a violent mother and a grandmother that worked two jobs to support us. My grandmother cared a great deal about both my mother and I, but she really wasn’t around often enough. I suppose she must have felt a bit guilty because for my tenth birthday she bought me a way out of this less than mundane life: a guitar.
I often found myself alone as I had few friends and not much of a family. Now, I had something to busy myself with. I sat around hour after hour, day after day, painstakingly teaching myself to play. To this very day I still can’t read music and I can’t name a single chord, but that never mattered. As long as I could play, I was happy.
I started listening to my mother’s old records more and worked my way through the songs, learning every part of each song that caught my interest.
Around my thirteenth birthday, I managed to get myself a part-time job at the local supermarket. The few friends I did have drifted away even further since I didn’t really do much else outside of school, work and music. Occasionally, I’d break up that cycle with a meal here and there, although not as often as I’d have liked due to my mother’s drinking tendencies. Overall, it wasn’t too bad.
It wasn’t until I was about sixteen that it started to really deteriorate. I stopped going to school because I wasn’t doing all that well and eventually I just dropped out. It wasn’t hard to get my mother to sign off on it, as all I had to do was find a moment when she was drunk and awake. I started working fulltime so my grandmother could quit one of her jobs. After all, she was getting up in her years. She wasn’t happy I’d quit school, but never made too much of a fuss about it. It was only a few months later that she fell ill.
A few weeks into her illness, she had to quit her job, as it was getting too hard for her to get out of bed. I dropped a few shifts at work to stay home and care for her. Eventually my boss fired me because I couldn’t get to work as often as he needed me. We turned to living off what little collage fund I had saved over the years, knowing I’d never make it to collage anyway. Those days were really tough on me, it seemed that all I did was take care of my grandmother and avoiding my drunken mother.
In the few moments of spare time I did manage to get, I turned to my guitar. Music was my only escape from the harsh reality of my life. I started to write songs. A few riffs, simple chord progressions, and basic melodies later, I found myself with a few songs on the go. The only thing I had trouble with were the lyrics. Everything I wrote seemed contrived and boring. I suppose lyrics, like anything, can’t be forced.
When my grandmother finally died, about a year after she first fell ill, I knew it was time to leave. We were worse than broke and her death was a wake-up call for me. She had left me a letter. The letter was quite long, and I must have read it a thousand times over, but every time it was different. Some of the letter was about our family’s history; some of it was just little things she had picked up over the years. The letter also mentioned the guilt she felt for never giving me a better life than I had. She also mentioned a shoebox that she had hidden under a couple of floorboards in her closet that had some money she’d saved up over the years. When I finally dug it up, it was far more than I’d have thought she’d saved.
That was all I needed, and my bags were packed. I had few belongings: just some clothing and my guitar, really. My mother had never cared for me or I her, so I knew it was time to finally leave.
I hitchhiked my way into the city and found myself a small apartment. I suppose I could have bussed it into the city, but I wanted to save all the money for when I’d really need it. The apartment was small and smelled of stale cat pee, but it was all I could afford. Plus, the landlord there was the only person who was willing to overlook the fact I was only 17, a minor. There was a girl living in the apartment next to mine that was about my age. On the other side, there was a grouchy old man that had a tendency to shout at nothing.
I managed to procure myself a job as a waiter in a small restaurant. I had the daytime off mostly, so I would go around to the small clubs that needed musicians. I was always rejected since all of my songs were nothing but music. I did manage to find work in a small café that wanted my lyric-less songs, although there I was merely background noise.
I was living alright, and it was better than before, yet I was immeasurably unhappy. I still don’t really understand it. My one job was quite pleasant and the other paid well and let me get to know people better. Sure, my apartment was still horrid, but it wasn’t that bad. I guess I was frustrated. I tried to write lyrics to my songs so I could play elsewhere, or even get a chance to record a demo. But I couldn’t think, and all the lyrics were uninspired.
It was then that the depression that I’d thought my music had under control shone through. It crept up on me when I was least expecting it, the one time I figured I could be okay: when I was playing.
I was playing one of my more morose songs, attempting, once again, to write lyrics. I had the melody, but no words came to mind. Finally, I just put down my guitar in the middle of playing. I looked at it in disgust, leaving it sitting on the stained couch and walked the three steps it took to get to my bedroom. The bedroom was more like a closet with a single bed stuffed in there. I sat on the bed and looked back at my guitar. And that’s when it really hit. I started sobbing, and I wasn’t sure why.
Was it because I had failed to make it musically? Or was it simply the sorrows of my life finally adding up. It was odd, I don’t cry, ever; I hardly shed a tear when my grandmother died and I cared for her deeply. I couldn’t figure it out; I didn’t know what I wanted. The fact that even music couldn’t bring me back to life was what really messed me up. That was when the thought of an early death came to mind. I wasn’t sure how to do it, but I new it wouldn’t be too hard. I walked out of the apartment and found myself wondering the streets.
I finally found what I was looking for, a quiet park free of the usual population of drug addicts and their suppliers. I took out the Swiss army knife that I had found in my grandmothers box. The letter had said it was my grandfather’s. I found a nice old willow tree and sat down under it. Taking out the knife I rolled up my sleeves and took a deep breath. A moment later I looked down at the blood pouring out from the wound I had evidently inflicted upon myself. I sighed and felt my eyes getting heavy. As the world darkened, I heard a shout in the distance.
When I woke up I found myself in a bright white room that smelled so sterile it burnt my nose. I looked to my right arm and saw an IV needle sticking out of me. I was in a hospital.
“It’s about time you woke up,” a quiet female voice said.
I looked over to see a young woman sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. I tried to ask who she was but found my mouth dry. She handed me a glass of water that was sitting on a table nearby and spoke again.
“I’m Jess, I live two doors down from you. I heard you crying and then you stormed out so I figured I’d follow you. When I saw what you had intended to do I called for help, and they brought you here.”
It was in that moment I was thankful to actually be alive. Someone, a stranger no less, seemed to actually care about me? It was excruciatingly odd to realize this.
When I was able to leave the hospital, Jess was to take care of me for the next little while. The doctors said I seemed stable but would need supervision. Over a short time we built up a close relationship, a friendship that I’d never known could even exist until then.
I finally was able to write the lyrics for my songs. The first few were about struggling; the song I had been playing when I finally broke down was about just that; and there was one song I wrote about love and friendship, as cheesy as that may sound. Jess helped me record the songs using her computer. I finally had my demo.