02.22.2004 9:30 pm
good enough

Ooo, I went so long. Now, twice in one day. Sheesh.

I'm jealous of all the people who've somehow (I say, as if it happens by magic) managed to make their journals actual extensions of their personalities. If I cared more, I could keep trying to teach myself more about html. I could spend time making either of my journals, or both, more reflective of my emotions, my personalities.

I feel lost today.

My father finally took the initiative... Let me start another way. It's really rare for my father to go out of his way to visit me. This year on my birthday, he called me, and our discussion went something like this:

Dad: Happy Birthday, Jos-bi-dos!

Jos: Thanks, Dad.

Dad: Where's your mom? You gonna see her today?

Jos: No, she's in Florida for her sister's birthday.

Dad: What? Your own mother left for your birthday?

Jos: Yep.

Dad: [speechless]

But did he come visit me? Oh-ho, no. Last time Dad came to visit me on my birthday was when I was... fourteen, maybe. Once, he actually made it all the way up to Bar Harbor to see me there, but that was because he was on vacation, and Shelley wanted to see Mt. Desert. He didn't see me all summer. He didn't ever visit the Riverdog this fall, even though I specifically asked him to. (Sorry, this entry is growing vitriolic. Stop reading if you're not in the mood.) So when he made a date to come visit me in Portland, I was thrilled. I mean, today was the first time he's ever seen my new apartment, even though I've been here over two months, and he works five days a week in Scarborough.

But now. Not only did he come to visit, he brought his wife and my brother, too. They saw the apartment. We ate out. Good times were had by all. When we were done eating, my dad drove me back to my house.

Dad: Now, you've got rehearsal, right?

Jos: Nope. I'm free the rest of the day!

Dad: Oh, well, we've got to be going, actually. We're going to Sugarloaf for a few days.

In other words, Jos, you're a stop. Just a stop, not a destination. Awesome, Dad. Awesome. And maybe I shouldn't be writing this, because the reality of it, staring me right in the kisser, all font-y and face-y and heavy and actual... It makes me cry.

My story is not the whole truth; it never is. We can only tell one side of a story at a time. I could also tell about how I forgot my father's birthday one year. He never let me forget it. Oh, I know that story well... Which brings me back to my point. And on to a new point. I needed to tell this story, to explain how his actions hurt me. Perhaps for pity from others, but I'm almost certain I did it to feel pity for myself. Why do I want that? Why would anyone want to pity themselves?

I'm scared. I'm scared I'm not good enough. Not in acting... strangely enough. I'm nowhere near fine with TSOT, but I have faith that those pieces will fall into place. No, I'm scared that I'm not good enough for people. Specific people. Like my parents. Like my roomates. Like... you.

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