My Dad kinda thinks I’m a fuck up. I mean I’m not saying this to make people feel sorry for me, or make him out to be a bad guy, but given his past and his perspective of life, he thinks I don’t do much in with mine. In some ways, when I’m really honest with myself, he’s right. I never know what to say when people ask ‘what I do’ or what to write as my ‘occupation’ when I fill out a form for any sort of official business.
Technically, I’m a licensed real estate broker in Washington state, though I haven’t sold or bought any houses. I tell everyone I meet that I’m a writer/photographer, but at best, I’ve produced a mediocre portfolio, and in an odd twist of events, I’m currently grading entrance exams for the Foster Business School at the University of Washington. I also own my own LLC, but I don’t even want to get into that. And I’m not trying to humble-brag these things for people to later tell me, “Oh, but you’ve done so much!” or have them console me about my life (no seriously, don't do because it'll just annoy the shit out of me), but it’s more like I’ve gone through my life stepping half-way in, too afraid to go the rest of the way, and well, it's starting to catch up as I grow older.
I suppose my main job is that I work for the family business managing apartments, or at least that’s my main source of income, which for the most part means my parents are still supporting me. That’s not to say the work isn’t a pain in the ass. It very much is, but to have gotten here on my own? Yeah, I can’t really say I did.
So since the car accident, I’ve just felt this sense of overwhelming guilt that I’ve caused yet another inconvenience to the world around me. I think about how if I didn’t have my family supporting me, this one accident could have sank me financially. I start thinking about my self-worth, and whether or not I’d make it in the world alone. I keep trying to plan for Brazil, trying to save up enough money to make it out there on my own accord, but I keep fucking up. I keep making it harder for me to make it back home.
I told my Dad about what happened with the car, about how shameful I felt that I fucked up, yet again. He went through the typical motions of a father, getting a bit angry at first, then relieved that I was okay, but there was something in the tone of his voice that I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He went into this story about something that happened at one of the apartments. One of our tenants shot himself to death in front of his wife. Something about him having mental issues and feeling rejected throughout his life. I didn’t know the guy or anything, but hearing the news made me tear up a bit, about how bad it can get for some people. I could tell the whole thing shook my father a bit too, having death lurk so closely to our lives and all.
“So Nick your problems are kind of minuscule,” my father said to me, “don’t worry about the car too much. It’s just money. As long as your safe, healthy, and happy, that’s all that matters.”