I’ll never get back the time I spent sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself. For a little under two years, I wrote a book, stressed to the highest level that most writers feel and fear of no one reading their shit. It scared the crap out of me. I had no idea what I was doing.
I spent a lot of time blaming everyone else but myself for where I was in life. I blamed the misconception of PTSD that society has. I blamed employers for taking kids younger than me with less life experience than hire a guy who deployed twice to war, came home safely and had a proven track record of dealing with shit hitting the fan. I blamed my teachers for not understanding that their final was trivial compared to my experiences, therefore, I didn’t need to be in class or study because to me, why did it matter if they never understood.
I played a lot of Xbox, too much to where having one of the highest scores on Rock Band for the song Carry On My Wayward Son was an achievement worth bragging. Highlights of my day did involve acts of gratitude or experiences rather high scores, home cooked meals I didn’t make, and spending money on pot because I thought it made me feel better.
I smoked a lot of pot during that time sitting on my ass. I thought I was fully functional, productive, making progress and moves towards being a better person. Instead, I spent time thinking about it, never actually doing it. I could have written a lot more. I could have been working a lot sooner. I wouldn’t have gone through feeling sorry for myself.
Even if I can’t get the time back, I learned that for you to appreciate what you have, you have to know what you can’t get back.
In words of the 80’s metal band Cinderella, “You don’t know what you got until it’s gone.”