Back To The Future: My Life in 20 Years

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” ― Søren Kierkegaard

The Perfect Morning

“The past is always tense, the future perfect.” ― Zadie Smith

I wake up early, not because I want to, but because I need to. I go to the fridge and grab a can of iced cold brew coffee and sip on it while I watch ESPN and prepare for the days work.

But, before I glue my butt to a chair hours, I have to exercise. At forty-eight years old (forty-nine in August), mental and physical health is of utmost importance. It has been, even as a youngster.

More importantly, I have to exercise before work, so I have one less thing distracting me from my life’s purpose.

The Beginning

“In every end, there is also a beginning.” ― Libba Bray

Twenty years ago, if you would’ve asked me what I wanted to be, I would’ve said basketball player.

“See you in the NBA,” writes Jay Saul in my 5th-grade yearbook.

Jay was my biggest enemy in the fourth and fifth grades. We’d get into heated scuffles during basketball games because we both loved the sport, and girls were watching. As with Jay, basketball was one of the few, if not only, way I made friends.

In elementary, middle, and high school, I was painstakingly shy. I suppose I was born this way.

At two years old, when my stepmom first met me, she stated I was attached to my dad’s leg, wrapping my arms around his calf like a bear hug. She said it wasn’t until I was five — old enough to know it wasn’t cool to look scared — that I gave his calf a breather.

In other words, striking up random conversations — making friends the usual way — was difficult.

I moved to Chatsworth to go to middle school. This school was a tough transition from the Calabasas elementary school I just attended.

Calabasas was primarily Caucasian, but the middle school in Chatsworth was predominately Hispanic and African American because they bussed in kids from Los Angeles. I was the minority for the first time in my life.

As a basketball fan, part of the culture is wearing your sneakers to school. On my first day of middle school, kids kicked dirt and mud on my shoes. That was the last time I wore sneakers to school.

Frightened, terrified, and feeling like an outcast, I’d aimlessly wander around campus during recess and lunch. I would travel every inch of the terrain, going to the bathroom often (even though I didn’t need to), so it appeared I was walking with purpose. I yearned for the bell to ring so I could go back to class — an opposite desire from most kids my age.

One day during lunch, I went to the basketball courts to play. Timidly, I approached the court, hoping to get picked to play. Being white and new to the school, I was picked last.

I performed well, though. I scored six points and earned the respect of the other kids. Moving forward, I was one of the first kids selected and began to make friends with the other players.

In high school, I didn’t make the team freshman year, so I was excluded from the friends I previously built in middle school. I began to hang out with a kid I met at 24 Hour Fitness while playing basketball. He became my best friend at the time; he was trouble.

He was two years older and hung out with juniors. I always felt uncomfortable associating with him and his friends at school, but I did anyway because I didn’t have any other option.

He and his group of friends wanted to break into a house and steal thousands of dollars worth of coins. I almost went along with them, but chickened out last minute and went to the gym to play basketball instead: one of the best decisions of my life because they got arrested.

Sophomore year I made the basketball team. For the first time in a while, I felt home — safe and at ease. Senior year I became close with a teammate who is now my best friend.

I’m heterosexual, but I can say without shame, he is my soul mate. He’s been the most impactful person in my life thus far, and I wouldn’t be the person I am without him. I currently live with him and other friends we met at the gym.

My love for basketball inspired me to major in Athletic Training as a freshman in college. After failing a couple of science classes, I realized this path wasn’t for me.

More Than Melody & Lyrics

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ― Bob Marley

Besides basketball, music — individually, hip hop — had a significant impact on my childhood. I was in fourth grade when I first heard Eminem.

His performance during the MTV Music Awards show was energetic, boastful, charismatic, abrasive, edgy; I was hooked.

Eminem’s album — The Eminem Show — was the first album I ever bought. I’d play it in the car while my mom drove my brother and me to school. I would word-for-word rhyme with Eminem while my mom looked at me with shock and terror.

In the middle of rapping Cleaning Out My Closet, my mom, with speed and rage, smacked the eject button and said, “No way! Were not listening to this anymore.”

The song’s about Eminem’s hatred and disgust towards his mom. I suppose I understand my mom’s “beef”.

Months later, though, Lose Yourself — Eminem’s most popular song to date released, and my mom was rapping alongside me while we drove home from dinner.

After I realized becoming a basketball trainer for the Lakers was no longer in my future, I changed my major to music. I wanted to be a producer because I couldn’t envision myself being the next Eminem. There’s no way I could get on stage in front of thousands of people. I struggled to say hello to family members; strangers I avoided like people without face masks.

After months of fiddling with “equalizers,” “frequencies,” and “oscillators,” it became clear I hated technology more than I hated the Lakers losing. Hell, I just got an Instagram in November.

The Ghosts Within

“He wanted to leave the past a few hundred miles down the road, shake it off like dust. But that was the problem with the past. It kept finding him.” ― Suzanne Woods Fisher

My childhood wasn’t glamourous. My parents divorced when I was two years old.

My mom struggled to find happiness without male companionship. She always dated men that were involved in drugs and illegal activity. On top of that, every one of her relationships was abusive — emotionally and physically.

Her boyfriend when I was in middle school was one of the worst human beings I have ever met. He claimed to be mob affiliated and threatened to kill my mom, brother, and me during a drunken fury, late one October night.

Scared shitless, we hid out in motels. While laying next to my brother on the harden hotel mattress, my mom on one beside us, the phone rings; it’s him. He found us.

I don’t know how because my mom told the front desk attendee not to confirm our stay. If I remember correctly, my mom even gave the attendee a fake name.

Today, older and more mature, I realize he would have never killed us (I don’t think), and my emotional reaction wouldn’t have been as severe. But at thirteen, I felt my days were numbered. I felt like an animal being stalked by a predator.

I expected to be wakened by the hotel door being broken down and assassinated shortly after I lifted my head from my pillow.

My mom’s boyfriend never hurt my brother or me because she isolated us in motels. We were left alone for weeks at a time, absent from school, and only seeing our mom when she gave us money for food.

Like marionettes, the abandonment, terror, and unease from my childhood controlled my being.

From Student to Teacher

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” ― Albert Camus

In high school, I was withdrawn and antisocial. I didn’t go to a football game, party, or homecoming until senior year. I almost didn’t go to prom, but my best friend pushed me into the girl I liked, forcing me to ask her to be my date.

I didn’t kiss a girl in high school. It’s difficult to trust and form intimate relationships with the opposite sex when your mother — the one female who’s supposed to give you undivided love and attention — was absent.

I moved away for my freshman year of college. I became depressed and angry because I was lonely. I didn’t have the social skills to meet new people — especially girls.

So I started to read and watch videos about dating and relationships. This led me to learn about all things mental health: self-esteem, confidence, thoughts, feelings, spirituality.

I practiced (and still practice) everything I read and watched. I would go to the mall by myself and talk to random strangers. When I worked at Starbucks, I spoke to every single customer despite the way I was feeling or how frantic and hurried they appeared.

Doing this improved my social skills, charisma, dating, and relationship success. Because of the knowledge and experience I gained, I’m currently going to college to become a Marriage and Family Therapist. I think therapy can be helpful, and I’m excited to become a therapist, but I feel lack when I envision myself as a therapist.

I’ll sit and primarily listen to someone for an hour, and intuitively interject when I believe insight could be useful. The future image of being a therapist feels dull, bland, monotonous, empty; less fulfilling, rewarding, and opportunistic than doing what I’m doing this very second — writing.

Me at 48 Years Old

“Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.” ― Shannon Alder

In 20 years, I want my fingers to be puncturing keys with vigor, speed, and recklessness.

I want to be a writer because of the independence it will allow me. Besides that one imaginary person they’re writing for, word slingers don’t have to communicate with anyone; the only person writers have to manage and answer to is themselves: a job description fit for an introvert if you ask me.

Unlike therapy, which is predominately one-on-one, articles and books can help many people at once. And the earning potential is unlimited.

Books have had the greatest impact on my life. If there’s anything I want to learn, I google the best books and look up their reviews on Amazon. I spend hours reading reviews. Even if the book has a five-star rating with thousands of reviews, I don't buy just yet.

I browse the suggested section and read the reviews of those books as well. This is a hobby of mine because of the excitement I feel knowing a book will improve my life.

Reading is also my preferred way to learn anything, even if the skill I’m inquiring about is tech-based (i.e., produce music). My thoughts distract me when I watch Youtube videos or listen to podcasts. Words in a book or on a screen capture my attention better than any other form of content.

I arrive to work thirty minutes early so I can read one of many Amazon Kindle books on my phone. On my desk, books surround my laptop like a cage does an animal.

I have a fascination with words, similar to Eminem. But, Eminem’s central motivation to becoming a rapper was respect. He wanted to be known as the most skilled amongst his peers. I want to be known as one of the best writers ever.

When I write, I view myself as a rapper playing with words, sentences, and paragraphs, moving them around like puzzle pieces, perfecting them, with the ultimate goal of producing a hit record (or popular article in my context).

I vision each composition as a song, and in time, I want to compile my best tunes into a book or course that will be a best-selling album. The thought of having a book — a piece of art — you are share with the world, be respected, critically acclaimed, and, most importantly, impactful, is my motivation.

It’s the reason for my long nights and early mornings. It’s the reason I say no to my favorite shows and dinner invites. It’s the reason I workout less and read more. It eliminates the suffering from sacrifice.

If it weren’t for my failed attempts at basketball training and music producing; if it weren’t for my imperfect childhood and sequential triumph; I wouldn’t want to be at forty-eight, what I am today: a writer.

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