This Is My Story
Being a musician is easy. The notes make sense; they fit together. The notes speak to me in a way I can understand. With them, I can create something beautiful. I can create rhythms and melodies that sing without words.
Words are not like that. Words are jumbled, scrambled, constantly moving around. They won't stay in one place long enough for me to figure out what they are saying. Words don't speak to me; they taunt me.
Growing up, I thought I was stupid. When everyone else is telling you that you are stupid, you tend to believe them. Little Eddie can't read, they said. No matter how hard I tried, the words never made sense. No one helped me, no one ever said the word dyslexia. I was left on my own to try to figure it out, and the frustration kept building like an inferno inside me. The only way to put out the fire was to just give up.
Giving up is easy. Giving up is in my blood, after all. My father - however loosely that term fits - gave up on our family when I was three years old. I don't remember him, not really. I have flashes of a memory of him holding me on his lap. I can't tell if he's happy or sad in this memory; I can't see his face, I can't hear his voice. I just know it's him.
The only thing my father left behind, besides my mother and me, was an old Fender guitar. My mother said that guitar was the only thing that would soothe me when I was a baby. My father would strum the strings and sing quietly until I fell asleep. She knew even then that he wouldn't stay. He always had a faraway look in his eyes, she told me. As though he was already gone. It just took a little bit longer before his body caught up, and he walked out the door for good.
After my father left, that guitar became my lifeline. It was a link to my father, to know that he was real. I may not remember him anymore, but this guitar means he did exist, and he is out there somewhere in this world. And even though he left us, and I've hated him most of the time, that knowledge gives me some comfort at my lowest points.
As soon as I was old enough, I taught myself to play. We didn't have any money for lessons. My mother worked three jobs just to be able to pay rent and keep food on the table. I knew early on not to ask for anything more. It just lead to disappointment for me and sadness for my mother.
Instead, I went to the library to find anything that could help me. Mrs. Cope, the librarian, was a nice older woman with graying hair and glasses. I don't know for sure if she knew that I didn't read well, but she picked out a guitar lesson book filled with pictures of the correct hand placement for each note. She didn't make fun of me or make any snide comments. I wasn't used to that, and I've always appreciated her for it.
As I learned the notes and chord progressions, I found that I was a natural at reading music. Where words failed me, music spoke to me. I may have given up on reading, but I dove headfirst into music. Once I got into high school, I started playing at the only bar in this dead-end town. If I'd lived anywhere else, the fact that I was underage would have kept that opportunity from me. But talent was scarce around here, and there weren't many other options. So the bar owner let me play.
While the owner charged a cover when he had a music act playing, he didn't pay me much since I was underage. I argued with him about it at first, but there wasn't really anything I could do. I wanted to be up on that stage no matter what. It was the only time I felt special, the only time I didn't feel stupid. I would have played for nothing at that point.
I got paid in other ways, at least. The bartenders would give me drinks for free. Yeah, they could have gotten in trouble providing a minor with alcohol, but they knew no one in this town cared. The sheriff was usually sitting in the corner, too drunk to even notice. And Vicky, the bartender with the curly red hair, big boobs, and tiny outfits, gave me more than just a couple of drinks. She gave me her mouth and her body. What sixteen-year-old would turn that down?
I didn't understand love back then. I didn't want love back then. I just wanted to feel like I was worth something, that I was more than the kid whose father left him, more than the kid who couldn't read. Vicky made me feel like that. Though I know now she was just trying to find her own sense of self-worth anyway she could, too.
I knew that music was going to be my life, no matter what. It's the only thing I'm good at. The only time I was truly happy was when I was playing music. I didn't need school for that, so I quit. My mom was upset when she found that out, of course. She was scared I was going to turn into my father, but she finally realized music was my only choice.
I got a few odd jobs to earn enough money to get out of that town and move to Nashville. And this is where I've been for the last five years.
So that's my sad story, Bella.
-t.i.m.s.-
I'm afraid to look into Bella's eyes, afraid of what I might see now that she knows it all. Will she be disappointed with the way I've lived and the choices I've made? I'm not sure I can handle that.
Bella is the best person I've ever known. I bless the day I walked into her library. Besides my mother, the two women who have had the most positive impact on my life have been librarians. Mrs. Cope helped me on my path to music. Bella has helped me on my path to being a better man. She's my own personal angel sent from heaven
I was struggling in the library that day, and Bella could tell. She came over, talked to me, asked me some questions, and then changed my life. Bella was the first person to ever suggest to me that I might be dyslexic. That was the first time I realized there might be a reason for my reading problems. Maybe I'm wasn't stupid after all.
While there isn't a cure for dyslexia, there are ways to compensate that help make it easier to read. Bella offered to teach me, and I accepted her help right away. I didn't care the reason, I just wanted to spend more time with her.
Bella has an easy way about her that makes everyone she knows feel special. She makes me feel worthy. Not just for my music, not just for what I can offer others - just for being me. I've fallen in love with her, and she loves me, too.
But I've kept so much of my past hidden until now. I would see the sadness in Bella's eyes when I would change the subject anytime she brought up my past. I was afraid that knowing my story would change her opinion of me. But I couldn't hide it any longer. It's not fair to accept her love if she doesn't really know me. I needed to be as open and honest with her as she has always been with me. So, I told her my whole story tonight.
"Are you disappointed in me?" I ask her.
"Edward," she chides.
I finally look up her. With her head titled to side, her beautiful brown eyes display nothing but the love they've always shown.
"I am even more proud of you, knowing what you've been through and what you've overcome. I could never be disappointed in you. I love you."
I feel my eyes start to water as I hold back tears threatening to fall. I've never felt as grateful as I feel for her love and acceptance. And I think I am finally finding that love and acceptance in myself.
"I love you so much, my Bella. Thank you for loving me."
"Always," she answers.