THE SECRET JOURNAL OF NEIL PATEL #9
WARNING: NEIL = TYPOS
Time to stop snooping. There’s plenty of work to do. Why do I add more to my plate? If something comes of the Daniel thing (okay, two things: Anna and the pings) I’ll deal with it then.
Higgins is right. I need to take time for me.
So what do you do when your head doctor tells you take time away from work when work is what you love most? You dig. You dig deep.
Doc Higgins had me do an exercise where he had me imagine my childhood. I was supposed to remember the times I had fun. Not surface level fun but deep down can’t stop thinking about it day and night fun.
This was hard to do. Ever since I lost my parents, I don’t like thinking back to when they were here. It’s not that I don’t miss them. The opposite it true. I miss them every day. Every. Single. Day.
I’ve used their loss to fuel me. And guess what? Doc says that’s part of the problem, that I’ve depended on their memory for my drive.
Okay. Hard pill to swallow.
I sat for a long time. Then I went for a looooooong walk. My stupid fake foot hurt like hell when I was done. I took off my prosthetic and it was in that motion, in that pain that the memory flushed itself from my brain.
My father loved motorcycles.
He used to take me to shows and shops, always window shopping. He told me stories about riding fourth-hand bikes when he was a kid. They had a game where they’d chase stray dogs and try to catch them with their bare hands while riding. Crazy. Reckless. The opposite of who I thought my father was. But a great memory that I’d pushed down long ago.
So I guess I’ll start there. Motorcycles. Maybe I’ll learn to ride. Maybe I’ll buy one. But you won’t see me chasing down stray anything.
Motorcycles. This is not where I saw this journey going.
Night, night, Dear Diary,
Your wannabe Motörhead, Neil.
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