My Struggle with Success

The day I turned sixteen, I learned a terrible truth about myself that would haunt every decision I would make for the rest of my life. I don't know what made me turn out this way. Certainly not my tireless parents, a lack of education, or opportunity, but no matter the reason, I learned that I was doomed to work for myself.

Because the day I turned sixteen, the day I got my first real job, I learned I would never be comfortable working for other people.

Call me antisocial. Call me lazy, or delinquent. No words or force of action would change that in my heart even in the fresh spring years of my adolescence, I knew I wanted to become self-employed. Had to become self-employed, at whatever the costs. So I did what most other kids would probably do. I bought a guitar.

I played morning and night. Played at school and on the road. I played until the nickel wound guitar strings cut deep enough into my fingers to give me itchy hives. And then I played some more.

Why? Because I was going to be a rockstar. Rockstars work for themselves, I thought at the time.

Then I turned twenty and took my guitar to college. I learned real quick what life as a professional musician would mean. I also learned that despite all my playing, I wasn't really that good. So out went the guitar.

I decided I wanted to write. Yes, write! Surely writers work for themselves, I thought at the time. It had dawned on me during my last semester of college; I didn't want to play music, I wanted to tell music; use it to tell stories. So ignoring my perfectly good laptop computer's word processor, I took out a pen and notepad and began to write.

Soon I was writing copy, articles, and running a blog. It was fun, but more importantly, it paid! More than music anyway. So I continued to write and a few years later, graduated from college.

Then the bills came. Lots of them, and they had to be paid. My parents had put their financial future on the line for me to go to school and I wasn't going to see them get hurt. So I took a regular job and allowed it to suck up most of my time. Because the truth was, the writing just wasn't getting me the pay I needed.

Then I turned twenty-five. I had to do something. I could feel the strain of my regular job ever weighing against my soul. Something had to work. I had ran a blog, why not a vlog? Talking is faster than writing, I thought at the time. Plus videos could get more views. So I started a channel on Youtube.

It was fun. It paid less than writing.

Then I turned twenty-nine and both my parents got cancer. I quit my regular job and went to work caring for them. I even returned to school to become a licensed practical nurse so I could learn how to better manage their care. But in the end, it didn't matter. They both died before seeing me graduate again.

Then I turned thirty-two. I never returned to my day job; I had no more need for one. My parents had both been smart and kind, and they left me with insurance polices that would guarantee I would never have to work again if I didn't want. The irony was I had accomplished my goal. I was finally self-employed, but dear God, had I paid a harsh price for my dream.

I could finally afford to lay about and get up when I wanted, go to bed when I wanted, and buy what I wanted. I could race my fancy car down the road and be treated like a king wherever I went. I would never need worry about working for the man again.

But that's not good enough, because I'm better than that. So I started a medical device company and am giving it my all.

I also decided I would try, once more, to write.