Journal Entry #1

Recently, a friend told me they were looking forward to reading my memoirs. I’ve always hesitated and looked forward to the idea, though—I'm always caught in that perpetual wavering between the two feelings, like a flag in the wind. Every other week too, someone else says the same thing, suggesting I write a book, and it grates on me. I’m too skeptical to take advice from just anyone. It’s not that I don’t think my life might hold some interest, or that I don’t believe I have something worth saying. It’s just that it doesn’t feel like it matters—like remembering it, dredging it up, would only weigh me down. I’d rather keep swimming, moving forward, not looking back. But this friend, I trust them—though my mind insists I shouldn’t, my gut tells me to listen to her. So, here I am, starting today.

My dad used to tell me that if I ever had the choice, I should always listen to the advice of women. “They’re usually right, save yourself some time,” he’d say, “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll learn that lesson the hardest way possible.” And he was right. and then, with that, he’d go off on one of his rants about how the people in office were crooked, how the government was a mess, but somehow, he still believed in the institution of democracy. He was only going to vote for women from then on, he’d say, pausing for a dramatic effect. At that point, I’d walk away, knowing that if I didn’t, I’d be trapped in an hour-long monologue, one that felt pulled perfectly straight from Portnoy’s Complaint.

I don’t know where to begin. Chronologically seems logical, but that would be a lie. Life doesn’t happen in neat little packages, lined up in order. It’s more like streams, overlapping waves of moments, stories that twist like a frayed rope: weaving people, places, work, dreams into a tangled mess. So where do I even start?

Maybe a theme is the answer. But I don’t know what the theme of my life is. From the start, I’ve felt out of sync, out of phase with everything and everyone—myself included. The first time I remember truly becoming conscious of the world, I was four. My mom had signed me up for a soccer club, thinking it would be good for me—some exercise, a chance to meet friends. It was on a sprawling, grassy field in Flagstaff that I came to. The sky stretched wide and pale blue above, the forest encircling us like a fence. I don’t remember the parents sitting on the sidelines. All I remember is how big the field was, how enormous it seemed—like it took up the entire world.

The other kids were running around, swarming like bees, chasing the ball, but I couldn’t hear the coach yelling. I tried to follow along for a moment, running after the ball, but then I just... stopped. Everything in my body felt heavy, and it wasn’t just exhaustion. It was something deeper, something that made my muscles refuse to move. I felt like I was going to die if I didn’t lie down and sleep right there in the middle of that field. So, I did. I closed my eyes, watching the grass and trees swirl in the wind at the same height together in a blur before I drifted off. That moment still lingers with me, a strange memory.

Turns out, I had asthma. A severe attack, low oxygen levels, and Flagstaff’s high elevation made for a terrible combination. But nobody knew. No one asked. They just assumed I was a strange little kid. My mom still laughs about it sometimes, but I think that’s the theme of my life: misunderstandings. It’s how I’m going to frame all of this—the misunderstandings that shaped who I am.

After the game, we all got trophies. “Participation awards” my dad used to call it mockingly. Inscribed on mine was my name at that time—Corey Naughton, before I moved to Phoenix, before I had a dad, before I understood the world. It was a name that belonged to a different version of me, one who hadn’t yet left his mark on the world, nor had the world left its mark on him. I still have that trophy, 26 years later. It sits on my book shelf, next to my bed. I’ve never shared the story behind it. However, When people ask why I have someone else’s trophy, I tell them, “I’m adopted, sort of.” And sometimes, when the insomnia hits, deep into the night, I look at it and wonder who that other Corey was. What kind of life did he lead? Was it simple, with school, friends, love—everything falling into place? Maybe he’s living a quiet life now, working in middle-class America, about to marry his girlfriend.

My mom chose the name Corey because she figured it was plain, nobody would ever make fun of it. Funny that she never thought to question marrying a man with the last name Seeman. I suppose irony runs in the family too. or Maybe that’s the family tradition, we never quite understood the world or ourselves. But now, every once in a while, my grandma Shelly will still call me Corey on the phone, and that trophy sits on my shelf, the opening note to this song called my life.