My #BeReal guest today is Briton Underwood.

I have a deep like and respect for my guest today.  I’ve watched as his writing found its groove growing edgier and more powerful.  His writing is good.  Really, really good.  But it’s how he defends his friends, lifts them up, and helps them succeed I love the most.

Please welcome one of the good guys.

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Be real.

I went to write a #BeReal post and found it harder than anything I have written. It is much easier for me to write about the past, or my kids, or my fleeting thoughts. Not me though, stories and moments that sculpted me.

I can write about emotions, flowing fiercely and uncontrollable through me, changing direction or dissipating, as quickly as they occur.

I am a sad, soulful, song; listened to on a rainy day. 

I, like many others, choose to show the world to view different aspects of me. Mere pieces of an immense jigsaw puzzle that is Briton Underwood.

There is Punk Rock Papa, as playful as ever, taking life learned hard and washing it down with a smile and a hope for a better future.

Underneath that, there is the leader of the Bunker Punks. Not by choice and not a term I use comfortably. I try to be thoughtful, compassionate and understanding of everyone. I prefer to push and encourage others to succeed, believing the only way we can all make something of the blogging community is hand in hand. I try to be more than a friend, I try to be a confidant, a golden girl if you will.

Peel back another layer, I am like any writer. I spend my days contemplating blog suicide. I want to end it all because I feel nothing I do is meaningful or on the same level of my peers. I imagine going around to the friends I have made online, saying my farewells, and moving past another failed attempt at being good at something. My insecurities really enjoy keeping me up, telling me, “You’re just not good enough”

I am a father, most comfortable when the camera isn’t out. My moments with my kids, although written about often, continue to remain sacred to me. I don’t document the cuddles, the made up songs, the scruffling of little heads of hair. I keep something between my family and I. The tender kisses that make me face everyday with a smile and a “Give me your best shot”

I am a husband, albeit not a very good one. My wife puts up with the roaring ebb and flow of my emotions. She puts up with me crying on the couch needing her to the times I can’t stand physical contact. She knows when to be stern with me and when to let me rage on. She listens, and soothes. The roar of fire inside, she knows how to stoke it and not get burned. I am a flame, and she keeps me from burning out of control.

I am a person who hates others opinions because I am unsure if I have any. You like guns? I think they should be taken away. Oh, you hate guns? I want one for Christmas. I fight to fight. I fight to be fickle and difficult; for I am most comfortable as outspoken. My need to not belong, for fear of not being good enough, forces me on platforms where even I am wondering why I am taking the stance I am taking.

I look down on others, too often for my own liking. Days of insecurity transition into weird moments of thinking I am better than everyone else. My vanity glides me around as I laugh at people’s problems, because in that moment, my own problems are momentarily trumped by yours.

Somedays I want to stop the car and give the homeless woman outside of the local supermarket all of my money. Other days I stare at her and think, “Why don’t you get a job, bum?”

I enjoy shouting. Always have. There is something very fulfilling about screaming at the top of your lungs. Not in anger. Just screaming. Somedays I walk around the house doing nothing but shouting random things. Last Sunday, I spent the whole day talking in an over exaggerated Southie accent because I wanted to. I do things like that a lot.

Last night I sung to my sons’ at bedtime. Some nights I have a hard time looking at them because I know they will want a smile I simply cannot muster.

I am a mess of every pop culture reference retained since childhood. My mind thinks in lyrics and movie quotes.

I can feel passionately one day only to wake up the next having complete indifference on the same subject.

To date, I have dreamed of being so many discarded hobbies it surprises me I haven’t given up on writing yet.

I am a mess. Some days I don’t even know what reality is, content to lay in my bed, wondering if I am nothing more than a character in someone’s dream or fictional story. On days when I feel like a puppet, I wonder if I am even alive, if I know what feeling alive even is and whether I will be alive tomorrow; if I am even alive today.

I don’t know if any of this is real enough to consider being real, but it is me. I am a hand full of confusion, searching for my own identity and always scared I may never find it.

I am Briton Underwood, and I may not be real, but I am real enough.

I think.

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Briton “Punk Rock Papa” Underwood is a proud Parent, Writer and Original Bunker Punk. His passion for writing is second only to his passion for parenting. Co-founder of the Original Bunker Punks, Punk Rock Papa enjoys helping people’s thoughts, stories and emotions be heard. You can find him on his personal blog or on the Original Bunker Punks writing about what he loves, the people around him.