Dear, sweet God.
I'm still alive aren't I?
there are some things that i think about, without fail, every single day:
- today's schedule
- tomorrow's schedule
- whether or not my children will grow up like me
I wish some people wouldn't take things so personally. Just because you don't share some things with certain friends in your group doesn't make you any less close, just because I'm drawing a picture of pineapples doesn't mean I don't like you and I wish I were a pineapple.
Something that I'm still learning is that it's a bad bad idea to form plans with someone when you're all happy and non-argumentative.
I really like corners. Dark, small, quiet and clean corners. They make me feel safe. They make me feel like I can live there forever.
I am generally not a sad person. I might be rather emotional, and sometimes emotional means lots of tears, but I'm not sad.
I'm not sad now, I'm just rather numb.
I wonder if one day my eighteen year old will be sitting in front of her computer at 8:57 in the morning, feeling the things I'm feeling right now and hating me for giving birth to her.
Dear God, I hope not.
(no, I'm not hating my mother for giving birth to me)
I want to burn all that's left of breakfast and pretend I can physically fit a part of my body into that toaster too.
They all took a break on the 21st day.
Well actually they didn't, but I'm saying they did so I can convince you that you should rest on the 21st day too. Or 21st year. or 21st hour, what ever suits your fancy.
Writing often makes me feel better, so does running, cutting and singing.
There's a blue plastic cassette looking thing on my floor. You would probably pick it up and chide me for still keeping trash from when I was five. I hoard things because sometimes they're all I have to remember.
It's a toy cassette that fits into a toy video camera.
The toy video camera was yellow and I knew exactly what it would've done if it were real. So I used it to take videos of things happening around me, or silly things like the black bookshelf in my old room with all my fairytale books on it. That old room was the first that I could call my own. Before it was my own, i shared it with Janice. We had a bunk bed and I slept on top. I hid my books at the top of the shelf that was built into the wall, so that I could read it after mommy put us to bed. It was my first "grown up" book.
It was soft cover, and yellow, with red borders. Enid Blyton wrote it. It was Amelia Jane, the naughty doll. I've re-read it a million times. One of the pages i stopped at before going to sleep once, was page 9. It was the first time I remembered the number of the page rather than putting a bookmark in. Folding pages has never been a habit, although I've done it before.
I wish I could play that blue toy cassette for you.
I don't know where the big yellow video camera it came with has gone to, but I've got the tape. I want to play it for you so that you will see that it wasn't all supposed to turn out this way.
That somewhere along the way, when I was trudging to and from school, getting off school buses or having my domestic help look after me, something went wrong.
And actually it started even before they bought the flat together.
I want you to see them happy, sitting on a red brick wall, with their backs against each other and smiling at the camera. I want you to see me spinning penny around and around and around in front of my old fire place.
I want to hold your hand and take you through my old house back home. I want to show you where we put our shoes away, where you'll see my green boots that are lined with wool on the inside, the switch for the electrical fire place, the bath tub and the three yellow ducks, the staircase, the lovely little kitchen. I want to take you to the places I used to go to as a kid. Where I'd sit beside one of my mommy's friends and pick the smarties off the cake as she put it on.
I could show you that I was happy. And that I am supposed to be that happy kid that grows up into a happy teenager, and goes on to be a happy adult.
I can show you that I am still happy. Safely tucking away these memories and looking at them when I feel like I need a reason to smile.
I'm okay though, and I'm fine, fortunately or unfortunately I have yet to decide.
But I am also late, or going to be, for work.
We don't ever have the time to mope around like this, not right before work. Even on days you want to disappear.
I don't need space, I don't hate you or any of you.
Just sometimes, it's nice to be able to sit and cry and have the drilling from downstairs drown you out.