Sunday, February 27, 2011

Should My Story Be Told?

"The best biographies leave their readers with a sense of having all but entered into a second life and of having come to know another human being in some ways better than he knew himself."
- Mary Cable


I've always loved to write.  Whether it was short stories, poems, or passages in a journal, I always felt a sense of security in my writings.  Never left me ashamed or embarrassed about what I was feeling or thinking.  It has always been just for me.  Much as the reasoning behind being so private in the blogging world.  It is after all just another outlet, one where I get to choose who in my daily life can view and the rest are random strangers out in the universe.  What do I care what they think?  It's not like they'll see me at the store and say, oh, she wrote this the other day. 

I've long thought about keeping a journal, something hand written, but the problem with doing so is I often worry that it'll fall into the wrong hands. There are just some things that I'm not yet ready to share with those who I'm close with.  Sometimes, it's more out of concern that they'll consider my words to be more serious than at times they really are.  For example, if I'm having a bad day, I may say somethings that spike worry about my mentality and depression levels.  When it's happened in the past, I took me months to convince them that it was just a bad day.  Now grant it, there are times that I have more bad days than good, but does that mean I'm going to end my life that month? No.  I have two very good reasons to never take my own life.

But I've come to wonder what it would be like for my daughter or son to read through my thoughts when I'm gone.  What would they think?  Would they have already known the struggles I've kept buried deep inside?  Do I do as good of a job hiding it as I've let myself believe?  It just fascinates me.  The idea of them or any of those I love to go through and read my private thoughts.  How would they react? Would it give them a better understanding of who I am?  I certainly hope they don't understand in the sense that I wouldn't want them to have to know the feelings that I keep locked inside.  Who would want their loved ones to feel as if they've never known themselves, never having been comfortable in their own skin, to be tormented by the awful thoughts that run rampant? I would never wish that on anyone, especially not those I love. 

So maybe one day, when I'm old and gray, I'll let them take a look at everything I've compiled over the years, but for now, this is just for me and those I choose to let see.  I think of what it would be like, what I would title a biography depicting me, how it would be laid out, would I spill everything or will I always have skeletons in my closet?  Which makes me think what if my dad had written everything down?  Would it be of a comfort?  Would I understand why he was the way he was?  Those are the questions that leave me to almost want to leave a piece of myself behind. 


Saturday, February 26, 2011

The Missing Pieces

"There will always be missing pieces to one's family history.  Everyone has something to hide."
- Babers


It's been on my mind.  The missing links.  You hear some of the whispers, you pick up on the secrets, but you never really know the truth.  I like to think of my family's history kind of in the same way one could look at a classic mob family mentality.  In your own little pod, from the outside looking in, you see a loving family, strong sense of community, but you would never expect the seedy underbelly of the unit. 

That may be an awful way to describe my family as we are no where near being a mob in any meaning of the term.  But take the movie "Goodfellas" and watch a few of the family scenes.  You can see the love and protection for one another, but then fast forward to a few of the family disgracing scenes and you see how quickly that love can fade.  The secrets, the hushed voices, the ignorance is bliss, looking the other way, you see it all. 

And in my family you hear it all, but you never really get the truth.  Now whether it's out of pride or shame, no matter who you talk to or how many times you talk to the same person you never really get the same answer, much less a straight answer.

There are a few questions I have regarding my family history.  Some of which, after much digging, I have found the answers to.  For example the reason my great grandfather hated his father was because he was a drunk that beat his mother to near death before his very eyes.  Others, I believe I've gotten partial truths to, like the mysterious brother my great grandmother had.  During a search I came across his birth certificate and death certificate, but when asked about him, to my grandma he didn't exist.  It wasn't until the final few months of her life when I was helping to take care of her in one of our conversations did I find some answers.  From what she was willing to share, all I know of him, is he must have had some kind of mental handicap or disorder and that her parents kept him from the time he was about 5 years old until his death, locked in a cage until his death.  And while these may be the more disturbing facts of my family history there has always been one searing question that I will actively pursue until my very own death. 

My father passed away not knowing the answer and that was the one thing he truly wanted to know, to understand in his final days.  And yet, he was never given the truth.  It makes me so angry that his own mother would deny him of this.  In fact it makes me disgust her. 

My father was the eldest of five children of this woman's bearings.  One sibling whom is only a half sibling.  When my father was young, from what I gather he was between the ages of 5 and 7 when he was left with my great grandparents to live.  I've heard many different stories about why he went there in the first place.  The first story I was told, was that his mother and father were fighting, and yes, my dads father could be a mean drunk when he succumbed to the alcohol, though he did not drink daily, it was often enough.  But then what contradicts this, is the fact she went on to have 3 additional children with the same man and they were never left behind.  When she had her youngest son, the story changed into Bill, her then new and current husband, did not get along with my father.  I'm sorry, but who gives a fuck?  Bill was a grown man and my father, just a child.  Make them work it out. At least that's how I see it.  Now I've often asked myself why my grandfather did not have custody of my father and the facts say it was a combination between the fact that he started abusing the alcohol regularly, had a horrendous work schedule, and as time went on, chose to be a dead beat dad.  Any given combination of stories have been told, they were hard up for money, they didn't get along, etc. blah blah blah.  None of it adds up.  I'm sorry, but how can you leave a child behind, go and have 4 more kids, and never go back for your first born?  There is so much more than what they are willing to admit to.  I've tried speaking to my great grandfather and grandmother regarding this as my grandfather passed away when I was just 3 years old, and they were never willing to speak of it.  I've tried talking to my fathers mother and she gives the run around.  My father died not knowing why he wasn't good enough. Why he wasn't the same as the others.  What made him so different?

I've come up with a theory though.  I've always noticed my great grandfather as being a very "touchy feely" man never inappropriate with his grand kids or children in general, but for example, he liked to squeeze my mothers shoulder in a way that made her uneasy, things like that.  And the only theory that makes sense to me, is that instead of my father's dad being my grandfather who passed when I was 3, is really the man I've grown to believe to be my great grandfather. 

Why else would it be such a dirty secret that no one wants to talk about?  Why else would she not have gone back for him?  Why was there such a deep hatred between my fathers mother and my great grandparents?  Whatever the reason is, I will find out the truth.  I don't care how many people I piss off along the way.  The man's dying wish had gone unanswered, as his daughter I feel it is my obligation to find out for him. 

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!

"Music is my religion.  It is the thing I turn to in times of grief, despair, and joy.  Music is the one constant in my life that has not let me down."
- Babers


Okay, so perhaps the title of this post really doesn't match with the article, but that's what popped into my head.  So it stays.  There has always been one constant in my life that I have come dependent upon and that is my love of music. 

In the ways people of religious faith turn to their god in times of need, music is my first choice.  I remember it being a comfort for as far back as I can remember.  Thankfully with my love of music it also comes in a wide variety. I absolutely adore most anything.  It all depends on the mood. 

So here's my reason for this post in an effort to constantly update the music on my blog I was going through and adding a few new songs, only to find in my dismay that the website where I create my playlist does not seem to have half of the songs I wanted to add today.  What a shame.  There have been so many songs that I've wanted to put on here, but simply can't.  Now I haven't taken the time to see if I can add these songs to the website so I can add them to my playlist, but that's an awful lot of work.  And let's face it, sometimes, I can be lazy.

So there's my little rant for the day. Sorry there wasn't much depth in the post today. I'll try harder next time. 

Monday, February 21, 2011

Sit Back & Laugh

"Every parent will have their breaking moment, where the only thing they can do is sit back, shake their head and laugh at the mess."
- Babers


I have many of these moments.  Often they come at my own fault. I was in the shower just a bit too long, I was busy making supper, I was sitting right there and watched it happen.  Okay so the last one takes a bit to own up to, but I'll admit, it happens. 

Sometimes I get so intrigued by my children that I swear if I let them, they would tear the house down.  Tonight, I had one of those moments.  My daughter who's just shy of her second birthday grabbed the open bag of cereal off of the table, a bowl from the kitchen counter where it was drying (mind you, she had to push a chair from the dining room into the kitchen in order to reach it) and preceded to make her way over to sit down on the treadmill.  She then poured herself a bowl of cereal, spilling everywhere I might add, looked at me and said, I'm a kitty and then leaned over her bowl to eat. 

Of course she made a mess, I now have ground Honey Nut Scooters under and around the track of the treadmill, but the way I look at it, the Scooters can be vacuumed up, who's to stifle her imagination.  I certainly won't.  I love to watch her progress.  She amazes me every single day. 

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Run Vs. Learn

"Simba: I know what I have to do. But going back will mean facing my past.  I’ve been running from it for so long.
Rafiki: It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.
Simba: Yeah, but it still hurts.
Rafiki: Oh yes, the past can hurt.  But the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it."
- The Lion King


Who knew there could be so much wisdom and I use that term lightly here, in a Disney movie?  The Lion King is probably my favorite childhood movie, though it's endearment to me had definitely fallen ten fold with the over whelming feeling of relation as years past.

Sometimes, I sit in contemplation of who I am, where I'm heading and where I've come from.  They answers at times all seem so fuzzy.  Why is it that for some it seems to be so easy to overcome their pasts while I can't even get the strength to even consider an in depth look on most days?  It's a constant struggle; in order to answer the first two questions, I must rely on the answer to the last question. 

But it doesn't appear to be so simple.  It's damaging at best. I think about the person I was, the life I had, and at times am thankful to have engaged in those experiences, as I wouldn't be the person I am now, whomever that may be.  And yet, the memories take control and my mind whisks me away to a time of depression and desperation.  When that happens, I get myself locked into the same old mode.  Like a switch has broken and I can't go back to the present, even though I'm currently living in it. Then again, sometimes, the present it just as bad as the past, in a completely different context so I feel as I'm stuck in some form of limbo within my own brain. 

Compulsions take over and I run on auto pilot.  I don't know if I'm ever really in control.  While even though it seems everything is in order and running as it should and that I have control over my every day life, how much control do you have if you're simply running through the motions?  Almost like I'm a car with the cruise control set. Sure I can keep the pace of the necessary situation, but aside from that, inside of me, if I don't find some sort of driver, I'm heading for the next big crash.

I guess it's time to choose, run or learn.
Decided to try the blog realm via text messaging. Thought it would be a good addition to have especially during my trip. We'll see how I like it.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Turkey, RUN!!!

"There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memory." 
- Josh Billings

This however is not one of those cases.  This is pure memory and I love it so.

Growing up in a small town, I walked to my middle school, but rode the bus to elementary and high school.  Every day for three long years, I had my choice of which streets I wanted to walk to school on.  The route almost always varied depending on how early or late I was getting out the door. 

One particular route that almost came as a challenge for me.  Not because it had a difficult hill or anything like that, but because just far enough back from the street was a little farmette.  The owners a near elderly couple (the Swansons) of the property had taken pride in raising calves, chickens, ducklings, geese, and turkeys. 

I had always been curious about the farm growing up how could I not be.  They lived so close to town, within eyesight of the main road, yet were like they were in their own little paradise. I couldn't bring myself to walk up their lane as I've heard stories of kids being shooed away by Mr. Swanson with a 20 gauge.  As my interest peaked about the farm, I studied the daily routine from afar in the summer months.  I finally figured out just how I could approach Mrs. Swanson.  I soon noticed the mail came like clockwork every day around 1 pm.  So I watched and waited, as soon as I saw the postman delivering at the first mailbox, I would ride my bike down the road where I knew Mrs. Swanson would be waiting. 

Each day for almost three weeks I would ride by and say "Hi" to Mrs. Swanson, make the normal small talk about the weather and be on my way.  Finally after some time of doing this, I finally had the nerve to ask if I could come see her farm.  She said sure, that she didn't have many visitors and would be happy to show me around. So up the lane I pushed my bike as we walked my anticipation grew.  I expected it to be of a magical place really, probably because of the mystery I had built up in my own mind. 

Once there, she showed me around, the calves in the pasture, the chickens in the hen house, the ducklings and geese by the creek bed and then we came to the turkeys.  I had never seen such a huge turkey in my life.  I thought it was the tom because well, males tend to generally be the larger of the two, but these were hens.  I couldn't believe my eyes.  Normally the turkeys were held in a fenced in area of the yard so I stood on the opposite side of the gate and stared in awe.  That ended my day at the farm along with a "Don't be scared to stop by whenever you like." from Mrs. Swanson.  So on occasion on my way home from school throughout the 5th grade I'd stop by and see Mrs. Swanson just to say hello and to see if she needed help with anything. 

Then come 6th grade, I started walking past her home on my way to school.  About half way through the school year after Mr. Swanson's passing part of the fence had been broke that kept the turkeys confined and they were now roaming free in her front yard.  Mean little suckers they were and boy could they run.  Who knew?  I sure didn't.  So one day I stopped by to see how Mrs. Swanson was doing and the damn turkeys chased me all the way down the lane.  After that day, on my way to school, I would always be a little more cautious and aware of where the turkeys were.  If you saw them out in the pasture you knew you had time to get past them, but if you could see them in her lane or her front yard, you turned down the and took the alley way near by. 

On more than one occasion the little buggers would sneak up on you.  They would make their way just below the bridge that crossed over the creek and with the hillside so steep you couldn't see them until it was too late.  I'll never forget walking with another neighborhood girl to school the time one hen popped her head out and saw us.  The next thing I remember is me yelling "Turkey, RUN!!"  If they got close enough they would peck/bite you and it HURT.  That day the hen chased us the entire quarter mile to the school. 

Now you may ask why am I even bothering to tell this blurb of a memory, but there is reason behind my thought process.  Every day on my way to work, or if I visit my mother, I still drive by Mrs. Swanson's property, but today was the first time in a long time, I've actually taken a moment to remember it fondly. 

Sadly now, I'm not even sure if Mrs. Swanson is still the owner of the property or if she's even alive anymore.  The farmette is a little beaten and worn.  The occasion cow or horse in the pasture, but no chickens seen near the barn doors, no ducklings or geese in the creek bed, and no turkeys to chase you away from the lane.  It looks very sad to me.  Perhaps it's because I have such fond memories, or maybe its just the feeling it gives off now in the dead of winter. 

So I suppose the reason behind this post is just a little reminder to remember those things that made you smile as a child, that can now warm your heart as an adult.  You  forget all too quickly how much something you deem insignificant can change your whole day around.



Friday, February 18, 2011

Guilty Conscience, Coincidence or Something Else?

"Conscience is the inner voice that warns us somebody may be looking."
- Henry Louis Mencken


So have you ever had something happen and think to yourself "phew that was close." only to then reflect on why it was such a close call?  It happens to me all of the time and I've been debating, is it sheer coincidence, guilty conscience, or is it something of the "psychic abilities" that we are all supposedly equipped with.

Here's just a simple example of something that happens on a regular basis for me.  If lets say I'm intentionally speeding, yes I know it's wrong, don't give me any flack usually it's because I'm late, still not excuse worthy, but lets say that's the example.  I can be speeding through my drive and suddenly I'll get a gut urge to slow down.  Like something is telling me, there will be a police car up ahead.  So slow down I will and 9 out of the 10 times that this occurs there has been a police car coming in my direction, parked along the roadside, etc. 

Now is this simply coincidence that I have these gut feelings and see a police car? Is it my guilty conscience that makes me slow down and see a police car as a reminder this is why you don't speed? Or is it something of the "psychic" nature?  I'm not sure, but it's fun to consider the last option.  It's very difficult to explain, it just happens.  It's not like I can see the future, it's not that I can pull lottery numbers out of thin air, it's just these strange little insignificant urges that pop up from time to time and usually they are right. 

I know this is a really random entry, but chances are, most of my posts fall into that realm.  I tend to be a bit all over the place.  Sorry if it's a bit confusing, just try to put yourself in my shoes, then see how truly confusing it can be!

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Reading Is A Trigger

"We read to know we are not alone."
- C. S. Lewis


It's been a long time coming since I've actually sat down and read a page turner of a book.  I love to read.  Have been a lover of reading since I was 3 and learned to read Dear Abby with my Great Grandma.  Recently I came across by Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult on a blog I've been following.  A fantastic read.  Finished in less than 72 hours. 

I always ask myself, what to me makes for a good book?  I like all different kinds of novels, fiction, romance, mystery, true crime.  So it's got to be something that stimulates the mind.  But I must admit there is one thing I'm always looking for in the world of books, especially in the fiction section.  I want relatable characters.  As C. S. Lewis said "We read to know we are not alone."  It's true. 

When I become entranced in a book, it's often because I can find similarities between the characters and myself.  I tend to become completely tangled in my imagination.  I can see everything as clearly as if I were there to witness everything unfold.  Reading lets me escape, but sometimes it can act as a trigger to remembering the past.  It's nothing I would ever hold against a good book.  In fact, it only makes it that much better.  From the frustrations of a teenager, to the out pour of loving a man, to making some of the hardest decisions in your life, a good book is all it takes to know, we are not alone.  After all, even though they may just be stories, somewhere along the lines you've got to know that someone has experienced these same feelings, or the book wouldn't have made it to the publishers desk, let alone the shelves. 

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Expectations

"I don't have high expectations anymore.  Maybe they've just been beaten out of me."
- Lisa Shue


What happens when the world of expectations you've held in mind and heart for so long, come crashing down with the deep and brutal realization that everything you've ever expected of yourself, will never be?  It's a damn awful feeling.  To feel as if you don't live up to your own expectations of yourself. 

Sure it's one thing to fall short of someone else's expectations, but how do you fall short on your own?  How does life have a way of running in the opposite direction screaming "get me out of here!"  What happens when you yourself, cannot come to terms with who you are?  I've been sitting here as if some miracle is supposed to happen.  Like someday, I will help those that cannot help themselves, when I can't even help myself. 

I just don't understand how I could have let myself get here.  Of all the things out of life I've wanted most, this one thing, the thing I crave, the thing I need most, seems so far away.  Almost as if, I've missed my chance.  I'm not talking about becoming the next Mother Teresa or anything like that, I just want when I die to know that for the short time I spent here, I made a difference.  I made the world just a little better. 

I almost want to run screaming, "It's not fair!!!" Some people who are fortunate enough to be able to spend that kind of money, who receive scholarships they don't need, who spend their college years partying, I just want to shake them.  Make them realize how truly lucky they are.  I would kill to be busting a sweat over an exam.  Unfortunately, I'm not one of those lucky people. 

And now, with two kids, and their education to worry about, along with paying to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, every single extra cent I come by, goes straight in the bank for their education.  I guess, I don't ever want them to feel like they missed their chance.  I don't want them to feel like they don't live up to their own expectations, I don't ever want them to feel like me. 




Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Can You See Me?

"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye."
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery


When I'm out and about stumbling through the blog world.  Every once in a while, I'll come across a blog of which reminds me of my own.  The invisible blogger.  There are never any pictures of this person, or of their family.  It begs my imagination to create a writer.  It's always interesting to me.  To create an image of what I think the person looks like based upon their writings. 

You can never tell.  I've been fortunate in some instances to see the identities revealed after I've created the person.  Sometimes, my imagination seems to be on point, other times, I'm flabbergasted.  It's a wonderful thing really.  I wonder what I must seem to appear like to others.  Those that don't know a lick about me other than my words.  I wonder if they see me as I am or if they see me in another light.

That's the great thing about the imagination, it never lets you down.  You can completely get lost in all that your mind creates.  There's one blogger I have been following for a while now.  I imagine him to be tall, a moderate build, not extremely fit, but not out of shape.  For whatever reason, I see him with an Italian heritage somewhere in his blood lines.   I picture a deeply furrowed brow, dark eyes, and a cleanly unshaven look.  I imagine tired bags beneath his eyes, he seems to write in the early morning hours of day.  

I guess you could say I like to depict the lives of other anonymous bloggers like myself in a way to connect them to something, even if I may be wrong in my assumptions, it's always nice to put a face to the words I read.  Now, that said, I've often thought of putting a picture of myself on here, to show you who I am, I believe pictures can say a lot about you, but at the same time, I don't think it's necessary if you're equipped with an imagination.  

So tell me, can you see me?    

Monday, February 7, 2011

Sudden Ambush

"Your past has a way of sneaking up on you. You'll hear broken echoes of it everywhere, like a bad replay. You'll get mad at everyone for reminding you about it, even if it's all in your head."
- Max Payne, Max Payne 2: The Fall of Max Payne


I hate sneak attacks.  I never know when they're going to happen.  I'm talking true full blown ambushes.  Sometimes, you know the days when your susceptible to being brought down if you think about something in specific, but then there are days where you've got no idea it's coming. 

Those days are the worst and most damaging for me.   I can be in a perfectly good mood and suddenly I'll hear "White Room" by Cream on the radio, or I'll drive past a Harley or Corvette, or someone will say something that resembles the way he spoke, and I lose it.  What makes it worse, is you can try to fight it all you want, but even if the tears don't fall you've already lost your state of mind for the remainder of the day.  

I get quiet.  When there's something going on inside.  I think it's because the bombs are going off so loudly in my head I can no longer form a coherent thought.  It's funny how my mind works.  There are days when I have absolutely no problem talking about my dad's passing, and other days, you just can't get me to say anything on it.  It becomes so overwhelmingly painful that the only thing I want is to go to sleep and never wake again.  

Just a little over 8 years now, and it's still effecting me to the deepest core.  I always thought that it would get easier over time, and in many ways it has, but in most ways, it's still got my mind set in a perpetual argument.  It's awful.  How can someone say that there is now a sense of relief now that someone is gone, almost a joyous thing and yet want so badly to have nothing more than another moment with them? It makes me feel like an awful daughter. 

There's must be a disconnect somewhere.  Then again, I certain I'm full of them.  For the first three years, I thought of him every single day.  And then March 23, 2006 I woke that morning realizing, the day before I hadn't thought of him once.  I was guilt ridden.  How could I not think of him?  Some say remembering a person hurts, I feel forgetting them, even if for a moment, hurts worse by far. 

Funny thing is, the sudden ambushes are usually those jolting reminders that I haven't thought of him that day.  It kills me a little. 

Rest Peacefully Dad.  December 8, 1963 - December 22, 2002

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Lies

"How desperately difficult it is to be honest with oneself.  It is much easier to be honest with other people."
- Edward Frederic Benson


Over and over again, I find myself enveloped in this warped world of lies I tell myself.  It's easier to believe all of the somedays, when the money comes, when the time is right, when there's more time, more room, more experience, things will fall into place. 

Truth is, I'm not sure they ever will.  Promises are quick to be made, but even faster shattered.  Stuck in a rut.  Truth is, major change is terrifying, not exhilarating, not an adventure.  I'm prudent.  I'm simple.  I'm cautious.  I make excuses.  I'm scared. 

I feel as if I've been constantly deceiving myself into believing that I am worth so much more that I actually am.  My mind, my heart, my being as a whole.  I'm a monotonous drone on society.  There's no impact.  Sure take in consideration my immediate surroundings, I may leave a scratch on the surface of things, but remove me from the equation, and nothing much changes.  The world still goes on. 

Fact is, I'm useless.