Funny how they still bring me to tears

When I think of my childhood and time with my parents I mostly remember how much I use to cry. I know it would be honorable of me to only remember, or write about, the good times now that they are gone but those are too painful to conjure up and actually find words for. Hopefully, those happier memories will have a more glorified moment other than a blog I'm writing at 2am...

I have always been super emotional and sensitive which is something I was frequently reminded of. But my parents had this uncanny power to bring me to tears. Especially my father, on the first note of his anger my heart would race and the tears started. By the time he stumbled through everyone else's name to mine, in that way parents do when they are so angry they forget your name, I was in full blown hysteria and banished to my room. But I never really escaped. Hiding under the covers didn't mask the sound of disappointment in their voices.

Now, I sit in my room in that familiar soggy way, years later and too many miles away they still bring me to tears. Much like it was when I was younger, I did nothing to deserve this outburst of sadness. It just happens, uninvited and shameless. No one can fix it. My stuffed bunny, who was and still is my best confidant, can help absorb the drops of pain but as much as I'd like to believe, it doesn't hug back.

Hugs were something that was absent from my youth. I'm sure my parents hugged me when I was really little. I can imagine me being upset because I was physically hurt, probably from my brother's shenanigans or my pure klutziness. They'd rush over to me and scoop me up into their arms and hold me until the crying stopped and all was calm. I can't actually remember such an event but I trust that it had to have happened at some point when I was 4 or 5. I wonder when I became too old for that kind of comfort.

Of course, they were not the worlds worst parents and I was not a gold child by any means. But hugging isn't something I can miss from them because I don't remember the feeling. But I would give anything to hear them yell at me again. I wouldn't even care if my Dad called me the wrong name.

Where is the snooze button and I need to buy more ribbon.

(I promised myself I would write before I gave in to my down comforter and sleeping aide. I have to keep working toward this dream of mine while awake in reality.)

At what point do we put down our current life and start to build the future we've always dreamed of?
I feel like if I just get a week off I'd be able to do it. A week off from work, chores, friends, family and all relationships and responsibilities. A week for myself here and now. Not to plan ahead or clean up old messes. A week to just be. As much as I'd like to stop time, I don't know where the giant snooze button is so, how do I work in the "just being" when I have all this doing?

I think I'm trying. I feel like I am some days, but my little triumphs don't seem to add up. I've been waiting too long to be taking baby steps now. I want to leap, but I have weak joints and I'm kind of accident prone. Seriously. Taking risks is something I use to thrive on. I wasted all my courage on dumb, juvenile, choices. Scars are really REALLY hard to get rid of. Actually, I'm pretty sure they are permanent since those scare reducing creams I've wasted money on haven't worked. I'm holding on to the hope that some how, some day, I can figure out how to get rid of them...
or at least maybe I can cover them with a bow for a while.

I can make a bow tomorrow. I make perfect bows. Just need the right ribbon. Which I'm also sure I have somewhere in my attic. I might have to make a trip to the craft store tomorrow. Hope I have a coupon.

So, I blog now...

Well, I'm officially a blogger. This is now a part of my life. Over a decade ago I use to carry my journals around and write constantly. I thought I was brilliant. It was mostly teenage confusion put down on paper. At parties or other social gatherings I'd pull out my books and shove them under anyone's face who wasn't already occupied by another person's face.

Parties with the upperclassman were the best for my informal readings; the older football players seemed deeply moved by my thoughts and queries--or maybe by my tight pants. Three or so hours into the night, somewhere after buzz street beyond hysterical crying fit but well before fighting for the inevitable hurling bathroom run, was my journal. It was always there with or without the booze, or proper spelling and grammar. I'd pass that book around and watched carefully as I connected with people or confused the crap out of them. I had nothing to hide as I'm sure it helped that I didn't use any names and wrote in heavy metaphor.

Here or there I'd notice a smirk or a raised eyebrow, hear a chuckle or even a laugh out loud (ya know that thing people actually did before they "LOL-ed"). The really good nights were when other people put down their drinks and reached for their own pen and paper.

Times certainly have changed. My journals don't get the attention they deserve and I have become disconnected in many ways from my own thoughts. Since long having moved on from the partying scene I'm left with jumping on the bandwagon of this thing called blogging (or logging, not sure if the b is silent ;) ). I hope it helps. And although I will not be able to see the reactions of my readers, at least the spelling has improved thanks to the miracle of spell check. Maybe the grammar will improve in the next 10 years, but for now please excuse and enjoy.