It’s amazing what surprising proverbial time capsules you can find stuck on the internet like the hideous refrigerator magnet that exists only for the sole purpose of one day reminding you of the little things you knew you shouldn’t let slip your mind but most likely have . A rush of intricate little memories come fluttering out from unlocked cubbies you were unaware had existed. And much like extracting the very last of the toothpaste from the tube by rolling as tight as you can, I too procured the last remant memories from Senior year of high school. It is quite a thing to be found.
So a bit of background before I continue: From my junior year in high school up until I was 19 I kept a journal on a site called freeopendiary.com.The years I spent in middle school play a crucial role in the development of the person I am today…and of the person I will be in the future yet to come. During those turbulent years that made their course through the war-torn days of puberty I found my self an extremely lost and troubled kid. I came with the complete package of mental health dysfunctions. My most notable was my complete lack of self worth, self respect and self-confidence. I began to suffer from extremely uncomfortable symptoms caused by, what would be diagnosed years later, as a combination of ADHD, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Major Depression. I also maintained an uhealthy aversion to most social activity within the school environment, due to the miserably low rank on “popularity scale” I was given by the majority of the student class. However, avoidance was not easy due to my luck of being one of the tallest, thinest students at school. Being a long, lanky,curly headed bean pole did not help discourage negative attention, insteead I was often referred to as “MOP” (long body, and dity, stringy, floppy hair). So it became a familiar way of life, I was degraded during the day at school remaining curled up mentally in a humiliated little ball, then donning the role of a babysitter while tending to my alcoholic mother at home My typical evening consisted of staying up late watching Space Ghost Coast to Coast on Cartoon Network or The Original Mickey Mouse Club or Zorro on Late Nite Disney as a form of entertainment while I waited for my mother to get home from one of the downtown Roseville bars show frequented immediately after work. 1:00 or 2:00am would roll by and she’d come in, with or without company. If she was alone I would usually help her into her own bed, but usually it was easier to get her to flop onto the couch where I had less trouble rolling her onto her stomach. It never took her long to pass out, but I’d stick around for another show just to make sure she stayed sleeping and didn’t roll onto her back. Somewhere farther back in the past there was an experience which provides the understandable explanation for the paranoia I held regarding the possibility of my mother choking on her own vomit….(But I choose to reserve that for another day.) I thrashed about the hellish explosive catastrophe of my chaotic, volatile little world, holding my breath and silently melting my heart with a the white-hot intense urgency saturating my burning wish that the universe fold in on it’s self and bring time to a sudden death.
::And then this, A purse full of booze, A repetitious song that refuses to end, the situation you simply can’t improve with a smiling mouse, unamused amusement park rent a cops, the curious star from the eyes of a gathering crowd, an embarrassed denial of association, stand alone in a long long (repeat x8hours), A domestic dispute on a hot sidewalk, the Garfield backpack he took away, the tears that sting when you refuse to let them fall, the anger when arms are forcefully grabbed, the pity in the police officer’s eyes, impatience in an airport, the urine soaked denim jeans of a drunk and the black garbage bag full of misc clothing held behind their back to hide them, the heartbroken kid and their wordless giving of thanks to the divinity that influenced a conflict-free aircraft departure, relief at destination arrival, the vanishing act, the search that ends 3 tequila shots too late, a blue chevy pickup ride home, one decision, one suitcase, one song playing from a neighbor’s window with the words “how.do.i.live.without.you”, the move that rocked my 8th grade world.::
After middle school my life dragged me along a path leading to one emotionally devastating blow to my mental health stability after the other. Eventually inflicting all the damage necessary to turn me into little more emotional than a catatonic casting a vacant stare from dull, glazed over eyes into an expansive outstretching wasteland of frozen thoughts. Time marched on like a clockwork soldier as the few enjoyable aspects of life began to sour and turn for the worst making a firey, crash landing straight into the ground. It was only so much a broken girl cold take before she eventually exectuted a nearly successful suicide :::nearly half a minute lost:::
…regret.remorse. despair. the darkest dark ever beheld . some heavy oscillating hum. a melody playing off key. a million fire ants in your blood. flashing red and grey behind the screens of eyelids.. voilence registered in the sound of my first living breath ::the second in a lifetime::.
.they never tell you the hardest part is coming back.
.to live with/repent to/forgive your attempted murderer…and to love them as well.
to finally see beauty in the very thing you tried to escape…yourself.
I only now realize that I’ve taken quite a tangent from what was originally intended to be brief summary about the reason why began writing what is in the journal I recently recovered online. As you may now have a sense for, I was an extremely uncomfortable kid. When I was even younger (elementary school level) I lived in a lonely small town…to cope with the lack of kids that were around to play with I invented my imaginary friend, Pauly Shore. Yes, I said it, Pauly Shore (P.S. for short) was my imaginary friend. He would follow me around our front yard making me laugh with his goofball antics and we would find trouble to get into. He was the one I talked to when I needed somebody there for than anything….in my head I created a friend. But I had to say goodbye to P.S. when my mother’s 4th husband, Rick Bowersock came around. The fact that at I was the only child living on seven acres of land in the middle of Auburn, CA stranded in a neighborhood without kids did not sway his opinion that I was probably a crazy kid. I mean, after all, I was talking to my imaginary friend who resembles the comic actor from Encino Man and collecting grasshoppers outside to live in my dollhouse. I’ll admit I had an extremely active, colorful and uniquely creative imagination, but what else did you expect from the pent-up mind of an ADHD afflicted second grader?
After P.S. evaporated from my world I began to write short stories as a means to escape my under-stimulating existence. They started as fictional short stories that couldn’t often be believed due to the presence of some sort of nonexistant creature or my ability to fly or disappear or turn into a unicorn ( what’s up Last unicorn? ) But what started out as frivolously fabricated tales produced as a distraction slowly began to change in style. I was beginning to share my world in written detail and based from actual facts. If something made me laugh I wrote it, if I wanted to tell somebody how much I hated Rick the paper was there.
And here I am years later, just one journal after the other. Many have become lost with time…but some were tethered to the web, nearly impossible to set down and misplace or by some terrible misfortune is lost when, caught off guard, must unexpectedly move out of state. This Journal i found was titled “Starlit”. It has a large variety of entries and original poetry written by myselfas well as lyrics from songs that touched something in me. It spans across 8 years, sometimes the entries come as frequently as every day, sometimes once a month. I’ve decided to read it and will be randomly displaying them on kittysquish.com.
The poem below is just one of many. I don’t claim to be a good writer, but I am an honest one.
Wisdom Teeth - 1/15/2008
—————————————————————————
I’ve stumbled,
failed,
and fallen.
I’ve escaped.
Afraid to feel.
Too scared to live.
Too scared to die.
I existed in the middle.
Floating, falling.
A disgrace to the sober.
I’ve broken,
mended,
and cracked.
I’ve warped.
Not too different.
Not at all the same.
Lost, found.
And suddenly adult.
…
Now,
After all the mistakes.
I truly find life,
maturity,
and reason.
My wisdom teeth emerge.
