Lovely little childhood

I was raised extreamly well. My family had financial obsticals like many families do. These struggles were hard, but my Mother could handle them. We ate, we had shelter, and we had cloths. I certainly did not have many of the things my friends had, or went on vacations that my friends did. Sometimes it was hard on me, but for the most part I was ok with it.

My mom told me I was the social butterfly. If another child came to our house, and was shy and nervous I would take them outside to the play yard and make friends. I was like a little tour guide. I was smart, but not the smartest child. I struggled with many of the subjects in school. Math has been my arch enemy for as long as I knew what math was. Spelling is like a little annoying fly that keeps buzzing around your head. Sometimes it goes away, but it always comes back to bother you and irritate you. Art was my language. I spoke Art fluently. Creativity was easy for me. As for science, well it was fun.

Animals seemed to be on my level. I could heal sick animals, and I made many little creatures my, "pets". I never could master feeding a lizard, so after about the 3rd day I accepted the fact that I had to let it go, or it was going to die. I spent months caring for a bull frog tadpole and watched as it grew into a frog. Unfortunately it some how got out of it's "habitat" I made for him. I was devastated. I probably cried a lot, but I can't really remember. I do remember finding it's poor dried up little body a few weeks later on the sidewalk. I was shattered. Needless to say, I didn't keep any more tadpoles. I am also pretty sure that was also the last "pet" I kept.

On a much happier note, I saved a few jack rabbits, a woodpecker, a pigeon and raised a deer. All of which were set free to live happy wild lives. How long they lived, I am not sure, but I know some of them lived at least a while. Long enough to feel what it was like to be "free". I wish I could feel what it's like to be "free".

My family was amazing. I was raised with structure and love. My family showed love, and also argued. The kind of love my family showed me was unbelievable and unending. There was unconditional acceptance, and openness. This sort relationship between families allowed flowing conversations between both parties. I always found it odd that most of my friends were afraid of my mother. I certainly was not. I new my boundaries, and I knew the rules that were set in stone and concrete. You didn't cross the line that was drawn, and you did your homework before you went outside to play. You also ate everything that Mom made, or you didn't eat anything at all. I think that the authority, and discipline that my Mother had naturally in the household was not what some of my friends were used to. So they were afraid of what they did not know.

I was spanked only once in my entire childhood and boy did I deserve it! There was no violence, there was now emotional abuse or putting down. There was only support. For that I am eternally grateful. I am so appreciative that at any given moment I could call any one of my my mother's side of my family and pour out my heart and they would listen, and love me no matter what. They would give what ever they could to help me. There is no question in my heart. My family will always be there for me. Had I not had this kind of family support and up bringing I probably would not be the woman I am today. I would probably be dead, or on a very destructive path.

I was the last of 3 children, and for the most part of my early years raised with my brother in the same house. He is 8 years older then me and I should let you know that he is very physically strong. Although he had a different father then I did, I never saw him as only half brother. He was and is 100% my brother. Nothing or no one will ever change my mind. Even more so now that I have learned family is not always about blood relations. My sister is older then my brother, and I really don't have memories of her in the home with us. She was there when I was a baby, but I am not sure exactly when she moved out. I got along pretty well with them both. My brother and I fought like normal siblings. It usually went like this;
1. Tease my brother
2. Brother engages with me and we begin playful riblery.
3. Brother takes it to far
4. I cry
5. Brother gets in trouble.
It was a guaranteed pattern. I started it, but couldn't take the heat.

My father was a large part of my struggles as a child. In the beginning he could do no wrong. Like most fathers. I clearly remember when I got into trouble by my Mom, that I would tell her, "I want my Dad.". That my Dad wouldn't me this mean to me. I felt like he would make it all better. He would take away my tears, and never "punish me". I would tell her I wanted to go live with him. I would cry in my room all alone and wish that he was there. My mom loves to tell this story. We were at the kitchen counter making something. Mixing something perhaps, and I said, "My Dad loves me like a Bastard.". Plain as day. It was a statement with love. What I was trying to say was "My Dad loves me a hell of a lot.". My Mom looked at me confused and asked where I heard that word. I didn't know where I got it. She said that I wasn't using the word right and that Bastard ment someone who does not have a father. A Bastard child a child with no father. Well it didn't make much sense, but it sounded good to me at the time. So to this day, my family says to each other, "I love you like a bastard.". Anytime anyone says that, we all know it means we are loved A LOT!

When I grew up a little and was old enough to understand more things I began to realize that the relationship that my Dad and I had was not how it should be. I learned that he was an alcoholic, and also smoked pot. He was pretty absent from my life except for the visits, which got farther and few between the older I got. Almost every phone call ended with me in tears for some reason or another. Sometimes he was drunk when we spoke on the phone, and he would feel guilty and tell me how sorry he was for not being a good Dad. And that he wanted to be a better Dad and be there for me. I consoled him. I always told him that it was alright, and that I loved him anyways. Through my tears, I would tell him that it was ok. It was around this time that  I saw our relationship clearly for what it was. He was the child, and I was the parent. I was the one taking care of his feelings, and it killed me inside. I was far too young to be responsible for someone else's feelings. I was too small for such a big job. My mother was there waiting open arms every time I hung up the phone with him. She knew the pattern well. It didn't really matter who called who, they all ended the same. She told me that this was who he was, and he wasn't going to change. She was and is a very wise woman. She told me that I needed to make a choice. I couldn't keep beating myself up over him, and that I shouldn't let it hurt me so bad. She told me that I needed to accept that this is who he is. I needed to take him for who he was, flaws and all. Love him short comings an all. Or just not talk to him anymore. She didn't want me to stop talking to him. She also knew he was a good person, like I did. But it was so hard on me, she didn't want to see me hurting all the time over it. I knew I had to make that choice. Love him, or let him go. The thought of not having him in my life was not plausible in my mind. It was unbearable, and non-exsistant. I litterally could not imagin my world with out him in it. Even though he wasn't really in it daily, he was still part of me and there were moments that I had with him that were like they were out of a story book. So I took the other option. I loved him. I loved him no matter what he did or how he lived his life. I loved him even though he hurt me. I looked past his mistakes, because I knew that his mistakes were just that, mistakes. It didn't change the fact that he loved me with all his heart. It didn't change the fact that his heart was good, and he was a good person. He was a very very good person. He did not judge people, and he would give the shirt off his back if someone needed it. He did more for strangers then most anything that I know. So I loved him, exactly how he came to me. I accepted what he was able to give me, and I didn't ask for more then he was able to give.

It was this decision that kept my relationship with my father alive. It would have died hundreds of times over had I not taken my Mom's advice and loved him no matter what and stopped trying to change him. I believe this was the best piece of advice my Mom ever gave me. Hands down, this tops the ranks.

Later in my life, I realized that her advice coupled with the challenge of loving my father taught me how to love like Jesus loves us. Jesus loves us, even though we have forsaken him. He loves us no matter the sins we commit. He loves us even though we are unable to give anything in return. Unconditional love even if that person causes us hurt. I never really understood this kind of love when people talked about it. I didn't even know that I was living it at the time. But now that I know Jesus, and know that I've had some time for my spirituality and faith grow and expand to better understanding I realize that this is the one person I have ever loved no matter what. With all of my heart and soul I love him, even though he caused me disappointment and pain. This was the only relationship I had this kind of love. I am thankful that I have been able to feel this kind of love. I know it exsits and I have felt it. That is more then enough for me. And so I think my Dad for teaching me how to have a relationship with God. The kind of relationship you have with a a best friend.

How this came to be...

This is it. This is my one shot. This is the chance I have to to prove to myself that I can infact follow through with one thing. At least one thing I have started. I want to look back and say, "I finished it. I'm done." I am so sick of the fact that I can't even finish one simple thing. I can't create a peice of art worth admiring any more. I can barely scribble anything down to make a picture. Let alone make it worth while of admiration.

This will be my master piece.

My mother has told me many times that I should write a book about my life. For some reason I never really heard her. I've always been interested in writing but I wanted to write a fictional story. I wanted to make up a story of a character that would wow people. I wanted to write a story like no other, a story that did not exist. Something that moved people and reached their souls. Something that would travel like wild fire through hands of friends and families. Then one day as I was telling an old high school friend about my life, and how I got to the point I am now he mentioned that I should write a book about myself. He said, "I would sell millions". I don't know why, but I heard him. I heard him loud and clear. Perhaps it was because of the thoughts that were going through my head this particular week. I don't know why it took. But it did. I heard it. And now I am doing it. One word at a time if that is what it takes. I find it odd how I was trying to make up a story worth writing, when I was already living one.

On to what my thoughts have been. This has been rolling around in my little brain for a few weeks now. I could not stop thinking that I should use my story to help others. I can't imagin letting my experiances go to waste, only to let someone else go through this garbage too. I have always said I will sacrafice my own happiness, and my own life if in fact it would help someone. Perhaps it may even save their life? Perhaps it may just keep them busy, or maybe it could change their lives in a profound way. Either one, it doesn't matter. As long as they walked the journey with me through my words, and through these pages and actually heard it. That would make everything worth while. Every tear that has dropped from my eyes, every sleepless night, every side effect from a medication, ever screaming fit, every confused thought, every lost friendship, every career struggle. Everything...if I could only help one person.

I started to think about public speaking. I quickly realized that would be a quick failure. I would never be able to speak in front of High School students. The fear of rejection would  not allow me to be effective, or healthy in my own brain. Secondly, if I booked a location where I was to speek, I could not garantee that I would be healthy enough to show up and deliver my message. So not only would I let one person down, but groups, or possibly hundreds. No, this would not be the way I was going to help others. Certainly not motivational speaking or educational speaking even.

I thought about starting some sort of educational campaign. The idea was too big for me. Too big for my brain. The project already swallowed me whole. There are so many branches of this "project"... I would never be able to accomplish anything. Ok, this would not be my way to share my experiences either.

So as you can see, this was not going to be an easy task. I seemed to be able to see failure to every medium I chose to deliver my message. Either it needed other people, or commitment, which neither I could deal with in my life with my illness.

........"You should write a book about your life, you would sell millions." And I heard it. And so here I am.

So here I am thinking how I should go about producing such a thing. Chronologically seems logical, but I am Biploar. Logic is not my best asset! At least I know what I have to work with here. Emotions are my best asset. Both good and bad emotions. Almost all of them produce something inside me. So I think that the best way to approach this is open, light hearted, and as it comes. I like to talk about certain things that bother me and I end up kicking it around in my head for a week or sometimes more. Sometimes it hangs around for a month. So I think that I will pick a topic, and talk about it. Share it. Perhaps place historical events or stories, who knows? It will be unpredictable, just like me.