As a way to release the stress I will write.  I will write about seeing faces and thinking, you’re beautiful.  I’ll think of the way country music can paint a picture of a life I’ve always dreamed of having.  My childhood wants were of bunkbeds that reached the ceilings, five sets of twins each with their own special toy.  A loving mother and father, warm fires, home-cooked meals and walking to school as a group.  I have dreamed and drawn of such things.  I still have the sketches from when I was seven.

I remember working on a scrapbook, painstakingly piecing together cut-outs from magazines to form words and sentences.  I wanted to fill page after page with things I loved in an effort to express and preserve who I was.  I laid everything out carefully and inserted the pages into a clearbook.  My father stepped on it and broke the spine of the clearbook.  I remember feeling devastated.  I remember reacting badly.  I remember my father’s reprimand.  It’s only a scrapbook, it doesn’t matter.  I had thoughts of transferring the pages to another clearbook, but after my father’s reaction to the ‘thing,’ like it was useless and not worth anything, I decided it wasn’t worth the effort to repair it, even if it was just a matter changing clearbooks.  I remembered feeling  that there’s no point to work on anything, it’s not worth it anyway.  Interesting.  I never thought about the effect of that moment until now.  Now that I know that, I should do something about it.

I remember re-arranging my room every month as soon as I got one (I was 9).  I learned to love pushing gigantic (at that time) furniture into position all by my wee self.  I would pour every detail of my wall ornaments, posters and porcelain figurines.  I’d find reflective trinkets and position them to strategically catch sunlight.  I’d wait with bated breath for the morning to see if it worked.  Sometimes I’d be rewarded by dancing lights on all corner of my room.  I remember how fascinated I was with how the wind caught the curtains.  They looked like dancing ladies in white lace.

Once I was done with my careful re-arrangement I’d make sure that the finishing touches were perfect.  I’d even set the scene for the big revelation.  I’d turn on the Christmas lights I scotchtaped across the ceiling (lining the walls), light up a scented candle (bought from carefully saved up lunch money), fluff the pillows and turn the radio channel to 96.3 WRock.  I’d wait for someone to arrive and open the door with a flourish.  I’d wait eagerly for their reaction and jump inside when they marvel at the little things, breathe in the soothing scent of citrus and lie on the bed, exclaiming over how wonderful the room was, how cozy.

I remember I spilled a perfume bottle one lovely summer and the scent of it filled the room for 2 whole months.  I kept the bottle for years afterward.

I wish I could share these memories with someone I love.  I secretly hope that they’d listen to my past and hug the child that I was through the woman I am now.

Now that I’ve resigned I’ve been feeling a sense of peace and hope.  I’m happy to close this chapter of my life.  I want to stop doing what I don’t love doing.  I hope to find something I can excel at because I enjoy it.  For as long as I remember I have believed in purpose.  I know that I haven’t exactly been a poster child of ‘purpose,’ but I’m still willing to find it.  I just want to do what I can do until I can.  The desire is there, I just have to find and execute the steps I need to reach my true purpose.

Or maybe my purpose is just to live from day to day and exist the way I’m made.  Or maybe, I could exist more fully than I do now.  I choose to try for the latter.

A lot of things have happened in the last part of 2012.  I’m tired.


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