The summer I turned 14, I’d gone to Washington to babysit my cousin’s daughter for the summer. That job kind of fell through and I decided to stay with my aunt, watching her children and wasting away the summer taking random evening trips with her to get iced tea from the Taco Bell a few miles away. It really was nothing exciting, but my time with her was always so much fun. Having a new boyfriend back home, I longed to go home, but stayed where I was until summer’s end.
One evening, bored out of my mind and missing home, I slipped out of the chaos of a house with small children and into the peace and quiet of the garage. Behind a wall of boxes, I sat on the cold cement floor slumped against a shelf containing and vast collection of dusty Hotwheels. My mind was buzzing with thoughts I wanted to shout out loud–how I wished I was home; how I never understood why I stayed; how much I loved my cousins, but disliked their endless energy; how f u l l my heart felt for this new found l o v e of mine. I picked up a small notebook and pencil and began to scrawl across the pages for hours. Releasing my excitements, my wants, my hopes, and life’s lessons I felt I’d learned by that age (which I’m sure was a lot less than I thought at the time.) When my hiding place was finally discovered, I jumped to my feet, crumpled my thoughts and tossed them in the trash, without thinking twice about it, on my way into the madness. My writing was more than a journal entry. I was writing as though I was speaking to someone–anyone–who would listen. A blog on paper.
Later that year, I covered the walls of my room in sheets of butcher paper. I sketched large images of cartoon characters, song lyrics, and thoughts. Writing on the wall was my favorite way to release my explosion of random thoughts and express myself in a time I felt completely alone and put away. Throughout my adolescent years, I endured a lot that and it always felt so good to write it down as though someone was listening to me.
As a young single mother, trying to make it on my own, I spent a lot of time working and never spent a dime on things I felt were unnecessary at the time. Internet and a cell phone were among these. I missed the start of the blog revolution. When I finally dove into the world of social networking, I never really felt I had the time to start a blog. Wait. I lie. I was sour that the blog revolution started without me. I was mad that it’s another one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” moments in life. I started a family blog discussing my personal family goings-on for the rest of the family to see, but it wasn’t the same. I’ve spent the past year debating a blog and talking myself out of it–I don’t have the time. I don’t have anything good to say. No one will find it and if they do, they won’t want to read it.
I’m finally telling myself to. . .well. . .get over myself. I may not be the best writer, but I definitely have enough to say. Blogging is a natural part of me. I’m constantly sitting here telling myself to stop talking as I listen to the rambling one-sided conversation playing out in my head. It’s time to release it . . . or find myself a spot in the loony bin.