New Outlet

In walking around the past few weeks with several thoughts in my head, I finally realized that what better place than to put them than on a blog.

From a very young age, I loved writing. I wrote story after story throughout grade school of what I wanted everyone to think my family looked like. I wrote about how mom swiftly placed fresh squeezed orange juice on the table and headed back to tend to the eggs and bacon she was about to serve to us. We were all gathered around our beautiful dark, wood table as the rays from the sun kissed the tops of our heads. Dad only looked up from his newspaper long enough to shoot as a smile that contained so much love that it could carry us through the day.

Oh yes, my family was perfect in my own imagination.

In fifth grade, my ability to imagine a normal home life begin to fade and my creative writing quickly turned into a reality that was unacceptable. When my teacher gave the class an assignment to write about an after school activity, I doubt he was prepared for what I was going to hand to him. Although I changed the names in the story, what I gave him outlined a day in my life.

My teacher, who lived only a city block from my house, kept me after school. Paper in hand, he demanded that I explain to him why I failed to take the assignment seriously. In my attempt for someone to see my reality, I had failed and he was quick to show me. My teacher explained that my story was disgusting and if I wrote things like this, people might get the wrong idea about me and my family. He gave me until the next morning to repeat the assignment.

I remember so clearly sitting over a blank sheet of paper that evening and crying. I would not only never be able to write the truth, but I would never be able to tell the truth. I would never be able to tell anyone the reality of my life. As the routine of my home life played out that night as it normally did, I knew my life would never be any different.

Writing was one of the very few things that I enjoyed. I knew so young, in fifth grade, that if I wanted to write, I would have to write things that did not matter to me. I could no longer write creative stories, because it was too hard to know what was normal or not.

Once I reached high school, I was able to write for the newspaper and yearbook. That carried me through college and into my adult life. I was able to write, which I loved, but not let anyone into what my life was really like.

Today, I find myself sitting here still with the love of writing inside me. The difference is that I don't have to worry about what anyone says. I may not know what normal is, but I have nothing to hide from now.