Dear Miss Lee,
As a student, and a teenager, being forced to write this letter, on cue, I begin to complain. I begin to think that forcing anyone to do something they don't want to do is unfair and unrealistic if you want them to have a passion for it. It is at these times that I feel a connection with one of my favorite characters, "Scout" Finch.
My father made me read To Kill A Mockingbird at the age of seven. I was a rebellious tomboy rejecting every dress and any glimpse of womanhood. Returning home with scraped elbows and permanently grass-stained jeans, I enjoyed my life. Growing up with a single father, all I wanted to do was be like him. However, that did not include his passion for reading. I loved to be outdoors; singing in the yard, creating my own world, or discovering treasures in the woods, the indoors were merely where I ate and slept. But even with all of my resistance, there were a number of books that my father insisted I read. Among them were Anne Frank, The Alchemist, The Little Princess, and To Kill a Mockingbird. They all contained a purpose or a lesson that my father wanted me to learn. Anne Frank taught me to appreciate everything I have and to be eternally thankful, and The Alchemist taught me to explore and observe the world around me. As my father's little princess, The Little Princess showed that the love between father and daughter can conquer all, a bond that my father and I share. To Kill A Mockingbird deepened for me the other connection my father and I share, that of teacher and student.
My father lived the dream childhood. As the son of an army man, he lived and traveled around the world. He also grew up with my strong willed grandmother, a favorite relative of mine. After high school, he followed the path of most all relatives before him, he joined the army. There he became a master of linguistics, becoming nearly fluent in Russian and Korean. This skill took him to Korea; atop the mountains along the border between the two Koreas, he intercepted and interpreted the messages of the North Koreans, my own real spy. It was his love of languages that helped him find a mom, another army student of Russian. They fell in love along the coast of northern California. And nine months after their wedding in December of 1992, I was born.
I almost come to tears when my father describes the feeling that overcame him when he first held me in his arms. I became his life, anything and everything revolved around me. After my parents seperation, my father struggled harshly. He would often arrive at my grandparent's house with me on his arm, a car seat in his hand, a a bag of laundry over his shoulder. My grandmother often reminds me of how much he struggled, however I could never recall anytime of happiness. Even though the only money coming in was an extremly small amount from his failing medical publishing company, all I can remember are the times of perfect content; late mornings, Chocolate Chip Chewy Granola Bars, classic movies of Gene and Audrey, and a house overflowing with love. Over the years, my father has taught me many lessons, some forced and some not, but one lesson I embraced with an open heart and mind was the lesson of a love for music.
Life without music is no life at all. My father's life is proof of this; his best friends today, the men I call uncle, and the men who will be at the door when my first car date arrives, were his high school rock bandmates. The prep, the rebel, the biker, and the foriegn come to create The Statement. The band not only made great music, but an everlasting bond between men. As my friends croon to the music of Chris Brown and dance to the beats of JT, I daydream to the now unknown Frank Sinatra and the ever powerful Ella Fitzgerald. This love of music has helped me through times of good or bad, happy or sad, it was always there for me. Music is and will always be one of the two constants in my life. The other, is my father.
Atticus Finch is detail oriented and socially challenged due to his philisophical genius. This is a perfect description of my father. Atticus believed in not only loving and providing his children with all that he could, he believed in teaching them life lessons that although seem meaningless at the time, provide a deep knowledge of the which the norm is unknowingly lacking. Although I know I am nowhere near done learning, so far in my life, my father has taught me four lessons that are forever etched into my mind. The first, and the one first taught, is "action, reaction". This was demonstrated by my father hitting one fist, and the other reacting immediatly. This lesson can have meaning in all forms or manners of life, which was exactly his purpose of teaching it. The second taught was that of "tanstaafl", or theres' no such thing as a free lunch; abbreviations were big in our house. This meant that no matter what you give or get in life, even if that the time it was completly free, everything eventually has a cause and is needed something in return. The third was "the map is not the territory", this entales my father's love of country and freedom. As an avid admirerer of Winston Churchill and the Bill of Rights, my father believed that teaching me my rights was the most important thing I was to ever learn. No matter what the consequences, I always have my rights, and I was never to forget that. "The map is not the territory" details a portion of what my father views as his rights. It contains his belief that no matter what something says or states, whether on paper or computer, if it is not acted by all those who follow it, it is merely writing containing no meaning or truth what so ever. The final lesson taught was that of a realistic sense of how the world works.
"Courage is not a man with a gun in his hand. It's knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do" (Atticus Finch: To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee). No matter what any parental books may say, or how many people may have shook their head, my father never hid anything from me. I was introduced to guns, war, and all of the consequences of the world before I learned to tie my shoes. My father protected me from real pain, but showed me willingly the problems of the world. No matter how frowned apon, my father always kept a loaded gun in our house, it was legal, but many feared such a weapon in the house containing a child was poor parenthood. I look at those parents now and laugh, for as many kids, my age there are today, many of them flinch in the presence of a real gun. I will never run.
No awards hang on his walls. There are no books that contain his name, and when he dies, many will never know who he was. And however unrealistic and movie-like our story may seem, my father is a real man whose mind is only recognized by those who truly love him. Atticus Finch was a hero to many and an inspiration to all; his words detailing a deep knowledge of real common sense. Although not as eloquent, not as outspoken, and nowhere near as handsome of Gregory Peck, my father is a hero. My hero. To Kill A Mockingbird made me appreciate the type of man he is, and as the creator of the famous version of my father, I would like to thank you. You brought this form of philosophical geek to a level of great recognition, that, even though he won't admit, my father deserves and contains.
Thank you, and ever appreciative,
Sarah Robinson
Charlottesville, Virginia
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Writing Assignment #2-Draft 3
The dreary weather was dominant that day. The fog, spread across the city like margarine on toast. From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, lazing just outside the window in an old rusted flowerbox drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.
There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as the backdrop to the almost empty room. It's only contents were the rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once great provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room;looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was succumbed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick…tick...tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep; the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair became bright like the sun and began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as the backdrop to the almost empty room. It's only contents were the rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once great provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room;looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was succumbed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick…tick...tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep; the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair became bright like the sun and began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Writing Assignment #2-Draft 2 with Ms. Wisiener edits
The dreary weather was dominant that day. The fog, spread across the city like margarine on toast.From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, lazing just outside the window drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.
There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there? All was in a lazy still.
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
There she sat. Creak creak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils, sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, the world shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there? All was in a lazy still.
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. A worn-in warm must of sandalwood and amber. The smell of a lover's embrace; the safety, the warmth, the passion. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room. Underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Writing Assignment #2-Draft 1
The dreary weather was at its high that day. The fog, covering the city like jam on toast, spread to every edge. From the street, through the fog, the old building didn’t look like much. The roses, perched outside the window drooped downward. The old door and shutters; muted of color and life. All was in a lazy still.
There she sat. Croak croak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping to the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, we shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room; underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
There she sat. Croak croak, the old rocking chair said atop the stained, knotted pine floors, as she shifted her weight back and forth. The room was a barely lit of the dimmed light of day. The muted blue color of the walls lay as a backdrop to the almost empty room. The rocking chair, the one lamp, and a small end table with a framed photo atop it was it; all of which were placed to face the sealed up fireplace. In front of the once provider of heat sat a chair, a leather chair. The striking chestnut color was the brightest thing in the room, looking never touched. There she sat. Her once blinding blonde hair was pulled lazily back by a mute gray piece of fabric. The blonde, once curly tendrils sheered across her face. Her skin, pale and mute. Her face; free of emotion. Her mouth, blended in as if never there. Her once bright, emeralds were crushed and replaced by dark evergreens, focused and non-releasing of the leather chair. Not a movement, not a sound, not a blink came from the muted woman. From neck to toe, she was blanketed by a navy, metal-buttoned trench coat; free of any detail. One of her hands was raised to her collarbone, tightly gripping on to the trench coat. The other lay beside her thigh; clinched into a ball, fingers inhumanly grasping to the small object. Her grasp, decreasing over time, held a watch; a plain, rusted, quietly ticking pocket watch. Tick……..tick……..tick, the watched whispered. Every tick was a memory, erasing or returning from her mind, we shall never know. All was in a lazy still.
A key turned. A lock unhinged. A door slowly pushed open; fog began to flood in like the sea at high tide, quick and swift. No shadow elaborated the floor beyond the doorway. Nothing moved. There was a footstep, and another, and another. She said nothing, she moved nothing, was she still there?
Much like the birds after a gunshot, something filled the sky. A smell. It overcame the fog, it flooded the streets, it entered the doorway, and made its around the room; underneath the table, circling the picture frame, bouncing off the sealed fireplace, engulfing the lamp, down the smooth leather chair, and over to her. A blink. Another footstep. A head turn. Another footstep, the smell increasing with every movement. The sun slowly awoke. The roses regained their perfect poise; the shutters and doors began to shine their unique qualities to the world again. The muted blue turned into the color of polished sapphires. Her hair, bright like the sun began to twirl, her skin began to glow, and her eyes regained their regal quality. The gray cloth turned to silver ribbon. A shadow appeared. The coat fell to the floor, slow and creasing, finally free of grasp. A short, loud clang. The watch was flung, silver and rusted slowly regaining its blood from the loss of circulation. She was suddenly succumbed in his arms, blissfully unaware of anything else. She would never let go, “It must have been a dream,” she gaped. All was in a living bliss.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Are we similar?
For however long I can remember, she never told me a thing. It was always I have planned, or I am doing, never what do you want or how can we do this together. She’s never cared. It’s all about her. Never once has it been about us. It doesn’t have to be about me or for me, but at least us. She makes so many mistakes, and then she thinks shes does nothing wrong. Everything she does is apparently perfect. Whenever there is an argument, it’s all about what you did or how you did wrong, it’s always blamed on me. She yells, I try my hardest to stay calm. Five minutes later, shes denying she ever made a sound. She also tries her hardest to make her life seem so perfect to everyone else around her. We argue, then we step out of the car, and then she’s perfectly fine, nothing happened, and looks like she’s not mad at me anymore either. She can be completely fake at any moment of potential embarrassment. Her excuse to anytime I say that she was acting rudely, is that she never acts like that, she is the most liked person of all her friends, and everybody likes her. Then I put in how she treats me is obviously different then the way she treats her friends. And again, she denies it with all her might.
The first time she ever really hurt me, caught me completely off guard. I couldn’t tell how to feel or what to feel. Happy for her, sad for me, sad for other people involved, mad at him, mad at everybody! She never even told me, I found out by seeing the ring on her finger and then, like it was no big deal, she told me that everything was about to change, and she’s leaving. What do you say to that? She’s gone now, and I want nothing to do to her. I’m so confused of how or what I’m feeling; do I hate her, what she did, or the whole situation? Whatever the feeling was, I took it out on her. I didn’t care how she felt, I just wanted all of it to disappear, and if that meant her too, then so be it. So that’s what I did. A phone call, a card, a letter, a visit even was all ignored. I would often play a game with myself of how long I could go with out talking to her. It became normal to ignore her. Then she decides she doesn’t like the situation between us and the only way to solve it is through a professional. According to whom, I have some serious problems with her leaving. At first I hated it, and wouldn’t even speak to the man. Then it became kind of fun and sometimes see how angry I could make myself get, and see what his reaction would be, just so he could tell her and maker her even more worried. I didn’t know when or if I wanted to apologize. Eventually, I did and still do, but when I think back to all she did; moving us from one place to another every six months, having a new boyfriend every time we moved, moving us in with one boyfriend with out telling me about anything that has to do with their relationship, hiding relationships, becoming frustrated with a child for crying when she cut her chin open, getting involved with the wrong man and having a relationship with him without telling me, getting engaged to the wrong man and again not telling me, moving away, introducing me to the future sibling days before the wedding, and then making me be adult when the wrong man does the wrong thing and crying on my shoulder about it at the age of nine.
Whenever we do get into an argument now, I always return to what she did, and want to get back at her for all of it, no matter what. I know I should let it go, but I just cant. I feel like she should feel what I did, and every time I try, I just cant seem to stay angry at her; she is really the way she is, and for that I feel sorry for her.
So many people say how much alike we are, and although in some ways I love hearing that. I hope to never make the mistakes she made, and learn from the ones she did.
The first time she ever really hurt me, caught me completely off guard. I couldn’t tell how to feel or what to feel. Happy for her, sad for me, sad for other people involved, mad at him, mad at everybody! She never even told me, I found out by seeing the ring on her finger and then, like it was no big deal, she told me that everything was about to change, and she’s leaving. What do you say to that? She’s gone now, and I want nothing to do to her. I’m so confused of how or what I’m feeling; do I hate her, what she did, or the whole situation? Whatever the feeling was, I took it out on her. I didn’t care how she felt, I just wanted all of it to disappear, and if that meant her too, then so be it. So that’s what I did. A phone call, a card, a letter, a visit even was all ignored. I would often play a game with myself of how long I could go with out talking to her. It became normal to ignore her. Then she decides she doesn’t like the situation between us and the only way to solve it is through a professional. According to whom, I have some serious problems with her leaving. At first I hated it, and wouldn’t even speak to the man. Then it became kind of fun and sometimes see how angry I could make myself get, and see what his reaction would be, just so he could tell her and maker her even more worried. I didn’t know when or if I wanted to apologize. Eventually, I did and still do, but when I think back to all she did; moving us from one place to another every six months, having a new boyfriend every time we moved, moving us in with one boyfriend with out telling me about anything that has to do with their relationship, hiding relationships, becoming frustrated with a child for crying when she cut her chin open, getting involved with the wrong man and having a relationship with him without telling me, getting engaged to the wrong man and again not telling me, moving away, introducing me to the future sibling days before the wedding, and then making me be adult when the wrong man does the wrong thing and crying on my shoulder about it at the age of nine.
Whenever we do get into an argument now, I always return to what she did, and want to get back at her for all of it, no matter what. I know I should let it go, but I just cant. I feel like she should feel what I did, and every time I try, I just cant seem to stay angry at her; she is really the way she is, and for that I feel sorry for her.
So many people say how much alike we are, and although in some ways I love hearing that. I hope to never make the mistakes she made, and learn from the ones she did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)