I Love My Parents

Honest to god, I do. If you heard me complaining about them on occasion, you might not be so sure, but let me tell you, I love them with all my heart.

That doesn't stop me from hating them at times, though.

When I was little, I used to say that my parents were the best parents ever. Granted, it wasn't too hard to think that, what with my limited worldview and all. I was sixteen before I even heard my parents disagree. They didn't argue, and they certainly didn't fight. Not in my hearing, anyway. They let me be interested in the things I wanted to be interested in. I mean, maybe it helped some that my parents are both minorly geeky, and I was interested in geeky things, but when I wanted to play with Pokemon cards and videogame systems instead of Barbies and Polly Pocket (for example), they let me.

(As an aside, it was damn hard to do it, really, because my big brothers didn't want a ~girl~ tagging along. I ended up playing by myself throughout most of my childhood. Until I met Kaila, anyway, but that's a different story entirely.)

So anyway, to Little SK, this was enough to make my parents the Best Parents Ever. But then I went out in the world, and realized how sheltered I'd been.

I do not understand the majority of pop culture references made by anyone.

I did not know what the modern connotations of the word "gay" were until eighth grade, nor did I even know of the word "bisexual" (ironically enough).

I could go on and on about all the instances when my parents tried to do the right thing, only to end up making the wrong choice and fucking me and my brothers up completely (fortunately for them, my sisters missed most of the blunders by the grace of being the fourth and fifth children), but that would take too long. Each instance really deserves its own separate post. So instead of doing that, I will grace you with a realization I have come to rather recently.

My parents never encouraged me.

Oh sure, they did the regular, parent-y things like coach my soccer team and lead my Girl Scout troop and try to get me to get good grades and whatever, but they never encouraged me in what I wanted to do.

I have been writing stories since I was ten. In eight years, eight years, my mother and father have collectively asked to see my work twice. My grandfather asks to see it more than they do. In the four years I have been writing poetry and one year I have been drawing, they have never asked to see any of it.

I don't expect them to be like some parents who are all, "Okay, my kid wants to do this, so I'll sign him up for classes and get him all this stuff for it and how-to books and I'll learn with him and it will be so much fun, dammit." I don't want them to be like that. My stuff is my stuff, and I'll learn how to do it on my own, thanks.

I just...I wanted encouragement, growing up. I wanted to know that when I was doing what I wanted to be doing, they were proud of me. I don't want the happy hugs and "I'm so proud of you" just when I brought home straight A's and Honor Society induction letters and 34's on my ACT. I want a "Congratulations!" when I tell them I finished another poetry journal. I want a "That's my girl!" when I tell them that I finished writing a book. I want them to brag about me, not because I'm smart, but because I'm creative and I make beautiful things and I'm going to be an author and I wrote a children's book that my bloody teacher wanted to publish!

Dearest readers, I haven't hurt myself in almost a year and a half now, and not once have my parents told me that they're proud of me for coming through it, or that I'm strong because I haven't slipped at all, or just held me because I looked like I needed it. I'd not have made it as far as I have if I only had them to lean on. The only reason I have made it is because I have wonderful friends and I'm fucking stubborn as hell.

I know nothing is perfect. I know that life isn't fair. But once, just once, I want my parents to take something of mine, something that they have asked to look at, go through the whole thing, then hug me and tell me that they are proud of me.

I'm going to keep going the way I am, no matter what they do. Still, it'd be nice to know.

Rain

Rain.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Some people hate it, complain about the inconveniences it causes, the dates it ruins, rage against the dark sky.  Some people are afraid, when the lightning flashes and the thunder crashes, and they dive under their covers or put pillows over their heads.

Some people like the rain, blessing the water that helps their plants grow, that makes their grass green.  Some people love it, for the drinking water it brings, for the end of the raging thirst, for the hope that maybe, this time around, things will be better.

I?  I find pure and simple happiness in rain.  When it’s warm, I dance and laugh as it falls, finding energy and joy in the insanity of what I am doing.  At night, I’ll sit on my desk, near my window, watching the rain fall, searching out streaks of lightning, waiting for the reassuring rumble of thunder.  In a world of surprises and things gone wrong, rain is dependable.  It will always come, eventually, and when it brings the thunder and lightning, they are always in the right order, and that order will never change.

When the storm is over, but the clouds are still dark, if the sun is setting and can be seen on the western horizon, the beauty of the sun’s dying light cast on the underbelly of the black clouds is breathtaking, more beautiful than the sunrise, more beautiful than a rainbow.  The purple-black clouds themselves are lovely, a wondrous mix of anger and beauty.

And in its nature, rain is wonderful.  When it hits the earth, it can provide a much-needed drink for plants, create a bath for critters, or simply make a puddle for a child to splash in.  When it hits me, wets my hair, slides across my skin, and soaks my clothes, as it drips off, I can almost see all the grime, all the pain of life, all my mistakes, and everything else that makes me imperfect wash away, leave me clean and pure.  As it hits the ground, no longer clear, but black from my dirt, I can almost hear it whisper, “Here’s a fresh start; use it, try again, keep trying, and you will win.”

Yes, some people are afraid of rain, some hate it, some like it, some love it.  I thank God daily for the rain, and pray that He sends more soon.  If it can clean me of my mistakes and pain, maybe, one day, it can clean the world.

Summer Insomnia

Silence save for the cicadas outside.

Darkness save for glow of my computer screen.

Solitude save for the Internet.

What little coldness that can be provided by the AC.

My mind runs rampant with the thoughts of today.  Wordless ideas and idea-less words flit through my brain, trying to match up together.  Stories come to mind and write themselves in seconds, faster than I could ever type out.  They settle for the recognition they get from me, realizing that they are too quick for me to catch, too complicated for me to write, the voiceless thoughts in my head that are shunted to the side, the ones that are never spoken of.

The ache in my knee is forgotten.  My back cramps from my awkward position, but I don't care.  Thoughts of tomorrow, of the eight o'clock wake-up call, of the chores and the appointments, of taking my meds and remembering to get my flash drive, do not matter to me.  What matters is the fleshless lives I hold inside me.  What matters is the stories clammering to be told.  What matters is sorting through them, picking the right ones out, telling what needs to be told, leaving the others behind in the dark.

I cannot apologize to them enough.  I cannot say anything to these thoughts that makes staying in a dark closet any more bearable.  I can promise to come back, but the older occupants of the closet know that the only time I return, it is to add to their number, not to take anything away.

The Closet in my head is a sad place.  It is dark and dank.  The floor around it is covered in dust, revealing a place where few wish to tread, but dust tracked with footprints, signifying the need to go there.  The Closet is a place where Voiced Ideas never wish to go.  They know all too well that it could have been them in there, it could have been the lying in the dust, forgotten and unused, but they don't want to think about it.

Every so often, though, one of them will.  The idea will consciously acknowledge what has become of its kin, and will fall into a depressive funk.  Nothing will come out of that idea for days, perhaps even months.  At times, its mood will be picked up by the rest--or just several others--of the Voiced Ideas.  They will mourn for the Voiceless, they will refuse to offer up anything new, and they will mope and sulk for the state of things.

Now and again, a Voiceless Idea will sneak from the closet.  It will come again to me, and present itself in a different way.  "Look at me," it will say.  "I have a Voice.  I am not Prose, dear Writer, but Poetry.  Write one page about me; give me a moment to speak.  I will not let you down.  Surely you have time for a page of rhyming verse."

So often, too, these Ideas come through.  They are the Recycled, the Voiceless given a Voice, and they sing loud and strong, reminders that there will always be hope, whatever their message is.

And I sit here, hunched over a computer, in my semi-Silence, semi-Darkness, semi-Solitude, and somewhat-Cold, having said a sad no to another idea, but asking it to think, to find a different side of itself to show me.

I figure, as I slip under my blanket and head towards dreams, if I can present myself to the world in a different light than before, why can't my Ideas?