Stunted Growth

It's pouring down rain. The windows are open and I'm soaking it all in. The sounds and smell of rain send me to a peaceful place where my heart aches for expression. Yet I continue to find myself guarded. I write posts all day long in my head. Letting myself de-stress by thinking how I will explain my day. Yet I have 5 posts here unpublished, because I never finished my thought. They sit.


Herein lies the problem. Just like dancing, I loved to write. I had lists of poems and stories that I was going to share with the world. I was more in love with a notebook and a ballpoint pen than any boy I ever crushed on. I could spend hours filling journals with the depths of my soul. Then, as with dancing, another move across country changed me.


We moved from Los Angeles, CA to Atlanta, GA the week of my sixteenth birthday. It was a good thing. I met the man who owns my heart that week. It's the first place that has ever felt like home.


Anyway, since giving up dancing, writing had taken up more and more of my time and I felt inspired constantly. I loved it. Then I met whats-her-name. We were so alike and so different. It was a bizarre friendship. I could fill pages full of intrigue from all of her lies and drama. I had better not. Just what pertains..


In her I saw how an imagination unchecked can ruin. It controled her, to the point where she really believes her lies are truth. Her dillusions of grandeur make herself her own biggest fan. It scared me. So many things about us uncannily similar, I didn't want any of that. I was terrified of letting my mind become equally as disillusioned.


The thing is, that God blesses people, and this girl had a phenomenal gift for manipulating words and moving peoples hearts and minds. She could wind a story around your head so tight that you didn't even know your own name, and you would give anything to her out of compassion for her dire straits.


She convinced Travis, my boyfriend at the time and now my husband, that I was sleeping with another guy. I was, in fact, very much a virgin at the time. She put bruises on her own arms and came with stories of her father beating her and throwing her across the room, breaking furniture. My parents let her move in with us to keep her safe. She used us, she lied to us. She hid a condom in the pocket of my jeans and left them on my parents bed, to what purpose I still don't know. When my poor father confronted me with it, I had never even SEEN a condom before. Good old homeschoolin' at work there.

Even in adulthood as a wife and mother, she continued her quest for fame. Every word out of her mouth was crafted for the stage of her own imagination, as if she was living life for the purpose of a dramatic and interesting autobiography worthy of a Quentin Terintino film. I think the poor girl watched "Walk The Line' one too many times and convinced herself that her divorce would lead to glorious ends. "In love with being in love." she says. Well, at best I think it could land her a spot on Jerry Springer.

Anyway, I spent 13 years believing she could change and giving her the benefit of the doubt. Last Christmas I was watching 'The Sixth Sense' on TV while Travis was out of town and the children slept. I'm always so upset at the part with the sick girl who's mother secretly poisoned her. Every time I've seen that I get ill. I can't imagine what kind type of delusions could bring a mother to do such a thing. And I wonder how none of those people at the funeral ever caught something off about such a mother. There must have been some sign. What would the signs be? I became increasingly uneasy as every sign that I could imagine seemed to describe her. It was a terrifying revelation.

And then, just a few days later, the final straw. She used my personal family trauma, involving my child, to get attention for herself. Purposefully making others think I was an unsafe mother. ME, unsafe, not her. She was the picture of motherhood, right? With her multiple infidelities, her selfish parenting, her nights out seeking her own stardom instead of being a mother and a wife. Her clear disdain and despising of anyone who considered staying at home with their children a life worth living.
Her attack on us was brutal, and stemmed from my several attempts to confront her regarding her recent deceptions, in which she denied all truth and contradicted herself in every sentence. It was the same old twisted type of work she did in her numerous attempts to separate Travis and I. Always wanting what is not hers. It's more romantic that way, I suppose. But now it was my children, and never, ever should she have dared. I've not spoken to her since, and have nothing to say. Life feels much healthier without her. It's been a godd almost-a-year.

Back to the point of my writing...
Over the years I became increasingly fearful of my own desire to write and dream turning me down a similar path. I gave up reading books like an alcoholic gives up booze, for fear of becoming like her. And slowly but surely, my notebook and pen become still. I feared a tainted hold on reality that would turn me into a self-absorbed, constant actor, speaking from imagination instead of truth. The potential is there, but I saw the demise and I want none of it.
So, I've rambled now and I doubt it makes any sense. The truth is, I feel empty without expression. Yet it doesn't come back as easily as I expected. Years of squelching makes it weak and I see that I am not a great writer. I'll never publish a thing. But that's Ok. I have no desire for the fame others seek. I want my thoughts released and my heart feels light when on paper. that is all, and it is enough. So, whether anyone reads or not, I will write.


PS: I've left out the name, but if you know who she is, oh well. I could care less. She weaves her tales. I'm just telling the truth. she shows her colors pretty quickly, so I'm really not concerned with defending my stance. You'll see, but please don't bother telling me about it. I don't care.