Ramblings of the Mildly Insane

Disclaimer: I was only watching MTV because I couldn’t sleep and there was nothing else that seemed mind-numbing enough to help me wind down…

It was a rerun of The Real World and this episode was aparently MJ’s birthday and the girl (don’t remember her name…um the one’s that has been trying to get him in the sack since the show started) made him breakfast in bed because of some traumatic birthday event he encountered when he was younger.

For some odd reason, it reminded me of my traumatic event when I was in middle school. I had just moved to Florida and my 12th birthday came and went without so much as a card from my family. Apparently, they had other things on their minds. So when it was a few weeks before my 13th birthday, I started getting a little antsy.

I don’t remember how this nervous breakdown came about, it had to be something major that set me off because I generally let stuff build up. But I remember losing it in school one day. I totally unleashed my pissiness and anger upon my friends explaining how I was ripped from my “true home” and brought to this God foresaken hell pit and had to leave all my friends and nobody cared about me anymore and that I was pretty much being swept under the rug in my family.

My 13th birthday rolled around and sure ’nuff, my daddy didn’t wish me a happy birthday in the morning on my way to school and no one called me. I arrived at school and just continued throughout the day as if nothing was special and then somewhere towards the end of my day, my friends said they had something for me. They gave me a brown teddy bear and wished me a happy birthday - said they were sorry my life sucked and hoped it got better (I’m paraphrasing) and I cried (don’t fault me for it, I might be a slight tomboy, but I am still a girl). I felt horribly bad for going off on my friends like that and they still went out of their way to chip in to get me a gift. That is one of the happiest childhood memories I have since I’ve been in FL.

I still have the teddy bear…

Apparently, at some point in my childhood, I had a pig - however - I do not remember this pig, nor ever being that age (about 3ish), but my daddy says it’s me and my pig - so I’m just going with it…

Come to think of it, I may have been traumatized or something and blocked it out…the last time I made friends with a farm animal in Jamaica, it ended up being served as dinner that same evening - not very cool.

When I was younger and growing up, there were many rules/regulations that I followed without question (don’t worry, I did break my share of rules, but for the most part I was considered a “little miss goody two shoes”) and one of those rules/regulations was not being able to have posters on my wall. Well, I could have posters on my wall, however it was limited to one poster per wall (i.e. 4 in total), they needed to be framed and they needed to match the overall decorum of the entire house.

The only books I was allowed to keep on my bookshelves were the hardcover books in pristine condition, the rest of my books (paperbacks included) needed to be kept in the closed off section of my bureau

I could personalize my room as long as it matched the decorum of the rest of the house. A self-made nametag on the front of my room door was about as creative as I could get.

I remember I would go to my friends’ house and get so jealous because they would have their beds unmade, clothes on the floor, books thrown wherever they wanted, and POSTERS!!! They could have any type of poster they wanted on their walls - boys, cars, bands, poetry, anything and everything - all unframed - just thumb-tacked or sticky-tacked up there. Heck, they could have anything they wanted on their walls…

Well, it’s taken me about 6 years, but I’ve finally decided to rebell. I put a poster up on my bedroom wall - frameless and sticky-tacked and it feels gooooood. Unfortunately, the poster sorta does go with the decorum of my home, but I look at it as rebellion in small doses. Of course, I’m sure this rebellion would have felt better if I were still in high school or living at home…

That was the first book I’d ever had read to me. I was in the third grade and every Thursday afternoon Mrs. Dale’s class (my class) went over to Mrs. Wesson’s classroom for story hour.

My parents never read to me - no one read to me when I was a child. I learned to read when I was 3 and read to myself - Sesame Street was a lot more educational than one may have thought. I only had a few books at home, many of which I’d read 5 or more times. I read anything and everything that had words on it - literally.

I believe that’s why I always liked story hour. New stories and it was just very nice to hear the words spoken out loud. Then, after one book was finished, I’d ask her if I could borrow it for a few days and she always said yes. For a few days I could read that book and imagine I was one of the characters and what life would be like. I guess I still do that sometimes.

Although it took me nearly 20 years, I finally got my own copy of it. I was in a second hand book store donating some of my more weathered titles and paring down my library when I caught a glimpse of it from the corner of my eye.

Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell in pristine condition - almost as if it had never been read. The memories of third grade story hour came flooding back and I remembered why I loved to read so much - how could I resist buying it?

Somehow I’ve managed to block out so many memories of my childhood, it was just refreshing to step back in time for a moment and recapture something so delicate and wonderful from it.