It's strange to think that my dad moving some walls and installing hardwood flooring in his house could lead to me wondering about my mental status.
I was also reminded of my genetic disposition towards being a pack rat.
Renovations always mean sorting through stuff. In my parents' case, it meant some trunks needed to be moved out of a closet in the room being renovated. 8 children x 13 years of school = 2 steamer trunks full of paper. My mom has been going through all that paper and sorting it into piles.
8 kids. 8 piles. 8 tons of childhood memories.
High school drama brochures. Kindergarten valentines. Grade school essays. Memory after memory. Thoughts flooding back from the past.....feelings, field trips and friends.
As I sorted through my pile of papers at my mom's yesterday, I read composition after composition filled with death, knives, haunted houses, eery ghosts, and child kidnappers. After one such composition depicting an attempted murder that was in the news and my ensuing freaky dream about it, my very nice parochial teacher had written, "Very interesting."
I commented out loud that I found it surprising my parents were never called in to the school to have a little talk. My mom replied that I was always a worrier.
Some things never change.
It's an interesting thing, sifting through your childhood. Pieces of artwork that I remember pouring my soul into....so proud of the results. Other items that I had no recollection ever doing. Teacher's comments about messy writing, do overs and "you are capable of doing better".
Some things really never change.
I thought about how much I loved Sister Emily, my first grade teacher. She always made me feel like I was capable of doing anything. That I was smart and clever and was destined to be a teacher. It's hard to argue with a nun.
But back to my neurosis....is. Perhaps my early writing is trying to tell me something from its steam trunking grave.
I should be working on a horror novel, not a children's book.
And I'm sleeping with the light on tonight. My writing scares me.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
3 comments:
How funny! :) You would probably be expelled...or arrested...these days!
I always had memories of being a quiet student, until I went through MY box of stuff from my parents. I think it was on my 1st or 2nd grade report card, the teacher had written, "Bridget is quite talkative during class." Oh, no. Here I had been getting on to my son for talking during class. Seems he came by it naturally. :)
I was thinking that myself. Today, I'm sure I would have been spending some quality time with a psychologist. Interesting that I obviously used writing as a way to deal with all my anxieties...and I still do!
You probably would have gotten special ed help for your anxieties today in school. I am absolutely positive I would have.
Post a Comment