Tag Archives: family

a virtual sticky note

I usually don’t like to explain or prove myself to people, but recently, several people have approached me – usually concerned family members/boyfriend – asking me about “how I’m doing” or if “everything is alright.” Obviously, I completely appreciate the concern because a) it proves people are actually reading my blog and b) it proves people actually care about me. Much love, much love. However, I just want to clear up some obvious confusion.

I am not, nor have I ever been seriously depressed. Sure things get to me from time to time; I sometimes get severely bummed, at most. This is just how I write. These posts about losing friends, feeling lonely, etc. are not some kind of desperate cry for help. It’s just me, being me. I’ve always written about my life, or how I feel, whether in a LiveJournal or a live journal. It’s what I’m used to. This is just me writing out how I feel because sometimes, it’s easier that way. My computer screen can’t talk back, or tell me I shouldn’t feel Emotion X; it doesn’t judge me or tell me when I’m being too sensitive or when I should just let things go. While I try to remain open-minded about advice like that, sometimes, I just don’t want to hear it. So I write. And maybe sometimes my love of words takes over and I find myself sounding a wee bit more dramatic than intended. Okay, there’s that too. Not that I’m lying or exaggerating. I just don’t want people thinking that all I do is toil over my angst. That’s what 90’s teen dramas are for. (And God, I love them.)

So for all of those wondering: I AM FINE. I totally and 105% appreciate the concern, really I do, but I’m just writing. Seriously. Keep reading, and please, keep being interested, but also keep all this in mind. Because if I can’t write about everything – including the bad times or the shades of gray – what is the point of keeping this blog?

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Filed under Who Cares?

the door

I miss the sound of her doorbell, if you could believe it. How when I pushed my finger onto that small white orb it vibrated through my fingertip, almost reaching into my body like an electric shock. It was loud, and the accent fell on the second, deeper note, which incidentally lingered in the air for what felt like hours. Though the same each time, its intensity always jolted through me with surprise. It was always a treat for us, to be chosen to ring that doorbell, to be the one of us to offset that melody. But when you’re young, everything is exciting.

This reverberating start to each visit was followed by a methodical anticipation: hearing her exclamation – usually, “Coming!” – and listening as my grandmother’s footsteps inched closer on the opposite side of the door, louder, until we heard the energetic crack, pop of the locks and the scratchy sound the door made as it swept against the rough carpet. In spite of the friction, she always opened that door with excitement, because on the other side stood her grandchildren.

Eventually her footsteps aged, more time between each step. But for children naïve to reality, this only increased the suspense. Then, the noise of a louder television masked the sounds of her footsteps, overpowering, and a click, roll of a walker was introduced to the cacophony. Sometimes, even, we would have to ring twice, which turned our anticipation into restlessness. The opening of the door began to lack its usual excitement, but rather emphasized resistance, exertion, exhaustion, often with a complimentary groan.

These days, there is no doorbell. There is no anticipation – on either end of the door – for I open the door myself as my grandmother sits idly in her chair, emotionally exhausted. No reverberating melody, no vibrating fingertips, just that harsh snap of the locks – like breaking bones – and an exhausted thrust of the door – a result of shoddy measurements, I bet. While that door once swung open with joy, I now swing it open with grief, out of fear – not excitement – at what I’ll find on the other side of that door.

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Filed under Non-fiction