I started this blog to chart my progress through VNS therapy and to share the bipolar stories of me and my youngest son, Hunter. For the past (almost) three weeks I have, more or less, been dipping the tip of my big toe in the water, testing it out. I want to take a flying leap into the water because I trust that the water won't hurt me. I want to commit words to cyberspace in the hopes that what I've learned or battled or struggled with might be of some use to someone else. But I'm holding back.
Ironically, I started keeping journals shortly before the death of my oldest brother in 1979. I remember thinking at the time I started writing about the trials and tribulations of my 11-year-old life, that I wanted to remember all of the important stuff. Those early journals are gone, lost somewhere on the roads of my life.
One of the assignments for my senior-year English class was to keep a creative writing notebook. The rules were simple. Every class we had to spend 15 minutes writing in it. It could be about anything, in any format and it was confidential. It could be true or fantasy. This was easy for me because I was already keeping a journal and had been for years. Initially, because our creative writing was private, we didn't have to turn the notebooks in for a grade. My teacher, Ms. Conn, simply peered around the room to see who was/not writing. As can be expected, there were kids who took advantage of this 'honor' policy so we had to start turning our journals in for a grade.
I don't remember the exact wording of Ms. Conn's comment in the margin of a page in my notebook but it changed my life.
(Junior high and high school were hell before I even stepped in the door. My three older brother's had paved the way -- and it wasn't all good. It took awhile before teacher's stopped referring to me as "so-an-so's" little sister.)
All three of my brother's had passed through Ms. Conn's class at some point in their high school careers. Everything she thought she knew about them was blown out of the water by what I wrote in my English notebook. I'm pretty sure she wasn't expecting to read about how my brother's sexually and physically abused me or about how my father physically abused them. It was because of that notebook that I started seeing the school psychologist -- and that is what changed my life.
Ms. Conn is gone now. She died on her front porch from an asthma attack shortly after I graduated from high school. I still have one or two of those English notebooks; tucked away in a box with other high school memories.
Ironically, I started keeping journals shortly before the death of my oldest brother in 1979. I remember thinking at the time I started writing about the trials and tribulations of my 11-year-old life, that I wanted to remember all of the important stuff. Those early journals are gone, lost somewhere on the roads of my life.
One of the assignments for my senior-year English class was to keep a creative writing notebook. The rules were simple. Every class we had to spend 15 minutes writing in it. It could be about anything, in any format and it was confidential. It could be true or fantasy. This was easy for me because I was already keeping a journal and had been for years. Initially, because our creative writing was private, we didn't have to turn the notebooks in for a grade. My teacher, Ms. Conn, simply peered around the room to see who was/not writing. As can be expected, there were kids who took advantage of this 'honor' policy so we had to start turning our journals in for a grade.
I don't remember the exact wording of Ms. Conn's comment in the margin of a page in my notebook but it changed my life.
(Junior high and high school were hell before I even stepped in the door. My three older brother's had paved the way -- and it wasn't all good. It took awhile before teacher's stopped referring to me as "so-an-so's" little sister.)
All three of my brother's had passed through Ms. Conn's class at some point in their high school careers. Everything she thought she knew about them was blown out of the water by what I wrote in my English notebook. I'm pretty sure she wasn't expecting to read about how my brother's sexually and physically abused me or about how my father physically abused them. It was because of that notebook that I started seeing the school psychologist -- and that is what changed my life.
Ms. Conn is gone now. She died on her front porch from an asthma attack shortly after I graduated from high school. I still have one or two of those English notebooks; tucked away in a box with other high school memories.
2 comments:
Wow. I think it's great that you're blogging and I have no doubt that you'll help others in doing this. Welcome to blogland. :)
I absolutely love your blog. You write so beautifully. What a sad story.
CP.
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