THE CLASSIFIED ABS

As I stare at the apple wearing my face in the full-length mirror in front of me, I make a mental note to shop looking so hard. It is something like passing an accident on the freeway. Motorists cannot avoid craning their necks to see victims strewn around, as horrifying as it is. This is the same thing. In my head, I am a 115 pound young woman; however the woman staring back at me looks a lot like my mother.  Startled by the sudden revelation, my mind shifts back through the concourse of my life to record the silent, gradual stages of my abdominal distortion.

Hanging out at the local beach in the summer was more for meeting boys than for swimming purposes. My girlfriend and I pranced around clad in skimpy bikinis, pretending to be confident, when actually we were very insecure with ourselves.  Secretly, my phobias were rampant: the pimple camped out on my forehead, was Mike going to look this way, and did the other girls look better than I did. However, my teenage belly rode tight and firm on my girlish straight frame, and frankly, the only thing I needed to worry about hanging out of my bikini was a tampon string.

Giving birth to a couple of kids works out quite nicely for the twenty-something abs. The slight womanly spread of the hips allows the tiny little pouch derived from pregnancy the room to settle back. The tight fitting black and purple leopard-print Halloween costume hid the secret while boasting a subtle hourglass figure. I was comfortable and confident in anything I was wearing - or was not wearing.  Damn! I looked good and knew it.

Somewhere in my thirties, I began to realize the post-baby bump was turning into a car bumper. In order to harness the problem, it became necessary to trade in my size five pants for a larger size, and then later, even a larger size. Clinging desperately to my pride, I was still able to mimic a tall, slender illusion by altering the style of outfits. Regardless, it seemed my thirty-something abs demanded more real estate while my waist took a permanent vacation.

The forty-nowhere abs make a simple thong feel more like an underwear enema. Girdled underwear and tummy-control pantyhose become as necessary as the right arm. Shopping in the Junior Department to stay hip, lends an opportunity for the clerk to remind you the old-lady department is at the other end of the store.  Adding insult to injury, the only remaining evidence of a six-pack is the one cooling in the refrigerator.

Upon coming to terms with my abdominal transformation, it becomes clear that living with an internal spare tie is part of the circle of life. It becomes mandatory to find new ways of defining oneself. Nourishing the mind, embracing humor, and letting go of yesterday has become my today.  The next time I step in front of that mirror, I will merely wave and say, "Hi Mom!" then turn and walk away.

BROKEN SEALS

On this particular day, my Honey and I were driving to the next town over to attend his Aunt Louise’s funeral.  A wonderful woman I only met a few times in past 27 years.  During the drive we decided to listen to a CD I had recently ordered from Amazon which was Dan Seals Greatest Hits. Back in the late 80’s, Dan spoke to me through his music, helped me through heartache, and made me feel he understood.  Since this time of my life was before I’d met my Honey, I asked him if he knew Dan Seal’s music, he said he was not sure. 

While listening and singing to the CD my mind drifted back to that time in my life and the feelings and emotions of 1989 came rushing back. It was a very difficult time in my life, however, Dan was there for me.  Deciding it would be a great idea to see if Dan was coming to a smaller concert venue near us, I began pushing buttons on my phone to look up Dan Seal’s tour schedule.  My belly got butterflies and I became very excited at the thought of seeing my Hero in person. Instead, an article came up saying Dan Seals died in 2008. 

Instantly I was crushed beyond belief, I burst into tears and kept repeating that I didn’t know, while continuing to sob.  With Dan singing in the background my mournful wails continued all the way to  Aunt Louise’s funeral at the church. 

Trying to pull myself together I wiped my tears and tried really hard to hold my emotions in check.  But I couldn’t. DAN SEALS IS DEAD. We entered the family room with Aunt Louise in her casket, family everywhere I looked, and me in the back row crying my eyes out.

My Honey’s sister, Katie, asked him if I was alright.  He mumbled something about me being emotional and crying over Aunt Louise.  Yes, Aunt Louise was a dear sweet lady, however, I sat at her funeral and cried like a baby for my hero, Dan Seals.  Gone forever.

There is no doubt in my mind his family thought it very odd that I was crying this hard at Aunt Louise’s funeral.  They kept shooting me sideways glances with a funny look on their face.  I didn’t care. This may not have been Dan Seals funeral, but, I was mourning for him anyway under the guise of Aunt Louise. I would love to believe Dan was there, as well, because this was my final goodbye to him. 

I am sure Aunt Louise will forgive me. 

DESIGNATED ASSHOLE

As a child I was very shy and backwards. There was no self-esteem inside me and I made myself as invisible as I could.  The other kids perceived me as weak because of my passive personality. Therefore, on my back was a permanent bulls-eye that said “Bullies welcome here”……….

This passiveness continued for most of my life.  I never learned the word “NO”.  This created a sense of not having value.  I did not believe my life was of any value to anyone.  I allowed people to take advantage of me in many ways over my lifetime, which cost me, more than I can even admit to myself. 

Eventually, this passiveness cost me a career.  A career that cost two years of student loans and a lot of time and effort preparing for it.  This was the last straw.  I took a good hard look at myself, which was very painful, and made the decision to change. 

The hardest part of this change was for my family.  There were some family members that used to take advantage (sad to say) of that passiveness and enjoyed humiliating me at family functions. I made it clear that this behavior would stop. Immediately. And if it continued, there would be no relationship, blood or not, and it would not be my choice.  It worked.

Unfortunately, there are more family situations that I had to stand up and say NO to.  This changed attitude of mine confused everyone.  Honestly, I think they did not know how to handle this and they probably questioned my sanity behind my back. 

Over the years, I have not had many friends. The friends I do have are very good lifetime friends.  I could count them on one hand.  Although I managed to come out of my shyness and backwardness in my adult years, I was still not popular, cool, or comfortable in large groups. 

Currently there is a “friend” (let’s call her Linda) that is mad at me.  I have no idea why. Linda has been giving me the silent treatment all week now.  Linda always promised me that if she was mad she would let me know.  This is because when she is in a “mood” everyone knows.  I learned long ago not to take these moods personally. Plus, she knows I cannot tolerate the unspoken tension.

 So, for the first few days I figured Linda was working through something.  Finally, I faced Linda and asked if she was mad at me. She vaguely said, “Yes”……. I was floored.  Then I asked, “Why haven’t you told me what you are mad about?”…..she answered dismissively, “There has not been opportunity”.  I call bullshit on that. There has been ample time.

After sleeping on this, I have come to the determination that, at this point, it does not matter what she is mad about.  By creating the unspoken tension, and refusing to talk to me about it, I consider us even. Which is what I will tell Linda if she ever decides to confront this issue. 

In looking back at my troubled relationships with family and friends, I have to wonder, am I the asshole?  Does standing up for myself when mistreated make me an asshole?  Does refusing to be manipulated make me an asshole?  While I do some sincere soul-searching, I hereby declare myself, The Designated Asshole. 

THE GARBAGE CAN CONFESSIONS

It started one week at work, after a particularly embarrassing sweets-binge, with the evidence in my garbage can.  As I looked inside, shame washed over me, and I began to wonder what the Office Cleaning Crew would think.  They don’t know me and I don’t know them.  Yet, this shameful candy evidence in my garbage can made me want to reach out to The Office Cleaning Crew …..  or the garbage can…..not sure which. 

Week #1: 

I took a paper towel and a fat sharpie then wrote the following note on it:

“I am very sorry for this disgusting candy wrapper mess in my garbage can.” 

At the end of the day on Friday I draped the note over the top of the garbage so it would not be missed. 

Week 2: 

  Ridiculously feeling the urge to make another statement about my garbage can, I wrote:

“I did not eat as much garbage (candy) this week, but, I did eat some cookies and some candy.”

There was no garbage associated with the cookies.

With that statement one has to wonder, who am I really talking to? 

The Office Cleaning Crew?

 My garbage can?   

 Myself?

God?          

Writing these notes makes me look crazy, however, I prefer to look upon it as repentance, purging, and, maybe let The Office Cleaning Crew know I am not a pig, and if I am, please know I am a human pig, and that I can laugh at myself. 

Week #3: 

It is amazing to me how much these garbage can confessions have already impacted my life.  Knowing I would be confessing to the garbage can about what I consumed during the week, the desire to eat the candy did not come.  The entire week passed with not one piece of candy passing my lips.  In addition, I walked at lunch for thirty minutes and on some days this week I even power walked every hour for three minutes. 

Friday happened next.  Sigh.  A coworker proudly announced Fritter Friday (a new idea apparently).  Who can pass on fritters?  Yes, I crumbled and had a fritter after a whole entire week of being good.

On one hand I am pleased the whole week went by sweet-free.  On the other hand I fumbled on the fritter.  I am calling that even. 

The garbage can confessions are becoming my weight-loss program.  Who knew?  Today, my note will say the following:

 “As you can see I ate a lot of salad this week and no candy.  I did have a fritter fumble.” 

As I write this, The Office Cleaning Crew comes to mind, I laugh, and wonder if they are looking forward to my confession this week.  Maybe they have not noticed.  It doesn’t matter.  The act itself of confessing my eating habits to the garbage can has obviously improved my diet.  

THE BABY

 A long time ago, me and my sisters (three of us) were all pregnant at the same time.  My older sister. who we will call Sister 1, was married and having her second baby due in March, 1980.  I was married and having my first baby due in January, also, 1980.  We were too young and we all got pregnant before being married, another childhood story for another time.

During this time, with Sister 1 and myself also married and out of the house, we began to notice some changes in our little sister, who we will call Sister 3.  Obviously, I am Sister 2.  Sister 3's demeanor became quiet, secretive, aloof.  The Parents, functioning alcoholics according to my opinion,  and elite members of the most prestigious club in town, which we will call the Moose Lodge for this forum, were oblivious to Sister 3 altogether.

There were also changes in her body.  Sister 3 wore regular clothes, however, was buying them in larger sizes.  This did not fool us Sisters.  One day, while driving Sister 3 to high school, I just frankly asked her if she was pregnant.  It took her a little bit by surprise, she paused, waited, and gave me a pointed "yes".  "Does Mom and Dad know?",  I asked.  She shook her head and stated she didn't know how to tell them.

Sister 3 was the tomboy of the family.  The closest thing to a "boy" my parents ever got.  Our family was proud when as a grade-schooler she insisted she join the boys baseball team.  Now this was the 60's and unheard of.  However, it happened and in the team picture it was impossible to tell she was a girl anyway.  Sister 3 did not, never did, ever mince words.  She said what she meant and she meant what she said.  I think this equally irritated and pleased Dad.  Dad used to call her "Little Miles" after his dad, while beaming with pride,  because she was so much like Grandpa and Dad, who had the same temperament.

Highly emotional moments make my brain freeze to some degree. This is why my memory is a bit sketchy at this point.  There were so many mixed emotions inside me and I could not process them quickly.  My memory tells me that I found out she was about 5 months along.  This meant she was as pregnant as Sister 1 and two months behind me.

It took many conversations, Sister 1 and myself, refusing to inform The Parents, forcing Sister 3 to tell them.  We felt she needed to take the responsibility to tell them since she created this situation.  It took two more months, 7 months along, to tell The Parents.

Since I was not present when this happened, or don't remember being present, how this revelation was  taken by The Parents is not known.  I do know, they "coped" by spending a lot of their time at the Moose Lodge, leaving a 15 year old, pregnant, afraid, lonely, emotional.....alone.

It was decided immediately between them all, a mutual agreement between The Parents and Sister 3, The Baby would be given up for adoption because that is what would be best for The Baby.  That decision....so bittersweet.  The joy for my first baby would forever be linked to the sorrow of Sister 3 giving up The Baby.  Same thing with Sister 1 and her second baby.

January blessed me with a beautiful baby girl we will call Snow White because she literally looked like her.  Lots of dark hair, fair skin, full red lips and very long eyelashes.  Even the other grandparents at the hospital commented on my Snow White's beauty.

The beginning of March blessed Sister 1 with a second son.  We carried on as if  Sister 3 had not been pregnant.  This had to be so hard for Sister 3.  She said nothing.  She asked nothing.  She went on as if this were not happening to her, in my opinion - the coping mechanism taught by The Parents, no doubt.

Six days after the birth of Sister 1's son, Sister 3 had The Baby.  This was a very weird situation with The Parents.  At the hospital, The Parents refused to let ANYONE see Sister 3, not even her own family and especially not friends.  We found this very strange, however, the family always did what Dad said.

The Parents have two ways of coping.  One, the Moose Lodge.  Two, refusing to talk about a situation making it non-existent to them.  We worried about Sister 3's emotional state, among other things.  We wanted to be a support system and it was frustrating to be forbidden to see her.  In our childhood home, feelings are not to be expressed out loud.

Later, Sister 3 told me she got the chance to see The Baby, a handsome, healthy Son, with lots of dark hair.  I think this made it easier on her.  The Baby was adopted through an agency, and soon,  was gone.  The Parents never talked about it.  Since all three of us have babies born close together the same year, there were some years I sent flowers to Sister 3 on that special, however, heartbreaking day. In watching our children grow,  the absence of The Baby was in the forefront of my mind, especially on their birthdays.  Sister 3, in my opinion never, ever got over giving The Baby up.  She knows rationally it was the right thing to do, emotionally and mentally it is a loss, just the same.  A family member missing, never forgotten.

For years, Sister 3 and The Baby's parents exchanged  non-identifying letters with updates.  It is me that named him The Baby.  All these years I have wondered about him, envisioned him, yearned for him, as well.  For some reason The Baby has always been close to my heart.

Recently, Sister 3 has decided it is time to try to find The Baby.  The adoption agency has since dis-banned.  She does not want to use Facebook to make a public search plea. She says that is too public for such a private manner.  In fact, Sister 3 has only told her two children and me that she wants to look for him.  I think she is afraid The Baby will reject her if found.  Sister 3 believes her children and The Baby have a right to know each other.  So even if he did reject her, maybe he would not reject his half siblings.........or me.

On August 8th, my Ancestry DNA kit was sent off so I can learn more about my heritage. Secretly, it is my hope The Baby also has done an Ancestry kit and is allowing DNA matches to contact him. This would be a dream come true for our family.  Blood is blood.

Searching for a man, born March 10th, 1980 in the western United States.  If you are reading this and think this could be you, contact me privately.

9-9-16  UPDATE:  Ancestry DNA test came back.  The Baby did not show up as a match.  Very disappointed.

THE POETRY PLACE

Based on this title, readers may expect a list of poetry.  I wish there were.  Instead, there is a very sad story I would love to share.  Telling this will probably turn my soul inside out, bare, for everyone to see.  This forum was created for these type of things exactly.  So here goes.

My childhood occurred in the 60's and 70's.  In those days, children were seen and not heard.  What Dad said....went.  He was always right.  If anyone dared express an opinion, it was clearly stated that is was wrong, because it was not Dad's opinion. Therefore, there was not a lot of encouragement to think for oneself or express feelings.  We stayed quiet while Dad was watching t.v.  Dad's mood dictated the mood for the entire house.

Dad was a good man, however.  In those days, love was expressed by having a roof over our heads and food on the table.  There were not many hugs, or spoken words of love. All homes in that era were not governed this way.  Some friends' homes were openly happy, humorous and had an aura of ease and comfort.  Unfortunately, this was not my home.

The need to explain my childhood, in a nutshell,  is directly related to The Poetry Place.  Feeling squelched, stilted, ignored, and unloved caused my personality trait to be a very sensitive, sympathetic, shy, backward, pushover.  My private thoughts ran rampant inside me.  I owned them.  They were mine.

Around twelve years old, all these feelings, good, bad, ugly, came to the brim of my soul and it became necessary to get them out.  This is how The Poetry Place was born.

I chose an orange three-ring binder.  Meticulously, purposefully, I thumbed through magazine after magazine and began cutting out letters that appealed to me.  The first page of my creation has these myriad of magazine letters glued to the very center of the page like this:
                                 
                                                         The Poetry Place
                                                                    by
                                                            (my real name)

The magazines gave me a sincere appreciation for photography.  One photo in particular spoke to me.  It was a candid shot of an elderly man with a cap of some sort.  It was a closeup so his face filled the entire page.  The old man's expression captured my heart and it is very hard to explain what the expression represented.  He was not smiling, looked as if he had just wiped his eyes, as his hands were in the frame around his mouth, but not covering it.  Immediately, this picture was cut out and glued to a sheet of white paper and put into this book. To this very day I wonder who he was, what his situation and what he was feeling.  Each and every deep wrinkle on his face had a story to tell. His eyes begged to be listened to.

In a notebook, I began to spill out every feeling, thought, idea that I was unable to share otherwise.  Poem after poem was written, typed by an old typewriter, onto white paper, and magazine photos that matched the poem were glued to the side of the poem. Each entry was like imprinting my heart and soul and I began to feel release...............comfort.....joy......accomplishment.

It could be said this poem book was a journal.  To me it was much, much more.  It was a part of me.  Like my arm or leg.  It breathed and lived just like me.

Eventually, a tragic event occurred around the age of thirteen.  That story will be another post someday.  This event rocked me to the core and I cried and cried and mourned and harbored absolute anger towards my parents.  It was a helpless feeling, hopeless to me, and there was nobody to turn to. This is when, once again, I turned to my best friend, The Poetry Place.  This is the shift from child to teenager in my writings.  Although my twelve year old poems were very "adult" I was still a child.  The tragedy clearly transformed my book, and me, to the next level of youth, no longer a child.  Turning the tragedy into a valid poem did some good for me. It locked the event into a written truth.

As my teenage years continued, so did my additions to The Poetry Place.  I felt, I wrote, I pasted pictures.  Over and over and over.  This continued into adulthood and I carried this book close to me everywhere I moved and continued to add to it, although the older I got the less frequent I wrote.

By the time I was twenty-seven, there were three children, two ex-husbands and a busy life raising my children alone.  There were no entries anymore.  Still, I kept this book close to me, in fact, this book was me.  It represented my soul.  The Poetry Place, my best friend since I was twelve, sat on a shelf in my bedroom as proof that I existed, felt, and thought.

During secretarial school, we were required to give a talk and be videotaped.  It was meant for us to see for ourselves, our mannerisms, our speech, how we portray ourselves to others.  Always, I was more comfortable  behind the camera. I despised pictures because pictures seem to accentuate my flaws. It takes practice, makeup and retakes to get a good picture.  So I dreaded this assignment.

It was important to me to talk about something I was passionate about.  I poured over my soul, The Poetry Place, and decided to talk about the tragedy and share the poem I wrote about all those years ago.

The day of the taping, I went to my place of employment where my secretarial skills could be used by helping the Personnel Director.  How I got to that place is another story in itself.  Let's just say for now, I was doing a damn good job, but, politics got in the way.  That morning I walked into the office and froze.  Literally froze in movement and speech.  One of my secretarial classmates sat at MY desk performing MY duties.  Furious, humiliated, the writing on the wall became very clear. I had been replaced and this was a shitty, unprofessional way to tell me.

Knowing it was necessary to pull off this tape recording on this very day, in front of The Bitch that stole my position, was daunting to say the least.  Leaving work for the very last time, (I quit on the spot), I bawled like a baby until school started that afternoon.  Whenever I get very angry, I cry.  In fact, I cry over everything and have been dubbed "The Family Crier".  It is this raw emotion that is at the heart of my writing, therefore, there is no need to apologize for that. It is a gift.

Obvious to everyone in the room that I had been crying, only three people knew why.  Me, The Bitch, and the teacher.  I came to school early and told my teacher all about it.  Walking to the front of the class in my brand new dress, a black and white beauty that accentuated my tiny waist and made me look like I had a nice hour-glass figure, that actually, was barely there.  The dress made me feel good while I briefly looked over The Bitch's jeans and casual top, feeling vindicated on that issue at least.

Raw, emotional, and true to myself I shared my tragedy with the class and finished my talk by reading the emotional  poem.  The class sat silent for a few seconds.  I drew a breath of satisfaction, because I am very good at reading people and I could tell the class was touched.  As I closed my book the class began to applaud.  This brought on more tears from the shear realization that my life mattered.  The tragedy shared, somehow helped to bring closure.

When the emotions take over, life becomes a blur and my body moves while my mind is not taking inventory of my belongings.  I was sure I held the book close and took it home and laid it on the shelf of my bedroom closet like always.

After I received my Certificate of Completion finishing the Secretarial course, I made a very bad decision.  My "friend with benefits" over the past nine years was at my window late one night.  For this forum we will call him Meany.  Meany had been asking me to marry him for three years. Deep down I knew this was a mistake.  Unfortunately, he caught me at a very vulnerable time of my life.  Raising my children alone, working full time, barely scraping by, suddenly I decided I was tired of being broke.  Marrying Meany would certainly help that situation, I convinced myself.

It happened fast.  He helped us move out of my three bedroom, 2 bathroom condo and move several towns away, back to my hometown.  Marriage changed him immediately.  Instead of "friend with benefits" I had a controlling abusive snake for a husband.  He did not allow me to properly go through my belongings and forced me to throw boxes away without checking them first.  My gut told me this would be a very expensive mistake.

Four months later, he beat me from the front of the house to the back on New Years Eve.  Teetering, reeling at the back door with no shoes or coat, I had a choice to run or stay and get beat more.  My children asleep (I hoped) in the bedroom inside the house.........I knew he wouldn't hurt them.  So I ran.  I ran barefoot in the snow and puked all the way to the police station.  A policeman drove me back to the house, Meany was arrested, and I literally  had a couple hours to pull my children and belongings out of the house.

We relocated to an apartment and somehow my family had removed my belongings from Meany's house to my apartment.  When everything was put away and the children were asleep, I longed to hold my best friend, The Poetry Place.  The search began.  Each location I searched I came up empty handed.  Becoming frantic, I searched more fervently, over and over, looking in places and boxes I know had already been searched, as if more searching would make my beloved book, my soul, appear.

Gone. Lost. My beloved book, my soul, my poems, pictures,..........The Poetry Place......gone forever.  I was devastated beyond repair.  I still am.  It has been twenty-seven years missing.  Right now, tears are welling up, a familiar pain inside my belly, (yes, real physical pain), and the overwhelming loss of my beloved book has scarred me permanently.  A part of me........ missing. Forever.

If anyone ever sees an orange three-ring binder with my soul inside...............I am here.

BUILDING CHARACTER

This post is likely to come out like a baby projectile vomiting, because if I don't write, my head will explode.  SIGH   *takes a deep breath*

As a writer, the decision was made long ago to refrain from reading books because my secret fear was that I would subconsciously absorb others' writing style.  It is vital that my style is my own.  With that being said, a few years ago, I kept hearing this curious hubbub of chatter about Fifty Shades of Gray.  

One day while sitting in my tiny town's corner store table using the WiFi, the Store Lady, saw that all three volumes of these books had been purchased on my Kindle.  It is my Kindle, however, when I won it, I didn't know what to do with it so my daughter set it up and began downloading and reading books.  (The Store Lady is probably thinking, likely story...)   Anyway, one by one, the Store Lady had all three volumes ready to read.  She paused, leaned over the table, looked me square in the eye and said, "Take my advice.  DO NOT read these unless your husband is home".   I giggled and  told her I planned to read them, regardless.   

When I begin a book it quickly becomes my main focus and I get so engrossed that every possible moment is spent reading.  It took me three days to make it through  all three books.  The story is a great one.  The sex is surprising, refreshing and bold.  The characters in the book were my favorite though.  The Cinderella-type....... rags to riches, falling in love with Prince Charming.........ah......I found the story better than the sex, frankly.  Halfway through the second book I began thumbing past the sex scenes and catching up with the fantastical story.  It really is a great story.  Hats off to the writer.  During the third and final book, I can honestly say the unconventional sex was predictable and boring.  On the flip side, the story was captivating, thrilling, suspenseful and I had somehow absorbed these characters into my life as if they were distant relatives.  

Now, I know the book is fictional and that it is irrational to accept into one's life characters from a book that do not exist in real life.  But they are here.  *points to heart*   Inside me.  In fact, all the characters from books I've read during my life, live inside me, to some degree. They are not me, just a part of what makes me.....me.   

Last night I finished a book called MAUDE.  Today, it is like I am a medium and I can feel Maude with me.  I know that sounds nuts, but, I have had "medium" moments and this could be one.  The story is told by a granddaughter about her beloved Grandma.  Maude's life begins in the early 1900's and the reader is taken all the way to the 1960's.  If Maude is here, she is feeling my hug and hearing my thoughts of endearing respect and admiration.  

Some people say suffering builds character.  There has been plenty of suffering in my life. Some brought on by myself, while a different type of suffering,,,,,changed me...the type brought on by others.  The cruel bullies, young and old, the abusive ex-husbands, nonchalant family members by their choice....yes, I have suffered.  However, these experiences have been more about teaching me new ways of thinking, feeling and behaving. After the pain, of course.  Sometimes, pain takes a long time to get through.

The character I have built has been by taking on traits of all the unsung hero's, the valiant heroines, the respected survivors of real tragedies. This is my character.  All these people, fiction, real, it doesn't matter, they LIVED!  They live because writers gave birth to them on pages. They continue to be immortal because they thrive inside my heart and soul. 

This is me.  Once an empty vessel, meandering through life looking for a place to belong.  The outside world disappointed me over and over. One day the light turned on and underneath it was a book in my hand. In opening up the pages I accepted character,  after character,  into my soul and we, all of us, continue to be complete today.  One day someone will open a book and it will be mine, about my life, and it is my sincere hope that the reader laughs and cries with me and instills a little of my character into their hearts.