Maybe I just should stop pressuring myself so much. Who cares if I write or if I don’t? I do, that is who, but I can’t stop this whirl wind in my mind. I want to write about it, spit it all out, but who would want to know?
I wake up in the morning, open my eyes, roll over, close them again and try to go back to sleep. Of course I can’t, I won’t. I will just lie here for a few minutes, wondering how I will get through the boredom of the day. How I will keep the memories from flooding in. How will I ever write anything worth writing.
I always thought I would write about my life experiences, but who wants to read that? It isn’t as though I have had a wonderful life. I can’t say it has been all bad. There were some good times, but always followed by something that ruins it.
I will give you a for instance. My guitar. The acoustic one. My ex-husband bought that guitar for me. You see, I had signed my son up for guitar lessons and I had gone to his lessons with him. Of course it looked like a lot of fun to me, so I decided to take lessons too. I signed up and the next week I had my lesson the day after my son’s. At that time, my now ex-husband offered to take my son for his lesson that week. When the two of them came home, my son was spouting about some surprise, which gave me the idea they had bought a guitar for me. It was true. When I got to my lesson the next day, my guitar teacher gave the guitar to me.
This guitar really means a lot to me. However, what I mean by memories going wrong is that after I had the guitar and was taking lessons, my ex-husband was not very supportive of my practicing. He would walk into the room and turn the radio or t.v. really loudly, or he would just walk into the room, shut off the light and walk out. So you can see how that might diminish the memory.
But it is my life, right? I don’t know about anyone else’s life. I can’t write half the story. So I am sorry, for me and you both. I am sorry that half the story is always going to suck. It is just the way it is.
I remember sitting and practicing “Hava Nagila”. My teacher told me to play it slow. I love this song and I love playing it. My sister came into the room and said “What, are you playing for the geriatrics unit?” It crushed me when she said that. A week later she came back to my house, picked up my guitar and played the song, just to show me how much better she is than I am. Truth be told, she wasn’t, but she made me feel so small.
I was always surrounded by so much negativity. It broke my heart, it still does. My teacher, Mario, he would sit and talk with me for hours. He would tell me, “Don’t pay any attention to the negative people”, but I couldn’t help it. It hurt me so much that any time I tried to do anything, people always put me down. My own sister, my husband, all of them. Just the way it is.
These things don’t just go away. The live with you and inside of you. They come out one way or another and writing is the way I hope to let them out. The good and the bad.