Published 5 days ago
I should note, that this is actually a letter that I sent to my father as my therapist suggested. I wanted him to know how much he hurt me. I never heard back from him, and I am glad. Maybe, someone can relate to this, you know even if one person feels like they are not alone after reading this, then I am glad I have put it out there. Love, Mash.
It was my brother’s fifth birthday party, nothing crazy, just family members and close friends sitting outside on a beautiful spring day. I don’t remember much of it, being that it was nearly ten years ago now, but I do remember the cake. And, oh, what a cake it was. Double chocolate with vanilla buttercream frosting, and a bright red picture of elmo’s face screened on. When my mom asked me what piece I wanted, I insisted on having Elmo’s smile, and I planned on coming back for the rest of him later. However, when I did come back, he was gone. Understandably I was devastated. I scanned the back porch for possible suspects, ruling out my cousin Ben and uncle Steve swiftly - Ben was too little to eat cake and Steve didn’t like chocolate - before fixating on the plate in front of the birthday boy himself. Of course. Of course it had to be him. Yes, it was his birthday, but I saw Elmo first. Not taking a single second to think my spur-of-the-moment plan through, I stomped up to the cake thief and was quick to mush his face into the piece. A brief second of silence. Then wailing. Oh the wailing, it was epic, even for a five-year-old. Now was the time to make my getaway, with mom no where to be seen and dad in the house, out of sight. I chose our toy jeep as my means of escape, battery powered and with the coolest blue wheels. With my brother now on his feet and my mom making her way around the side of the house I was quick to launch myself in the seat. A bare foot reached for the pedal, one hand on the steering wherl and the other on the gear shift. He was gaining ground behind me, she was breaking into a light jog in front of me. I floored it. Sweet freedom was mine, nothing could stop me! Off into the sundhine I would go!
If you sat down next to me and asked me what family meant to me, would you want to hear me say that it’s all kittens and rainbows, love and being there for one another? People who always have your back? That would be nice to hear wouldn’t it? Too bad I’m not here to tell you any version like that. My family deserves to be a reality tv show with how fucked up we are. There’s room for everyone.
I was at my summer student job, you know, one of those “I really need this job and please just let me have this” kind of work. It was hard, I won’t pretend it was an easy job, I had to pack chips and do hard labour, however the pay was good and the work consistent, I had a degree to pay for after all.
You all are familiar with the classic gingerbread house. I know Christmas and that holiday tradition has passed barely with me. We all need recovery from the holidays and to regroup from it all. I wanted to share my wonderful experience of the Oreo House my family and I built and ate right before Christmas. I personally never been a fan of the gingerbread house because I always felt it was too hard to eat and didn’t have the right balance of taste. I mean it looks great putting it together. Aren’t you suppose to have fun eating it after or am I wrong in that part? When I saw the commercials for the Oreo House I was like a child waiting for Santa to arrive. That thrill and excitement all brought to life. Oreo's are a classic. You will find few who don’t like Oreo's but I’m pretty sure the majority will be for Oreo's.
Silencing an Angel’s Cries
After unexpectedly waking early this morning, unexpectedly finding myself speaking to someone quite interesting, instead of going back to sleep, I grabbed a plus-sized bowl of Little Miss's favorite cereal, which happened to be on the shelf at 'grannies' house.
As a 40 year old mother of two (18 year old son and 19 year old daughter) I have spent the better part of 20 years forced to celebrate a holiday that never really meant anything to me. Truthfully I’ve always hated Christmas. Even as a child. It always meant everyone getting anxious, worrying about money, how much food we had, how clean the house was for when surprise guests would stop by and how next months bills would manage to get paid. I absolutely HATED Christmas. Even Christmas music has always made me cringe. And of course everyone would always push me into the grinch or Scrooge pile and say I needed more Christmas spirit. Making me out to be the problem. Which undoubtedly only made me feel worst and then hate it even more each and every single year.
Ever since I was young, my mother dreamed of owning a house with a white picket fence. She couldn't own one as a result of her poor credit, her score kept her from getting a lot of the things she wanted. The thing about credit score is that it excludes all the setbacks and unwanted issues that causes the score to go down. At the time, I believed that hard work and dedication would make one’s adult life easier, that my mother was only doing poorly because she wasn’t saving her money. My siblings and I couldn’t understand why my mother was struggling to make ends meet every month, why she would yell at us almost every day after work about our education, and why it’s important. Later, I found out that there was no money saved up because there was no money to save up at all. Since my mother was always working, I had limited freedom and wasn’t allowed to leave our apartment. My older brother had to take care of us at such a young age; due to my mother’s inability to pay for a babysitter. One would think that being isolated would increase productivity, but isolation felt like punishment to us.
I received the label of "financially irresponsible" when I was 6 years old. This coincided with the year I started school. I had never been to any sort of school setting before, no pre-school, no kindergarten, none of that in the early 90s. My first foray into school life was when I started Grade 1.