So I know most people don't care about these personal ramblings but I need to get this off my chest tonight.
Here's a clip of the preview. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdhXyBgN_QU
I literally could not concentrate after seeing it. I had to leave work early in fact. I've contemplated writing my Mother's story, I feel like it would make a best seller. That is the unemotional side of me. The side who every once in a while can see it all mapped out and how it would make money and I might fame. That side is quickly over taken by the emotional side though. The emotional side breaks down and cries for days if I concentrate too hard on her, on her writing, on her life.
I was born when she was 42 years old, she was single, I never knew my father. In fact until I was grown I rarely knew anyone. She was very reserved, very soft spoken, she was good to me but she was always alone. We lived in the "backwoods" and on only a handful of occasions we had company.
I never understood it, I grew to resent her for the "hiding" as I called it as a teenager, and I flew away as soon as I could. We talked once a week for a few minutes, we wrote cards, exchanged gifts but she died before I saw her again.
After she committed suicide one evening, after her funeral, after the handful of folks left our house I cried in her bed for hours. Then I got up and I got nosy. I knew my mother had written journals and unlike most kids I never tried to peek at them. There was something there - a mysterious respect? a fear of the unknown? that kept me from really wanting to know anything about why she..we were like we were.
My mother didn't keep journals. My mother kept stories. My mother kept stories of "our life" through the eyes of her son, her daughter, and her husband. All the trips we should have taken, the school functions I should have had, all the picnics, sleep overs, driving lessons, everything was there. Except me.
I read and read and read. I read them all over again, all 102 of them. I was not in a single line. Mariel was, Joshua was, Dalton was, along with Hanna, Mrs.Grady, Grandmother, Jody, Uncle Ron, so many names. None of them mine.
Needless to say I was shaken and confused and angry and then so unbelievable curious that I did not sleep for three days.
Thank heavens for the internet. It was new and I didn't know much of what I was doing but I figured it out. Well as "out" as I could. Then I had to figure out what to with "it".
"It" was a life of a young Mother, married as a teen and and loving every second of it. Then she lost "it". She lived a down trodden life for many years after. And some where along the way she met someone and they made me. Of all things another child. But I am eternally sad/confused/angry about what did I mean to her? This woman who never exactly lied. She just left out a ginormous junk of "it".
New Show Awake
Here's a clip of the preview.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdhXyBgN_QU
I literally could not concentrate after seeing it. I had to leave work early in fact. I've contemplated writing my Mother's story, I feel like it would make a best seller. That is the unemotional side of me. The side who every once in a while can see it all mapped out and how it would make money and I might fame. That side is quickly over taken by the emotional side though.
The emotional side breaks down and cries for days if I concentrate too hard on her, on her writing, on her life.
I was born when she was 42 years old, she was single, I never knew my father. In fact until I was grown I rarely knew anyone. She was very reserved, very soft spoken, she was good to me but she was always alone. We lived in the "backwoods" and on only a handful of occasions we had company.
I never understood it, I grew to resent her for the "hiding" as I called it as a teenager, and I flew away as soon as I could. We talked once a week for a few minutes, we wrote cards, exchanged gifts but she died before I saw her again.
After she committed suicide one evening, after her funeral, after the handful of folks left our house I cried in her bed for hours.
Then I got up and I got nosy. I knew my mother had written journals and unlike most kids I never tried to peek at them. There was something there - a mysterious respect? a fear of the unknown? that kept me from really wanting to know anything about why she..we were like we were.
My mother didn't keep journals. My mother kept stories. My mother kept stories of "our life" through the eyes of her son, her daughter, and her husband. All the trips we should have taken, the school functions I should have had, all the picnics, sleep overs, driving lessons, everything was there. Except me.
I read and read and read. I read them all over again, all 102 of them. I was not in a single line. Mariel was, Joshua was, Dalton was, along with Hanna, Mrs.Grady, Grandmother, Jody, Uncle Ron, so many names. None of them mine.
Needless to say I was shaken and confused and angry and then so unbelievable curious that I did not sleep for three days.
Thank heavens for the internet. It was new and I didn't know much of what I was doing but I figured it out. Well as "out" as I could. Then I had to figure out what to with "it".
"It" was a life of a young Mother, married as a teen and and loving every second of it. Then she lost "it". She lived a down trodden life for many years after. And some where along the way she met someone and they made me. Of all things another child. But I am eternally sad/confused/angry about what did I mean to her? This woman who never exactly lied. She just left out a ginormous junk of "it".
Now who says television can't touch people?