Drugs

When I was in middle school, I had a friend whose life was a little on the rough side. She wasn't sexually abused, nor physical or mental abused. Her stepfather was addicted to prescription drugs. I think her mother took some pain killers occasionally, too. But it wasn't really bad.

Their house was always clean; her mother was real sweet. Mary's stepfather was also re­latively nice.

She was my best friend in a school I was foreign to. I met Mary in fifth grade at a school in Holmes County, Fla. In the middle of the school year, my mother remarried, and we moved to Bethlehem, where her new husband was from. Mary befriended me right away, and the great thing about it was she lived down the road from me.

We would walk to the Taber­nacle, a swimming hole, and swim for hours, or just sit around and goof off at my house or hers.

My child­hood wasn't perfect ei­ther, so she and I under­stood each other well. We were very close friends.

In the sixth grade, drug and tobacco awareness semi­nars began. The pictures and the movies I saw would scare me. I knew I never wanted to do drugs. For Mary, though, the response was different. Even at that age, I could tell that she wasn't particularly moved.

Why?

I transferred to a different school in high school, but Mary and I kept in touch. She even briefly attended my current school, but didn't stay. I could see she was straying from what I thought was good, and head­ing right into a darker lifestyle.

I tried many times to reach out to her. But she began doing drugs anyway. I alternated between trying to help her, and trying to stay away from her.

Two different times, as adults, I tried to help her. While both of us were pregnant, I moved her in with me. And during a tumultuous time I was having myself, I reached out to her again. She would straighten up for a little while, but ultimately go back to the other lifestyle.

Why?

After I had my children, I went back to college to get my degree. My major was obvious, English, but my minor was not so - Psychology. Those that knew me, knew of my lack of belief in the practices of therapists.

But I had to understand Mary. I thought that maybe if I under­stood her, I could better instruct my children. The only thing that I understand now is that it isn't black and white.

There is no one reason why people choose to be self-destructive.

I did figure out she was self-destructive. Some people don't like themselves very much. Maybe it is guilt over something they did, a low self-esteem because of where they come from or a mental disorder. Some are dissatisfied with their current situation in life.

My friend, Mary, comes out of her drug-induced oblivion every once in a while and tries to straighten out her life. But she ne­ver contacts me. I find out through a long-reaching and considerate grapevine. She talks to them, but she asks them not to tell me about her.

Why?

My psychological mind under­stands she is ashamed. My breaking heart wishes she still felt that bond we shared so long ago.

Chairs That Don't Fit

In 1976, a young journalist by the name of Gail Sheehy said “We must be willing to change chairs if we want to grow. There is no permanent compatibility between a chair and a person. And there is no one right chair. What is right at one stage may be restricting at another or too soft. During the passage from one stage to another, we will be between two chairs. Wobbling no doubt, but developing.”

I am a 34-year-old mother who, until recently, held onto a chair that didn’t really fit.

I have decided to share this story because I believe everyone comes across similar circumstances and, out of a sense of loyalty, keep the old chair.

As a child, my playmates of choice were of the masculine sort. One boy in particular was my favorite as he didn’t treat me with kid gloves.

Now, although I can’t tell you that our platonic boundaries were never crossed, at the end of the day we were just the best of friends.

Time had us in different geographic locations eventually but our friendship prevailed. However,  a few years ago our delicate balance was shifted.

He (I'll call him George) began dating someone and it was serious - a status he had usually evaded. This someone came to one particular event that I didn’t think she belonged.

Wherever we were in the world George and I always had at least one visit scheduled. Every May, George had a weekend-long family reunion close by, and I joined him there. After that, we always went somewhere fun of our own choosing.

On the last little vacation, he brought his girlfriend. I wasn’t pleased. He could see her any time, so I felt like she was treading on our ritual. To make things worse, we had planned to go fishing in Florida, but her schedule couldn’t accommodate the trip. That would leave George and I alone on the boat and this idea didn’t please her too much. So we went to Six Flags so that she could come. I tried to be understanding because I guess I would have the same reservations had I been in her place.

In the weeks and months following the trip, mine and George’s phone calls became less frequent and when they did occur, tense. I sounded resentful and he sounded tired. He wanted me to be friends with his girlfriend, but it just couldn't happen - believe me I tried. We were just too suspicious of each other.

So May came around again. George called, but I kept the conversation short and away from trip/reunion talk.

I had that quote from Sheehy on my mind. I needed to let go of this chair.

As another step in growing up, I realized that I no longer had a real place in his life. And if that episode had been postponed to the next May, I would have been in his exact predicament. So to be fair, I had to acknowledge there was no real place for him in my life either.

No matter how much someone can mean to you, you can still out-grow them. The key is to let them go. If you hang on to something that doesn’t make sense anymore, you can prevent your life from moving forward.

I will miss my playmate, but I’m grateful. You see, I’m sure I could have made it all these years without George. I’m just glad I didn’t have to.

When Catfish Attack

A few years ago I was lucky enough to be selected as matron of honor in my best friend’s wedding. When you read how the weekend of the wedding played out, you will see how she likely wished she would have chosen a more coordinated wedding party member.

Jessica and I have been friends ever since we met in Mrs. Jones' fourth-grade classroom. We have a long history. Our grandparents were childhood friends, and Jessica's mother was a brides­maid in my mother's wedding.

I know this is tedious and sen­timental, but I have a point. I did everything I could to help this wedding go smoothly. Could it be possible that I jinxed myself?

I am normally a pretty smart and coordinated gal, but some­how in this complex construc­tion of an existence that I call my life, I lost my groove.

In the weeks prior to the wedding, I had my own “series of unfortunate events.” Let us start with what was sup­posed to be a sponta­neous and innocent trip to pick blackberries. It was rain­ing, and we were having fun picking berries on the side of a dirt road in Florida. The proper­ty we were on had a no tres­passing sign, but so did most every other piece of property. It's just to keep pranksters and the like at bay.

We were about 15 feet deep in the woods, when my friends decid­ed to tell me about the man that owned the land shooting a dog because he trespassed. Imagine my surprise when I heard a four-wheeler approaching? Running is not the word for what I did (fly maybe, but even that seems mainstream). The scratches from the briars didn't bother me as much as getting my shoes stuck in the mud. Fly­ing wasn't possible at this point.

This sight wasn't pretty, and it gets uglier. Further down the road, we saw plums and decide we wanted some. The ants did not like us stealing their food. They fought back and won. Being mildly allergic to these beasts, I carried home with me blackber­ries and one-inch red welts that later turned into nice-sized blis­ters.

A couple of days later more misfortune befell me. I tried to get out of bed before I was awake evidently. The result of that was a rather large lump on my right shin bone. I put ice packs on it, to keep from having yet one more defect upon my leg during my best friend's wedding. It didn't bruise, but from certain angles, it looks like I have a growth on my leg.

After that, I made it three days without incident It wasn't until the night of the rehearsal dinner that my next mishap was to occur.

Since the wedding was at a lake, the wedding party stayed the night there in a cabin. Nice, huh? Well, it was until I tried to make it to the boat landing at night without a flashlight. Those evil briars got me again.

If all of these accidents were separate, and if they didn't come before a momentous occasion, nothing would be thought of it. You may say that this last invasion of plant life is inconsequential. But the wed­ding was to take place on the beach of the lake. We were to be barefoot.

The big day arrives, and the matron of honor looks like a battered rag doll. The brides­maids are on the right side of the audience. But do we face them head on? No. We were instructed to turn at a particular angle. This was the perfect angle to see my bump and many other imperfections. In the two weeks before this wedding, I managed to obtain a growth on my right shin bone, seven angry red bumps all over my right leg, and the scratches on my toes were beginning to resemble an outbreak of poison ivy. (It was.)

But as I stood up there watch­ing my friend say her vows, I forgot about my problems. Afterall, this wasn’t about me. The people attending didn’t have their attention on me. I wasn’t the important one. They really shouldn't notice any defects on me.

Then right behind me comes a splash. A catfish evidently mis­took up for down and missed his prey. Or did he? A squeal and a leap later, everyone's eyes are upon me.

So much for remaining inconspicuous.

Move over

There is nothing more detestable than the uninsured on our nation's highways.

When driving, they wait until you are right upon them then go right out in front of you as if it is some game. When they make it with out being hit, they celebrate with their friends. “You should have seen the look on that woman's face. She looked like she wanted to scream, cry and vomit all at the same time.”

And sometimes they do get hit. Do we feel sorry for them? Of course. They give us such pitiful looks as if saying, “Why did you let this hunk of metal harm me?”

I have been a victim of this guilt, and I didn't even do any thing wrong.

I was just going along my route as calmly as could be and BAM, something hit the side of my car so hard my window busted. There was also considerable denting, paint damage, not to mention my mirror was never to be seen again.

Who was to pay for the wreckage? It certainly was not the being laying on the side of the road. Nor did she have insurance. If I thought she would live, I would consider suing for damages.

Oh you think I am so bad, don't you?

I'm writing about the deer that decided to play chicken.

A friend of mine was victim to this game last year, and it needs to stop.

So, to rectify the situation, I propose a new law for the four-legged beasts.

Deer need a license to roam. The state of Alabama needs to declare this a state of emergency situation and contact each and every deer immediately. Law enforcement will bring them in and instruct them on the rules of the road.

1. Look both ways. Left, right and left, again, be fore  crossing the road.

2.  And do not psych the motorist out, either. Sure it may be fun to see how far drivers will yank their car when you tease them, but you are damaging your own habitat.

Think about it. The next time you gleefully watch a vehicle sailing through the air, watch what happens when it comes crashing down. Each tree they hit, each yard of grass they dig up, is less room for you to live and less vegetation for you to imbibe in.

3.  If you do find yourself in the middle of the road when cars are approaching, MOVE. Yes, the lights are bright and pretty, but quit staring. The vehicle behind those lights will plow you down.

4. Leave your offspring at home. It makes the motorist feel worse, when they have hit you and your brood sprint away from the scene.

And that leads me to my last rule.

5. No more of this cute business. No more movies and no more looking nice and pretty prancing across the fields. It makes it harder to be mad at you when we do cross paths.

Have you ever been hit by a deer? Ever hit a deer?

Unrequited Love

The first word that comes to mind with this thought is generally cowardice. But, wait a minute. Think about it. If it’s never requited, it remains the same always. It’s never blemished by mistakes, unfaithfulness, too many children or not being able to have children at all. It stays beautiful. Mistakes don't have the chance to mar it. Is it possible that unrequited love could be better than the real thing?
Sure. That person remains an ideal, a dream in your head forever. She’s a thought to hold onto, to romanticize, to fantasize. Unrequited love is a love that’s never ruined.

What do you think about it?

A Break

     I have read many, many times that a true writer should write every day without fail. It's practice, keeps the creative juices flowing, it's good for you, etc. There's even some that say a real writer absolutely has to write everyday or s/he will feel incomplete. I hate to argue...but I disagree.
     For one thing, I don't ever want my writing to feel like a job. It would certainly feel like a job if I forced myself to write. As long as it's fun for me then I feel like it'll show in my writing. When it's not fun, that will show too.
     When I'm not writing I'm thinking about things, usually possible plots. If I go ahead and write these plots down then I would simply pick the best one. But if I keep ruminating over them, one would start growing branches and stick, and it's not always the one that I would have originally picked. That's when I know I have the right one. Then it's like a secret. Someone will walk into a room while I'm thinking of my sweet little plot,  new characters are forming in my head, and I'll be wearing a smile. "What's up, Lisa?" Smile even bigger. "Nothing."
     More thinking...more mysterious smiles.
     Months later I have almost an entire novel in my head. This is the way I like it. I've learned that outlining makes me too analytical, writing stuff down immediately doesn't always make for the best story either. And writing something every day, just for the sake of not breaking The Rule, isn't for me. This might be just the thing for you and it's great that you've figured that out. Just don't shove what works for you down my throat and we'll live in perfect cyber-harmony.
    So I have absolutely no shame in saying this: Writing, me and you are on a break right now. This doesn't mean I don't like you. It just means that I'm thinking fondly of what I'll be doing with you soon.

    Writing rules are so subjective - use your filter wisely.

Winner!!!

I'm ready to announce the winner of the line edit! But first let me take you through our very scientific and complex process. Er...ignore the silly dog in the background.

And the winner is... drumbeats resound, trumpets blare, applause all around...

The winner is Rowanwolf66!!!
Congratulations!!