The gates open from time to time and out floods the years of little events that were strung together like pearls leading me to this point in time. Well, less like pearls and more like the string of popcorn for the birds that adorned our trees each Christmas. Each event puffed up but oddly shaped, skewed by time and distance; the kernel of truth misshapen by the heat of life. Ok, so it�s a strange metaphor but then again mine is a pretty strange life. Tales of my youth are like little vignettes often seemingly disconnected from each other and from the person standing (metaphorically of course) before you.

I used to act. Have I ever mentioned that here before? I�m not sure. I used to be in plays (musicals, dramas and comedies). I used to live on stage, allowing a strength(?) hmm confidence maybe to show that didn�t really exist in the real world. Come to think of it I have mentioned that before, I remember attributing my empathy to creating personalities for the stage. My Darling knew I had done plays but to my shame I wasn�t really forthcoming with the scope of my involvement in the genre. Everybody has been in a play at some point (the story of which you will be treated to if you ever mention you have done theatre) but there is a difference between the �I was in the drama club in high school� and �I have a degree in theatre from a respected theatre program�. I don�t mention the degree much. Officially it is a BA English, emphasis theatre so I am not lying when I give my degree as English but I am not telling the truth either. I have grown used to this lie; I don�t even think of it anymore, it is automatic. I have been trying to trace my lies (by omission and actuality) to the source. I want to live more honestly if only for My Darling and Baby Boy who matter more to me than any others.

One reason I have identified is the fear of appearing boastful (and the reality that I am in fact boasting whenever I share that stuff uninvited). The world eschews the braggart. There is a young girl at my work who is 16 and recently placed gold in the AAU Junior Olympics, she wore her medal into work. Most of the people I talked to thought it terrible. I admonished them all. This child (for at 16 she is still a child no matter what she or others might think) just competed nationally in a sport and won a gold medal. She should be allowed to show it off, she worked hard for it. No others at our place have done the work necessary to place first in the country in anything, how dare they take that away from her or make her feel bad for wanted to be acknowledged for all her hard work.

I have hidden (or diminished) my accomplishments over the years automatically knowing that people measure their own lives against yours and if they come up short in their mind hate you for it.

I abandoned several of my dreams because of poor feedback and uncomfortable situations.

I always wanted to learn more about drawing. My high school had no art or music programs due to budget shortfalls in the late seventies and so I took an art class as an elective in college. I was so very excited, and even more so when I received positive feedback from my instructor. He encouraged my art and even requested me to sit for portraiture. Awkward about my looks, I was still flattered and when he assured me I would be able to keep the resulting drawing I thought perhaps my parents might enjoy a drawing of me. We made an appointment and I showed up right on time. He was older (probably my age now but at the time he seemed quite old) and married to one of the other art instructors. The first thing he commented on was his dislike for the sweater I had chosen finding the collar too severe and suggested that I remove it (can you see where this is going?) I should have run for the hills right then and there but instead I merely explained that I wasn�t comfortable with that and he could draw me as is or I would simply go. He resigned himself reluctantly to the unpleasant option and set about with the portraiture. I sat quietly as he sketched hoping the result would be suitable for a framed gift to my parents (the only people who would value a portrait of me). When he finished he invited me around to look at the result. As I stood there looking at the nice picture (it was nice, not all that, but nice enough) he scooped me into his arms snaked his hand up under my sweater, cupped my breast and kissed me. I was shocked, I pushed him away. He wasn�t really sorry and only glibly expressed a sorry that I didn�t understand his overture. I went for the door only to find it locked, my heart pounded as I worked at the lock and finally escaped down the hall and out of the building.

What did I expect? Not that a grown man would take advantage of a little girl (I know I was in college and might hardly be considered a little girl but if you had known me then you would have seen how childlike I remained.) He was a man with a wife and a responsible position; I was a flattered young woman who just wanted to learn to draw.

I finished the class (bastard gave me a B) but never again arrived early or stayed late as had been my habit before. I was so enthralled with the idea that I could in fact draw that I just wanted to do it as much as possible. Maybe he misunderstood my passion for the art as passion for him but that is no excuse. I made no invitation. I never took another art class at that school and other than a random pottery class taken out of shear boredom some ten years later I have never explored my art in a public setting since.

He wasn�t the first man to take a passion away from me. By the time I took my ill-fated art class I had already been devastated by my theatre department head who begged my parents to send me to his school only to explain over and over again that although I was one of the most talented actresses he had ever had he simply couldn�t cast me in any leading roles because I was just too fat. I was cast in small, difficult parts portraying older matrons and younger children. My voice shouldered the most difficult sections of ensemble choruses and I was shunted off to the side while less talented, albeit skinnier, girls got the parts I dreamed of having. I struggled to lose weight, I cried, I felt lonely, ugly and sure that I had made the wrong choice, I should have followed the sciences, biology (in which I excelled in high school). Still I held out the hope that I could someday manage to be seen, to get parts despite my more than bony stature.

Four years of disappointment that cost me (and my family) more than 20,000.

More disappointment followed, year upon year. I worked in plenty of shows holding the leading parts I never got while in college, being treated with the respect I craved but it was less and less satisfying. I didn�t enjoy working with amateurs (as egotistical as that sounds really it�s like showing up with a professional football team attitude and finding a bunch of drunken boys who want to play touch football.) The range in talent was such that you could be playing opposite someone who could barely remember their lines let alone participate in the �illusion�. And the egos were so large that there wasn�t enough room in the theatre for them all. Most of the worst offenders bore the least amount of talent; I simply grew tired of it all. The day came when I just didn�t want to do it anymore.

So after some 60 or so shows I just stopped, and then stopped talking about them and then sort of started lying about them (by omission). By the time I met my Darling I just didn�t want to even think about that time in my life, that incredible waste of my precious time, gone forever never to be regained. I hate how much of my life was eaten up by that fruitless pursuit. He was left in the dark, not purposefully but just because I had turned out the ghostlight on that portion of my life.

Slowly I tease away at the bits and pieces that have either lay dusty and alone or festered silently affecting my life without my conscious knowledge; little time bombs, abandoned mines floating in the less traveled waters.

Last night the ghosts haunted me only driven away by my escape to an old book �A Wrinkle In Time� that I found amidst the even older books my mother delivered to us for my Baby Boy. Just as I did in my childhood I let the words on the page drive away the thoughts swimming in my head until finally my eyes drooped and I could fall into slumber free from the demons of the past.

Here I examine some of the thoughts in the light of day knowing that some of what was in the dark has slipped away waiting for another sleepless night to haunt me.

I wish you Peace

~alison~

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