Tag: wonder

What I Learned in Preschool

Recently, my daughter graduated from preschool. The event was emotional for do many reasons, one of which included me finally having to admit that my baby was growing up quickly. My little girl walked into school terrified, and left with so many friends promising to visit her this summer. Though I knew she was off learning about the world around her, I never expected that I would be getting an education as well.

I learned it’s okay to be scared in an unknown situation, because there are always others who are just as lost.

I learned patience and time management. Well, I learned it a bit better. I’m not perfect.

I relived childhood songs, and watched my daughter explore and see the magic that was her world.

I was humbled a number of times as I sat in her class or attended field trips. These children who only knew me as my daughter’s mother soon adopted me and made me their mom, too. It was this that made me realize not every child that leaves school that day will go to a loving home. Some are ignored, some are neglected or abused. Some parents have no choice but to leave them in daycare because they are struggling to make ends meet. For just a few hours out of the day, they are at school where they are loved.

I learned I could never be a preschool teacher. I do not have the kind words, nor the patience. I also don’t have the willpower to give my heart to so many children, only to have them leave me a few months later.

I learned that children don’t see color. They just accept that kids have different color skin, and there’s nothing wrong with it. Young kids don’t care if you wear glasses or how much you weigh. Hatred doesn’t really exist.

Adults could learn a thing or two from preschool.

So many times I felt inspired and amazed, and so much of my life was put into perspective.

I Wear My Emotions on my Sleeve

100 Writings in 100 Days

October 18, 2014

Writing # 3

My hands began to shake with anticipation as I lifted the razor from its hiding place. A thousand different emotions washed through me as I stared upon its gleaming blade. Cutting was always a last resort for me. Each time the blade left a line on my skin, I felt like I had failed myself and others around me. A lot goes through my mind as I press the blade ever closer, such as how to cover up the deed I was about to do.

I would have to trade all of my undershirts for t-shirts for a few days until the wounds healed enough to not stand out too badly from the others. Whatever I used to clean the wounds would have to be disposed of in the dead of night when I knew everyone was asleep. Most importantly, the razorblade had to be hidden in such a way that no one could find it but me.

I felt the first stabbing pain as the razor sliced my skin open, and the first trickle of blood began its journey down my arm. Then something caught my eye. I turned to look, and saw a pen sitting on the nightstand beside my bed. For a moment, the task at hand disappeared as I stared at the pen. New thoughts began to cross my mind.

The cuts on my arms do make me feel better. They turn an emotional pain into a physical one, and physical wounds can be taken care of and heal properly. The message they convey to others, however, does not even begin to scratch the surface of emotions I felt when I made the marks to begin with. When people look upon my scars, they look with disgust. They look with pitying eyes, or judgmental ones. They look upon me with sorrow, and wonder if they could have helped prevent it. They look upon me with worry, or curiosity. The worst one for me, however, is those who look upon my actions as “childish”, or “attention seeking”, when all I really wanted was to find a little peace within myself. Everyone wants to ask, but few are brave enough to hear the answers I’d give them. Truth be told, I’m not sure I am capable of physically telling them all that runs through my head.

The wounds convey all that is negative in my life, and they are a standing reminder of the weaknesses I felt. They stand to remind me of all that I survived. I began to wonder what would happen if I could find another way.

So I picked up my pen. I set the razorblade down, and instead of carving my emotions in nonsensical scars, I began to write upon my skin. Words began to appear as each passing thought inspired a new phrase to be written.

\

         Sadness
Betrayal
Anger
Pain
Hope
Heal
Want Peace
Alone
Lonely
Need Help
Be Proud
Love
Regret
Mistakes
Broken

                The words began to take a whimsical appearance as I gained confidence. I felt a strange peace begin to grow within me, similar to how I feel when I cut. I was shocked and amazed, so I wrote that as well.

                Confidence
Desire
Longing
Need
Happiness
This, too, shall pass

                When words left me, I drew patterns and pictures, abstract lines that crisscrossed and formed something beautiful. What once was a terrible and dark practice had turned into an art piece. Instead of everyone wondering what precisely I was feeling when I did this, the words were written plainly for all to see.

The pen is mightier than the sword, and we sometimes forget just how powerful words can be. I had forgotten that I am, and will always be, a writer. I have the tools around me to help, and it doesn’t always have to result in mutilation of my body.

By the time I was done and had set the pen aside, I stared upon to words and tried to memorize each of them. I went into the bathroom and washed them off, and no red mark remained. I would not spend the next few days worrying if my sleeve was raised too high, or scratching as they healed. I looked at myself in the mirror, and saw peace in my eyes.