The Manual

Someone once told me I should write. Then it was several someones. Write something. Write everything.  My life story isn’t  one of the ones that envoke envy. Tradgedy would probably sum it up in one, innoculous, tragically truthful word. The beauty in that fact; fortunately, is that I have appreciation for every single thing in life; good or bad. Posi or negative. Maybe the wisdom I think drenches these pages will come off as arrogant drabble to some; but I don’t care. Maybe others, vicariously living life through my stories, will save themselves from heartaches and pains and learn some lessons without doing the legwork. Perhaps that isn’t quite learning, but educating oneself. So I preface this tale, or assimilation of tales, with this: My intentions in sharing are just to allow anyone interested a glimpse behind the curtain. Teen pregnancy. Marriage. Divorce. Cancer. Business ownership. Living. The ingredients of my life almost always would reflect a recipe for disaster. It’s a wonder I’ve survived to 26, and have the want to share so. I’d like to say, “you’re welcome”… but I know, as a reader, you deserve the thanks. So…

Thanks. For caring.


                                                  Lesson One: You are your own Person

                                                                       (Dec. 1991)

I remember wanting to decorate my parents’ barn for christmas when I was a child. The chicken coop had three flights of stairs to get to it’s front door; and a really cool bridge-like passageway to the barn rafters. As a five year old; this type of place seems to hold magic in the woodgrain. That’s when I decided to take my mother’s prized, vintage, perfectly wrapped and orderly christmas tree ornaments up the stairs to decorate.

When my mother found out what I had done, after hours and hours of what I had thought was hard work; she locked me outside in the cold until I could replace and re-wrap each ornament. I spent the night on the floor of a chicken coop; in chicken shit; wondering why I had been bad. This point was the turning one, as they say, for me realizing that life isn’t always pretty. Sometimes you think you’re working towards a goal that will please not only yourself; but everyopne else you find important, only to find out you’re knee deep in shit; literally.

The first time I decided to cut my hair, I wanted to look like Demi Moore in ghost. She seemed to have her shit together; and not the chicken kind. I was about 7. For about two years, people asked me if I was a girl or a boy. Teaches you a bit about sexuality to be ambiguous at such a young age; let me tell you. I’ve realized, even at seven years old, I was brave enough to be my own person, regardless of judgements. I just don’t remember when I forgot such a thing.


When we become adults, or large enough for others to consider us an “adult”, we are supposed to have learned what it is that keeps us optimistic.

That’s what “they say”. I want to know where this is “said”; and if it’s in large mass print. I can’t be the only person looking for a life manual. Figures only cars and coffee makers seem to come with such things.

I’ve decided to become the Indefatigable optimist. The Manual. Read Me.

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