Dear Colette,
I don't know what to say- a first ever. I am the one with the big mouth. I am the constant advocate. No one ever has to study me. I am blunt and obvious, though unfortunatly, a side effect of those attributes can be neglect of others' feelings on occasion, which is something I'm working on. I'm always thinking, but slow to act sometimes.
I wonder if I am like you.
I would like to know how you are. How do you react to awkward situations? How do you carry yourself?
I hear you are the representative of your community college. You must have class. Does your charisma comes natural?
Do you approach others at a party where you know no one?
Does the champagne race down your throat as if you are in a high stakes poker game and about to lose $20K to a known scumbag named Billy "the Dog" Brown?
Do you politely refuse the coctail your obsenely drunk best friend over- pours for you, as she spills some on the floor without noticing, even though you told her you'd just like a coke? Do you take it into your hand when she grabs it and forces your tightly clinched fist open and hold it for a few minutes just to appease her and to fit in because most everyone else at the party is drinking? Do you walk away in efforts to avoid another uncomfortable confrontation with your now beligerant besty?
These are things I wonder of you. How one handles herself in a situation reveals a lot.
Are you shy at first? Do you walk in a room filled with strangers and approach one of them with your right hand outreached to give a firm handshake?
Surely you don't give one of those pussy hand shakes, where you limply, with bent wrist, stretch out your forarm only and make the other person practically kiss your overgrown pinky ring.
I can't stand those people usually. If you can't give a firm handshake, you should just throw in the towel or grow a set and learn how to.
Same with hugs. Don't give me a wimpy hug that consists of a couple of pats on the shoulder or upper back. It's insulting. Just shake my hand if you don't want to hug me, but not with a limp wrist please.
Are you opinionated like me? Do you say what's on your mind like me? Do you suffer the repercussions with angst in your heart, feeling misunderstood frequently?
Are you over that part of your life by now? Does it even bother you if someone misunderstands who you are and what you stand for?
What about when someone ignores you? Does that make your skin crawl?
Are you direct?
Do you enjoy dancing? Black coffee or with creamer? Do you like to run or does the thought make you cringe?
I can't explain why these things are on the forefront of my mind this morning. People don't understand what it's like for someone like me to wonder about these seemingly trivial matters.
They say, "Brooke, what difference does it make?"
How can I answer that question? I can't. I don't know how to sufficiently give someone who doesn't understand my train of thought a clear path into my brain.
So I write. I write until I run out of time. I write when I'm sick, when I'm hacking up a lung. I write when I should be working. I think everyday about quitting my job to be a writer. I don't even know the first step to doing that. Writers don't get paid enough for their work. I don't have enough readers. I'm told what I write is captivating.
You would die if you read my blog. You would probably hate me for putting you out there. I did it without your consent. But you gave me away without mine.
I put my heart on the table for all to eat.
One thing I've learned since I started writing my blog which incidentally is about you and me, is that people like reading truth. People like to feel an honest to goodness true feeling that for many, can only come from reality. Some of us can get that feeling from commercials, from movies, from fictional stories.
But I've learned that many people don't derive true feelings from fiction. They only identify with truth. The only time many people really feel life, is when it's truthful. People like to identify. They like to be let in by a smiling or frowning face and offered a glimpse. People want to sit on your couch, to walk the oak-laden path holding your hand.
We like truth because many of us can't express it for some reason. I've noticed that people admire me more because I can, because I'm not afraid to put it out there. I'm not timid, nor shy, nor bashful, and it's real. It's blatent.
Is that you? Do you like to read? Do you write yourself? Do you log your life like I do? Would you share with me? I hope you would. I would share with you, like everyone else. Could you handle it? Could I?
Communication has always been my strong suit. Sometimes I suffer from overcommunication, and it really just becomes leaking.
It's been easy for me to know people. Has it been that way for you?
How could you live knowing you kept me a secret? The shame must be heartbreaking. Do you even feel ashamed? Did you tell anyone about me?
Are you dead inside? Wow, this is a taking a turn for the worst.
I don't think poorly of you for doing what you did. I must say this to myself over and over again, because the more I say it, the more I wonder why you felt the need to give me away.
Maybe secretly I do resent you. Maybe, just maybe I think you are weak for doing what you did.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents to death literally. My Dad died two years ago. My Mom is in good health. I love my family. No part of me whatsoever wishes things could have been different. I have lived a good life. I am proud of who I am, and attribute it all to my family and my upbringing.
But at the same time, it would be nice to have a glimpse of what I would be like, what I will look like as I get older. It's like a key to your future that most people get automatically. Some want to throw away that key, drop it into a rain grate on the side of a main road, carelessly and effortlesly. Others wear it on a tightly tied rope around their necks, hidden under a turtleneck.
I might have nourished some different talents than I did, had I been exposed to you and my birthfather. I might have not quit playing the clarinet in 10th grade had I been surrounded with a musical family. Who knows?
I can't blame my shortcomings on you or my parents who raised me.
I just have in my small mind, what it might have been like had I grown up with someone who was more like me. It might have been easier for my parents to relate to me.
They didn't really. I rebeled. We were very different. They did not understand me. That's painful for me to even say now, because I love them so much. But it's the truth. We are very different. And it has taken me a long time to figure out who I really am, and I am still trying to identify who I am 35 years later.
I won't say it's a struggle because struggle indicates pain. For me, it's been more eye-opening than anything. I've been lucky to have personal growth. Many people don't have insight until they are seniors, and I feel blessed to constantly come to terms with who I am or who I am not.
One of my goals is becoming something wonderful and having a positive outlook on life and to be a constant contributor to society in ways that most people don't. Most people wouldn't share that with another. I'm not most people. I guess that's what I'm trying to say to you.
I think you're not like most people either. You don't know this, but I know more about you than you probably think. I can't say how, but I do. And it feels weird. I don't want to scare you, or make you think I'm a stalker. I am very far from that. But I have a feeling, if not by intuition, that you are going through something painful right now. I wish I could help you. I could if you let me in. Will you?
We all have pain. Some of us hide it better. Is that you? Do you hide your feelings?
I wonder what you sleep in. Do you wear socks in the summer? Do you walk around barefoot like I do? Do your soles have callouses you could grate cheese with?
Do you like to cook? Do you like to eat? I do. I like to eat more than I like to cook, but because I have to eat, I cook. And because I don't want Sarah to grow up to be a fatty, I cook healthy meals for her.
It's the communion of cooking that I like. It's the kitchen conversations. When I'm cooking and Sarah is sitting at the barstool drawing and we can have dialouge about her day at school, I don't mind following a recipe that I've never attempted. It may taste like shit, it may be wonderful, but I got to hear about her day, about her walk to Preschool Art Lab with her class and who cut in line, and who got her name moved down a notch because she interrupted during group time. Most of the time that's her. Those are moments I cherish. We could have had those moments had you kept me.
I had those moments with my Mom. I'm 100% positive that she cherished those moments as I do. She loves me tremendously.
You will probably like her when you meet her, if you meet her. You can thank her for doing your job for you. You can hug her neck tightly and she will say, "you're very welcome, and thank you for giving me Brooke."
She can tell you what I was like as a child, how hard it was to raise a defiant adolescent. You can say, "Thank God I didn't have to put up with that."
You can hear about my dancing. I was a dancer for 15 years. I was good. I quit though, a side effect of being a self-destructive teenager.
I'd like to meet my half brothers. Maybe we are alike. Maybe they know about me. Maybe they don't.
I hope they do, since it might be hard for them to understand why you never told them I existed. They might have wanted to know me. They might not want to. They've gone their whole lives without knowing me. They could just as well go the rest having never met me, but it would be nice to meet them. It would be nice to meet you, to know you.
So you see, Colette, we may be alike. We may be different. Let's meet to see. Let's talk on the phone. I can talk for hours, once I get Sarah down, if I'm not too worn out. Call me, will ya?
Your birthdaughter,
Brooke
I don't know what to say- a first ever. I am the one with the big mouth. I am the constant advocate. No one ever has to study me. I am blunt and obvious, though unfortunatly, a side effect of those attributes can be neglect of others' feelings on occasion, which is something I'm working on. I'm always thinking, but slow to act sometimes.
I wonder if I am like you.
I would like to know how you are. How do you react to awkward situations? How do you carry yourself?
I hear you are the representative of your community college. You must have class. Does your charisma comes natural?
Do you approach others at a party where you know no one?
Does the champagne race down your throat as if you are in a high stakes poker game and about to lose $20K to a known scumbag named Billy "the Dog" Brown?
Do you politely refuse the coctail your obsenely drunk best friend over- pours for you, as she spills some on the floor without noticing, even though you told her you'd just like a coke? Do you take it into your hand when she grabs it and forces your tightly clinched fist open and hold it for a few minutes just to appease her and to fit in because most everyone else at the party is drinking? Do you walk away in efforts to avoid another uncomfortable confrontation with your now beligerant besty?
These are things I wonder of you. How one handles herself in a situation reveals a lot.
Are you shy at first? Do you walk in a room filled with strangers and approach one of them with your right hand outreached to give a firm handshake?
Surely you don't give one of those pussy hand shakes, where you limply, with bent wrist, stretch out your forarm only and make the other person practically kiss your overgrown pinky ring.
I can't stand those people usually. If you can't give a firm handshake, you should just throw in the towel or grow a set and learn how to.
Same with hugs. Don't give me a wimpy hug that consists of a couple of pats on the shoulder or upper back. It's insulting. Just shake my hand if you don't want to hug me, but not with a limp wrist please.
Are you opinionated like me? Do you say what's on your mind like me? Do you suffer the repercussions with angst in your heart, feeling misunderstood frequently?
Are you over that part of your life by now? Does it even bother you if someone misunderstands who you are and what you stand for?
What about when someone ignores you? Does that make your skin crawl?
Are you direct?
Do you enjoy dancing? Black coffee or with creamer? Do you like to run or does the thought make you cringe?
I can't explain why these things are on the forefront of my mind this morning. People don't understand what it's like for someone like me to wonder about these seemingly trivial matters.
They say, "Brooke, what difference does it make?"
How can I answer that question? I can't. I don't know how to sufficiently give someone who doesn't understand my train of thought a clear path into my brain.
So I write. I write until I run out of time. I write when I'm sick, when I'm hacking up a lung. I write when I should be working. I think everyday about quitting my job to be a writer. I don't even know the first step to doing that. Writers don't get paid enough for their work. I don't have enough readers. I'm told what I write is captivating.
You would die if you read my blog. You would probably hate me for putting you out there. I did it without your consent. But you gave me away without mine.
I put my heart on the table for all to eat.
One thing I've learned since I started writing my blog which incidentally is about you and me, is that people like reading truth. People like to feel an honest to goodness true feeling that for many, can only come from reality. Some of us can get that feeling from commercials, from movies, from fictional stories.
But I've learned that many people don't derive true feelings from fiction. They only identify with truth. The only time many people really feel life, is when it's truthful. People like to identify. They like to be let in by a smiling or frowning face and offered a glimpse. People want to sit on your couch, to walk the oak-laden path holding your hand.
We like truth because many of us can't express it for some reason. I've noticed that people admire me more because I can, because I'm not afraid to put it out there. I'm not timid, nor shy, nor bashful, and it's real. It's blatent.
Is that you? Do you like to read? Do you write yourself? Do you log your life like I do? Would you share with me? I hope you would. I would share with you, like everyone else. Could you handle it? Could I?
Communication has always been my strong suit. Sometimes I suffer from overcommunication, and it really just becomes leaking.
It's been easy for me to know people. Has it been that way for you?
How could you live knowing you kept me a secret? The shame must be heartbreaking. Do you even feel ashamed? Did you tell anyone about me?
Are you dead inside? Wow, this is a taking a turn for the worst.
I don't think poorly of you for doing what you did. I must say this to myself over and over again, because the more I say it, the more I wonder why you felt the need to give me away.
Maybe secretly I do resent you. Maybe, just maybe I think you are weak for doing what you did.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents to death literally. My Dad died two years ago. My Mom is in good health. I love my family. No part of me whatsoever wishes things could have been different. I have lived a good life. I am proud of who I am, and attribute it all to my family and my upbringing.
But at the same time, it would be nice to have a glimpse of what I would be like, what I will look like as I get older. It's like a key to your future that most people get automatically. Some want to throw away that key, drop it into a rain grate on the side of a main road, carelessly and effortlesly. Others wear it on a tightly tied rope around their necks, hidden under a turtleneck.
I might have nourished some different talents than I did, had I been exposed to you and my birthfather. I might have not quit playing the clarinet in 10th grade had I been surrounded with a musical family. Who knows?
I can't blame my shortcomings on you or my parents who raised me.
I just have in my small mind, what it might have been like had I grown up with someone who was more like me. It might have been easier for my parents to relate to me.
They didn't really. I rebeled. We were very different. They did not understand me. That's painful for me to even say now, because I love them so much. But it's the truth. We are very different. And it has taken me a long time to figure out who I really am, and I am still trying to identify who I am 35 years later.
I won't say it's a struggle because struggle indicates pain. For me, it's been more eye-opening than anything. I've been lucky to have personal growth. Many people don't have insight until they are seniors, and I feel blessed to constantly come to terms with who I am or who I am not.
One of my goals is becoming something wonderful and having a positive outlook on life and to be a constant contributor to society in ways that most people don't. Most people wouldn't share that with another. I'm not most people. I guess that's what I'm trying to say to you.
I think you're not like most people either. You don't know this, but I know more about you than you probably think. I can't say how, but I do. And it feels weird. I don't want to scare you, or make you think I'm a stalker. I am very far from that. But I have a feeling, if not by intuition, that you are going through something painful right now. I wish I could help you. I could if you let me in. Will you?
We all have pain. Some of us hide it better. Is that you? Do you hide your feelings?
I wonder what you sleep in. Do you wear socks in the summer? Do you walk around barefoot like I do? Do your soles have callouses you could grate cheese with?
Do you like to cook? Do you like to eat? I do. I like to eat more than I like to cook, but because I have to eat, I cook. And because I don't want Sarah to grow up to be a fatty, I cook healthy meals for her.
It's the communion of cooking that I like. It's the kitchen conversations. When I'm cooking and Sarah is sitting at the barstool drawing and we can have dialouge about her day at school, I don't mind following a recipe that I've never attempted. It may taste like shit, it may be wonderful, but I got to hear about her day, about her walk to Preschool Art Lab with her class and who cut in line, and who got her name moved down a notch because she interrupted during group time. Most of the time that's her. Those are moments I cherish. We could have had those moments had you kept me.
I had those moments with my Mom. I'm 100% positive that she cherished those moments as I do. She loves me tremendously.
You will probably like her when you meet her, if you meet her. You can thank her for doing your job for you. You can hug her neck tightly and she will say, "you're very welcome, and thank you for giving me Brooke."
She can tell you what I was like as a child, how hard it was to raise a defiant adolescent. You can say, "Thank God I didn't have to put up with that."
You can hear about my dancing. I was a dancer for 15 years. I was good. I quit though, a side effect of being a self-destructive teenager.
I'd like to meet my half brothers. Maybe we are alike. Maybe they know about me. Maybe they don't.
I hope they do, since it might be hard for them to understand why you never told them I existed. They might have wanted to know me. They might not want to. They've gone their whole lives without knowing me. They could just as well go the rest having never met me, but it would be nice to meet them. It would be nice to meet you, to know you.
So you see, Colette, we may be alike. We may be different. Let's meet to see. Let's talk on the phone. I can talk for hours, once I get Sarah down, if I'm not too worn out. Call me, will ya?
Your birthdaughter,
Brooke
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