My name is Sara. My initials spell SAT, and I’ll leave you to guess what the middle and last ones stand for.
I was born June 22, 1989 to JoAnn and Calvin. I’ll be turning 28 in June. I’m the middle child of three; my brother is turning 31 and my sister will be 24 this year.
I’m the only child my mom labored with. Like my brother before me and my sister after, I was delivered through c-section seventeen hours later. I’ve been told I looked hairy and purple, and I was mad as heck. Soon after, the physical issues did subside, but it would take much longer to heal from the deeply embedded anger that I carried with me into this life. To this day, there are still many deeply rooted things I continue to balance and understand, but all of that is for a future post.
I grew up in a house my father built with my great uncle (his side). They built it on a piece of property my grandparents (mom’s side) split with my parents. Our house was a three bed, two bath home. Coming in through front door, there was a small entry way with a small kitchen nook to the left. That nook was later converted into a fourth bedroom. Beyond the entry way was the living room, and a hall way to the right which led to the main bathroom and bedrooms. When you looked down it, you could see the bathroom. The first door the left of the hall way was my parent’s/mom’s room. It had its own full bathroom with a slider door that separated the sink from the toilet and shower. In the back of the room, there was a sliding glass door that led to the back deck. In the back of the living room, double doors led to the same deck. To the left of the living room (when coming into the home) was the kitchen and dinning room. A bar counter separated the kitchen from the living room. I remember sitting at it and watching my mom cook. Going back down the hall way, there was a right turn, and at the end of that were the bed rooms my siblings and I had. For most of my childhood, I shared a pink bedroom with my little sister, and our brother had a blue room right next to ours. The windows looked out into the front yard at the almond trees that were there. We lived in this house until I was about 20 years old. My house and all the memories I have of it, are also a topic of their very own.
I’ve been writing little poems for as long as I can remember. My grandpa on my mom’s side had saved a poem about a blond haired and blue eyed girl I wrote when I was five or six, and one of my aunts on the same side of the family has a poem about peace I wrote when I was probably eight or nine. I don’t have full recollection of doing these, but I do remember writing a lot and making up stories and characters. I think that’s why anime turned out to be so appealing to me when I discovered it around eleven or twelve.
I also remember keeping journals. One of the earliest journals I have is one I decided to write upside-down and backwards in. If I recall correctly, I wrote that I did this because I wanted it to be complicated to read in case someone found it. As I grew older, my mom recognized how I was writing and what I was trying to say with it; and when we were having our biggest communication problems, she used writing to close the gaps. I still have letters and cards she wrote to me expressing to me her love and concerns for me.
I had always had a hard time verbalizing my emotions and issues. When I was in elementary school, I would have tremendous tempers that spanking or punishing never made a difference in. My mom started hugging me and asking me what was wrong instead. That was when I finally admitted that other children were taking lunch money and food from me.
My mom is also a post of her very own, but I will say here that I am internally grateful for her. If she didn’t recognize this need to express the way I did (and still do), I don’t honestly think I’d still be alive. By supporting my writing, art, and personal style, she gave me a place to belong. And that was something I thought I’d never have, and it’s something I still fear I will either loose or only have the illusion of obtaining.
As a child, I role played before I even knew that was what it was called. My mom used to have a red, silk night-gown that I used to play in. I felt like a princess in it, so I ran around my yard as one who escaped from poisonous snakes and hot lava. We had a swing-set that had a slide and teeter-totter on it, and I remember pretending to use it as a escape route or obstacle course.
When I got a little older I started role-playing, writing stories and creating characters by myself or with friends. I created characters when I was little too, but I don’t remember writing like that until I was older. Poetry, on the other hand, was something I always remember doing.
Now that I’m older, I can see where writing has always been, and always will be, a part of my life. I’ve lived through it since birth, it seems, for I can’t think of a time where I wasn’t doing it in some way. I wrote my feeling and events in journals (still do); I write poems (this is really the first time I’ve decided to go through with pursuing it this strongly); I wrote short stories and role-plays in middle and older childhood; and I even used it to communicate and talk to people, writing letters to multiple friends in high school and even to my mom when I couldn’t verbally talk.
I’m grateful for this. I’m thankful that this turned out to be part of the mix that made me the cake I am. Because when I read this and I think about it, I wouldn’t be who I am without it.
©S.T. Jan. 28, 17