Fresh and Honest

Whenever I see reviews of new books or blogs, the phrase "fresh and honest," usually means the critic thinks the thing is the cat's pajamas, and it makes the rebel in me want to give you a stale and deceptive look at my childhood, but I know deep down that honesty is the best policy, so I will do my best to stick to that. No promises of freshness, though- that policy is definitely debatable in my eyes.

Alright, where to begin? I'll start with the positive, which was any part of my life before the date of Sept. 22, 1997. (That's the day our little bundle of joy stepped off the airplane from Russia at the age of 5) Just kidding, my entire life is full of positives! No, but seriously, it kinda started to go downhill after that day. So before that... I was born into an upper-middle-class family, older brother, loving parents, sandbox in the backyard, amazing, memorable vacations, two dogs, cats are the devil, learned to read and played in the mud, all the things a child should have. Boring, I know, but important. It's important because I was about to have my world rocked.

I was shy to the point of pain. I remember one time we had some friends from church over for dinner, and when my mom opened the door, Mr. Wallace gave me a simple, "Hi, Kara, how are you?" I couldn't handle it. I looked down, twisted my fingers together, and wanted to crawl in a hole for the rest of my life.
"Kara, Say 'fine, Mr. Wallace, how are you?'" My mom nudged my back, and I knew she was slightly embarrassed at my rudeness. Her touch sent shivers down my spine, and I started to feel intensely guilty, but I couldn't do it. After several minutes of prompting in the doorway, my mother, not one to back down, gave me an ultimatum: say what she told me to say, or get a spanking. I was probably crying by this time, but I literally could not make my mouth to form the words, or my voice to say them, yet I had known from the beginning that I was headed for this. I was actually relieved that she finally said it because I would much rather have been spanked than say the words, and I was spanked. What I didn't expect, however, was that my mother would wait for me to finish crying, lead me back out, and make me be polite. I remember finally squeaking, "Hi, Mr. Wallace," and then breaking into tears again, wishing with all my little heart that my life would just be over. Drama much? Perhaps, but I wasn't trying to cause drama. I freshly and honestly wanted to disappear, never to be looked at again.

As a writer, my greatest temptation is to rush to the point within the first paragraph, but duh, that's the opposite of the point of writing, so that's the end for today. Plus I have to go to work.