Monday
Chipped nail varnish and alot of cold water later...
Waking up in a bad mood is counter productive. Just makes me more cranky. So what does one do in the fit of unhelping hormones? Wash windows. My mother and any living Stepford Wife would be proud. Bar Nicole Kidman, but that's only because she's hungry all the time and Australia was shit.
Friday
"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark."
I lie in bed clutching the bed sheet which is tucked under my chin. I curse everyone that has abandoned me, as far as I am concerned in my time of need. I curse my parents for allowing me to act this way as a child, I curse my best friends for being at hand during a serious bout of self resolve but most of all I curse all the fictional misgivings that could be going on in my room at this very moment. The bogie man in the wardrobe, the troll under the bed, the witch behind the curtain. All of these demons were more real to me even after I passed the age of believing in Santa Clause and considering the tooth fairy as my main source of income.
My imagination has always been the key to my life, since as far back as I could remember I have been more than dutifully entertained by my own company than can be considered adequate.
I slept in a tiny box room with my older sister; we spent much of our time discussing certain aspects of our busy days. Who got picked in sports, who read the most interesting thing in class, which boy we married during break... it was all very valuable stuff swirling around the room, in the atmosphere of night that was safely shrouded with the nightlight my father had installed when he realised his youngest daughter would not overcome irrational fears in a hurry.
At five it was endearing, a quirky characteristic of a child that would be something her parents would fondly look back on once she had grown out of. The teddy bears were lined up in the bed ready to attack any enemy that penetrated the perimeter of the bed. Their watchful eyes helped me recover from any hiccup that occured once it was time for lights out. A gush of wind, a stray animal growl outside, a creak from the attic; all these things could make any five year old uneasy, this one particularly was not fond of the unexplained. An overactive imagination had a lot to answer for.
By ten it was a slight concern, a nuisance at a slumber party and the plight of my relationship with the aforementioned sister. It was time to embrace the night time. To become comfortable with my own thoughts when they were in the dark. No matter how logical the noises around me were made, the fact that I could not see the source was causing the problems; therefore a nightlight was the only way through. There was no reasonable explanation for such a fear of the dark.
I was not beaten as a child. I was not brought up in a rough shod house where I feared the superior, cried at the entrance of the alpha male. Where I shuddered at the discourse of going against the trend of anything. I was comfortable in my own skin as a toddler and as I grew I found comfort in my own fantasies. My mother encouraged, my father knowingly smiled and my siblings on occasion took the time to jeer in a somewhat comradely way, but more often than not they left their sister to her own devices. As God knows what would happen if she joined in any activity they were lobbying for. An adventure in my mind as a child was wherever my imagination felt like taking me that day. Where would I soldier- fight the dragon? What princess would I watch enviously being saved by the masterful and magnificent Prince? Where in the world was there a damsel in distress trapped in a tower and how could I read about her being saved in some wonderfully romantic fashion that would end happily ever after.
I had no problems in fiction or in reality, yet the idea of being left alone in a darkened room causes an uprooted emotion of fear. Even now, at the age of 22, it is a difficult to task to sleep in a room that has no flickering of reassurance.
My imagination has always been the key to my life, since as far back as I could remember I have been more than dutifully entertained by my own company than can be considered adequate.
I slept in a tiny box room with my older sister; we spent much of our time discussing certain aspects of our busy days. Who got picked in sports, who read the most interesting thing in class, which boy we married during break... it was all very valuable stuff swirling around the room, in the atmosphere of night that was safely shrouded with the nightlight my father had installed when he realised his youngest daughter would not overcome irrational fears in a hurry.
At five it was endearing, a quirky characteristic of a child that would be something her parents would fondly look back on once she had grown out of. The teddy bears were lined up in the bed ready to attack any enemy that penetrated the perimeter of the bed. Their watchful eyes helped me recover from any hiccup that occured once it was time for lights out. A gush of wind, a stray animal growl outside, a creak from the attic; all these things could make any five year old uneasy, this one particularly was not fond of the unexplained. An overactive imagination had a lot to answer for.
By ten it was a slight concern, a nuisance at a slumber party and the plight of my relationship with the aforementioned sister. It was time to embrace the night time. To become comfortable with my own thoughts when they were in the dark. No matter how logical the noises around me were made, the fact that I could not see the source was causing the problems; therefore a nightlight was the only way through. There was no reasonable explanation for such a fear of the dark.
I was not beaten as a child. I was not brought up in a rough shod house where I feared the superior, cried at the entrance of the alpha male. Where I shuddered at the discourse of going against the trend of anything. I was comfortable in my own skin as a toddler and as I grew I found comfort in my own fantasies. My mother encouraged, my father knowingly smiled and my siblings on occasion took the time to jeer in a somewhat comradely way, but more often than not they left their sister to her own devices. As God knows what would happen if she joined in any activity they were lobbying for. An adventure in my mind as a child was wherever my imagination felt like taking me that day. Where would I soldier- fight the dragon? What princess would I watch enviously being saved by the masterful and magnificent Prince? Where in the world was there a damsel in distress trapped in a tower and how could I read about her being saved in some wonderfully romantic fashion that would end happily ever after.
I had no problems in fiction or in reality, yet the idea of being left alone in a darkened room causes an uprooted emotion of fear. Even now, at the age of 22, it is a difficult to task to sleep in a room that has no flickering of reassurance.
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