, , , , , , , , ,

I make myself sound like such an old fart when I talk about the past, even though I’ve barely cracked middle age. A lot of things in this world have surely changed, and it seems they are changing more and faster every day. I don’t know when the things of this world got as “disposable” as people nowadays seem to believe that they are. Life didn’t seem to be like that in another time that I remember. Maybe that’s just another thing that’s changed.

I can remember being a small kid, and now I look back on everything I always thought I wanted to be, and what seemed to be important then. I don’t ever remember a time when I didn’t want to grow up and be a mom. I used to dream of being a famous singer, or a famous writer. I guess I still do dream of the singer and writer part, but sadly anymore you have a snowballs chance of getting to sing unless you are a size 0, barely outta high school and have the “look” the record execs are looking for.

When did I kinda give up on my dreams? Maybe it was as I got a little older and teachers and other people told me that only the most beautiful and the best deserved to do those things. I don’t know why I let them make me feel so unworthy, but I did, and to this day I still struggle with it. Maybe it was when my mom told me that if I couldn’t make a living at it, it wasn’t worth doing and I would be an idiot for trying. Dreaming was going to get me nowhere in life. That stung, those words still hurt.

Today I only sing with the radio, and as many awards and compliments as I’ve ever gotten for my singing, I’m still so self-conscious that my husband has heard me sing only once in the almost two years we’ve been together. As much as I dream of singing, I know no band out there wants a 40 something slightly overweight soccer mom at the mic. Maybe I have to accept that dream is one who’s time has passed.

Writing is something I still dabble with, but I’ve somewhat almost given up on as well. I’ve written 3 complete novels and several partial ones now, but no one seems to want to read anything I’ve written. My mom still believes it’s a waste of time, and my husband only seems to beat around the bush and come up with reasons not to when I ask him. It almost feels pointless sometimes to write all these things if no one will ever read them. Why do I keep doing it? Maybe because I have to. Maybe getting everything down on “paper” is the only way I know to let out everything I can’t say otherwise.

Maybe what I thought I wanted to be is still who I want to be after all.