One thing I am extra proud of in my family is the amount of different music I expose my daughter too. Today I just started listening to the new Against Me! album and I’m definitely digging it. The first thing that pops into my mind is that I can’t wait to get home and let Noodle listen to it and hope that as she gets older the message gets through to her head. I’m excited that she likes a broad spread of music, from anywhere from The Distillers (She loves that there is a chick punk rocker) to As I Lay Dying to The Fray to Break of Reality. It may make her the odd kid as she’s growing up, but I would much rather her be a well rounded kid than a sheltered one.
So I’m still in the hole (and by hole, I mean hospital) and of course, we’ve gone over the 24 hour mark, so I’m antsy as hell. I’m ready to get up and run a marathon (or at least a few laps around the nurses station. The one benefit of being stuck here is that I am getting an obnoxious amount of writing and knitting done. Not to mention the amount of music I’m discovering is ridiculous. At some point I’m going to have to block out the irritating aide and just slip in my headphones when she’s talking. Hell, I think In This Moment will block her out just fine.
Music and writing are my ways of safeguarding my sanity… not to mention reining in my temper as well. If I manage to do some writing and get some tunes going in my head, I’m a much more tolerant person. I could be listening to the most brutal metal I can find and as long as that’s playing I can keep my cool and calm. It’s a nice coping technique I picked up in a coffee house when I was a teen. The perk I see though, is that my Buddha not only experiences the music I play, but she gets to learn that there are different ways of coping with your bad days beyond just “being happy” or “smile!”. If I can instill anything, whether it be music, writing, art, SOMETHING, I will feel like I did a good job as a parent. Hell, I gladly bought her a new sparkle pink glitter journal just for that reason. If writing helps her sort out her feelings more than talking does, than I’m okay with that.
Growing up, going through the death of my mother, and of course though the turbulent teenage years, everyone told me that I needed to “talk through it”. That if I could just open up to people I would be able to be “happier”. No matter what was going on, I was force-fed this bullshit lie that I must talk, that I must interact and pour myself out to other people via verbal word. So I tried, and I failed… and I learned to wrap up all of my feelings inside of my head since obviously people expected me to be happy. It wasn’t until I got mad one night in my pre-teen years, that I sat down to write in my journal and I just let it all out. All of it. I wrote whatever I wanted to, instead of what I thought I should be writing about. I wrote about everything. That night, I discovered that that was the way I cope. Up until about a couple years ago, I still didn’t know how to open up to people well… hell, sometimes I still prefer to keep my words in my mouth and flowing through my fingers. Writing in journals/blogs/letters gave me an outlet to reach people through. I had a hard time telling someone how I feel, I could just write them a note. It helped, it still helps, I just wish someone had told me that was okay earlier.
Speaking of though, I’m going to go write in my journal… the literal one.