I have never written a blog before; just heard about them. But after writing a couple of novels, that are sitting at my desk and some children's poetry, I don't think this former English major will have too much trouble putting words down. Maybe it's the format that has me worried. Oh, well. Formats can be changed.

Ever since I was young I felt I was different. I knew I never fit in anywhere. I was the perverbial one that was always picked last in gym class and called names by my classmates. I hated my first name and always attributed that to the reason I was disliked. I wanrted to be a Sharon, or a Marlene or a Barbara, something girlish. My name sounded hard, like a scrub woman's I used to think. But I was named for my father's father who died young and I knew the name meant a lot to him and I adored my dad. I was daddy's girl and I never told him how I felt. I just wanrted to be like everyone else and I wasn't.

My home life was less than ideal. It was a far cry from Leave It To Beaver; hell we were never in the ball park. My dad was meant to be a dad, even though he gew up without a father, who was gone when he was seven. My mother? Oh boy will this blog cover her. I hated her. She hated me. I didn't hate her in the beginning. Children don't really know hate, they are taught hate. I wanted her approval and I never could get it. She wasn't warm and affectionate. I used to think the way my family was was the norm. That is, until I went to friend's homes and saw them. Than I began to piece things together.

I began to see that moms talked to their kids, they didn't yell or scream and their tone was kind, not condescending.  I began to feel angry, then ashamed and finally jealous.  I wanted to move in with them, any of them, just to know what it was like to feel as though you hadn't done something wrong every minute of the day.