Temporary Girl

Have you ever said something in anger only to instantly wish you could grab those words midair and stuff them back in?  We all have.

And, once the anger is gone and tempers have cooled, it's easy to apologize and move on, and hopefully forget what you said, forget what you heard.

Not so easy when those angry words...are in print.

In a moment of passive-aggressive-woman-be-scorned-self-indulgence I created a written outlet for all the ways I felt wronged as a step mom, and I did it in the form of a blog.  Did it feel good to get my point across without getting interrupted, cut off, or dragged off track in my very one-sided conversation? I can't lie, of course it did.  And, in many ways, it helped just to have that outlet to vent.

However, venting wasn't the only word-weapon I armed myself with.  I also chose to launch snide, malicious, judgmental characterizations and other assaults with the written word.  Words that I have now deleted, but that have not been erased.

I haphazardly kept diaries and journals growing up, and when I've stumbled upon them later in life, I've often cringed at my own written word.  I sounded sad, needy, dumb, juvenile.  I would be embarrassed if someone else read those words, because today, those words seem so far away.  Those words do nothing to define who I am because they were temporary.  A transitional thought. 

And normally, those growing pains are all part of the course.  You can read those words, laugh at yourself, and put them aside.  In no way does that compare to the embarrassment of tossing words onto a page and having them recited back, when, once again, you no longer identify with their creator.  For me, those words were a means to getting over something.  Except this time my words weren't rotting away on a diary page in a plastic tub full of things from my past.  To someone else, the impression was far greater, and much longer lasting.

All I can say now, in sincere honesty, is that who ever was hurt or affected by those words I am incredibly sorry for that.  I am embarrassed.  That was not me.

Or, it was a temporary me, much like the 17-year-old girl that thought no one would ever love her.