i'm not sure if you've noticed, but my mood has grown increasingly dark lately. and by lately, i mean ... the past six months. (although some would argue the past five years ... or even worse ... the past 26!)

things have begun to surface lately that i wish didn't exist in the first place. so, while i would prefer to suppress them and pretend to be happy (hey, i'd rather me be peppy too ... trust me), i think i'll opt for dealing with a few memories that have become staples in the script i have written for my life.

as with everything, i still believe some good can come from the bad (although, to be honest, i tend to lean more towards a visa versa on this one). my life's 'script' is no exception. the problem with the version i have written for myself over the years is that i've successfully maintained a smooth, familiar track across a territory known as defense, anger and distrust. (obviously not a positive formula)

so, as i sift through the wreckage of my soul and the debris that has begun to surface, i have no choice but to start from the very beginning ... where the first page of my script was blotted with ink that was never again questioned and furthermore, distinguished as a guideline, rather than simply an unfortunate circumstance meant to be overcome. consequently, this would become a pattern in my story and thus ... why i find myself here ... grieving the loss of something i am still very uncertain of and hoping that i will find it in the exposure of some of the darkest places in my heart.

memory: an argument with escalating voices had erupted in the living room of my separated parent's home. the next image is of my angry father pacing ... waving his arms and screaming at my grandparents, aunt and a few other people i can't seem to place. i was three. i don't remember being scared or confused. the images and words cut in and out of memory as if i were watching a scratched DVD. after the faces, my mind cuts to my grandmother's face of disbelief and perhaps fear after my father tosses me to my aunt ... still yelling. i then remember playing on the couch with my grandmother's leather mouse key chain ... father now throwing things out of the front door and onto the lawn ... they appear to be magazines. my memory then cuts to my brother's room ... giant cloth initials ... pastel ... hanging on the wall. perhaps i was looking for my brother? this is the only memory of my childhood where tanner is not in the same room as me. and the only memory that i do not remember having strong feelings ... whether joyful or not.

whenever i remember this moment (which i do often), the scene that inevitably follows one of my brother and i sitting on each side of my mother she read us a kid's picture Bible. there are only two images from that Bible that i remember. on is of is one of joseph and his colorful robe and the other ... and probably more significant that night on the porch (whether or not it was close to my first memory in terms of real-time) was of a long haired-bearded man in a white robe with little kids all around him. they were sitting indian style. one was on his lap. and they looked happy to be with Him. mom said he man in the photo was jesus. that didn't mean much to me that night on the porch. i just thought he seemed like a nice guy. and i'm sure in my three-year-old mind i thought his clothes were a little weird, but i don't have recollection of that. much like the first memory, this one skips and the words are a bit muffled. all i remember next was that dad came outside and yelled, "your 30 minutes are up!" i can remember our rusted blue volkswagen beetle sitting at the end of the walkway and mom's tears as she closed the children's picture Bible and told tanner and i good night.

those were my first memories. the first things i remember about the beginning of my life.

my script, the one i have so diligently stuck to since my third year of life, always point back to this moment and the ones i hope to document. my hope is that in actually writing them down for the first time, that i will feel the freedom to create a new story ... one that feels little obligation to maintain a torrid relationship with familiarity for the sake of feeling in control of a redemption that i feel the three-year-old inside of me deserves.