 It started out as a family blog to be more organized. Over the years, it has turned out to be better therapy than I ever imagined. I vomit out my emotions onto the screen. Now, I write as an outlet, it's fairly selfish; I do it for me.
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 I write a lot of letters. I always have my husband read my latest composition. One evening, after printing out my latest letter, I confessed to him that, “I write a lot of letters.” His kind response was slow and he simply said, “Yes, you do.” Which naturally prompted me to write about writing letters. Not pencil and paper. Yeah, right. I seriously don’t have the capability to be that slow with my thoughts, and my penmanship is a travesty. Shhh, don’t tell my kids. They are still learning the craft. Of course I type on some form of a digital screen and store drafts in the cloud so I’m able to gain access anytime to edit when my anger explodes again. I need to release that shit. When something is wrong, I refuse to vent on social media. Let me type that again. I refuse to blow my fuse on a social media platform. In my own old-school opinion, it’s just NOT the place for it. When the issue is between a person(s) and me or my family, writing a letter or a text to the source is more appropriate. I include their constituents if it’s necessary, which it is in most of my cases because there’s great satisfaction in adult tattling.  Which brings me to the feeling of satisfaction. Absolutely, it feels fucking terrific when you tell a person who wronged you they need to be held accountable. For example, just a month ago, Principal Sir, your power-hungry ego got out of control when you refused to allow us to tour the public school you run. What makes you think you can do that? Well today, you are called out, sir. So sit down and read my fury with your boss. Which brings me to Miss Special Education Teacher circa 2014. What you did may not be against the law, however, you definitely rode the fine line of ethical and immoral behavior when you decided to hold back my daughter with autism and epilepsy from her 5th grade field trip and then hid it from us. (That happened, and a school-wide policy changed after.) I don’t have time to write all the letters and small notes I desire. I wish! For example, the very busy small parking lot at preschool. One blue Subaru double-parks every day. YES, this driver takes up two spaces with her shitty car. It is super irritating, to say the least, as I walk past it. I wish I had more time to add sticky notes onto this idiot’s car window. Someday, I will have more time in my day to write Post-It notes to strangers.  Pounding away on a real keyboard is gratifying. It’s not the same sensation when I am typing with my two fat fingers on my tiny smartphone while parked in my car. I have total respect for my sad but strong keyboard keys--venting as I find a sense of closure. It doesn't always pan out the way I envision it in my head because in my head everyone gets fired. Nope, unfortunately, that ain't the case. The reality is after my letters get delivered and my release is vomited out, there comes some disappointment. Therein lies the reality that the world doesn't revolve around me and my opinions. I’m okay with that. I move forward and carry on with my personal resentment. I look back and I am okay (most of the time) that my thoughtful, well-written letter was my cheap therapy for that day. There it is. The letter about my letters. Peace out, mudder fudders. Don’t care about haters because I am a special needs mama bear, hear me ROAR.  |
the writerJoni Brown writes about her life raising her daughter that lives with PCDH-19 epilepsy, autism, anxiety and OCD. Archives
January 2019
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