Katie Girls…

“The world is made up of two kinds of girls, the simple girls and the Katie girls. I’m a Katie girl!” –Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City

I have been thinking about how I wanted this blog to go and be about. First of all, I have no idea what blog even stands for- I know that Vlog is a video log but blog not a clue. I know also that lots of people “blog” for various purpose or reason, most of which seem to be about food or advice or travel, so I really came into this with a sense of “oh man, you better not just have all these mindless ramblings pretending to be far more interesting than you actually are…” sense of purpose. Really though, I started to write and it was some pompous diatribe that I scrapped almost immediately. However, it did get me thinking about how to sort of organize this and keep myself on track as well as what my motivation is for wanting to do this.

I really liked the style that Sex in the City portrayed–sort of an inward outward monologue, like a peak into her mind, but she also seemed to have a sense of purpose and story telling–which I would like to get to that point, but I’m crazy new at this so just hang in there. Also, my sentence structure is garbage (see? I told you).

I just feel like maybe I could help people? Help myself? Tell a story? Tell my story- so that one day if no one is left to tell my story then maybe this will. Not that my story is better or worse than anyone else’s.

I am saying that first of all–I hate the comparison of traumas or tragedy. I may be a spoiled whining brat because for most and likely all of my life, I have had a roof over my head, water, clothes, and no worry as to where or when my next meal was coming. By all accords, I have lived a privileged life. Here’s the thing though, the things I’ve been through, endured, or perpetrated, things that have traumatized me or made me question my existence–they hurt. No matter what. There is no comparison. It all sucks, it matters, yours, mine, ours– there is no comparison. We are in this mess together. It seems like I have heard this time and again–“I didn’t tell you about this thing that was absolutely terrible or anything really because what you have been through or what you’re going through is so much worse.” I’m going to tell you like I tell them–that’s bullsh*t. It does not make any sense to me at all because like who am I to judge your trauma? or I don’t know we’re very good friends and I care about you and I’d jump at any opportunity to help you or listen or otherwise because your stuff matters too. But I can’t help you or be there or what have you, if you don’t tell me. It sort of feels like you’re saying my tragedy is to tragic to help you? Or I don’t know, like it is so bad that I should just sit in it and deal with that? Shoot. I know that’s not what it is. You don’t want to add weight to the heavy load. Would it surprise you that hearing about your — whatever, takes weight off. It allows me be useful.

So that is what I think I would like this blog to be–useful. To that 23 year old whose parent just committed suicide and is thinking “now what?” Or lost anyone for any reason. There is no shame in that. It took me forever to know that. Only recently did it occur to me that I have no reason to be ashamed–these things happened to us, not because of us. Not because of me. Have I done things that are shameful? Sure. Do I deserved to live in purgatory for that? Absolutely not. Why should I hide my story?! Why should you? We should not. It is them that should feel the shame, and people should know what has happened. It helps to know we’re not alone. Or not the only one.

I would say “I don’t have a shame bone”, when in fact, I had the largest shame of them all. I couldn’t save my mother and I will never get back the time I did not take with her. I was in a relationship for ten years and abused nearly the whole time. I was sexually abused. Physically, emotionally–all of the ways for a long time. Not a single person in my life knew, until it happened in front of them and I could hide no more. I have trauma that goes back to childhood, stuff I swore was in the past where it would stay. Early childhood stuff and I thought for sure this is just normal and it happened so just leave that there and live life. You know–onward. Wrong. Despite all best efforts–it will find a way out. But no way was I going to end up on a couch talking about my childhood and parents. Ha. Wrong. The biggest shock though is that it is all okay. There is no shame in sharing how something shaped you. How it made you feel.

We all have complicated family relationships, complicated relationships, worries, hopes, dreams, and anxieties. Aspirations and talents not yet discovered. Or just needs someone to listen. Life is messy. And gross (potty training suuuuccckkksss with this second kid–poop everywhere, by the way.)

So my proposal is this–I talk about messy stuff, life, and my story and the lessons these things have taught me. I don’t know if this is even possible but I mean I could try to answer questions or give advice? I wouldn’t mind at least. I also have no idea how this is going to look. No clue if it’s going to be a weekly thing, every couple days, or what? I am fairly sure that I should spread it out over a few days before I submit for criticism–so I don’t just spontaneously spew some way too blatant truths as I see them.

I was also thinking maybe recipes–I could even do that thing where I bore you with a really long nostalgic story, and then waaayyy down at the bottom– the recipe. That’s funny. For real though, recipes, handy tricks, and interesting facts are certainly in the future for us.

My high school yearbook teacher, as part of our photojournalism coursework, would have us do these weekly projects with a specific subject matter and would end with a “what you learned” requirement. While I am sure she meant technically, lighting and exposure and what not, I absolutely took that opportunity to talk about what life lessons this photograph has taught me. What I learned about myself and the world around me. I made her cry every single time, which was not my intention but I think it made a mark on both of us. She was like another mother to me. Or the mother I needed? I don’t know. I do know that when she showed up to momma’s funeral and I just looked up and there’s this light coming into the side door, and it was her. She came. I didn’t tell her and she’s here. It hugged my soul.

The point really is this–how about we talk about “what we learned” and see where it goes.

So uhm…here we go?

P.S. All through high school, whenever she saw me in the halls, didn’t matter how many times a day, my freshman english teacher would sing to me “Ka-ka-katie, beautiful Katie” and it still makes me giggle. It was embarrassing in that wonderful way that still makes me feel special and rushes blood to my cheeks. Interestingly enough, I looked up the song and it’s from 1918 by Geoffrey O’ Hara– “K-K-Katy, beautiful Katy, You’re the only g-g-g-girl that I adore; When the m-m-m-moon shines, over the cow shed, I’ll be waiting at the k-k-k-kitchen door. “

It’s about a soldier with a stutter in love with a girl.

So there you are–K-K-K-Katie Girls!