The beginning..again

I’ve been working on a new blog site, but I’ve hit a bit of a wall. 

I want to start writing again, but honestly I have a hard time tearing myself away from Netflix in the evenings and chores on my days off. It’s tough to keep up with a hobby. About a week ago while trying to start the novel I’ve been wanting to write for the last 10 years I wrote a little something that I thought I’d share. 

My childhood was magical. I read Harry Potter and I really thought that I was a witch about to go to a faraway Hogwarts to learn spells, have a pet owl, and ride on a broomstick. I believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I would stay up late and try to catch them, and my 6 year old self would have told you that I saw Santa once by my Christmas tree fixing an ornament. I rode my bike through the enchanted forest behind our house and came across a wicked being with a hooked nose and a wart every now and then. I would escape to the woods and pretend I was the kid from My Side of the Mountain. I would take my supplies consisting of granola bars, the latest novel I was reading, my dog Dax, and a blue bucket that I could collect pond water for drinking. I would sit by the pond, eat snacks and day dream the day away. I had barbecues and bonfires. I made snow forts and went sledding down the big hill at my elementary school. I was like Peter Pan and was convinced that I would never grow up. I thought those days would last forever. When reality came crashing in and the bus took me to middle school in town instead of my small school with no more than 100 children I was devastated. I don’t think I ever got over the feeling that I wouldn’t be 10 forever. I was a smart kid but I wasn’t ready for the next stage of my life. I clung onto Barbie dolls much longer than most and swore I’d never date a boy. But I did, and I did grow up.

I went to high school, then to college, and then to the work force. I moved on and away from the beautiful green and white house that looked like a barn. The one I called home for 12 years of my life. I can’t go to the pond with Dax anymore because she died when I was 22. As the years have gone on I’ve lost many memories from that time in my life. I don’t exactly remember all the details as I once I did, but I remember feeling free. I remember tossing my blond hair in the wind and singing Julie Andrews’ “These are a few of my favourite things” as loudly as I wanted to, because I didn’t care. I wish I still had a little more of that girl left inside of me. I wish her confidence didn’t die at age 11. I want to be able to live like my life is a musical again. Most of all I wish I could laugh and run and dance like I did back then. I wish I hadn’t let someone tell me that impressing others was the most important thing about life, because it’s not. At 25 I’ve found myself again, but I will never get those years back. The years that I could’ve spent enjoying things instead of crying over my weight, or some guy, or some assignment that does not matter anymore.

I find myself wishing that I could rewind time a lot so I could relive certain events. The big ones. The ones that somehow altered who I was. I’d go back to that dance and tell myself to get up out of the corner, to wipe the tears from my eyes and tell that hockey jock to F off. I would have fun and dance how I wanted. I’d wear my glasses and ignore anyone who said I looked nerdy with overalls on. I liked my overalls and glasses I don’t know why I let someone decide that I didn’t. I would go back and get good grades in high school and stop worrying about what everyone was doing on the weekend. I’d still be the center of attention but it would be because I was brilliant not because I was wild and obnoxious. I’d be a vet or a marine biologist like I always wanted to. I wouldn’t let my first love steal my shine and break me down to a weak little waif. I’d be confident and eat chocolate and watch a sappy film and move on. I’d still meet the love of my life in the end and we’d have an apartment and a great man to share our space with (the love of my life is my dog), but I wouldn’t have went through so much pain to get here because I would have been me.

Somewhere along the way I let someone tell me that being myself was weird and I should change.


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My name is Mackenzie, but almost everyone calls me Mack. I started writing when I was in the fifth grade after I finished reading the first 3 installments of the Harry Potter saga. I'm now 25 and have yet to do anything lasting with my talent, so I present to you Ordinary, Average, Everyday. I'm partial to fiction but also love a good opinion piece. You will frequently see the elements of animals, nature, and music on this blog. I will also chat about life in my twenties as a (new) dog groomer. Please read my first post "Likely, a lengthy description" for more information on the creation of this blog.

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