Paper cuts

Over the past few months I watched friends of mine start up blogs, and write down their thoughts and feelings.

I read them, and I have seen another side of  their world,  I've had my eyes opened, seen their laughter, shared their pain and admired their strengths, So after much encouragement from my family and Friends I'm going to embark on one of my own,.(wish me luck,. lol)

Ive always loved writing, and Ive made it through to a place in my life where i can honestly say I'm happy with me and being me so maybe now its time to write down the highlights and downfalls of my journey to this point, the good and the bad,  and share what i have experienced , seen and ultimately learned.

These , shall we say, "snapshots " in to my world are what have made me,  they have been the cement and foundations of who I now call Sandz, . It hasn’t always been a happy ride, and I've had my fare share of drama, pain and anger. I cried, Ive watched my world collapse around me and had my heart and soul ripped from my chest. But Ive also had happiness, experienced pure bliss and felt the warmth of the strongest  love immaginable

So in doing this, these entries  are for me, (and my followers if I end up having any)to see where I came from, where Ive been and where I'm going. I hope you enjoy the ride as much as I did living it and subsequently writing it.

 So here goes, 

Isn't it weird how  it s the littlest cuts that hurt the most?

The ones that we remember and impact on our lives the most usually come from the smallest little moments, or comments, .Then in comparison, there's the big events that rock our world and stop us in our tracks. But some how , after the calamity and shock pass by, and time does its magic we look back and see that we have survived, by some miraculous account, we have made it through.

But then as we move along with our lives, something connects us back to that initial little wound, a simple statement, that second in time,a smell, or a colour or a look. And the sting , although faint, is felt once again. Those little cuts never seem to heal, they stay with us long after the day they were received. Its us as humans, who get just get better at hiding them.

When I was a child, we used to attend church every sunday morning. We, being my older sister and myself, and later my younger brother, but for many years it was just the two of us. 

I didnt quite get the whole, "get ready for church" routine, as a young girl I could think of 101 better things to do with my Sunday mornings. But My mum used to get us all done up in our cute little flower dresses, hair in ribbons and patent black shoes . Dad would drop us at the church doors and smile, saying Ill see you in a hour. I'd watch in longing as he would drive away in the kingswood. Wishing I could dump the pretty dress and adorn my shorts and tshirt and go with him.

My sister, who I loved (and still do) was more into this whole "church" thing. I used to look at her , with her beautiful long blonde hair, those big blue eyes, and a smile to die for, and wish i was her. I was me, bark brown hair, in long braides, dark eyes and a sulky look. I was labled "the dark one" from a young age,. I was not meant nastily, I knew I was loved. But J was the one who shone, it was hard sometimes to stand in her Shadow.

I always remember cringing as the church ladies would lay eyes on us and approach. They all smelled like cotton wool and camphor balls. They would smile and touch our hair saying comments on our lovely locks and our lovely clothes. J would smile, and be polite, she was always better at that than me. I would stand slightly behind her and hope no question was directed towards me. We would walk in to the chappel with them, and sit beside them. 

I remember one occasion in particular, J was asked to walk the wine down for holy communion. ( something I might add I had always wanted to do) I was given the silver box containing the communion bread. and was to follow J down the isle .

As the organ started to play, and J started her slow even walk down to the minister at the alter with red wine flask in hand. she turned , winked and smiled at me, her way of encouraging me to do my best. But as I was about to take that first step, to walk in her footsteps,and do her proud, the frail hand on my shoulder who was waiting to usher me on said quietly in my ear. "look at your sister. isn't she beautiful, if you turn out half as perfect as her you'll be a lucky girl".......PAPER CUT.

That comment was the pretence for the rest of my childhood, That statement put into motion an envy and a feeling of unworthiness that I carried throughout my childhood years.. Dont get me wrong, my sister was my rock, she was my guide, my mentor, and yes we fought, and probably drove each other mad, as most siblings do. But those words, from an old lady who opinion shouldn't have really mattered are to this day etched in my memory. Only now though, I choose to ignore them.