(This was written in 2015; I changed up some of the wording and how I had structured some sentences, but I tried to keep it the same, as much as possible, considering these were my emotions directly after it happened. Keep in mind that because I wrote this 2 years ago, my tone of writing will be 100% different than it is now, so be kind with the judgement)
I’m not too sure how to exactly begin this, I just know there is a real lesson behind it. I plan to delete this beginning portion someday, and to start it out more secretively; no moral starts with an explanation. I don’t want anyone to know there is a lesson behind this, I want real people in the world to figure it out for themselves, this was not a lesson I was spoon fed, and it will not be for you either.
I love the rain. I always have, and I feel I always will. For me, at least, hearing rain, smelling rain, seeing or sensing rain, just gives me a sense of security, and even gives me a burst of motivation to get my laundry done, or to clean my room, or even to read a book while sipping on a hot cup of tea. Not everyone likes the rain, and that is okay, sometimes, just sometimes, something you love can betray you.
It was my first day of Junior year of high school, and I woke up to over a foot of water in the basement and my dad going crazy. the sky was light and airy, but there was a certain chill to it. I always believed in good and bad omens, or signs, but I never paid any attention to the foreshadowing of that day. School ended and I went to __________’s and just chilled out with my friends. _________ and I eventually left and we walked around, and swam in the gigantic puddles around the sides of the road; It had rained an awful lot the past few days and him and I always made the absolute best of a rainy day ( Now, in present day, I remember that beginning portion as being one of the best moments of my life. I honestly had a blast swimming in those puddles by the lake). I looked up into the sky and saw lightning strikes off in the distance. They appeared to get closer as I walked home. My dad picked me up on the side of the road and drove me home. apparently it was tornado weather and we needed to get home and keep an eye on the weather channel. (I remember he was yelling at me in the car because of the fact I was playing outside in water with a possible tornado on the way so I was already mad to begin with. A lot of what followed after his scolding just added to my emotions and that is why I was so spiteful in the car)
In the car dad told me that my step mom was bagging up all of my papers, books, and sketch pads. He told me he she was throwing them out and that they were completely unsalvageable. my heart immediately jumped into my throat and I bugged out. Does anyone who isn’t a reader/writer even understand how much pain and tears gets put into those kinds of works? That every thought, emotion, and event that has happened in my life has been recorded down? Every heartbreak was entered in a journal, every happy ending had been painted, and every normal day was dated. I told him that they had no right to touch any of my stuff, let alone throw it out. I emphasized that they should have waited till I was there (Now when I look at it, I shouldn’t have freaked out as bad as I did. There was nothing I could have done differently to change the outcome and they needed to clear space as fast as they possibly could). I walked into the basement to see all of my books sopping wet, all over the basement floor. I was a little star-struck, and I just kind of stood there as tears ran down my cheeks. They were my mom’s books. It was heartbreaking, and I silently sobbed through the whole bagging process of the books. There was one book, just one book, out of the whole entire tote that, for some reason, was completely fine. The book was titled It’s Your Call, and it was a book about God (I have never been super religious, but now looking back on it, I find it interesting that it was the ONLY salvageable book).
The first time it flooded earlier that summer, my parents told me to not put the box of books on the floor, I replied snottily with, “It’s not going to flood twice.”
Now as I look back on this day, I was a little selfish with who all was dealing with a traumatic experience. While I was uncontrollably sobbing and shouting a bunch of random, hysterical sentences, I witnessed my dad hanging up pictures of his deceased, older brother. Drying off Monty’s trophies with a towel and hanging up his medals on hangers from the pipes on the ceiling. I heard his voice shakily ask if his deceased dad’s bibles were upstairs, safe from the water, rather than down there, and being as destroyed as my mom’s books. My heart wasn’t the only one being crushed in those moments, mine wasn’t the only one having to relive painful memories, and because of that, mine also wasn’t the only one that grew stronger, and wiser. It was a learning experience for the both of us, and although in 2015 I wanted you, the reader, to learn this lesson on your own, I now would rather you learn from my experience by reading this, instead of having to endure what we did, because no one deserves that.