I haven't written in awhile, I know. I consider it a change in temperature from what I used to write about. This journal became one of complaints and anger instead of the blessed outlet that I very desperately needed to have in order to write what I love. I find now that I struggle with the concept of writing. It is not the action that is a problem, I can still sit and write for hours a day without flinching. It is the quality and flow that I find wanting.

I have just read a blog by Libba Bray that has created within me the need and desire to once again break out the beauty of writing for the sole purpose of remembrance and joy. You can find the post here . It is a stunning concept, one that I have not exercised in years. I believe I did something like this in writing class in High School, but not since. And even then, Ms. Ansley played us a song and had us record the emotions that we felt. But today... Today I will find my own music. I will search my iTunes and find the songs that stir memories, and I will record those memories and post them here for you all to read.

This is my exercise dujour.

The Song: I Want Candy by Bow Wow Wow

I am on a boat; its not a large boat by any means but it certainly isn't small either. Its roughly 27 feet in length, bright white and dark blue. I am wearing either a blue or green pearlescent two piece and a tank top because I hate my stomach. I am roughly fourteen years old, give or take a year. I have incredibly long hair, longer than I have had in years. It reaches to nearly mid-back and it is pulled up in a tight and uncreative ponytail in hopes of avoiding the windswept look. I reek of sunscreen SPF 45 because I am fair-skinned and summering at a house in the Keys with my family.; and despite my best efforts my cheeks are a rosy red from the burn that is manifesting there.

Beside me is my very best friend in the whole world, and those words are not spoken lightly. She is wearing a black one-piece Speedo bathing suit with long lines of lime green, bright yellow and neon blue that look like drips of paint swathed across the torso. She has very curl brown hair just past her shoulders, and it has been halfway secured by a ponytail holder, though she has frizzy whisps of curls around her face like a halo. She has a more olive tone to her skin, but it doesn't matter; she still glistens with SPF 45. My future step-mother would not let us on the boat without it.

We sit on a bench before the helm of the boat. Behind us are the adults, my dad and my amazing future step-mom. We can't hear what they say unless they shout because we are up on plane, running in the boat with the wind whistling past us and taking our words away with it. Before us are "the boys". There are five of them this summer, although that doesn't change much in the future summers either. My cousin has joined us for a month of revelry, and also, we suspect, to keep the younger boys from killing themselves or each other. He is my age, five years older than my oldest brother and three years older than the oldest boy in the family. We are a ragtag group of miscreants, our only hope for the summer is to catch a few lobster, ride our bikes to the store and laugh a lot.

We are on the boat and Chrissi and I are giddy with laughter, sun and  soda. We are singing at the top of our lungs the entire song of "I Want Candy". We know every word; we are the epitome of the characters described in the song. Winter and Summer, warm and cool, and we love hearing the sound of our own voices thrown into the wind. Behind us we can faintly hear the voices of the adults, and whether they are singing along or making fun, it doesn't matter. We are together in a boat in the middle of the ocean on a beautiful summer day and we know that we are having lobster for dinner. It is our world that summer, and for that single moment there is nothing we want to do more than sing along together and laugh uproariously at our freedom.

Anyone who knows me also knows that I define myself as "organized chaos". I am right brained, it is a virtue and a fault to be certain. I have a flair for the artistic and also a need for order. It is a strange existence and I take full responsibility for the confusion that it creates.

Now, each year around this time I like to reorganize my life. I call it "cleaning the warehouse". You see, in 2003 Stephen King's Dreamcatcher came out. And while the movie was, at best, horribly confusing I walked away with a concept that I have cultivated. In the movie, Jonesy's mind is a warehouse in which is stores all of his memories in boxes with labels on long shelves and in cabinets. Then there is an entirely separate room which is used later on in the movie.

Let me quickly add here that I absolutely hated this movie. And I'm a huge cheesy movie fan. This movie was terrible. But it left me with the warehouse concept, and for that at least I am grateful.

Now, my warehouse differs slightly from what I have described here. My warehouse is the epitome of organized chaos. There are boxes upon boxes of files and memories lining the shelves, but those boxes are not always correctly and clearly labeled. On the walls of the warehouse are the scribbled beginnings of stories long forgotten and the ideas for a million more. Some boxes overflow with papers and scraps of memories while others hold nothing more than a blurry image of what once was.

But in a separate room altogether there is the one thing that I hold most dear. Now bear with me for this seems a bit fantastic. Keep in mind that this is merely a visual aid to help to clarify the concept that I am about to introduce.

In a separate room altogether there are two wallsof chalkboards with names written above each one. (The names are very clearly written and in alphabetical order... In case you were wondering.) On these chalkboards there are tally marks. One side of the room is "The Good" and one side is "The Bad". At this time of year I count up the tally marks. If the bad outweighs the good come New Years Eve, at midnight, your slate is thrown away and you no longer exist in my life.

Fortunately, last year I didn't have to remove anyone. I am hoping that this year it will be the same.

Rambling done. See you all in the New Year.

If you are reading this, and only this you may have noticed that the entries that have been posted previously are gone.

For this I am truly, and immeasurably sorry.

Many of you have been amazing friends and confidants. You have stood by me and offered advice that has been long standing in the situations that I have been in previously and it will continue to help in the situations I face in the future.

However... There has been a breach in the safety of my life and heart. Someone on this very journal has taken what I write and brought it to people that are not included on this site.

Now, the person that it was brought to was already quite privy to my innermost thoughts, being the person I trust most in the world. However, and I have said this before, this journal is an escape from rationality. A place were I can come and vent in the easiest way for me, through words. With that in mind, I write. I do not think, I simply let it flow.

I believed, with a very naive heart, that this would be taken as such and that people would allow me the freedom to say what needed to be said to calm myself, and they would let me continue on with my life.

After all, this journal began as an exercise from my therapist, in the hopes that releasing my anger into prose would help me to relinquish my hatred for my past. It has since become a warm blanket in the coldness of my surroundings.

Now, however, it has been perverted by people that I had trusted. It has been a lesson long in need of learning, a lesson that I have fought against time and time again.

You cannot always trust friends with your innermost thoughts. Some friends are meant to stand on the outside. Some friends cannot accept your flaws, or camouflage them as they can theirs. Of this I am now, begrudgingly, certain.

So, I apologize for making my journal private, but self-preservation is my earliest lesson... The one I  have carried with me the longest. It is what will continue to carry me, the knowledge that I, alone, control what is known about me. And what is not.