It’s funny how some things change and others don’t. Yes, yes, plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose — the more things change, the more they stay the same. Sometimes.
While visiting my family this past week, I was cleaning out some old papers, and I came across progress reports and such from as far back as 1984. Some parts sounded so much like me, and others, well, not so much.
Like this: “Each afternoon, Holly bounces into school, happy and enthusiastic about the day ahead.” Or: “She often arrives at school with a spirited skip and a buoyant, happy greeting for her teachers.”
It’s nice to know that I once spent significant time bouncing and skipping. I’m no Miss Misery, but no one could mistake me for being bubbly. I know people who have not lost their bubbles, and I adore some of them. I just don’t happen to be an ebullient person. Apparently, once upon a time, I was.
I’m relieved to know this, actually, because I also came across some poetry and stories I wrote, circa 1992. Good Lord, I was a miserable girl — angry, sad, dark, resentful, full of so much pain and hatred.