I've been writing ever since I can remember. One particular story I wrote as a kid was, like most fiction, based on a real life experience. It was immediately wadded up and pitched out, probably because it scared my mom.
My brother, who couldn't have been more than ten at the time, was working on a project. He had to make something out of wood, I don't know what or why - possibly a race car and possibly for Boy Scouts. I only remember it was wood because he had to use the electric saw in my dad's "workshop" (the garage).
I didn't know anything about saws except the kind in the garage were loud - even from inside the house with all the doors shut - and they could chop off your arm. I probably knew that leaving a child alone in the garage, working on one of them, was not a good idea. I don't recall why my dad wasn't in there with him, either - he could have stepped out for a second to feed the cats or he could have gone on a fishing trip for the weekend, I really can't remember (must be that temporary loss of brain power that I've come to know so well. Apparently my parent's had it, too).
All I know is, my mom and sister and me were watching TV when we heard the most awful, earsplitting cries of agony coming from the garage. Mom jumped up and raced to the garage door; my sister and I tripped over each other to get right behind her. She shoved her tiny body through the door and stopped short. We bumped into her butt and each took a side to peek around.
He was singing.
My sister laughed. Mom cried. I wrote a story with an alternate ending. My mom didn't like it.
We all deal with anxiety and stress in our own way.
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