the hardship of growing up as a girl

When I was growing up only my mother said I was the most beautiful girl in the world, and of course I always thought back "you're the most beautiful woman in the world" so it made sense...but twelve is the most awful age to hit, puberty and school thrown together, who the hell came up with that idea!?
Breastless, pencil thin, plain and featureless, all the while struggling with suddenly realising these tall creatures smoking round the back of the geography classes were boys, and you liked them! One day your'e going along as normal then suddenly you're bleeding for five days and not dying, your chest is aching like a bitch as breast tissue desperately tries to fill the front of your pathetic trainer bra, you've gone chainsaw masacre on your legs with a razor, you're either gaining weight or losing it drastically, you're washing your hair obbsessively and crying at random intervals because 1 the jerk ripped up my christmas card! and 2 you're period is hurting and 3 YOU JUST NEED A CRY SOMETIMES OKAY YOU JACK ASS!!! Get the hell outta my room!!!!! slam door, slam again. Just leave me alone!! I hate my life. Yeah thats a thirteen year old damn right.

Feeling ugly at highschool is something you will always carry with you though, if you relate to this then I'll say two things....the girls who made school hell, the boys that egged them on. Yeah you know who I mean, you would have had them too. If you dont regonise these two groups then you were probably in them, thanks a bunch!

Okay so 'eighteen' came along, now theres an age full of potential :-) your figure has settled somewhat, Jesus Christ! when did these breasts turn up? seriously get me a racy red lace number because these darlings are touching nothing but the best from now on! You're suddenly being whistled at from vans on the road and people call you a woman, 'town' has become a new concept; a dancing, drinking, hell of a time and you're rocking like mad, slut dropping to music you dont even like. Home at 3 am, rolling into work or uni the next day at 8 am because you're hard core! and we're young and we can get away with this kinda of stuff. :-)

It certainly is a new feeling, confidence, where did it come from? oh yeah those smirnoffs I just tanked!

Motorbikes

I was twelve when I first rode on a small motorbike, illegally and on an industrial estate with my brothers and my dad. I took a corner too sharply at one point and came off. The bike was on top of me and they ran to pull it off me. I didnt cry because I was infront of my brothers, I dont remember the fear or even if it hurt, but I remember the thrill, the excitement, the rush.

I turned thirteen when dad took me on the back of a real size motorbike, it was summer at a car show. I didnt have to wear a helmet on the camp site and I felt like my dad was the best person in the world. Nothing would beat the feeling of being on a bike. Getting off my inner leg touched the hot exhaust pipe and it stung like hell. Mum freaked. I was scarred for life, it was all his fault, I shouldnt have gone on it...but seriously you cant really see it now and it was worth it.

When dad took me on the Harley I know I'd fallen in love with the whole biker image...I tilted when he tilted, I felt the wind humming past, the thrumming of the engine under my legs. On open country roads the ride was so easy in the sun, I changed my mind a little when my ass hurt after three hours and up in the welsh mountains in chucked it down with icy water..but hey! there are up's and downs to everything. If you havent ever ridden on the back of a motorbike I can honestly say I dont think you've felt real freedom. My dad said something poetic once "listen carefully, the wind catches up to you and it whispers race with me, we've gotta beat the wind" I never once thought about coming off the bike, or getting hurt. I never think of that sort of thing and people sometimes think I'm fearless but I dont know if I'm fearless, crazy or just trust my dad completely. Childish really but nothing can happen to me if I'm with my dad or my brothers...and the thrill is always stronger than any fear.

I like being a passenger in a car, and as a typical everyday mode of transport especially for long road trips I would pick a car...but theres something special about a motorbike, it's like having a treat after a period of starvation..it is to me anyway. If I hear a song about a steal horse, or a cowboy riding through the dust, all these poetic pictures, I crave the feeling. I crave the rush of being on a bike.

My Beginning

So thought I'd write a little background information on myself, in preparation really for the biography I need to write for university. So...
 It was the year 1993, lol, I was born Sian Amy Siviter...to parents Ronda and Stephen, but lets be honest I should have be born Elizabeth, or Catherine Kellet, or Rogers, or something glorious in 1800 around about.
However it is what it is...my name, is pronounced shaahn...not Si anne, or Sean or some such like that. I really do hate it. The English variant of this welsh irritant is Jane. I actually like Jane..why can't people call me that instead? Because they're gits that's why.
 I was brought up in working class standards, in a working class street. I have no desire to be proud of my roots and all that nonsense some people spew out, I couldn't choose where I was born but if I could have done it would have been out in the countryside somewhere with a nicer accent than the black country. I remember from my childhood very specific things; car shows with my dad, polly pockets, the dog, and eating coronation chicken with my mum during trips to the art museum.

me, five days old

I have four older brothers and not many people appreciate the hardship of growing up with an age gap of ten years in a family of men. I was singled out already, I was to learn over the years how to adapt and how to fight for position. I watched my brothers leave one by one as their lives moved forward as they should, but eventually I was a little girl alone in a house that had once been full and it was hard. I got used to keeping my own company and I read books like reading was breathing.

I wouldnt say life growing up was wonderful, money has and always will be in this house, short and inconsistant. School uniforms were a struggle, the inside of cupboards didnt look like other peoples, the house was bare and plain. Not poor enough to cry poverty and make a best seller out of it, but sort of a middleish upbringing. I, like everyone, have issues with my parents, but out of respect I would not dwell on those feelings. I have not been abused or beaten or abandoned and I know I'm loved by my mother that is enough for me.

I have found over the years that my brothers mean the world to me, Lee, James, Greg, especially Gregory, we are close and I idolise them all. I love their wives, who are the best, most loving, dearest sisters I could have ever asked for. Then there are the children...my darlings, I adore my nieces and nephews they are the most wonderful little people and I hope the bond I have with them remains for their entire lives. I have another brother Mitchel, but for some reason he keeps seperate from the family, I dont have the same connection with him and his household as I do with the others thats for certain. My second worst fear I will say is not getting old and dying...but it is getting old and watching my brothers die before me...with an age gap like ours its not unlikely that I'll be suffering the loss of those dearest to me one by one like flies. It terrifies me.

My parents brought me up to be very independant, I did my own household chores, I was given the family allowance money to buy my own food each week, and as survival more than anything else at the age of 12 I cooked for myself. Mum's cooking and me have never been on the best terms. So yes from a young age I've taken care of myself, but if I needed help I know I have people to turn to. God this is so boring isnt it? My life really did have a boring start. Well lets leave it there.

Never read about myself

I write about people all the time, they don't know, I change names and things like that but I pick people up and drop them into my writing all the time. The man from the bus with the salt and pepper hair, facebook folk, friends, sexy guy from the shop, rude taxi driver....but it got me thinking, I've never known anyone to write about me. Hmmm would I be an interesting character to read about Would I like myself? I'd really like to see myself through someone elses eyes, another persons interpretation of me! You relate to characters all the time. I'm so that person in a random shop who starts bawling across the customers to my friend looking at a sales rack "Emily! Emily this is totally my song, I love this tune! It's exactly how I am!" to which she replies running enthusiastically across the isle
"Oh my god! me too! I love this song!"
and we progress to singing the current verse, well into the chorus and then leave the shop without having really looked at anything. But really you dont go in shops to look around, you go in so you can hear the latest Taylor Swift and say "Lets just stay in here until the end." Yes we're hated by many.

So point: If something really was written about me, other than some rant about annoying girl in River Island, I wonder what it would say. Hmmmm

Urban Myth, something I have no proof for...My Dad; The Burglar

When I was five I distinctly remember my dad sneaking in from the garage at midnight, he shone the torch and whispered "Sian, quiet, come see this." I was gleeful to go into daddy's garage and share a secret. He helped me down the step and the light of the torch bounced into my eyes, it bounced again and at first it was like a pool of water so shiny that I saw myself and my daddy reflected in the black surface. It was a car. Daddy ran his hand along the sleek hard edges like it was a dog, chrome jaws lined the front of this monster and I knew deep inside that it was special. Daddy lifted me up, (he used to be a giant) and he sat me on the hood.
"Do you know what this is? It's a Dodge Charger." The way he said it made my eyes widen, but back then a seven and half litre V8 meant nothing to me, but the roar of those horses under the hood did. My dad let me sit behind the wheel, and even though my feet didnt touch the pedals I would forever hold in my memory that I drove an american muscule car. That was the first time I saw stolen goods.

I was fourteen when I rode the back of Dad's Harley with him. I was told me to wait with the bike, but I didn't. I followed my dad around the back of the house, I waited and waited for so long and then I heard the sirens and I knew something had gone wrong, it was me that ran back to the bike, I barely managed to straddle its thick and hard seat and grip the bars, it was me that kicked the bike into life and me that he threw the bag to. I ran. I hid. I waited.
Dad took off on the bike I'd started for him, I knew he'd come back for me, and he did. He wasnt the hugging loving type my dad, he just said "good girl." it was the best praise. That was the first time I assisted a robbery.

Really I should have known...dad always wore black nothing else, he still does just incase a prime oppurtunity turns up I guess. I picked up habits from him, I carry a torch in my bag, I have a fake name and address memorized for no good reason. I never spoke about dad's side line job in or out of the house, and theif was a word we didnt use. I often wondered my brothers werent in on the secret...i asked my father once and he said "Because only you have the nerve for it."
I listened at the door to my parents arguing
"She shouldnt be involved" my mother was grinding out through her teeth
"Sian's got the spirit for it, she turns her head at the right time, she distracts who needs luring away, she ducks when they shoot, she hides when they look, she's just a natural."
I smiled from behind the wall.

My dad has long since retired, well, in so many words...you see theres this look we have, sometimes theres a new robbery film out, or my dad see's the perfect heist and I know his mind is ticking over the job. I do it too, it's second to breathing. One day, dad will give me the nod and i'll follow, I know theres still the big one we have yet to pull off. There's a diamond, a boat, a painting with our name on it somewhere. Dad's always joked around "I grew up as a jewel thief...I was a cat burglar once" I roll my eyes and laugh at the right moment. But it's all a lie. Most people don't believe the unbelievable because they cant imagine anything so amazing is real. Most people refuse to let entry into their minds that which they cant understand or comprehend. It's a lie, it's all a lie.
Is it? are you sure? Is it really so hard to believe that I'm a girl who's dad was a thief? It's all a lie, really. none of this is true....or is it?

My Funeral songs

Morbid I know, but I happen to know the answer to this question. I hope when my clock stops ticking in this life those close to me arranging this funeral...a hem Emily, My family, and a few select others I imagine I'll collect over my life should know the sort of thing I want. I'd prefer an apple tree rather than a stone, leaves instead of flowers, but if there must be flowers please be daffofils that come up every spring. :-) I dont mind what happens to my shell (body) I will already be going into my next life...either darting around the forest as a fox, or possibly flying with the angel wings i've always longed for. When I meet God, or Gods hey! who says he's alone, I intend on having a pot of tea and a good old chat before requesting what I would like to be reincarnated as.

The music, you should know this...country. Sweet american southern poetry that picks you up and flys you off onto a dirt road, into a warm lake, across the blue sky. I want these two songs:
They talk in a beautiful simple way about freedom, nature, the desire I feel every day that I hope is expressed in my most intimate of writing. I want to ride, I want to fly, Chase the wind and touch the sky. This is how I want to be remembered. I want my writing to live on, I want my life to have been full and brilliant, I want to fly off like a bird, like an angel and these are the sonsg that will be in my thoughts. Thank you.
Dixie Chicks,

"Cowboy Take Me Away"

I said I wanna touch the earth
I wanna break it in my hands
I wanna grow something wild and unruly

I wanna sleep on the hard ground
In the comfort of your arms
On a pillow of bluebonnets
In a blanket made of stars

Oh it sounds good to me I said

Cowboy take me away
Fly this girl as high as you can
Into the wild blue
Set me free oh I pray
Closer to heaven above and
Closer to you closer to you

I wanna walk and not run
I wanna skip and not fall
I wanna look at the horizon
And not see a building standing tall

I wanna be the only one
For miles and miles
Except for maybe you
And your simple smile

 

Touch The Sky by Julie Fowlis

When cold winds are calling,
And the sky is clear and bright,
Misty mountains sing and beckon,
Lead me out into the light.

I will ride, I will fly,
Chase the wind and touch the sky,
I will fly,
Chase the wind and touch the sky.

Where dark woods hide secrets,
And mountains are fierce and bold,
Deep waters hold reflections,
Of times lost long ago.

I will hear their every story,
Take hold of my own dream,
Be as strong as the seas are stormy,
And proud as an eagle's scream.

I will ride, I will fly,
Chase the wind and touch the sky,
I will fly,
Chase the wind and touch the sky.

And touch the sky.

Chase the wind, chase the wind.

Touch the sky.

 

a rant about my laptop

When I first lay my laptop out on my bed and touched its delicate little keys, and adjusted my eyes to the glaring light, I thought "You are mine you little treasure, you may hold my secrets (emails, writing, naughty photos, facebook log in, that disney game I played like once..twice) and I named this treasure Harry Potter (it's a H.P, geddit?) I did not think it would ever cause me such grief.

The DAMN SODDING PIECE OF CRAPPY CRAP CRAP has busted on me!! Effing hell's sake, I cant get it to switch on properly, load up, shut down! the entire system is spitting out typed computer language like dishfidjiksjfvnvxhfufsdhjfh32763736487hdsbjhcvbj not responding not responding.
what am I supposed to do about this? I don't know, I don't work in comet or wherever the hell I got this thing from. I neeeeeed my laptop back, my secrets, my stuff! Some randomer from china is probably hacking into my system as we speak! I am currently on the 'family computer' oh cringe..this computer is used by my parents, cringe. Downstairs, in the freezing cold, no heating living room. I'm wrapped in a coat and blanket. My fingers are stinging slightly.  My naughty laptop is upstairs in the warmth of my bedroom. My music!!! my beautiful, soul soothing, hard core drive on the dirt roads, country music, it's all on that laptop!..I can't stand another minute of this HEART FM crap- diamonds in the sky, that the best they can come up with? and One Direction ripping off a classic like their own! oh no, I need my music back. First thing in the morning I'm taking this laptop to the shop, PC world? I dunno, anywhere, someone must be able to fix this.