Sometimes I have this story that plays in my head (and sometimes out loud) about how my family doesn't "get me". And for the most part I do believe that. Then there are times memories pop up. Some recent and some are from forever ago. Memories that make me smile. Like when my mother and I were in Georgia and she bought me this red leather gold trimmed journal. It was my favorite journal ever. And she didn't make a deal out of it. We were in a hotel and she just walked in and handed it to me and said something like "Here. This is for your stories."