For years I was in the closet; only my closest friends and family knew I was a brat.
In fact, this blog only came about because my inner brat decided to bust out a few weeks ago.
My kick-ass spirit wasn’t always hidden. When I was four, I scolded my beloved grandmother because she’d made my big sister cry. When I was 10, I wrote an indignant letter to the prime minister telling him to stop the seal hunt.
Sometimes you have to stir it up, you have to pull the rug out from under things to make them right.
Adventures in bratty dating
The summer before university, I went out with my boyfriend at 8:30 p.m. Saturday night, and returned home at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning.
My mom, bless her heart, was very upset and asked what the neighbours would think about me coming in at that time.
I said, “Well, if they’re peering out their windows in the middle of the night wondering where I am, I think they’re the ones with the problem, not me.”
As a parent I understand where my mom was coming from but being a brat means standing up for the truth, even if it goes against the status quo.
And the status quo is often covering up another truth.
Into the closet
I remember doing the dishes with my sister on a visit home from university and saying something typically bratty. She asked if I would say that to my boyfriend and I said, ‘Of course not! He couldn’t handle it.”
It may have been during the dishwashing that my inner brat went into the closet.
This has been a year of change — being downsized, my only child moving away for school, becoming single again and more recently, the loss of my mom.
This post marks one year since that all began.
But it has also been a year of growth, creativity and new alliances.
Just over a year ago I was on my porch enjoying the summer night air and writing about how I wanted to do more public speaking, writing and videos. I wanted to inspire people to live more fulfilling lives by doing what they were meant to do.
I also wanted to move my own life in that direction.
For me that means being a brat — calling out hypocrisy, taking a strip off injustice and ripping the rug out from under my own thoughts or ideas when they get in the way of the life I want to live.
And of course, having a little fun.
When I launched this blog a few weeks ago I didn’t put my name on the posts, only my pseudonym, Bratty Kathy.
I told myself, “If you write about orgasms, you’ll never work in this town again!”
I got over it.
c 2013 Kathy Barthel