My Story - Part 1
Wow. This has been a long time coming.
I’ve wanted to write about my story forever - since I was just at the beginning of it and I could already tell that there was going to be a story.
Move waited this long because a true story has a resolution, something that happens after the climax, and stories written without those just aren’t any good.
I reached the climax of the one I’m going to tell you now, and I’m several years into my healing and restoration.
The restoration is why I am writing to you… why I’ve started this blog.
To tell you about my healing, all the things I’ve learned about it in the hopes it helps you too.
Healing (emotionally) is the thing I am the most passionate about.
My passion for it began at the beginning of my breaking before I even knew just how much I’d need it…
I am the eldest of 3. I have a younger sister and a younger brother. My parents had us when they were 26 & 28, so not painfully young or anything, but their wounds that bled into ours had started long before.
By today’s standards, they were not the healthiest of parents, but we didn’t know that then. They yelled, lost their tempers, and fought. It wasn’t extreme or abusive by any measure but it wasn’t what I would call healthy.
I was a momma’s girl and we were insanely attached. My sister was a daddy’s girl, but my brother didn’t seem to have a particular lean.
my siblings and I mimicked my parents’ lack of healthy conflict resolution and had the worst, untamed sibling rivalry. We fought physically, as kids will do if they’re not well disciplined - and spewed words that were biting. If I was a psychoanalyst, I’d say we were acting out the angst and anxiety that our parents’ dysfunction was making us feel at an age when we couldn’t process anything.
When I was born, my dad was in the navy and shortly thereafter out to sea. We moved around several times before I started Kindergarten. By that time, we had settled down in a small middle-of-relatively-nowhere town in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. My dad was working for the CIA and making the long commute for an affordable place to live.
I’m certain that’s where I fell in love with the woods. Myself and the neighborhood kids would play all over the neighborhood, and that included creeping through the woods behind our houses, exploring old shacks and the creek.
I was a shy and extremely sensitive introvert. I was also a red headed freckle face, and in elementary school, none of those things bode well for you - the combination, even worse. I fared well enough with the neighborhood kids, but at school - forget it. I was mercilessly made fun of, and toward the latter years, bullied. Ironically, the worst perpetrator was another redhead. Did she feel threatened? Is there only room for one queen on this 2% turf?
Between my parents’ tempers and the mean kids on the playground, my sensitive spirit was already painfully crushed and traumatized.
It was in fifth grade, at the height of the bullying (that redhead was in my class) when my parents separated and my mom’s mental illness came to light.
As my dad drove away on the day he moved out, I distinctly and memorably said to myself, “I want to help other kids like me.” I didn’t know then where that path would lead.