My Story - Part 2

I’m gonna tell you the truth…

It’s usually at this point that I lose my courage to continue writing the rest.

The lies of enemy voices tell me, “It’s too depressing.”

“No one wants to hear this.”

“People don’t like depressing shit… move on.”

I’m officially telling those voices to stuff it.

Um, yeah, in the beginning of stories there’s always a conflict - that’s WHY good stories aren’t good until there begins to be some kind of resolution.

The difference between now and when I used to listen to those voices is that now I have one. So let’s go on!

I think, like everyone else, my core wounds were pretty set before my parent’s divorce, but since my core wounds were criticism and rejection, it makes total sense that when the separation happened, it amplified them.

It turns out that my mom, unbeknownst to children so young, had been mentally ill since, she says, 17. Us kids didn’t truly know that until my dad moved out and she began spending her days in her bedroom.

Divorce proceedings concluded with a custody battle that sent my siblings and I, understandably, to live with our dad who had worked his butt off to get a job on Wall Street.

Small, middle-of-relatively-nowhere town in Virginia faded in the background, overshadowed by honking horns and concrete in New York City. It was culture shock, to say the least, and it wasn’t for me.

Trauma continued to transpire in New York.

Our dad remarried the Wicked Witch of the West.

Isn’t that the way it always goes?

She was psycho and emotionally abusive and scarred all of us, but I think my dad’s complacency and cooperation and co-conspiring scarred us worse.

(She’s gone now. The new wife is nice to us.)

I felt orphaned.

I sought healing for my orphan wounds by dependently clinging to female friends and boyfriends, good and bad, alike.

And then, I moved to Colorado.