Where it Started
My earliest memories are likely tainted by the stories I’ve been told by others, but what I’m about to share with you is my own recollection of events as I lived them. People can argue with anything I say based on their own perspectives, and that’s fine. Those people are more than welcome to write their own version if they’d like. This is also probably the time to tell you that names and locations will always be fictionalized here for privacy.
At age 4, with a 2-year-old little sister–we’ll call her Renee–my biological mom chose not to show up to the courtroom to sign away her rights to us. Our parents had split up when Renee was only an infant, and she was spending the bulk of her time residing next door at our grandparents’ house. Bio mom, as we’ll call her going forward, liked to sleep around, even when she was married to our father, or so we’ve been told. Apparently, no one was off limits–travelling salesmen, route delivery people, insurance men, the girl didn’t discriminate. We did spend some time with her after the split (before the courtroom), and I’m told we’d go home dirty and Renee always with a full diaper. I have one solid memory of Bio mom during that time screaming and throwing plates at my dad, and then something else about the stairs and a snake. I’m told Bio mom pushed me down the stairs once, resulting in a broken arm. Aside from some cryptic phone calls throughout the years, that’s where Bio mom’s story pauses for some time.
In the courthouse that day, my father and new step mother signed some paperwork to officially make the two of them our new parents. So while we lost one mom that day, we gained another. Today, I’m so thankful for the woman who became my second mom. You’re about to wonder why, but stay tuned, we’ll circle back eventually. However, back then, I despised her. She was young, only 20 at the time, and already divorced. She was beautiful and outgoing and made friends everywhere she went. She later became a local politician for a county level role. This mom, who I’ll just call mom because she has fulfilled the role more than anyone else, earning the title, had had a troubled childhood of her own, losing her mother as a teenager. She had no clue how to parent two kids who weren’t hers, and who she probably resented having to suddenly be responsible for, and so she chose violence and degradation.
My father-who I’ll call dad going forward-was a dairy farmer, which meant his first real love was the farm. It required most of his attention, and he has also always been someone who avoids conflict at all costs, so he just allowed the abuse. If he wasn’t around for it, it wasn’t happening, right?
When I think back on my childhood, I feel hollow. How does one parent just walk away, another hit us, pull us around by our hair, tell us we’re lazy and stupid, control every aspect of our being, and the third parent just ignore all of the trauma being caused by the other two? How does that happen? Having had a child of my own, I can’t fathom any part of it. I would take a bullet for my kid, in a heartbeat, without pause. If someone were to hurt my child in a way even slightly similar to how I was hurt as a child, I’d burn that person to the ground. So what does that mean? Were we unlovable kids? Is that even a thing?
Anyway, at this point, I feel it’s important to tell you that I have historically blamed these three people for the bulk of my mental health issues. And sure, these were formative years filled with trauma that haunt me to this day. That said, I, and I alone, am responsible for my own self-destruction. Read that sentence again. Me. I did it. I chose to wallow in my own self-made pit of despair. While the things that happen to us definitely have an impact, it’s the choices we make that define us. And I chose wrong. Over and over and over. You’ll see what I mean in the coming months. I know there’ll be times you dislike me. For much of my life, I’ve disliked myself. But please keep reading. There are many lessons to be learned from my many bad decisions.
