At some point I settled into my life at Dwight and even found a happy medium. I learned to be who I was and even play up those attributes that got me the most attention. These were not always my best attributes, but I still had my friend and that was all I really needed and I had my neighbor who also played flute and we would practice together to shut out the noisy world around us.
1977, my oldest brother has graduated from high school and decides to go into the Air Force like our father. My heart is breaking. I don't know why, but I have always looked to him and felt closer to him than my other brothers. I still remember the day he left. He was a stamp collector. He had an album into which he carefully mounted his collection. On the morning he left, he came into my room and slid it under my pillow and kissed me on the forehead. I don't think he realized I was awake, but thinking about it now still makes me cry. I was never able to bring myself to add anything to the album. I put the loose stamps into little envelopes so they wouldn't get lost, but I couldn't make any changes to it. It is today as he left it back in 1977. Sometimes I take it out and look through it, but for the most part it lives in the back of my filing cabinet where it is safe.
Our home would never be the same.
My father announced that he was retiring and we would be moving. As horrible as this place had been, I had never lived anywhere as long as I had lived here. I had to say goodbye to my best friend, my sister.
We left, I think, a week before the school year ended and moved to Corpus Christi. I had a whole summer ahead of me with no friends. All I had was the promise that I could go and spend time with my friend and she could come down and spend time with us. My older brother, who would be a senior in High School stayed in San Antonio with my Grandmother and Uncle so he could graduate from the same high school because he was going to the Air Force Academy. This left me, my third older brother and my younger brother at home with our parents.
Dad's retirement didn't mean much. He worked a full time job and went to school full time, so when he wasn't working or at school he was studying. The only thing that had changed was the demographics for us. As usual Dad had researched the schools and moved us into the best school district. Unfortunately, this meant the district with the wealthiest families, which we were not.
Come time to enroll in school I was escorted to the counselor's office with my parents. Carolyn Merritt, the enemy at the time, informed me that if I performed as I was capable of performing, there was a good chance that I could skip 9th grade like my oh so smart brother. What no one realized was that I didn't care. By this time, I was my own worst enemy.
I was approached by girls and initially made friends, until I refused to wear purple on purple day, or because my daddy didn't own x number of oil wells and I didn't have any Jordache jeans. It was at this point that I began wearing jeans, my dads combat boots, baggy shirts and a dirty denim jacket. I had my mom put my long hair into teeny tiny braids at night and the next day brush it out into a huge mess. I didn't bathe regularly, I just didn't care. I didn't wear make-up, I just shlumped through life trying to fade into the back ground.
Several teachers tried to reach me. They saw my potential and saw what I was doing to myself, but there was nothing to be done. It wasn't until I found the "loser's club" that I felt at home and found some real friends. Some of these friends I have still today. Some of the teachers who tried to reach me, including Ms. Merritt I have still today. Some of these people helped save me from myself and I would meet even more in High School, but that is another story for another day.
Today is about being lost in a world that doesn't know how to find you. Being lost and not knowing how to find yourself. Being lost and watching the world go on around you as you scream for someone to please, please recognize the agony that your soul is in. Please, please, reach down and pull the pain and hatred out of your being.
When I look back today, it does not surprise me that there were so many young people committing suicide back then. There was no one looking for them. No one to recognize the needs that were out there. The only "help" out there when I was out there was literally sex, drugs and rock and roll. Those were the sub cultures of our youth. You were either a head (drugs), a banger (rock), a cowboy, a slut or a loser (because you wouldn't choose one of the above). I was a loser because I was also a brain. That was the least desirable of the sub cultures (loser-brains). I didn't care.
My parents pushed me, my teachers pushed me and the harder they pushed the harder I pushed back and did as little as possible to pass. I could care less. The future held nothing for me as far as I was concerned. Look at what the past had given me - what could I possibly have to look forward to? There was nothing out in the world I wanted. The world had never given me anything and I expected even less at this point. 8th grade did nothing to change my opinion of the world.
I had yet to find the next window that I was to step through. Depression had a strong hold on me and it was not going to give up easily. It would be a long time coming and many hurdles to cross.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
It's Time for My Scout to Come Home
I did it!! I cried a little. I gave him my Haitian Prayer Angel to tuck down in his trunk, and I talked his ear off about what-if situations - but I did it. I let him go to West Texas for a week. No cell phones, no computers no contact (well, one e-mail from a leader letting us know they had made it through the first day and that the consensus among the boys was that it was fun, but HOT).
I did it, now it's Friday and I don't think I want to wait until tomorrow night to see him. It's time to bring him home. I have proven to myself that I can do it, now I want to be put out of my misery. There are still things I would like to do with him before school starts. Watch him as he sleeps and wonder how he and a Great Dane both fit on a twin bed. Argue with him over getting chores done before he can disappear to a friend's house. Take him school clothes shopping and pretend to be shocked by his choices. Argue about him taking Cotillion classes again this year and then sit back and watch how much fun he has once they start. Oh so many things still to be done.
The main point is - I let him go for a whole 8 days - I gave him to God and God has not let me down. Now bring him home please.
That's all I needed say this morning. What are the lyrics from Les Mis "One more dawn, one more day, one day more!"
Beautiful Bloggable Me
I did it, now it's Friday and I don't think I want to wait until tomorrow night to see him. It's time to bring him home. I have proven to myself that I can do it, now I want to be put out of my misery. There are still things I would like to do with him before school starts. Watch him as he sleeps and wonder how he and a Great Dane both fit on a twin bed. Argue with him over getting chores done before he can disappear to a friend's house. Take him school clothes shopping and pretend to be shocked by his choices. Argue about him taking Cotillion classes again this year and then sit back and watch how much fun he has once they start. Oh so many things still to be done.
The main point is - I let him go for a whole 8 days - I gave him to God and God has not let me down. Now bring him home please.
That's all I needed say this morning. What are the lyrics from Les Mis "One more dawn, one more day, one day more!"
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Please Help Me I'm Falling
Another new school year. I'm big time now - 6th grade - honor society! Mr. Bebon, my first teacher crush. The dude was a coach and he was built. Still in the noisy school, but this year we have a new Principal and his son is in my class. What a problem child. Spoiled, fat and annoying as hell. Just my luck he has a crush on me. He won't leave me alone. One day he slaps my butt as I am handing out papers for Mr. Bebon, I of course slap him across the face. Boys don't do that to ladies, my brothers taught me that. This dork starts chasing me around the classroom, what a stupid ass thing to do. I of course run, it is quite the foot chase until he catches me and pins me against one of the cabinets that divide the classrooms. He keeps pushing and pushing like he's trying to squash me. He won't stop. Then I feel the cabinet starting to tip. I yell for him to stop, that the cabinet is tipping - he doesn't believe me. We all know what is coming - CRASH. Over goes the cabinet and lands on a desk on the other side. thank God there wasn't a student in it at the time, he/she would have been killed. For the first time, that school went quiet. It was shockingly still. We were all looking at each other and I was wondering how the hell I was going to get out of this one. You won't believe it, and sometimes I wonder myself, but someone chose that moment to pull the fire alarm. I was so relieved I almost peed my pants. I knew I could slip away during the chaos of the evacuation. I had it all planned out. I would run home and tell mom what happened so she and dad could help me. Just as our class lined up, Mr. Bebon grabs me by my neck with one hand, he has my nemesis in the other. No escaping this time. I don't remember what the punishment was and that is basically all I remember of 6th grade. The year to come would shadow all of the years to follow.
Dwight D. Eisenhower Jr. High School. I loved that place, I hated that place. Changing classes for the first time. Having lockers for the first time. Tons of new faces. Again, one of the few white kids in the school. I started out in the honor society again this year. The Deltas. Blue and white uniforms. Standing duty in the halls at class changings. I could definitely live without this, and eventually I did. My grades dropped to the point that I was ousted from the Honor Society. Who cares. It was just another way for me to stand out - even worse than I already did.
I don't know how many elementary schools emptied into this one junior high, but it was crowded - and the new kids - the ones I didn't know - had their own kind of mean. I remember being devastated at one point in the school year because some really nasty girls had started the rumor that my brother and I were having sex together. That cut so deep in so many different ways. It was probably because I wasn't allowed to date, neither was he. We weren't old enough, according to our parents. It really doesn't matter why they did it, once it was said there was no going back.
The only refuge I had at this school was the band hall. I can still smell the band hall. For some reason I felt safe there. In the band hall I could stand on my own two feet. My favorite place was the instrument room. It smelled of instrument polish and valve oil. It was safe. Mr. Sidel, the band director, was safe. Don't ask me why, I just knew. During my 7th grade year I played the flute in the 7th grade band and the french horn in the 8th grade band. Band was the only place I felt on equal footing with everyone else. It was the only time I really felt like a member of a team. It felt good. I think that this was the most secure I had felt since coming to the United States.
Little did I know, my world was about to change yet again....
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Dwight D. Eisenhower Jr. High School. I loved that place, I hated that place. Changing classes for the first time. Having lockers for the first time. Tons of new faces. Again, one of the few white kids in the school. I started out in the honor society again this year. The Deltas. Blue and white uniforms. Standing duty in the halls at class changings. I could definitely live without this, and eventually I did. My grades dropped to the point that I was ousted from the Honor Society. Who cares. It was just another way for me to stand out - even worse than I already did.
I don't know how many elementary schools emptied into this one junior high, but it was crowded - and the new kids - the ones I didn't know - had their own kind of mean. I remember being devastated at one point in the school year because some really nasty girls had started the rumor that my brother and I were having sex together. That cut so deep in so many different ways. It was probably because I wasn't allowed to date, neither was he. We weren't old enough, according to our parents. It really doesn't matter why they did it, once it was said there was no going back.
The only refuge I had at this school was the band hall. I can still smell the band hall. For some reason I felt safe there. In the band hall I could stand on my own two feet. My favorite place was the instrument room. It smelled of instrument polish and valve oil. It was safe. Mr. Sidel, the band director, was safe. Don't ask me why, I just knew. During my 7th grade year I played the flute in the 7th grade band and the french horn in the 8th grade band. Band was the only place I felt on equal footing with everyone else. It was the only time I really felt like a member of a team. It felt good. I think that this was the most secure I had felt since coming to the United States.
Little did I know, my world was about to change yet again....
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Friday, April 8, 2011
Another Brief Aside
I have just seen my son off to yet another campout with the Boy Scouts. He sure does love camping and all things Boy Scout. Between BSA and Church Group his social calendar is busier than mine. I am thrilled that he has these outlets. He is very smart and needs the stimulation. I miss him when he is camping and on Mission Trips, but I am glad that he is able to do all the things I never got to.
Okay, I'm happy for him, but my gut will always wonder where he is and what is going on. A couple of weeks ago my husband comes home from the Scout meeting with him and informs me that in July our son will be gone for a whole week. Let me repeat that - he will be gone a whole week - at Boy Scout Summer Camp in West Texas. I think (though some would disagree) that I now know what a guy feels like when he is kicked in the balls. I literally had to catch my breath and compose myself before speaking.
My head and heart are saying hooray for him. He will have a blast and everything will be fine. My gut and my past are screaming in agony. NOOOOO, he can't leave us for a whole week, and not so far away. I can't watch him and protect him so far from home. My head is saying - you know all the leaders and kids who are going, he'll be fine. He'll have a great time and nothing will happen to him. My gut just doesn't trust anyone with my child.
This is where my resolve to keep my past as far from him as I can wars with my anger and mistrust of the world. I have always said that my past is a part of me, but it doesn't dictate who I am...until now. How can I separate the two me's? It's not that I can't let go of him. I realize that he needs these experiences in order to grow. It is my fear that wants to hold on to him and never let him be hurt. He is excited and I am trying to be excited for him, but I gotta tell you, it is going to be the longest week of my life.
When he gets home, all jazzed up from the trip, I will be the most relieved parent on the planet. I will share his experiences and moments of discovery, and I will be truly happy for him - but I will be happier for me. Is that as selfish as it sounds? I can't help it.
All I can ask is for God to watch over my child and help him make good choices and decisions.
But I am still scared.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Okay, I'm happy for him, but my gut will always wonder where he is and what is going on. A couple of weeks ago my husband comes home from the Scout meeting with him and informs me that in July our son will be gone for a whole week. Let me repeat that - he will be gone a whole week - at Boy Scout Summer Camp in West Texas. I think (though some would disagree) that I now know what a guy feels like when he is kicked in the balls. I literally had to catch my breath and compose myself before speaking.
My head and heart are saying hooray for him. He will have a blast and everything will be fine. My gut and my past are screaming in agony. NOOOOO, he can't leave us for a whole week, and not so far away. I can't watch him and protect him so far from home. My head is saying - you know all the leaders and kids who are going, he'll be fine. He'll have a great time and nothing will happen to him. My gut just doesn't trust anyone with my child.
This is where my resolve to keep my past as far from him as I can wars with my anger and mistrust of the world. I have always said that my past is a part of me, but it doesn't dictate who I am...until now. How can I separate the two me's? It's not that I can't let go of him. I realize that he needs these experiences in order to grow. It is my fear that wants to hold on to him and never let him be hurt. He is excited and I am trying to be excited for him, but I gotta tell you, it is going to be the longest week of my life.
When he gets home, all jazzed up from the trip, I will be the most relieved parent on the planet. I will share his experiences and moments of discovery, and I will be truly happy for him - but I will be happier for me. Is that as selfish as it sounds? I can't help it.
All I can ask is for God to watch over my child and help him make good choices and decisions.
But I am still scared.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Down Hill and Up Again
Hill, Michelle's last name was Hill. As warped as it may seem, considering what I talked about last time, I really enjoyed being at her house. I would watch as her mother "scratched" her head before washing it and wonder what the deal was. I loved the music that was always blaring, it was groovy - "don't rock the boat baby". It wasn't all bad, just the pretend playing. Playing dr.
Okay, we are at a new school, Antonio Olivares Elementary school. a huge, modern, open floor plan thing where it was never quiet. Michelle is still around at this point, but I know she is leaving, she told me. I feel like my best friend is going away forever, which she is, I never heard from her once they moved.
I wander, friendless, alone. There are a couple of girls on my block, but the only way they will play with me is if I swallow dry pieces of dog poop like pills first. Looking back, it was humiliating, but hey, I wasn't alone. Then my hill becomes less steep.
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a rabbit fur coat. She has long wavy hair and is the most popular girl in school. Of course, I'm not cool enough for her. I don't speak Spanish, I don't have cool clothes. I wanted her for my friend. MY friend.
One day, without even checking with Mom, I follow her home, straggling behind her and the group of friends she is with. I watch as they go to her house. I finally get my nerve up enough to go and ring the doorbell. A woman opens the door and asks me in. The girls are all in the backyard. I am not welcome, but the woman tells her daughter that I am a guest in their home and that she should be nice to me.
That's how it all started. We are still friends today. She had something I desperately needed - no siblings, and I had just what she needed - rowdy brothers to play with. I can't tell you when we became "sisters", I just know that we are and always will be. We can go months without talking and it's like it was just a day.
I don't know if she knows, I have tried to tell her, how much her friendship has meant all these years. It was her father who bought me my first makeup. He took me to the makeup counter at JC Penney's and she helped pick out my colors. I was so excited and proud. I don't remember what my parents said about the makeup - I don't think I was even allowed to wear it yet. I think that's why her father got if for me, he knew and he cared. All the other girls were wearing it and I stuck out like a sore thumb.
My years of hell were behind me, but again, the damage was done and nothing was going to repair my injured psyche.
Okay, 4th grade. I am secure in my friendships. My life is somewhat normal, if you discount the odd fascination I had with sex and my own body. I knew something was wrong, but it would be a long time before I knew what.
Our family had Bassett Hounds. Short little lazy fat dogs. Adorable, but too small to scare the meaner peoples of the neighborhood away from our house. The kids actually laughed at them and threw rocks at them through the fence. Dad decides we need a better watch dog. One day he comes home with a St. Bernard. Beautiful animal, and I LOVE animals! One day, out of the blue, the dog decides to bite me. Did you know that you can fit a 4th grader's face in the mouth of a St. Bernard?
All I remember is putting a hand to my face and saying - "He bit me!"
The emergency room at Wilford Hall Medical Center. Lights, stabbing pain in my face. Tugging, Dr's talking. My Dad never left my side.
It took close to 200 stitches to close up all of the wounds on my face. I am bandaged up, given anti-biotics and sent home. If I wasn't an interesting enough insect for the bullies at school yet, now, I had hit the trifecta - and the bullies weren't all kids. My 4th grade teacher herself called me dogface. She was a particular nasty piece of works. She took great pleasure in tormenting her students - except for her favorites.
This was really my year for being "different". The dog bite wasn't enough, my Dad decided I was too moody, cried too easily. Off to group therapy. Get picked up from school, in front of everyone by my Dad and go off to become "normal". I was moody, I did cry too easily, hell, I even slumped around with bent shoulders. The dr. was consulted as to whether or not I needed a back brace - good grief - please paint a target on me! My Dad even took me to the dr. because my boobs weren't developing evenly - one was bigger than the other - PLEASE!!!! I don't know how, but I did survive 4th grade.
5th grade - what a change! My teacher is a soft spoken, loving, gentle southern lady. She even knew the relatives of Laura Ingalls Wilder - my hero. How I envied Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I breezed through fifth grade in relative security. If I didn't play dodge ball I was safe, I got left alone. I spent most of my recess time on the far outskirts of the play ground and dirt field it was attached to. I even made a few other friends out there.
One of them lived in a junkyard - literally. Her back yard was scrap cars and all kinds of cool junk. The perfect place to play hide-n-seek or just hang out in. I love junkyards.
I spent the night at another friends house. I spent the night slapping and picking at the fleas that covered me in her house. We didn't even sleep in the same room. I don't know what the purpose of us having a sleep over was. We didn't even get to stay up late. I hate fleas.
All this time, I still had my favorite friend.
I also had something else. I had a NEED, a NEED to find God. I loved going to Church. I went with whomever I could. I did Catholic, Baptist and a few that I have no clue, let's just call them very enthusiastic Christians.
At one Church, I personally witnessed mass hysteria, heck, I even joined in. I remember, I had a cast on my arm (I was soooo clumsy) and I couldn't stop sobbing. Their father actually had to carry me to the truck from the service. I have never experienced that again.
God always WAS. I knew he was there somewhere, I just needed to find him. I needed to find that next window to step through.
Beautiful, Bloggable Me
Okay, we are at a new school, Antonio Olivares Elementary school. a huge, modern, open floor plan thing where it was never quiet. Michelle is still around at this point, but I know she is leaving, she told me. I feel like my best friend is going away forever, which she is, I never heard from her once they moved.
I wander, friendless, alone. There are a couple of girls on my block, but the only way they will play with me is if I swallow dry pieces of dog poop like pills first. Looking back, it was humiliating, but hey, I wasn't alone. Then my hill becomes less steep.
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a rabbit fur coat. She has long wavy hair and is the most popular girl in school. Of course, I'm not cool enough for her. I don't speak Spanish, I don't have cool clothes. I wanted her for my friend. MY friend.
One day, without even checking with Mom, I follow her home, straggling behind her and the group of friends she is with. I watch as they go to her house. I finally get my nerve up enough to go and ring the doorbell. A woman opens the door and asks me in. The girls are all in the backyard. I am not welcome, but the woman tells her daughter that I am a guest in their home and that she should be nice to me.
That's how it all started. We are still friends today. She had something I desperately needed - no siblings, and I had just what she needed - rowdy brothers to play with. I can't tell you when we became "sisters", I just know that we are and always will be. We can go months without talking and it's like it was just a day.
I don't know if she knows, I have tried to tell her, how much her friendship has meant all these years. It was her father who bought me my first makeup. He took me to the makeup counter at JC Penney's and she helped pick out my colors. I was so excited and proud. I don't remember what my parents said about the makeup - I don't think I was even allowed to wear it yet. I think that's why her father got if for me, he knew and he cared. All the other girls were wearing it and I stuck out like a sore thumb.
My years of hell were behind me, but again, the damage was done and nothing was going to repair my injured psyche.
Okay, 4th grade. I am secure in my friendships. My life is somewhat normal, if you discount the odd fascination I had with sex and my own body. I knew something was wrong, but it would be a long time before I knew what.
Our family had Bassett Hounds. Short little lazy fat dogs. Adorable, but too small to scare the meaner peoples of the neighborhood away from our house. The kids actually laughed at them and threw rocks at them through the fence. Dad decides we need a better watch dog. One day he comes home with a St. Bernard. Beautiful animal, and I LOVE animals! One day, out of the blue, the dog decides to bite me. Did you know that you can fit a 4th grader's face in the mouth of a St. Bernard?
All I remember is putting a hand to my face and saying - "He bit me!"
The emergency room at Wilford Hall Medical Center. Lights, stabbing pain in my face. Tugging, Dr's talking. My Dad never left my side.
It took close to 200 stitches to close up all of the wounds on my face. I am bandaged up, given anti-biotics and sent home. If I wasn't an interesting enough insect for the bullies at school yet, now, I had hit the trifecta - and the bullies weren't all kids. My 4th grade teacher herself called me dogface. She was a particular nasty piece of works. She took great pleasure in tormenting her students - except for her favorites.
This was really my year for being "different". The dog bite wasn't enough, my Dad decided I was too moody, cried too easily. Off to group therapy. Get picked up from school, in front of everyone by my Dad and go off to become "normal". I was moody, I did cry too easily, hell, I even slumped around with bent shoulders. The dr. was consulted as to whether or not I needed a back brace - good grief - please paint a target on me! My Dad even took me to the dr. because my boobs weren't developing evenly - one was bigger than the other - PLEASE!!!! I don't know how, but I did survive 4th grade.
5th grade - what a change! My teacher is a soft spoken, loving, gentle southern lady. She even knew the relatives of Laura Ingalls Wilder - my hero. How I envied Laura Ingalls Wilder.
I breezed through fifth grade in relative security. If I didn't play dodge ball I was safe, I got left alone. I spent most of my recess time on the far outskirts of the play ground and dirt field it was attached to. I even made a few other friends out there.
One of them lived in a junkyard - literally. Her back yard was scrap cars and all kinds of cool junk. The perfect place to play hide-n-seek or just hang out in. I love junkyards.
I spent the night at another friends house. I spent the night slapping and picking at the fleas that covered me in her house. We didn't even sleep in the same room. I don't know what the purpose of us having a sleep over was. We didn't even get to stay up late. I hate fleas.
All this time, I still had my favorite friend.
I also had something else. I had a NEED, a NEED to find God. I loved going to Church. I went with whomever I could. I did Catholic, Baptist and a few that I have no clue, let's just call them very enthusiastic Christians.
At one Church, I personally witnessed mass hysteria, heck, I even joined in. I remember, I had a cast on my arm (I was soooo clumsy) and I couldn't stop sobbing. Their father actually had to carry me to the truck from the service. I have never experienced that again.
God always WAS. I knew he was there somewhere, I just needed to find him. I needed to find that next window to step through.
Beautiful, Bloggable Me
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Start Spreading the News
Where were we? Oh, yeah, the plane lands in beautiful New York. I couldn't tell you where specifically, but we were state-side.
To my parents knowledge, we were supposed to go to Colorado Springs from New York - but wait - a new packet of orders waiting for Dad. We are to proceed to San Antonio, TX - do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Now, to some people, this would not be an issue, however, my father being who he was, had already researched schools in Colorado Springs and picked a place for us to live, close to the base of course. San Antonio was an unknown, a mystery to us all.
To San Antonio then. Brooks AFB, we are housed here temporarily until Dad can find a house close to Kelly AFB - his new duty station, and until our household goods arrive from over-seas. We don't even have a car. Somewhere Dad finds a VW Bug - mind you, we are a family of 7 - he finds a bug. The baby sits on Mom's lap, the three older boys share the backseat and I lay on the top of the backseat. It was like a window ledge. One day the window ledge gave out and I found to my delight a little cubby sort of place for me to sit more comfortably. We tootle around S.A. in this bug and then a house is found near the base and our furnishings arrive. Compared to housing today, this house was tiny. It had three four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, dining/kitchen room and a not too small backyard. What this house also had was the area of S.A. it was located in - the armpit of TX.
In this neighborhood I would make my first new friends, and enemies. The family that lived next door were very nice, unfortunately they barely spoke English, and Spanish sounding so much like Italian to me I immediately tried talking in Italian. I was greeted by Texmex Spanish and a wall came crashing down in my poor little brain. To this day, I have been unable to learn Spanish - the mental block is too firmly entrenched. The girl I met, however, would become one of my best friends and her parents always welcomed me in their home. I can still smell homemade tortillas cooking over an open flame on the stove, and oh, the beans were heavenly.
Dad had to report to duty asap so he did not really get a good chance to investigate the schools, or the area. For a while, I attended a private school with my older brother, but was so unhappy there I actually wrote a paper, perfectly I might add, in mirror script. My parents were advised to pull me out and send me to public school. So I went, and this is where everything spins out of my control and my life is forever changed. Hutchins Elementary School, armpit of S.A., TX. I was ill equipped to deal with the peers I encountered here. I had been taught to be respectful, honest, trustworthy and trusting. Trusting - this is the most dangerous thing a child can be taught to be.
This particular blog is going to be the most difficult to get through, I think. So much happened in that period of my life. It has totally made me who I am today, and as weird as that sounds, good has come out of the bad.
The Bad
Her name was Michelle. I don't remember her last name, all I remember is that we made friends quickly and fast - as in we were fast friends.
She had brothers and sisters in Jr. High and High School. We were little 2nd graders who looked up to everyone older than us. We loved playing together, but then her brothers and sisters decided to play too. I still remember the first time her older brother "played" with me. There was no easing into it, no mild molestation, it was full on sex from the beginning. When he was done with me that first time, I thought he had urinated on me until he told me that I was silly, this was the stuff that made babies.
I walked around terrified for the longest time thinking I was going to have a baby and wondering what I would tell my parents. Of course this didn't happen, 2nd graders are incapable of procreation, but I didn't know that.
These games went on forever and eventually other neighborhood boys joined in. I can still go back today and point out the houses where I was, bottom line, raped, and where I was taught to perform a strip-tease. My older brother was also part of these games. We really had no clue.
My "games" went on until about 4th - 5th grade. I don't really remember, I just know it kept happening day after day, week after week --- forever.
Michelle finally moved away, but that didn't matter, the damage was done. My "games" may have finally ended, but there were still issues. Our Uncle lived with our Grandmother just across the street from us. He tried "feeling me up" a couple of times, but I was so uncomfortable with this that I said something to Mom and she put a stop to it. Don't ask me why I didn't tell her about the other stuff, I was a kid, what did I know? All I knew was that Uncle was an adult and that somehow made it different.
Looking back, I sometimes wish I hadn't put a stop to things with Uncle, maybe then he would have left my brother alone? Who knows? He was a pedophile, most likely unpreferrential, since he had girly magazines in the trunk by his bed, but he still went after my brother and none of us knew. I always used to wonder why he preferred my brother's company to mine when friends would visit him from home. He also used to prefer my friends company when he did take us out, like to the zoo or something. I used be jealous because he would pay more attention to my friends than to me, his own niece.
In the long run, he got his. He died a slow painful death of lung cancer. I should know, I was there. I sat in his hospital room and counted his breaths and watched him in agony. This may seem cold, un-Christian, but it is what it is. It is my belief that people who molest children should die slow, agonizing deaths.
I didn't tell my mother about what happened to me until I was 13 or 14. When I did tell her, she responded by saying that it was a good thing I hadn't told sooner or my Father would be in prison for murdering the boys involved. Maybe I had sensed this long ago and that was why I hadn't said anything. As it was, it wasn't until we left S.A. that I did tell her.
Okay, I need a break. I'll get back with the rest of this story later. Thanks for sticking with me.
Beautiful, Bloggable Me
To my parents knowledge, we were supposed to go to Colorado Springs from New York - but wait - a new packet of orders waiting for Dad. We are to proceed to San Antonio, TX - do not pass go, do not collect $200.
Now, to some people, this would not be an issue, however, my father being who he was, had already researched schools in Colorado Springs and picked a place for us to live, close to the base of course. San Antonio was an unknown, a mystery to us all.
To San Antonio then. Brooks AFB, we are housed here temporarily until Dad can find a house close to Kelly AFB - his new duty station, and until our household goods arrive from over-seas. We don't even have a car. Somewhere Dad finds a VW Bug - mind you, we are a family of 7 - he finds a bug. The baby sits on Mom's lap, the three older boys share the backseat and I lay on the top of the backseat. It was like a window ledge. One day the window ledge gave out and I found to my delight a little cubby sort of place for me to sit more comfortably. We tootle around S.A. in this bug and then a house is found near the base and our furnishings arrive. Compared to housing today, this house was tiny. It had three four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, dining/kitchen room and a not too small backyard. What this house also had was the area of S.A. it was located in - the armpit of TX.
In this neighborhood I would make my first new friends, and enemies. The family that lived next door were very nice, unfortunately they barely spoke English, and Spanish sounding so much like Italian to me I immediately tried talking in Italian. I was greeted by Texmex Spanish and a wall came crashing down in my poor little brain. To this day, I have been unable to learn Spanish - the mental block is too firmly entrenched. The girl I met, however, would become one of my best friends and her parents always welcomed me in their home. I can still smell homemade tortillas cooking over an open flame on the stove, and oh, the beans were heavenly.
Dad had to report to duty asap so he did not really get a good chance to investigate the schools, or the area. For a while, I attended a private school with my older brother, but was so unhappy there I actually wrote a paper, perfectly I might add, in mirror script. My parents were advised to pull me out and send me to public school. So I went, and this is where everything spins out of my control and my life is forever changed. Hutchins Elementary School, armpit of S.A., TX. I was ill equipped to deal with the peers I encountered here. I had been taught to be respectful, honest, trustworthy and trusting. Trusting - this is the most dangerous thing a child can be taught to be.
This particular blog is going to be the most difficult to get through, I think. So much happened in that period of my life. It has totally made me who I am today, and as weird as that sounds, good has come out of the bad.
The Bad
Her name was Michelle. I don't remember her last name, all I remember is that we made friends quickly and fast - as in we were fast friends.
She had brothers and sisters in Jr. High and High School. We were little 2nd graders who looked up to everyone older than us. We loved playing together, but then her brothers and sisters decided to play too. I still remember the first time her older brother "played" with me. There was no easing into it, no mild molestation, it was full on sex from the beginning. When he was done with me that first time, I thought he had urinated on me until he told me that I was silly, this was the stuff that made babies.
I walked around terrified for the longest time thinking I was going to have a baby and wondering what I would tell my parents. Of course this didn't happen, 2nd graders are incapable of procreation, but I didn't know that.
These games went on forever and eventually other neighborhood boys joined in. I can still go back today and point out the houses where I was, bottom line, raped, and where I was taught to perform a strip-tease. My older brother was also part of these games. We really had no clue.
My "games" went on until about 4th - 5th grade. I don't really remember, I just know it kept happening day after day, week after week --- forever.
Michelle finally moved away, but that didn't matter, the damage was done. My "games" may have finally ended, but there were still issues. Our Uncle lived with our Grandmother just across the street from us. He tried "feeling me up" a couple of times, but I was so uncomfortable with this that I said something to Mom and she put a stop to it. Don't ask me why I didn't tell her about the other stuff, I was a kid, what did I know? All I knew was that Uncle was an adult and that somehow made it different.
Looking back, I sometimes wish I hadn't put a stop to things with Uncle, maybe then he would have left my brother alone? Who knows? He was a pedophile, most likely unpreferrential, since he had girly magazines in the trunk by his bed, but he still went after my brother and none of us knew. I always used to wonder why he preferred my brother's company to mine when friends would visit him from home. He also used to prefer my friends company when he did take us out, like to the zoo or something. I used be jealous because he would pay more attention to my friends than to me, his own niece.
In the long run, he got his. He died a slow painful death of lung cancer. I should know, I was there. I sat in his hospital room and counted his breaths and watched him in agony. This may seem cold, un-Christian, but it is what it is. It is my belief that people who molest children should die slow, agonizing deaths.
I didn't tell my mother about what happened to me until I was 13 or 14. When I did tell her, she responded by saying that it was a good thing I hadn't told sooner or my Father would be in prison for murdering the boys involved. Maybe I had sensed this long ago and that was why I hadn't said anything. As it was, it wasn't until we left S.A. that I did tell her.
Okay, I need a break. I'll get back with the rest of this story later. Thanks for sticking with me.
Beautiful, Bloggable Me
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A (Brief?) Aside
I would like to take a look at grief and forgiveness today. Both of these things are really on my heart, have been for a couple of days.
Grief entered my heart just a few minutes ago when I learned of the death of a wonderful woman. She was there to help us with Christopher's education when no one else would. Susan Owens was the Principle at Round Rock Christian Academy for (I believe) over 30 years. I got to know her as we worked together to make sure that Christopher was getting the education he needed and the molding as a person that all young people need. She was an amazingly loving, Christian woman who was there in some of the hardest times of my life, and Christopher's life. We will miss her and be forever grateful for what she brought to our family. My heart goes out to her husband, children and grand-children whom she loved most dearly.
The topic of forgiveness entered my heart the other night as I cried through the movie version of an incredible book that will always have a place on my book shelf - Amish Grace.
I cried through the book, and seeing the raw emotions of these gentle people on screen, portrayed so well, I cried through the movie. If you have not read the book, you really should. This book could teach all of us a vital lesson, regardless of what Churches we belong to.
As I watched the movie and recalled the book, one huge question drummed in my mind. Would I, as a parent, be able to forgive anyone who harmed my child in any way? Some of the young ladies survived their ordeal at the Nickel Mines School, but 5 did not. If Christopher were to come to any harm, well, the thought leaves me with the sickest of sickest feelings in my gut. If he were not here, there would be a hole in my heart and life. How can one face this, and also forgive this? I think I would go mad and rage against anyone who tried to tell me that it was God's will, that He had called my child home to him. Yet, I have always believed that God has a purpose and a plan for each of us, so how can I sit here and question God's will?
The Amish members of the Nickel Mines community gave us an example of God's Grace in times of tragedy. They also shared with the English community their wisdom and strength in this awful time.
Many people think that forgiveness is a one time thing. You forgive and you forget the wrong that has been done to you. The wise men and women of this community taught me a new understanding of forgiveness.
I would like to share with you some of their wisdom and strength. The following are direct quotes from the book Amish Grace, and also from the movie. You will find no names following these quotes, the Amish are a humble people and seek no individual attention, but act as a community and give all credit to God.
"This is about living our lives with a calm courage that understands that survival lies in reaching out, not striking back."
"Just because I have forgiven, does not mean the pain goes away. I wake up and the pain tears me apart inside, but then I hand the pain to God, and I forgive the person who caused the pain and I feel better for it. This I sometimes have to do many times a day. Forgiving does not mean the absence of pain, but rather, forgiving is the only way to handle the pain. If I did not forgive, sometimes many times a day, and turn to God, I would wonder how a person stays sane."
"We are not the only victims here. This poor woman lost her husband, her children lost a father. This was not their doing, how can we turn our backs on our own neighbor?"
I should note here, that the woman in question is the wife of the man who killed these girls. She was welcomed as a neighbor and the Amish grieved her loss as much as they grieved their own. A group of Elders visited her home and extended the hand of love and offered any help she might need. They brought food and toys for the children and attended her husband's funeral in full support of her and her family.
Now some quotes, also from the book, but not from the Amish. Everett L. Worthington was asked, by the author, to help in the understanding of forgiveness in the face of such an evil act.
"Decisional forgiveness is a personal commitment to control negative behavior, even if negative emotions continue...promises not to act in revenge or avoidance, but it doesn't necessarily make a person feel less unforgiving."
"Emotional forgiveness happens when negative emotions, resentment, hostility, and even hatred are replaced by positive feelings."
Did I miss something somewhere? Is it so easy to replace negative emotions with positive ones? Is this possible? Could I do it? These are questions we all must ask ourselves, sometimes many times a day.
With the plethora of hate in the world today, I ask the simple question: Are we able to forgive and extend the hand of friendship to those around us?
Maybe we need to start in our own houses and work our way out. Forgiveness, I think, is like crime - it gets easier after the first time.
My prayer is that we can learn from our neighbors, take the lessons to heart and do our best to apply them in our own lives.
As to my original question. I don't know if I would be able to forgive someone who injured my child and I pray to God I need never find out.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Grief entered my heart just a few minutes ago when I learned of the death of a wonderful woman. She was there to help us with Christopher's education when no one else would. Susan Owens was the Principle at Round Rock Christian Academy for (I believe) over 30 years. I got to know her as we worked together to make sure that Christopher was getting the education he needed and the molding as a person that all young people need. She was an amazingly loving, Christian woman who was there in some of the hardest times of my life, and Christopher's life. We will miss her and be forever grateful for what she brought to our family. My heart goes out to her husband, children and grand-children whom she loved most dearly.
The topic of forgiveness entered my heart the other night as I cried through the movie version of an incredible book that will always have a place on my book shelf - Amish Grace.
I cried through the book, and seeing the raw emotions of these gentle people on screen, portrayed so well, I cried through the movie. If you have not read the book, you really should. This book could teach all of us a vital lesson, regardless of what Churches we belong to.
As I watched the movie and recalled the book, one huge question drummed in my mind. Would I, as a parent, be able to forgive anyone who harmed my child in any way? Some of the young ladies survived their ordeal at the Nickel Mines School, but 5 did not. If Christopher were to come to any harm, well, the thought leaves me with the sickest of sickest feelings in my gut. If he were not here, there would be a hole in my heart and life. How can one face this, and also forgive this? I think I would go mad and rage against anyone who tried to tell me that it was God's will, that He had called my child home to him. Yet, I have always believed that God has a purpose and a plan for each of us, so how can I sit here and question God's will?
The Amish members of the Nickel Mines community gave us an example of God's Grace in times of tragedy. They also shared with the English community their wisdom and strength in this awful time.
Many people think that forgiveness is a one time thing. You forgive and you forget the wrong that has been done to you. The wise men and women of this community taught me a new understanding of forgiveness.
I would like to share with you some of their wisdom and strength. The following are direct quotes from the book Amish Grace, and also from the movie. You will find no names following these quotes, the Amish are a humble people and seek no individual attention, but act as a community and give all credit to God.
"This is about living our lives with a calm courage that understands that survival lies in reaching out, not striking back."
"Just because I have forgiven, does not mean the pain goes away. I wake up and the pain tears me apart inside, but then I hand the pain to God, and I forgive the person who caused the pain and I feel better for it. This I sometimes have to do many times a day. Forgiving does not mean the absence of pain, but rather, forgiving is the only way to handle the pain. If I did not forgive, sometimes many times a day, and turn to God, I would wonder how a person stays sane."
"We are not the only victims here. This poor woman lost her husband, her children lost a father. This was not their doing, how can we turn our backs on our own neighbor?"
I should note here, that the woman in question is the wife of the man who killed these girls. She was welcomed as a neighbor and the Amish grieved her loss as much as they grieved their own. A group of Elders visited her home and extended the hand of love and offered any help she might need. They brought food and toys for the children and attended her husband's funeral in full support of her and her family.
Now some quotes, also from the book, but not from the Amish. Everett L. Worthington was asked, by the author, to help in the understanding of forgiveness in the face of such an evil act.
"Decisional forgiveness is a personal commitment to control negative behavior, even if negative emotions continue...promises not to act in revenge or avoidance, but it doesn't necessarily make a person feel less unforgiving."
"Emotional forgiveness happens when negative emotions, resentment, hostility, and even hatred are replaced by positive feelings."
Did I miss something somewhere? Is it so easy to replace negative emotions with positive ones? Is this possible? Could I do it? These are questions we all must ask ourselves, sometimes many times a day.
With the plethora of hate in the world today, I ask the simple question: Are we able to forgive and extend the hand of friendship to those around us?
Maybe we need to start in our own houses and work our way out. Forgiveness, I think, is like crime - it gets easier after the first time.
My prayer is that we can learn from our neighbors, take the lessons to heart and do our best to apply them in our own lives.
As to my original question. I don't know if I would be able to forgive someone who injured my child and I pray to God I need never find out.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Clean Slate
Okay, in order to go forward we must needs go back a little.
Explanation: I was on the roof because in Italy that was the backyard. Laundry was hung on the roof, dogs and all pets lived on the roof. I should state that it was, actually, our dog who pushed me off the edge. It was also our dog who let Mom know where I was, she saw his chain dangling over the edge and that is how she found me.
So here I am, a clean slate. The only memory I have from this is pain - not the pain you might be thinking. I don't recall the pain from my injuries - but I move forward too soon. After I was retrieved from the roof and woke up in the Italian hospital, the Air Force - due to the severity of my condition - commandeered a civilian flight and had me flown to Wiesbaden, Germany. The plane had to fly below a certain altitude because I had a blood clot behind or in one of my ears. Above a certain altitude and the clot breaks free and lodges where it can do more damage. So, below some certain altitude I am flown to Germany.
Here I spent a long period with my legs in traction and casts on my arms. I was in traction so long that I actually developed an ulcer on the side of my leg, the scar from which you can still see today. My parents took turns staying with me in the hospital, while back in Italy the other parent took care of the family with help from our military and village friends. It was during this time that I remember the pain. Back then the best pain reliever was Morphine and I got plenty of it - until the day I asked for it. The doctor said that when a five year old asks for a shot, it is time to say no. Of all the pain I could have remembered this one was the worst. I can definitely empathize with anyone suffering withdrawals from any kind of drug. The pain wracks your whole body and you see/hear some funky stuff - kind of like dawn of the dead- you are alive and awake, but you aren't and you can't sleep either. You are caught in an in-between world that exists only for you.
After traction came the body cast. From my shoulders to my toes and both arms all immobilized by plaster. The itching was unbearable - it was truly a difficult time for my entire family. I was allowed to return to Italy in the body cast and I spent the time in the arms of those who loved me. I know it was as difficult for them as it was for me. Can you imagine the whining of a five year old with an itch that can't be scratched? I also remember my family having to put my "potty bowl" underneath me whenever I had to go. As I recall, it was red. I remember how it felt being on it. I remember how it felt when someone (either one of my parents or one of my two oldest brothers) lifted me using the bar that was in place between my legs to stabilize the cast. I think about it now and get a lurch in my stomach at the memory of it.
I couldn't tell you how long I was in the cast - forever maybe? I can tell you that when I went back to Germany and had it removed all of my skin was brown and crackly dry - I thought the itching was bad before! What followed the removal was a long time in rehab. The hospital had these stainless steel, deep whirlpools that I used to have to sit in because that was the only way I could bend my legs without pain. I would sit in one and look down through the bubbles and see my legs moving and be surprised that I could do it. I also remember sitting in bathtubs of warm water to re-hydrate my poor skin.
By the time I left Weisbaden for the last time I was able to walk with crutches - barely. On my return to Italy I was miserable. It had been cold in Germany so I was wearing red wool tights, but Italy was fairly warm. I was standing propped against my bed, covered in my beloved "Ballerina" bead spread. It was so pretty with pink and blue ballerina's all over it - I had it for a long time, even after it was wearing thin. So, here I was propped against my bed in my room, at home,finally. I realize I need to go to the bathroom. I called for my Mother to help me - she was busy - she called back to get my crutches and go on my own - the only problem was they were on one side of the room and I was on the other. Do you have any idea how itchy wool tights can be when you wet yourself? I imagine you don't since most tights today are not real wool. I stood there, and wet myself, and cried. When Mom was able to come to me I know she felt bad because she didn't realize I couldn't reach my crutches. She got me cleaned up and that is last memory I have of my recovery time.
Fast forward a little while, and we are on a plane headed for the United States. I am wearing a silky (polyester) skirt set in navy blue and red print. I loved that outfit, I still remember how the skirt swung around my legs. I remember my white socks and black mary-janes. I have a doll with me and she is hanging up-side down with her feet lodged in the handle on the back of the seat in front of me and I am brushing her long, silky hair. My parents and brothers are in the seats around me and none of us knows of the surprise waiting for us when we land in New York. A surprise that would change all of our lives forever.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Explanation: I was on the roof because in Italy that was the backyard. Laundry was hung on the roof, dogs and all pets lived on the roof. I should state that it was, actually, our dog who pushed me off the edge. It was also our dog who let Mom know where I was, she saw his chain dangling over the edge and that is how she found me.
So here I am, a clean slate. The only memory I have from this is pain - not the pain you might be thinking. I don't recall the pain from my injuries - but I move forward too soon. After I was retrieved from the roof and woke up in the Italian hospital, the Air Force - due to the severity of my condition - commandeered a civilian flight and had me flown to Wiesbaden, Germany. The plane had to fly below a certain altitude because I had a blood clot behind or in one of my ears. Above a certain altitude and the clot breaks free and lodges where it can do more damage. So, below some certain altitude I am flown to Germany.
Here I spent a long period with my legs in traction and casts on my arms. I was in traction so long that I actually developed an ulcer on the side of my leg, the scar from which you can still see today. My parents took turns staying with me in the hospital, while back in Italy the other parent took care of the family with help from our military and village friends. It was during this time that I remember the pain. Back then the best pain reliever was Morphine and I got plenty of it - until the day I asked for it. The doctor said that when a five year old asks for a shot, it is time to say no. Of all the pain I could have remembered this one was the worst. I can definitely empathize with anyone suffering withdrawals from any kind of drug. The pain wracks your whole body and you see/hear some funky stuff - kind of like dawn of the dead- you are alive and awake, but you aren't and you can't sleep either. You are caught in an in-between world that exists only for you.
After traction came the body cast. From my shoulders to my toes and both arms all immobilized by plaster. The itching was unbearable - it was truly a difficult time for my entire family. I was allowed to return to Italy in the body cast and I spent the time in the arms of those who loved me. I know it was as difficult for them as it was for me. Can you imagine the whining of a five year old with an itch that can't be scratched? I also remember my family having to put my "potty bowl" underneath me whenever I had to go. As I recall, it was red. I remember how it felt being on it. I remember how it felt when someone (either one of my parents or one of my two oldest brothers) lifted me using the bar that was in place between my legs to stabilize the cast. I think about it now and get a lurch in my stomach at the memory of it.
I couldn't tell you how long I was in the cast - forever maybe? I can tell you that when I went back to Germany and had it removed all of my skin was brown and crackly dry - I thought the itching was bad before! What followed the removal was a long time in rehab. The hospital had these stainless steel, deep whirlpools that I used to have to sit in because that was the only way I could bend my legs without pain. I would sit in one and look down through the bubbles and see my legs moving and be surprised that I could do it. I also remember sitting in bathtubs of warm water to re-hydrate my poor skin.
By the time I left Weisbaden for the last time I was able to walk with crutches - barely. On my return to Italy I was miserable. It had been cold in Germany so I was wearing red wool tights, but Italy was fairly warm. I was standing propped against my bed, covered in my beloved "Ballerina" bead spread. It was so pretty with pink and blue ballerina's all over it - I had it for a long time, even after it was wearing thin. So, here I was propped against my bed in my room, at home,finally. I realize I need to go to the bathroom. I called for my Mother to help me - she was busy - she called back to get my crutches and go on my own - the only problem was they were on one side of the room and I was on the other. Do you have any idea how itchy wool tights can be when you wet yourself? I imagine you don't since most tights today are not real wool. I stood there, and wet myself, and cried. When Mom was able to come to me I know she felt bad because she didn't realize I couldn't reach my crutches. She got me cleaned up and that is last memory I have of my recovery time.
Fast forward a little while, and we are on a plane headed for the United States. I am wearing a silky (polyester) skirt set in navy blue and red print. I loved that outfit, I still remember how the skirt swung around my legs. I remember my white socks and black mary-janes. I have a doll with me and she is hanging up-side down with her feet lodged in the handle on the back of the seat in front of me and I am brushing her long, silky hair. My parents and brothers are in the seats around me and none of us knows of the surprise waiting for us when we land in New York. A surprise that would change all of our lives forever.
Beautiful Bloggable Me
Sunday, January 30, 2011
My First Steps
It is said that when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. It is our choice whether to step through these windows or not...I have chosen to step.
It was not too long ago, probably about a year, maybe a year and a half, that I was at a meeting at Church and someone asked me what I was doing there, it was at this point that I realized I was a Window Stepper. It was the only answer I could come up with... I was stepping through a window that God had provided for me. How I got to this particular window, and why I chose to step through it will become more clear as this blog continues, for now, let us just say that at that moment in my life I had become a professional window stepper.
I guess this blog is going to be a sort of journal, and if you choose, you can come on this journey with me. Maybe you will like it, maybe you won't, but the choice to step through this window is entirely your own.
I hope you will join me, I believe I have some things to say...some pretty profound things...and I hope that they will help you in your journey through life and windows.
I don't remember much about my early childhood, I was a baby. I know I was born in Colorado Springs at the Air Force Academy hospital. I know that my father was stationed at NORAD when I was born and that my mother stayed at home and took care of me and my three older brothers (more about them later). From this point on, my life was a whirlwind of travel from one military posting to another through England, Germany and Italy. My father at some point left for Vietnam. I wasn't even talking when he left and when he returned I didn't recognize him. From our reunion on I am told I was a daddy's girl, had him wrapped around my little finger. From my later life, I know this to be true - we were very close.
My earliest memory is from Christmas in Germany. I remember holding a package wrapped in tissue paper and I hear my mother's voice telling me to "be careful - it bites". Inside was a beautiful golden bear with jointed shoulders and hips and head. I couldn't tell you what I named him, I just knew he was and that I loved him. I can also tell you that he is now safely tucked away in my cedar chest - a little weather worn, but still whole and still golden. He is not alone, but he is the one I remember the most. Any other memories are not really memories, but sounds and smells and feelings. Smells are the strongest link to my past. I can smell warm tar and immediately be taken back to Italy, not any concrete images, but the feelings I felt there. In looking back, I think Italy was the last place I felt completely safe, maybe that is why I try so hard to go back.
When I was four, my younger brother was born. I wasn't really thrilled with the idea apparently. I woke him up from his nap one day and was so afraid of getting into trouble I put a pillow over his face to stop his crying - thank goodness Mom was nearby or I wouldn't have the wonderful brother that he is today. After Germany we went to Italy and it is here, I believe, my window stepping began.
According to family members, I was a very friendly child. I would speak to strangers as if I had known them all my life. I was also very trusting of the world around me. In the village where we lived I had friends in the neighborhood. There was the little cat's mother and the cobbler around the corner - I still love the smell of good leather. There was also the man who stood on the corner in the mornings and gave us children fresh green beans to munch on. It must have been wonderful - I don't remember. Somewhere in my fifth year of life, whether beginning or ending I don't know, I fell off of the roof of our apartment and landed two floors below on the roof next door. Needless to say, I was as broken as a puppet without strings. Two broken legs, two broken arms, a shattered wrist and, to top it all off, a double skull fracture.
Our neighborhood friends helped get me down, my oldest brother was the first to reach me and he told our mother "her brains are coming out!" After that an Italian taxi took me to the nearest hospital where I woke up four days later sans memories or capabilities. I was back in diapers and eating eggs out of the shell with a straw. Everything I knew or had known was gone, I was a clean slate ready to be written on.
I'll leave this now and come back with Chapter 2 later. Take care and be well my friends and readers (hopefully both).
Beautiful Bloggable Me
It was not too long ago, probably about a year, maybe a year and a half, that I was at a meeting at Church and someone asked me what I was doing there, it was at this point that I realized I was a Window Stepper. It was the only answer I could come up with... I was stepping through a window that God had provided for me. How I got to this particular window, and why I chose to step through it will become more clear as this blog continues, for now, let us just say that at that moment in my life I had become a professional window stepper.
I guess this blog is going to be a sort of journal, and if you choose, you can come on this journey with me. Maybe you will like it, maybe you won't, but the choice to step through this window is entirely your own.
I hope you will join me, I believe I have some things to say...some pretty profound things...and I hope that they will help you in your journey through life and windows.
I don't remember much about my early childhood, I was a baby. I know I was born in Colorado Springs at the Air Force Academy hospital. I know that my father was stationed at NORAD when I was born and that my mother stayed at home and took care of me and my three older brothers (more about them later). From this point on, my life was a whirlwind of travel from one military posting to another through England, Germany and Italy. My father at some point left for Vietnam. I wasn't even talking when he left and when he returned I didn't recognize him. From our reunion on I am told I was a daddy's girl, had him wrapped around my little finger. From my later life, I know this to be true - we were very close.
My earliest memory is from Christmas in Germany. I remember holding a package wrapped in tissue paper and I hear my mother's voice telling me to "be careful - it bites". Inside was a beautiful golden bear with jointed shoulders and hips and head. I couldn't tell you what I named him, I just knew he was and that I loved him. I can also tell you that he is now safely tucked away in my cedar chest - a little weather worn, but still whole and still golden. He is not alone, but he is the one I remember the most. Any other memories are not really memories, but sounds and smells and feelings. Smells are the strongest link to my past. I can smell warm tar and immediately be taken back to Italy, not any concrete images, but the feelings I felt there. In looking back, I think Italy was the last place I felt completely safe, maybe that is why I try so hard to go back.
When I was four, my younger brother was born. I wasn't really thrilled with the idea apparently. I woke him up from his nap one day and was so afraid of getting into trouble I put a pillow over his face to stop his crying - thank goodness Mom was nearby or I wouldn't have the wonderful brother that he is today. After Germany we went to Italy and it is here, I believe, my window stepping began.
According to family members, I was a very friendly child. I would speak to strangers as if I had known them all my life. I was also very trusting of the world around me. In the village where we lived I had friends in the neighborhood. There was the little cat's mother and the cobbler around the corner - I still love the smell of good leather. There was also the man who stood on the corner in the mornings and gave us children fresh green beans to munch on. It must have been wonderful - I don't remember. Somewhere in my fifth year of life, whether beginning or ending I don't know, I fell off of the roof of our apartment and landed two floors below on the roof next door. Needless to say, I was as broken as a puppet without strings. Two broken legs, two broken arms, a shattered wrist and, to top it all off, a double skull fracture.
Our neighborhood friends helped get me down, my oldest brother was the first to reach me and he told our mother "her brains are coming out!" After that an Italian taxi took me to the nearest hospital where I woke up four days later sans memories or capabilities. I was back in diapers and eating eggs out of the shell with a straw. Everything I knew or had known was gone, I was a clean slate ready to be written on.
I'll leave this now and come back with Chapter 2 later. Take care and be well my friends and readers (hopefully both).
Beautiful Bloggable Me
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