Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part One)

When my parents were married, I remember being a normal kid for the family life we had. I tried hard to make my parents happy. Mom never seemed pleased. Dad did, but then he was rarely home. Words like TDY and graveyard shift only meant, to me, that I didn't see daddy. Back in those days, there wasn't a phrase called "quality time", so when I did, he was hanging out with friends, working on cars and motorcycles, drinking beers and smoking. I knew early on that Marlboros and Coors were what we kept in our house. I would fetch the beer, when I got old enough, I would open it and sneak sips from the can. I didn't get why they liked it so much, but I wanted to try. Once, I remember getting ready for bed without being told and Dad was so proud, he swung me up in the air and hugged me. So I kept trying to get ready on my own but that never happened again. By the time I was in Kindergarten, the fights were full force. I did my best not to anger mom, she would strike out at a moment's notice. But even trying to be good didn't work, because she would punish me for things I didn't do. Once she accused me of eating her chocolate mints. I knew I didn't, but she smelled my breath and pronounced she smelled them on my breath and punished me. I have vague memories of hiding in an old dog house, but none of a dog.

I know from stories from dad that I was stubborn and precocious. I remember trying hard to be good, but it was impossible. I wanted to run and jump and play. I wanted to be swung in the air, to be cuddled and held. I wanted to feel special. But there was my big sister and little brother, always being more right than me. Not too long ago, Dad told me that mom made me the "bad one" and he went along with it. That I took more punishment than the others growing up and it sure felt like it.

When the fights went all out, more fear started. Mom taking us out, late nights bowling with her friends. So late we were the only kids there, sitting at the bar trying to mooch maraschino cherries and olives, anything to snack on I suppose. It was the same with dad, except with him, we were at Amvets. Not always at night. Sometimes they had barbecues and family parties. I remember they had a post outside, cinder blocks leading like steps up and down. I would walk those over and over, waiting for dad. Playing in the back 'yard', loving how the doors to the ladies room were western style- you just had to bang them open like a gunslinger in a saloon. Of course, after dad's seizure in our bathroom at home (Stace also had a fainting spell there) I was afraid of all bathrooms and the loud flushing and the mirrors. Scary things happened in the bathroom, just listen to the tales of saying "Bloody Mary" to the mirror in the dark.

My parents' marriage culminated in us sleeping over with mom's "friend" Jim, curled up on a narrow bed in complete darkness, a tiny window what seemed like miles above and afraid to make any noise. One day, we come home to the coffee table chopped to bits, Dad's machete thrust deep in the remains. After that, it is a blur of things. Dad driving us through the desert, deep darkness surrounding us and he railed about mom taking his kids to that man's place. A near fight in front of Jim's place, sleeping at the baby sitter's house, I never liked going, there was something there that made me feel bad. I still can't remember what, but maybe it was sleeping on the floor instead of in my own bed. Dad had us for the longest. I think mom had truly run off. But then there was the courtroom. Being asked to choose, crying about wanting both. Mom not wanting me, but getting me. The memory of a display about coins and indigenous Indian baskets. Years later, when I was13 or 14, we came back and Dad got a ticket there and we went to the courthouse. There, from the shadows of my memory were the displays. Oddly, I felt comforted, knowing there was a real memory in there rather than one from the recesses of my retreat of choice, my imagination.

We sat at a friend's house, watching The Fog, scared and lonely and wondering why mom left us out of her wedding. Why weren't we a part of the love? Soon, we moved to Alaska and my retreat became even more complete. I buried myself in books. The only time mom took notice of me was to lock me in my room, sans breakfast/lunch/dinner until it was clean. I remember eating tubes of toothpaste because I was so hungry, stealing coins from my mom's purse to buy snacks at school. Standing in front of the washer that seemed so huge, wondering how I was supposed to use it, yet knowing I had to- because mom told me to do the laundry. I was only eight. Instead of cleaning, I spent that time reading Amelia Bedelia and the Oz series. I wished and honestly thought that if I thought and imagined hard enough, I could be taken to another world. I loved on my doll, crying into her matted hair and truly believing she was alive and had feelings- that she felt for me when nobody else seemed to.

All this time, I always second guessed myself. I loved people, but was afraid I was unlovable. Every friend and act of friendship was a gift. Every act of anger, cruelty and school child thoughtlessness was a betrayal and evidence that I was unlovable. Somehow, I was this person embracing life, wanting to live out loud yet afraid of what would happen if I did.