Self-Justification: A CHILDHOOD OF TRAUMA

1. My Childhood Years

There is not a lot I recall from my childhood. Maybe I don't remember, or maybe I repressed it deep in my soul, never wishing to remember it for the rest of my days. Don't get me wrong, I did have a good childhood, as proven with pictures and fond memories.The bad memories often trumped the good memories that were had. Now at 35 years of age I look back, searching for a glimmer of hope, of acknowledgement that I am living my life as far from the normalcy, or what I thought was normal 30 years ago. A life that is both fulfilling and rich in all that was needed, but often neglected in my childhood. I am hoping by putting my memories and thoughts down on paper, I can both remember good times amongst the bad, as well as revisit and let go of all trauma I have endured in my life

My life began as a struggle, I was born July of 1986, weighing a measly 1 lb. 10 ounces. I was what they refer to today as a micro-preemie. I spent 110 days in a local Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, in an incubator hooked up to numerous tubes and wires. I was sent home October 1986 with a heart monitor, and had gained enough weight at 4 pounds to be cleared with minimal supervision. There are

The first memory I can vividly recall is the first day of kindergarten. Clutching onto the back steps of the trailer we lived in, my mother trying to pry my fingers loose in an effort to make me let go, as the bus sat there, the driver waiting so patiently. My mother won that battle, a sulking young me dragging her feet through the gravel, head hanging in utter defeat.

Is it weird to think that I don't really remember anything before this memory? Sure there are pictures, and I have been told the stories behind each and every one of them. Though I cherish the stories, and often retell them to anyone who will listen, I have no recollection of it happening.

For example, I fell up my Aunts steps (don't remember) resulting in two black eyes. When I was in a walker, I fell down a flight of apartment steps. According to my mother, I landed still in my walker. I have really no memories before the age of five.

That wonderful, patient man driving that big yellow bus was George. He would over the years become like a grand-dad to me. I had lost both of mine in '93 and '94. He would always welcome me onto the bus, regardless of what a struggle it was. I in turn would get him a christmas gift every year. This went on from Kindergarten through my seventh year in school. I remember when he put the bus in a ditch sideways, in the weeks following the Blizzard of '93.

I also have fond memories at home. Coming home to a baby fawn, still spotted and resembling bambi. The fawn had followed my mom home from picking blackberries. Mom and I would go out each morning and evening and bottle feed it. Mom took the fawn with her each afternoon while I was in school, checking to see if the mother deer had come back. One afternoon my mom went her usual path and she could hear snorting up ahead, she watched the fawn race to the middle of the clearing and there amongst the blackberry bushes was the mama deer. I recall my mother having a litter of opossum babies, also known as joeys. I wasn't very fond of them, as my mother wasn't overly excited about the baby snakes I had acquired with the help of my father.

There is a story for you, my father had just killed a snake for my mother. She is terrified of snakes, stems from her childhood. So he kills this snake and throws him in the driveway to dispose of later on. Meanwhile the screwed up kid I was, watches with fascination as my hero kills this snake. I then, as any kid would, looked for the longest stick I could find in order to poke and probe at this poor dying snake. So there I go marching down the gravel driveway toward this snake, tiptoeing as I get closer thinking the noise of my shoes will somehow usher this thing back to life. As I kneel down beside it, the smell hits me first. Flip, flop goes my belly, I look away from it's beady eye. I wanted to pick it up and throw it over the hill for my father, I could still hear mom bitching that it was still in the driveway. Out of sight, out of mind I guess.