Category: About Me

The Ones That Hurt

You can’t read this one without reading the Polaroid post – I mean you can but you’ll lack context for sure. But you do you boo – I’m going to tell the story regardless.

If my memory serves me correctly, because no one in my family talks about this part, I was 4. I’m pretty sure it was summer time. Washington DC – the air was thick and heavy. My mom and I were staying with her boyfriend and his daughter at his place. We were in downtown, the doors and windows had bars and everything around me was concrete. I didn’t spend a lot of time here but I knew my way downstairs to the lady who lived below us. Her name was Romaine. She would give us each a dollar and we’d go to the little gas station or corner store – not entirely sure about that part – and we’d buy candy. It was 1981 – candy was cheap.

I don’t remember what I was wearing or what the inside of the house looked like, and I definitely don’t remember the entire summer, but I do have three very distinct memories (complete with images seered into my young brain) from that time:

The first – I remember riding around in the back seat of a large car. I don’t know what kind of car it was – Maybe a pontiac? Maybe it was blue? That could have come later – I have no idea. I just remember that it was dark, we were circling the block (and I only know that because it was later described to me that way by the very friendly police officer) and then my mom and her boyfriend both seemed to panic. There were red and blue lights flashing and then police officers were at all of the windows. There were bright flash lights and a lot of yelling. That’s it. I do know there was a female police officer who checked all of my pockets and touched me all over my body – but my mom was getting the same thing done to her – so it seemed ok, right?

The second – I watched my mother pull a syringe from her purse. This may or may not have been the same day that we were pulled over – but likely not. The syringe was in a case. It looked fancy. I don’t think she knew I was watching but I also don’t think she would have cared if I was. I mean she would have if she was clean but that wasn’t the case. I watched her and her boyfriend use a lighter to melt a spoon. Clearly they were not melting a spoon but in my memory – four-year old me could not understand why they were trying to set the spoon on fire! I watched as she tied a shoestring (I don’t know for sure that it was a shoestring) around her bicep, giggled at some joke her boyfriend made and then I watched as she slid that needle into her arm. I remember yelling at that moment for her to stop. I asked if she was sick and she looked at me and said, ‘No, baby, I’m fine,’ and then closed her eyes and smiled at me. I don’t remember much about what happened next or how much time went by before I tried to wake her up.

The last – I climbed up on a stool or chair – I don’t remember which but I remember it was wooden. I could barely reach the phone but with the stool – I could dial the rotary phone. One number after the other just like my grandmother had made me practice. I remember crying and telling her I was hungry. I remember my uncle showing up and then the ambulance leaving with my mom in it. And then I remember my uncle taking me to the same little gas station down the street that I had been to before to pick out whatever food I wanted. I guess, technically, the bonus memory I have is visiting my mom in the hospital for the first time. I remember her eyes the most. They were mostly closed but when they opened and she set them on me, she smiled and said ‘oh baby, don’t cry, I’m fine.’

It took 25 more years for her to die.

Polaroids – the Early Years

We’re going back. Way back. Back to before I can really remember anything and most of these memories are entirely made up of polaroid pictures and the stories that those taking them shared with me.

My parents were seemingly normal teenagers in the early/mid 70’s. They had families, went to school, wore ridiculous bell bottoms, snuck out, drove really cool cars, and lived like everyday was worth it. They went to high school together. My dad was friends with my mom’s brothers and they were friends with my dad’s brothers and if the polaroids are accurate, everyone was just so happy that they finally got married. My parents were beautiful. My mom was a 5’7, blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel. I mean – Polaroids, people, that’s what I’m going off of. To hear her mother (referred to as Grandma June from here on out) talk about her, you would think her daughter, my mother, would never had ever made the mistakes that she did. My father was almost 6 foot tall. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Rebel. He was (in my humble opinion) the most handsome of all of his siblings. He has seven of them. SEVEN. My grandmother had 8 kids. Almost back-to-back. He was number 2 and the oldest of the boys. Their lives – remember I don’t know any of this, its just stories – were seemingly normal. Everyone graduated (mostly) from high school, they married, I came along just after that. So did all of the trouble really.

What I know about my first few years: I was adored by all of those aunts and uncles. I was toted around, fed, played with, taken care of. There are no pictures that prove anything different. I was always dressed in cute clothes and was at the beach or playground or someone’s backyard. I was smart too – learned to read by the time I was 4. I also learned how to use the telephone very early on and that would prove to be how I made it past 4 years old. Barely.

Sometime around the time I was three or four – depending on who tells the story – the wild teenagers who were so in love had been hit head-on by life. There was work and bills and responsibilities and none of those things jived with the drinking, smoking, staying-up-late-doing-drugs, kind of lifestyle they had also fallen in love with. So things fell apart.

This is where it gets messy. I have a few memories of my own. A few from hearing a story so often it feels real and then, a few years ago, maybe a decade now I can’t remember, I realized that my story is just one piece of this. What I experienced was mostly the consequences of their terrible decisions. Despite being the only niece, the only grandchild for a while and the love of my grandmothers’ lives, I wasn’t nearly as sheltered from the pain as they thought. Though now that I look back, I often wonder how much worse it would have been if I had not had all of the people surrounding me that loved me so much. What I have decided is that not only can I not linger on that thought, I have to tell this story from my perspective. I can account for the feelings of those around me but what I felt during all of this is really what shaped me and brought me to where I am today. So yes, there is a much bigger picture out there. An outside-in, high level, all encompassing view of the entire situation called my life, but I’m here just to tell you MY story – the rest of the characters will have to tell their own.

Hello World!

I’m not really a ‘hello world!’ kind of girl but this seems like a fitting way to greet all of you at once and introduce myself. Hi… my name is Christie. *stares at the invisible circle of strangers around her that have magially appeared like a thrown together support group* Yes, by reading this you’re now in my circle!

Not to sound like I’m introducing myself on a dating app, but… I’m 44, almost 45. I am the mother of three amazing children. I have four dogs and one cat. You’ll hear all about them at some point along the way, I’m sure of it. I am a Sagittarius. I have ADHD. I love bread but I never eat it. I have struggled, I am blessed. I love to travel and have the opportunity to do so through my job. I am alone most of the time but have grown used to it, though it was never my ‘norm.’ I had a childhood that I describe as nteresting, though many have categorized it as disturbing, a bit crazy, and very intense. My adulthood didn’t vary much until I finally, at the tender age of 39, was released back into the wild by a husband of 21 years, who quite likely never really loved me at all. We’ll get there. That’s a good one.

My goal: I want to tell you my story and not because I need it to be heard but because I’m tired of toting it around. What I have found is that the more I type and think and type some more, the more I release. And at the same time, the more I remember. And that’s where things get weird.