Tag: mystory

After-School Specials

Typical ’80s life took over once my life ‘normalized.’ I watched cartoons on Saturday mornings. I watched Murder, She Wrote and Matlock with my grandmother. We watched Wheel of Fortune as a family. Sunday was reserved for football and sitting on the couch next to my dad watching our favorite teams has always been my second most favorite place in the world. Sitting in the woods, watching for deer, listening for the familiar crunch of leaves, smelling all the fresh smells of fall in the air and savoring every bite of my grandmother’s turkey and cranberry sandwiches is probably my favorite of all time. Both places live only in my memories now. But they’re good ones to fill that space with.

I remember the first time I took the D.A.R.E. pledge. I raised my hand. Ready to tell my personal story of how drugs are bad and how they took my mother, and almost my father, away from me. I wanted to share this experience – not because I was an early adopter of great behavior and wanted everyone to understand the negative consequences of such choices – but for two really important other reasons. First, I wanted to be heard. I wanted to feel like what happened to me had some meaning. Even at the age of 10, this seemed like what I needed. To have purpose. Second, I didn’t want to be the only one. I knew, I just knew deep down inside of me, that I wasn’t the only kid in that room that had experienced life like I had. I had been to enough Al-anon meetings that I was sure of it. I glanced around the room. I waited for my friends to make eye contact. I longed for the ‘me, too’ grumbles. They didn’t come. I sat alone in the space of having shared too much with too many, way too quickly. HOLY FORESHADOWING. That was a character flaw (trait? blessing?) that wasn’t identified until much later in life.

Normalcy, as much as possible, is what it seemed my dad was aiming for with our little family. He worked so much. He re-married. We went through the ‘normal’ trials and tribulations of all pre-teen girls. He started to travel for work. I barely saw him. He was doing important things. Dad things were less important than those things because if they weren’t, wouldn’t he be home with me? Especially on Sundays? It didn’t last more than a few years but during those years, when I felt especially distanced from him and really didn’t like the stepmom, I found other ways to occupy my time: Skating rinks, bus stops, sneaking out, lying, skipping school – from the outside it looked normal. From the inside it felt as far from normal as possible. Not cries for attention, no, I wanted to fly under the radar as much as possible. I didn’t know what I was looking for until much later in life. It wasn’t trouble, it wasn’t attention, it wasn’t specifically anything that I ever found in the activities I was participating in, it was just connection. The one thing that I spent years looking for. Decades really. And I found it sometimes, but usually in all the wrong places.

It Wasn’t All Bad

By the time I turned 8, I had watched my mom enter rehab twice, my dad once, and I had moved around quite a bit. I never attended a school for more than three years – even all the way through high school. I never lived in the same house for more than a few years either. Actually, until I had kids of my own, I never lived anywhere for more than a few years. And then I settled. Down. But we’ll get there.

I went on vacation with my dad when I was around 8. He was on his way to recovery and we escaped to Disney World and Florida for a few days. I’m pretty sure we drove but I don’t remember any of that. I remember meeting my great grandparents though! My great-grandmother was the absolute epitome of grandmothers. White hair, a little round in the middle, laughed all the time and had nothing but goodness to give me. My great-grandfather was so smart. It oozed from him. That was the only time I would meet them but it was a good one.

My dad loves roller coasters. He sold me on them from a very young age. Lean into that feeling you get when you come out of your seat. It’s such a rush. And oh man, did we have fun. Disney World was amazing. The whole trip was amazing. Just me and dad, living our best lives.

Over the next few years, I spent very little time with anyone except my dad. And Mrs. Anthony who lived in the same apartment building as us and watched me before and after school. I would see my mom when she was healthy. I would see my uncles when my dad could make it work. I had a few friends at the newest school and everything was sort of ‘normal.’ We lived in a one-bedroom apartment and my dad turned the unused dining room into my room. I had a cot and dresser. I still have that dresser. I spent years tucking all of my clothes, momentos and secrets into the 9 drawer masterpiece my great grandmother had given my dad. That’s probably why I’ve kept it all this time – it feels like its one tiny piece of me that made it through. I should go high five it. We did it buddy.

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.