Christmas Morning
I was awoken this morning at 12:18 after three hours of pseudo sleep, not by Santa’s sleigh bells but by a little girl’s voice. Thus far, I’ve struggled with what my blog is “supposed” to be, therefore I’ve written almost nothing. My wonderful friend and shining life-example, Char, recently emailed me about my writing, “You are writing your way to a deeper truth - your job is to get it out there and then set it free. God is in charge of the reception - your job is to create...put the “diary” out there. Trust me - it will resonate with another soul.” This morning as I reread her words I understand them in a new way. This morning I’m writing for the little soul who woke me up. She is aching to be validated, by me. This is my Christmas gift to her.
Now I struggle with what she wants me to say. The same fears and anxieties that demanded I repress my feelings, needs, and wants as a four-year-old are preventing me from being fully honest with my audience. It’s not enough that I’ve written honestly about some of my childhood experiences in a journal; the little girl who’s been caged within my ribs wants to come out with those crumpled stories in her tiny clenched hands. This is where I struggle, so perhaps I’ll just dip my toe into the pool of honesty by introducing myself and honoring my past.
I was born to a single mother with Schizophrenia. She loved me but her disease caused her to neglect and sexually abused me. I was taken from her and thrust into the foster system where I was always scared, often mistreated, and never loved. My biological mother, whom I'll call Mary, would find me at each foster home and “kidnap” me. We’d be on the run until someone would call DSHS and I’d be placed in another foster home. At four years old, my case-worker brought me to my loving-yet-flawed final foster parents Claudette and Jack, who adopted me after a four year custody battle with Mary. Almost before the ink was dry on the adoption papers and before I had a chance to exhale, my parents donned their battle gear again, this time to fight each other in a six-year-long divorce. More chaos.
Even now as I write this at 33 years old, I am nearly silenced by fear. Fear that Mary will read this and feel angry, sad, hurt. Fear that maybe I wasn’t actually abused or neglected, or worse, that any abuse was my fault. Of course I know children aren’t taken from their mothers unless there is ample reason and reports from multiple sources, however I still feel guilty for “telling on” Mary. I am also afraid of hurting my adoptive mother with my truth because she tried hard to keep me safe. Unfortunately few children come out of war scar-free. Although I desperately want to erase the last two sentences, I won't. Instead I'll honor my promise of honesty.
My childhood experiences caused me to retreat. Any uncomfortable or contrary thought or emotion was tucked away where a beautiful, blameless four year old used them as insulation between herself and the world. The purpose of my writing is to loosen the insulation so she can be free.
Merry Christmas and God bless.
Now I struggle with what she wants me to say. The same fears and anxieties that demanded I repress my feelings, needs, and wants as a four-year-old are preventing me from being fully honest with my audience. It’s not enough that I’ve written honestly about some of my childhood experiences in a journal; the little girl who’s been caged within my ribs wants to come out with those crumpled stories in her tiny clenched hands. This is where I struggle, so perhaps I’ll just dip my toe into the pool of honesty by introducing myself and honoring my past.
I was born to a single mother with Schizophrenia. She loved me but her disease caused her to neglect and sexually abused me. I was taken from her and thrust into the foster system where I was always scared, often mistreated, and never loved. My biological mother, whom I'll call Mary, would find me at each foster home and “kidnap” me. We’d be on the run until someone would call DSHS and I’d be placed in another foster home. At four years old, my case-worker brought me to my loving-yet-flawed final foster parents Claudette and Jack, who adopted me after a four year custody battle with Mary. Almost before the ink was dry on the adoption papers and before I had a chance to exhale, my parents donned their battle gear again, this time to fight each other in a six-year-long divorce. More chaos.
Even now as I write this at 33 years old, I am nearly silenced by fear. Fear that Mary will read this and feel angry, sad, hurt. Fear that maybe I wasn’t actually abused or neglected, or worse, that any abuse was my fault. Of course I know children aren’t taken from their mothers unless there is ample reason and reports from multiple sources, however I still feel guilty for “telling on” Mary. I am also afraid of hurting my adoptive mother with my truth because she tried hard to keep me safe. Unfortunately few children come out of war scar-free. Although I desperately want to erase the last two sentences, I won't. Instead I'll honor my promise of honesty.
My childhood experiences caused me to retreat. Any uncomfortable or contrary thought or emotion was tucked away where a beautiful, blameless four year old used them as insulation between herself and the world. The purpose of my writing is to loosen the insulation so she can be free.
Merry Christmas and God bless.
Though I often write about subjects that many would consider taboo, I usually feel like there is something that keeps me from writing about my childhood and family (despite knowing there are things I should let go of). I think being familiar with that fear makes me feel even more overwhelmingly appreciative of what you have allowed yourself to share here Ty. You have definitely inspired me, so thank you.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sarah. I'm happy to inspire such a great writer!
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