In The Beginning

I honestly don't have a lot of memories of my very early childhood -- like, before eight. I know we moved a lot -- each one of us kids were born in a different town.

My very first memory is of near-death. It was just before my third birthday, and I was sick with croup. My fever spiked, and my windpipe started to swell shut. My mother told me I was starting to turn blue. My dad scooped me up and ran down the street to the hospital. In those days, they didn't have inhalation therapy like today, so an emergency tracheotomy was performed and I was installed in a plastic oxygen tent over my crib.

I vaguely remember my dad holding me and running. I remember a bright light in my eyes, and a doctor's face covered in a green mask. I remember him coming close to my face with something shiny in his hand and then I don't remember anything else.

My dad saved my life.

I couldn't speak unless I placed my finger over the hole in my throat, and I wouldn't touch it. I spent my third birthday in the hospital, and my mother and the nurses brought me a birthday cake with no candles, because of the oxygen. I received twenty-eight Little Golden books and my mother taught me to read before I was finally released.

They said the scar would fade but it never did.

I remember once visiting my grandparents, and nagged to put on my shoes. I loved running around barefoot; but not when a three-inch sliver of wood became lodged in the bottom of my little foot. My Grandpa Rudy held me in the emergency room while they poured iodine over it. Man, it hurt like a bugger and I was pretty vocal about my opinion. They wrapped my foot up in a big white bandage that looked like a cast, and Grandpa carried me out to the car.

I have memories of the Pacific Ocean. I remember the giant redwoods. I still dream about them.

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My clearest memories are when we lived in Visalia, an agricultural small town in the middle of the San Joaquin valley. We lived across the street from Mooney's Park. My dad worked there building a Wild West town for the little amusement park. I loved going over there and riding the roller coaster; since my dad worked there we could ride as many times as we wanted. A small train ran around a small track right through the Wild West town; it was really cool.

When my dad worked there he somehow found time to build a little house for me and my sister. My sister wasn't really all that interested, but I loved it. It had a porch, windows, a sun roof, and built asymmetrically, like a Tim Burton creation probably before he was even born. I was heartbroken when my father sold it.

It was definitely farm country. An irrigation ditch ran behind our house, and of course, water and dirt were just irresistible to kids. My mother used to yell at us all the time, telling us we were going to catch polio or some other disgusting disease playing in that muck. Even the kiddie pool under the huge walnut tree in the front yard wasn't enough to keep us from the lure of the ick. 

We had a dog named Inky; I had a bicycle I could ride to school or down the road to my friend Carla's house where we would play I Spy and Man From U.N.C.L.E; we had a baby cow in one half of the barn. The other half of the barn was my dad's studio/workshop. It was where he made the magic happen. Not only was he an accomplished carpenter, he was a sign painter and an artist. He loved to work in oils, and the aroma of oil paint, linseed oil, and paint thinner brings me back to that studio as if I were standing in it right now.

That was my life. And it was good. Happy.

The Days Go By

And like a former boss used to tell me, "Busy is good." Of course, he was a doctor and he made a hell of a lot more money than I do. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere but I'm too tired to figure it out.

Work-wise, things are going well. Personally, there are issues, dark issues, that have found it necessary to rear their ugly head once again and make their presence known. I'm not real happy about this, of course, because I thought I laid a lot of those hideous things to rest a long time ago, and I really don't have time for this horseshit. However, while stuffing issues into a trunk might work in the short term as a coping mechanism, I'm a witness that as a long-term strategy it leaves a lot to be desired.

The truth is, the roots of these issues go back so far it is nigh impossible to dig them out properly and give them the treatment they deserve. Where do you even start? It's like trying to dig up that stubborn root of the tree in your backyard that's fucking up digging and planting your garden. The shovel hits a root, and the next thing you know, you're digging clear to the planet's core and wishing you had a flamethrower so you could just burn it all away and start over. And still the root goes on and on and on.

But there is no starting over. At this stage of the game you have what you have, and what you have to do is deal with it. Because after so many years, that damned trunk is stuffed so full there's no more room and that shit busts out all over the place and splatters on the walls, the floor, in your hair, ruining the couch and poisoning the plants. No one wants that.

If the gorram health care in this country was worth a fart in a high wind, I'd opt for therapy. Hey, I know when I'm outclassed, but it's not an option. Still, I'm not stupid and I can figure out a lot of this on my own. Until I win the Lotto or a seat in Congress and can afford proper health care, I have to do this myself.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived on the west coast. At the age of eight, her whole world disintegrated due to the bitter divorce of her parents. With no warning or preparation, she and her siblings were transported three thousand mils across country to the east coast, to live with a grandmother who made the witch in Hansel and Gretel look like Mother Theresa. Not only was it a great culture shock, she lost everything she loved. Her grandparents, her father, her dog, her bicycle, her friends, her home...she became the caretaker of her younger siblings and watched as her mother deteriorated into alcoholism and a whole lot of self-destructive behavior no child should ever witness or experience.

And that was just the beginning of her hell. The first instance of sexual molestation occurred at age eight; it was the first time, but it was, unfortunately, not the last time. In those days, it was not something you could talk about or tell. Couple that with heinous threats against her loved ones should she open her mouth, and there you have the beginnings of the trunk.

She became withdrawn and quite introverted in an attempt to become invisible; that didn't work, although the tendency toward introversion became a lifelong behavior. Constant moving and switching schools did nothing to give her a feeling of permanence; in her world, there was no such thing. And she always had her younger siblings to look after and a mother to tend when alcohol changed her into a complete stranger.

It's not that there weren't good times -- few and far between, but there were some. But there was never anyone who looked after this little girl, to tell her certain things were not her fault, that she was beautiful and special and deserved so much more. So she grew up with the deep certainty, which she kept in the trunk, that she was totally worthless.

Now, this little girl could have collapsed completely and adopt the self-destructive behavior she was witness to in her youth. She could have cultivated hatred and bitterness, and in total honesty, there was a period of time where she flirted with this path. However, for some unknown reason, instead she set about to prove she was indeed worthy and had something to offer. It actually became a driving force in her life. She was not always successful, and often spent many a long hour beating herself black and blue for her errors and shortcomings, worse than anyone else ever reprimanded her, at least until she got married.

Which led to a complete and total clusterfuck of cosmic proportions. She thought she'd already been through the fire, and indeed she had. What she didn't know was that fire was a tiny match compared to the conflagration she would be confronted with in the course of her marriage. Which is a story for another time.

Baby steps, yanno. I supposed this should be continued. All I know is reading and writing has been my salvation my whole life, and if that's the tool I have, I'm going to use it.

Stay tuned. If you dare.