Echoes of Childhood: Observing the Obstacle Corse

Hey friends,

In my first post, I promised to share my journey, the raw and unfiltered truth of my experiences. Today, I want to delve into the echoes of my childhood – the roots of the pain that shaped so much of my life. It's not easy to revisit these memories, but understanding them is crucial for healing and moving forward.

My childhood was a landscape of extremes. There were moments of fleeting joy, like the train ride with my parents in Seattle, where even a simple treat like Skittles felt like a treasure. But those moments were often overshadowed by chaos and instability.

I remember the constant tension between my parents, the routine I called the "semi-annual divorce," the whispered arguments that erupted into shouting matches. I remember the fear of not knowing what I would wake up to. There was the unsettling footnote of my early childhood, picking up money daily on my trike from a known sex offender. There was the missed national monument tour due to chicken pox, only to learn of a shooting. A plane we narrowly avoided, only to crash. All small, seemingly random events, yet foreshadowing the darker experiences to come.

Then there was "Crisis View," an apartment complex nicknamed for its reputation as the poorest part of our hometown. It was a place of instability, where my mom's drinking resumed, and physical altercations became more frequent. I remember trying to intervene, to protect my mom from my dad's physical responses, feeling utterly powerless against the violence. When we moved into the house my parents built, the violence escalated. During another alcohol-fueled fight, my dad threw a ladder at my mom, and I barely escaped being hit. Or the time my mom poured beer on my dad and then clawed his face, leading to another explosive episode.

Beyond the home, there were other wounds: my dad throwing my 10-year-old body into my closet for disagreeing about homework with headphones; being ostracized at school, labeled a "whore" by students and teachers despite my innocence; being accused of smoking as early as third grade because of my parents' indoor smoking.

My own struggles began: a reliance on alcohol to navigate shyness and social anxiety from 11 into my 20s; navigating foster care in my last year of high school; witnessing my mom's multiple suicide attempts; losing family and friends to opioid addictions; watching my father go to jail, unable to say goodbye before moving to California with a sexist vindictive uncle.

The losses continued: friendships shattered by my self-destructive tendencies; an abusive relationship marked by cycles of control; being raped on prom night; dropping out of college, becoming homeless, and living off the kindness of friends; returning to a foreclosed home, unprepared for the responsibility; living in my car, saving to join the Navy, only to be rejected due to my thyroid condition; moving to Alaska, where I was raped by my step-cousin.

On and on it went. I didn't know what normal was. Through it all, I was in and out of therapy, but the questions always felt disconnected: "How are you feeling? Are your meds working?" It all felt tangled, relevant. I was constantly navigating one emergency to the next, trying to find my worth, only to be met with a compelling list of reasons why I didn't deserve anything good.

These experiences left deep scars, shaping my beliefs about myself and the world. I learned love could be conditional, safety an illusion, and adults fallible. Yet, I also believe my parents were doing their best with their own trauma. I remember the confusion, fear, and hypervigilance. Panic attacks that felt like death, and humiliation at work.

But even in the chaos, there were glimmers of hope. I clung to creativity, drawing, painting, writing. I found solace in books, in stories, in the possibility of a different world.

Looking back, I realize these weren't isolated incidents. They were the foundation of my trauma. They shaped my relationships, self-esteem, and trust.

Here's the important thing: I'm NOT defined by my past. I'm a survivor. I'm committed to breaking the cycle, healing, and creating a better future for my children and anyone I can.

Understanding the roots of my pain was the first step. For me it was about acknowledging the trauma, processing emotions, and reclaiming my narrative. It's about turning echoes into a symphony of healing, observing an obstacle course I navigated to find my present moment. A moment still imperfect, but one where I accept that life will never be perfect, and how my trauma has taught me I can always find my way to the light.

What are some of the earliest memories that have shaped your life? How have those experiences influenced who you are today? Share your thoughts in the comments below. Let's create a space for understanding and healing. What were the things that showed you light when you were in your most impossible situations?