Here it is.

The blank piece of virtual paper.

Let's go.

2/12/24

I saw a post today that said, "if you can't afford therapy, write. Tell your story." I should be able to afford therapy although it is something that gets cut when other things (addictions) get in the way. Today is the first day I'm not letting the addictions take up space where healthy things should be. I'm fighting it at work though. The team is mad at me, I don't know how long it will last, but it's palpable, the negative energy. It's hard to want to be on a team that does not feel like one. I'm trying to move on -scale up - but I need to have patience. I may potentially have a job offer on the table soon, but I have to be very careful about it. I have a horrible habit of giving out too much information.

My story starts in 1972, but I don't remember becoming an actual character until around 1975. Yes, I have memories of my three year old self - not many, but they do exist. I was an avid reader, so my mother tells me, I could read at three years old! I imagine myself as this cute little button nosed, brown eyed girl with thin and feathery brown hair, a saucy attitude, and a cute smile but only when she could bring herself to it. This little girl, so cute, so adorable, so loveable - she was abused. She did not know it as such. How could she know what abuse was? It was not until much, MUCH later she realized what had happened to her. What had happened to her innocence. It made sense - so much sense - once it was discovered for her. But until then, something just wasn't right in the photos. 

One day at around age 5, my uncle was driving me to my grandmother's house. This was my uncle Don - he was a nice enough man, a little loud and maybe a little too fancy for the lifestyle my five year old self understood. He asked me, "why don't you sing in the car anymore like you used to?" And I didn't know it was something that had been taken from me. I couldn't remember singing in a car and I didn't realize that I had stopped. I remember that scenario vividly, including the trailer park that we pulled up into and the green candy that didn't taste very good, but it was CANDY so it didn't matter.

There's a memory of me that I envision but don't specifically remember. I am grabbing candy from the counter and eating it, and stuffing the wrappers in the black pleather chair.  My parents loved to tell this story. To them, it was a testament to something - anything - but not a testament to my trauma or their lack of parenting that allowed a three year old access to all that candy.

There's a memory of my uncle and I near a well. I become obsessed with the book, "Ricky Ticki Timbo" and nobody finds that odd? I find it odd, even now, as my mother denies anything could have ever happened but "there was that one time you were alone in the well room." There was a well of some sort inside my grandparents' house. I wish I knew more. Or maybe I don't wish for that knowledge. I could probably get it, but access to these memories is something I have given up.

I had a marijuana habit from 2017 to 2023 when I finally realized what I had been doing to myself. Rarely a drink of alcohol made me feel proud, so in control, meanwhile I was eating edibles here and there until 2020 when I started eating them daily, and then transitioned to vaping. Much easier, much faster. Much more fun. Much more addicting. Only after I stopped did I realize how much of my life I was losing. I can tell almost the same story about 1994, only that story is much shorter and involves methamphetamines. I've been thinking about that time in my life a lot lately. It was so significant even though I would not know this at the time. I've always lived a life outside of my body, almost. I'll talk about that later.

For now, the story of today is that my team is feeling like an un-team, and I don't like the feeling. I've gotten myself into this mess, though, and so too will I find my way out.