Sounds like it was all bad. It can’t have been. There must have been summers and running in the sand. Ice creams. Playing. Nice people. Sunshine and good days.
I don’t know. Once we used to look for the good stories, in therapy, but so many of them turned out not being good after all.
I think the best times I had, was the ones I spent alone. When I was around friends, I was always the different one, everybody else had two parents, and whenever I think about it, people didn’t find their way around that. So hard to relax and treat me like everybody else!
Maybe someone else suspected that things weren’t ok at home, and I didn’t pick up on that vibe.
So the good things I remember with others, are almost always connected to someone totally outside, like my music teacher. Or to time spent by myself.
I never thought I didn’t like spending time alone. The old house and the big garden were over the road from where most of the other children lived. It was a dangerous road. After I started school, and got friends, they were still on the other side of that road.
Of course, hiding was never fun. Hiding meant getting away from danger.
After I started school, I went town on the bus by myself. Well, after starting with music. I didn’t have people over me at all time telling me where to be and when. I went to the library often. I was too young to get into the real library, the one for grown ups. Once or twice they’d stop me and ask where my mother was. I’d say, she is in there, we planned to meet. Most of the times they believed me, or didn’t care. Or didn’t believe me, and didn’t care.
I actually remember being there with her there too; I could read at five, she borrowed books in French. I tried to find out what the letters meant.
So I could spend insane amounts of time in the library. I loved it. I had to stay. I couldn’t borrow books to take home, not being old enough, so they were stuck with me.
I also loved being by the seaside. Whatever weather, listening to the waves, the wind. I’d go there if I was sad, and I’d sit and think for a while. Sometimes I’d cry. Sometimes I’d throw stones in the water, I got quite good at throwing one up high, and hitting it with another.
I wasn’t meant to be like this. It isn’t, for any kid.
I started this post because people are commenting and wishing me well, as if I have a crisis going on, or if I am feeling very sorry or depressed or something. It’s not like that really, I am ok. I could never do this if I felt like banging my head against the wall. So I try again to find something good…
Keep the comments coming though. Thanks for helping me, letting you in on my story is scary, thrilling, exciting, and I learn a lot. Daring to share has become real. Well, that IS a good thing.