1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12...Step One

Imagine a pinball rolling rapidly along a course built for it, twisting and turning, up and down the hills, knocking things over as it goes. Music is playing...a certain song. Yeah, you know the song.

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12...doo doo doot-doo doo doo doo! If you sang it, you're from a certain generation. You're from my generation. You're my people. You grew up watching Sesame Street on PBS. You may or may not know that was the Pointer Sisters singing. Either way, you saw that pinball rolling around in your head, turning, twirling, and making counting to twelve feel exciting; almost magical, if you will. If you're like me, you waited every episode to hear it, feeling a little stab of disappointment when that bit wasn't played.

Right now I feel like that ball. Except I think somewhere along the way, someone kicked the course that was built for me so I'm rolling around aimlessly. I feel like I fell into one of those vortex funnel things like they have at the grocery store that you put a penny in so you can watch it twirl its way down until it just disappears. Except I never seem to make it to that tiny little hole. I guess that's a good thing, because figuratively speaking, that would symbolize death in my mind. But the constant spinning doesn't feel good. I'm dizzy and I'm depressed. I want to throw up and cry at the same time. I'm pissed off at myself while also asking, "why me?"

I said previously that I know I'm where I am because I'm a product of my past. My therapist just told me the same thing yesterday. I told her that I'm probably one of the most self-aware people she'll ever meet. The problem is, I don't actually know how to fix my shit. I mean I know what my issues are. I know why my issues are here. I just don't have the slightest inkling as to how to actually get past the bullshit and move forward. I'm stuck...always spinning, always singing that song, counting, never quite making it to twelve.

The solution (hopefully) is going to be for us to delve deeper into my past than I've ever gone, to dig way down into my past, to find little Heather and ask her when things went wrong. I know now that it didn't begin with being molested. I always said I had an idyllic childhood up until that point, but I think that was my way of hiding something from myself. But what was it? When did things really start to go wrong?

Was it when I was eight years old and my OCD traits really started coming into focus for me (even though I knew somehow that I had to hide them from the world)? No, that couldn't be it. That was my response to something. But what? Let's go back a little further.

Was it when I was six years old, sitting alone in the bedroom at my grandparents' house that my mom and I shared recording stories I had made up on a tape recorder, crinkling cellophane to sound like fire, slapping my thighs to sound like a horse, changing my voice to sound like and old lady I named Mrs. Hasslehoth (because I didn't know how to say David Hasslehoff's name but I loved Knight Rider), then feeling absolute devastation when my grandparents were so excited to listen to it, but my mom was too busy or too tired or too depressed or whatever the excuse was? Nah, couldn't be. That was disappointing, but I was used to it.

Was it when I was five and my grandpa showed up to our house in Bend, Oregon with a Uhaul and we packed up our belongings and drove cross country to Michigan without me having the chance to say goodbye to my daddy? Hmmmm...we could be getting warmer. In fact, this might be the defining moment when my whole world went to shit. At the very least, it was the moment my world was turned upside down.

Maybe it started a little further back when Mount Saint Helens erupted. A few days after the eruption, the ash had traveled south to Bend. I remember waking up one morning, rubbing my eyes as I stumbled to the TV to turn it on so I could watch cartoons. Looking out the window, I wondered why everything appeared so dull. I went to the front door, and as I opened it, my first thought was, "when did the world turn black and white?" I was petrified. Mind you, I was four years old. I ran to my mom's room, crying. I jumped on to her bed to wake her up, yelling that the world outside turned black and white. She told me to pour a bowl of cereal and watch some cartoons so she could go back to sleep. I. WAS. FOUR. I think that was the single most terrifying moment of my life up until that point, and my mom wouldn't get out of bed. So I slowly walked back down the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and sat down to watch cartoons. I avoided looking out any windows, hoping that what I had seen wasn't real. If I didn't look at it, it couldn't hurt me. If I didn't see the black and white world, it couldn't turn me into black and white. Because yes, at four years old, that's what I thought would happen. And I sat there for what felt like an eternity until my mom got up, feeling alone and afraid in the post apocalyptic world that I created in my mind.

Could it have been before that when my dad left Bend? When my mom kicked him out? Was it when he bought me a Blue Heeler puppy that my mom wouldn't let me name because she wanted his name to be Blue? Was it when she got rid of that puppy after only a couple weeks because he was "too hard to take care of?" Was it when we still lived in Washington? I remember my dad having an apartment in Tacoma that I used to visit without my mom. I remember him making me eggs with Tabasco sauce. I remember him giving me a giant white stuffed Samoyed that I named Tosh after my Uncle Joe's Samoyed that he had when we lived in Bay City, Michigan before we moved to Washington. I remember being a daddy's girl, and my earliest memories don't include my mom at all. I remember our house on Herald Street in Bay City, the one we lived in when I was born. I can picture the living room and kitchen, and the swinging door in between. I can see the couch up against the wall with the coffee table in front of it. I can picture my bedroom and where my crib sat and the decorations on the walls. I remember the front porch and the house across the street. I don't know how old I was when we moved out of that house. Maybe two or three? People think it's strange that I remember it so vividly, but I can picture it like it was yesterday. And when I think back, I realize that I have literally no memories of my mother until she took me from my dad, or at least not until he left the house in Bend after they split up. Not a single one. Why? Did she choose not to be there? Was I closer to him? Was I closer to everyone but her? I have vivid memories of my grandparents, my aunt & uncle, my dad...but none with my mother. That is what seems strange to me.

So I'm starting at step one. I'm going back. Way back. I'm going to find that little girl who decided she had to be the strong one, who had no choice but to be the fixer, and I'm going to try to fix her. Because until I do that, I'll continue to stay stuck in that vortex, my pinball spinning round and round, never finding a destination, never counting to twelve. I'm not gonna lie. I'm scared shitless. This is gonna hurt. I'm pretty sure I'm about to deal with some shit I don't really want to face. But the fact of the matter is, it's got to be done. I've never been here before. It's all new territory. I've never been one to run from anything that scares me, so here I go. I'm all in.

Wish me luck.

Holy shit.

rewritingmytruth.com

Where honesty meets recovery

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Lynae

Writer • Healing Advocate

Rewriting the stories I once survived