Sometimes you have to take a step back to move forward.
-Anonymous
I grew up in Rhode Island until the summer before high school when I was 13 and we moved to Vermont. My sister, Kimmie, is almost three years younger than I am, but I don’t recall anything that happened in my life before she came along. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She taught me to love, protect, value other people, be unselfish, have compassion and empathy. She was everything to me.
Treasures in the Basement
Before leaving Vermont to follow me to Alaska in 1996, Kimmie rummaged around in our mother’s basement and found a box of photo negatives. In classic Kimmie form, she absconded with the box. It was a gold mine. I took the negatives to a photo developing store and–little by little over time–we got them all developed. I made double copies so we could both make a photo album. It took a lot of time for Kimmie and me to put them all in order and figure out where we lived when the photos were taken and who the people were. We literally watched our lives unfold through those photo memories. It seemed odd to me that there were just negatives in a box and no photos. Perhaps my father took the hard copies with him after the divorce. I don’t know. Regardless, it was wonderful to see ourselves grow up in photos and help recreate some of our past that was long forgotten.
The Sorta Good Old Days
Before Kim was born (and maybe for a short time after), we lived in a little red house in the woods. I would have no recollection of this if it weren’t for seeing pictures of it. Pictures I never saw growing up. We then moved into another house my parents got sometime around when I was three years old. The white house on Station Street had wood floors. There was a hallway off the bedrooms that led into the dining room. Kimmie and I used to run down the hallway and slide with our feet pajamas or socks for what felt like hours. It’s one of my favorite memories.
I have few memories from when I was the age of three until I was six. My imaginary friend’s name was Dee-Dee. She was taller than I was and could run faster, jump farther, and was fearless. She and I both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but she was prettier than I was. I talked to her most while
standing under the light in the center of the kitchen. The kitchen had linoleum that was supposed to look like a brick floor and the single light was a large, round dome. Dee-Dee was my alter ego, so I blamed everything I did wrong on her. I don’t remember getting into trouble very often, but if I did, I can guarantee it was her fault and not mine. Poor fuck. She was awesome. I wish she’d stuck around, but these things fade as we get older.
I remember sugar on snow. I would get snow in a big, red bowl and we’d cook maple syrup and pour it over the top while sitting in front of the fireplace. I haven’t had it in so many years; the idea seems odd and foreign now, but I can remember looking forward to it.
My Mom
My mother enjoyed sewing and sang and played both the piano and organ. She was very tall. She was 5’ 10” with short, brown hair and gray eyes. I have a picture of her when I was a baby under a year old and she was beautiful. I have a special memory of her making a quilt on the floor. I sat and watched her while I learned to blow a bubble with gum. She sewed a lot of our clothes and always had projects. I wanted to learn how to sew–to create–but I didn’t actually learn until my second year of college from a friend’s mother. I also never learned to play the piano either. But I sang.
Father Knows Best
My father was quiet and always had a martini and a cigarette in his hand. He had dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He was thin, always clean shaven, and wore glasses. He loved Star Trek and watched it every night, or so it seemed. We had an obnoxiously bright and wild couch with huge flowers in reds and oranges. It was a loose weave material and rough to the touch. My father loved it because he was six feet tall and he could lie all the way down without touching the arms when he wanted to. When he chose to sit upright, he always sat at the far left side of the couch, next to the end table where he put his ashtray and martini. My sister sat on his lap and I sat next to him– which made me a little sad. I wanted to be on his lap, but Kimmie was smaller, so she got that spot. I would stand by the end table and take the green olive out of his martini, suck it off and dip it back in over and over until he told me to stop. To this day, a green olive doesn’t taste right to me if it isn’t dropped into a martini. It was special to be on that wildly colored couch with my father while he watched Star Trek. It was our time with him.
I remember him falling down the four stairs that led into the living room. He had black, not-quite-knee-high socks on like he always did. I’m sure falling hurt like hell, and from how much he swore, I feel my guess is pretty accurate. He and my mom swore a lot though, so that never seemed odd to me.
My father used to polish his shoes with shoe polish and a brush. I would watch him, enamored with what he was doing. He always sat on the edge of his bed, facing the closet so all his shoes were close to him. He went through the entire process methodically: cleaning the shoes, then putting on shoe polish with a brush. He did that in a circular motion. Then he used a brush to buff them until they shined. His brushes were well-kept and well-used. He had a white pair of leather loafers that I thought were silly, but he loved them.
Bobo Makes An Entrance and Rapid Departure
We had a huge Irish Setter named Bobo. He was gangly and hyper and knocked us over as he bounded towards us. When Kim was about 2 ½ and I was 5 ½, I went out on a particularly cold morning to feed Bobo. It was dark outside and there were glass milk jars on the steps. I couldn’t see the milk jars with the bowl in my hands and knocked over one of the jars. When it shattered, I stepped on glass and got a piece in my foot. Kim actually remembers me being carried into the house and placed on the bathroom counter to get the glass dug out of my foot. I blamed it on Bobo.
Bobo was huge and lovingly dumb. He had a tail that could nearly knock down a house. One morning when we went outside to feed him, he was gone. Just his chain was sitting there from the run he was on at night. We never saw him again. My parents thought he was taken or possibly that he ran away and was then picked up by someone. Perhaps he knew our lives were about to take a turn for the worse.
Mean Boys
There were two boys around our age that lived next door. Kimmie called them “the mean boys,” but I’m not sure if that’s because she didn’t like being around people or because they were actually mean. I don’t recall. We used to jump off a big rock in our yard. One day the boys kept jumping and jumping and telling us to do it also. Against Kimmie’s better judgement, I jumped. I bit my tongue nearly in half (or so it felt like) and I was bleeding everywhere. Kimmie was pretty smug when we went in and I had to suck on ice cubes. I blamed the severe tongue injury on the mean boys.
Little Trolls and Jesus
As a kid I had an imaginary village that I was certain existed underneath my bed. I’d challenge myself to run and leap onto my bed so the little trolls that lived there wouldn’t capture me. In my imaginings, they had pea shooters that they would launch at me, ultimately bringing me down. They could then tie me up and drag me underneath my bed where they would keep me tied up and torture me. Clearly, the run and leap method of getting on my bed would save me from this miserable fate.
One time I was sitting outside on the steps of the house talking. My mother asked me who I was talking to. “Jesus,” I replied. I thought everyone did that. As a child it never occurred to me that you wouldn’t talk to Jesus.
School’s in Session
I don’t remember Kindergarten at all, although I have a fantastic picture of my graduation. I had to hold this boy’s hand, and I was sticking out my tongue in disgust. Classic me. I still do that. When I found the photo as an adult I couldn’t stop giggling. It’s just so ME.
In first grade my teacher was a fat woman with short hair. I felt sick one day and ran to the bathroom but puked in the doorway instead. I felt guilty that I didn’t make it to a toilet. That’s all I remember of first grade. I don’t even have a picture to represent that era.
To Grandmother’s House We Go
Throughout my life we would visit my grandmother in New Hampshire. She had a big house at the end of a road, tucked into the woods. The barn was huge, and we would spend hours exploring. There were horses there for a while when my twin aunts had them in high school, but otherwise it was abandoned for us to explore. My grandmother was always happy to see us, and I felt very loved when we visited.
She cooked a lot, and we had an ongoing joke about her broccoli casserole–how she always made it and no one really liked it. I liked it though. I liked all of her cooking, especially if we visited on Thanksgiving. I think she was a big part of me wanting to learn how to cook because she made it feel good to visit and eat. I learned to appreciate good cooking and how it could bring people together. I loved visiting and looked forward to it. We didn’t go often because there was either tension between my grandmother and my mother or my mother and one of her seven siblings. I wanted to be there. Kimmie and I each slept with one of my mother’s twin sisters when we stayed overnight. It felt safe.
Miriam and Ruth were the twins. They were named after my great grandmother and her twin sister. We all called Miriam Mim or Mimi. Mim and Ruth were only six years older than I was. I was the oldest grandchild and my sister was the next. It was several years until the next one was born, so I was closer in age to my aunt twins than I was with my cousins. When we visited my grandmother, they would fight over which of them would sleep with me since Kimmie kicked and flipped around in her sleep. One time when the twins were in high school, we got to go to school with them. I thought they were the most beautiful, fun, cool kids ever, and I wanted to get bigger to be just like them. When they got their driver’s licenses, they’d fight over which one of them would drive. They drove my grandmother’s station wagon with the Grateful Dead sticker on it, and they liked the music loud. They also liked to fight with each other–smacking and yelling at each other– but they were also best friends and inseparable.
Abrupt Change Brings Headaches, Hallucinations, and Anxiety
My parents divorced when I was six. That’s when things started to change. I was in second grade, and that was my worst year of school. I don’t know my teacher’s name, but she yelled a lot. I felt like my parent’s divorce was my fault–that I wasn’t good enough and if I had been better, they would have wanted to stay together. I hated school except for one girl with very dark, curly hair. She had a winter coat that looked like a fake sheep, and the kids made fun of her. She cried a lot, and although we weren’t really friends, I liked her. I think I felt a connection with her pain. This is when I started getting headaches. A lot. Wake you up, crying inconsolably, migraine-level headaches.
This is when Kimmie started having hallucinations and anxiety. Although she was always a shy, sweet kid, the divorce seemed to kick that into overdrive. She would wake me up at night crying, running a low grade fever and obsessed with the huge, hairy spider she was certain was there to eat her alive. She would cry, sweat, and beat at the dark imaginings of her hallucinations. In turn, I would hold her, rocking her back and forth, telling her I was there to protect her and it would be OK. It seemed easier for me just to help her than it would be to get my mother. Surprisingly enough, I don’t recall ever getting my mother to help. I felt like it was my responsibility. I just climbed into Kimmie’s bed and held her.
We slept in close proximity to each other. We shared a bedroom with bunk beds. Kimmie still likes to point out that I fell off my top bunk several times. That seems like it might be an exaggeration...OK, several times is probably fairly accurate. I didn’t like sharing a room with Kimmie because I was a neat freak and she was messy. But on a positive note, I loved being close to her and protecting her when she needed it most.
Becoming A Warrior Princess
I’ve always had an innate knowledge that God exists, He loves me and He listens. My relationship with Him has always been the same. We talk. Well, I talk, and He listens. Then I get faced with challenges that I know are answers to my God talks. I don’t always like the answers, but with my faith that all things happen for a reason, I am always going to be strong enough for what is placed in my life. God will always be there for me. He keeps me going.
As a kid I just knew innately that families shouldn’t be dysfunctional. I knew things should be different even though I didn’t know how. It’s been a crapshoot figuring it out, laden with a lot of mistakes, but I have tried my hardest to break the cycle. Whatever you hold dear–faith, God, meditation, Buddha–keep it burning within you. Feed your warrior and let her grow.
Kimmie and I lived with or near each other most of our lives. She was good enough to follow me where I was when she could, with breaks in between when she couldn’t. In 2002, Kim married one of my best friends, Tony, and moved with him to Arizona where they still reside. It’s hard for me to live 13 driving hours away from her, and the time we go between visits is interminably long to both of us. I am always comforted that she is with a man who loves her as much as I do. I miss her every day.
Triumph with Love
I’m generally quiet about being a God girl. I protect the things I hold dear, which has been a strength. I learned that you don’t need a big family while growing up, but the few close family members I have, I make sure to let know that I love them.
Roots are important to me. That scrapbook that I created from those negatives in the basement helped me realize that. I have always made sure my foster and adopted children know where they came from. Children often blame themselves, so I let my kids know that things aren’t their fault. By just being there and showing love and support I can get someone through anxiety.
LEARN AND GROW
• Protect
• Tell people you care
• Know your roots
• Don’t place blame on others
• Show love and support