It’s funny how words and actions can affect your whole life. Take me for instance. From the outside, I always looked like every teacher’s dream child… cute, nicely done, long-brown hair, green eyes, a pretty dress, always smiling, just a sweet little girl… “sweet”. I didn’t know it then put I’d grow to hate that word.
Who knew I’d be here writing this story… or even tell my story? It’s not an easy thing that we eventually have to do. It’s eats us up inside, bit by bit, moment by moment, but eventually it comes time to tell someone.
But who is someone? For each of us it is different. My first someone was my husband. We were high school sweethearts, who got married at twenty-one and bought my grandmother’s house in the neighborhood where we grew up. It was a nice start to life.
I remember sitting on our front porch on the same swing that had been there since I was a little girl. That swing held such fond memories… Memories of feeling safe and loved, swinging with my grandma during thunderstorms, listening to my grandpa tell me stories of how thunder is just the angels bowling. “There’s a strike!” he’d say. I loved his laugh and smile. I cherished those moments. Even then at the young age of seven, I cherished them. They had a way of making me feel special.
But this time, sitting on the swing, my memories and feelings were different. I’d been struggling with my thoughts and emotions for some time. Something was off. Something didn’t feel right. It was beginning to dawn on me that something about my childhood was not right. It was like puzzle pieces. One goes here. Another goes there. But they never fit together… at least not the way you would think. What were they? Why did I feel like I was missing so much? What was my gut trying to remind me of? So I did what any “normal” twenty-one year old would do. I called to get copies of my medical records.
God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. – Psalm 46:1 (NIV)