Childhood Memoirs:

November 5th, 1990 at 10:30 am I was born to a married couple in East Meadow NY.

I was the baby they planned for immediately after a stillbirth that was unexpected. Nursery painted and boy things waiting on a child that never showed.

So I was a miracle, one that arrived a month early and barely made it into my newborn onesie at 5 lbs.

It is very accurate that when I was born I was dramatic.

I opened my eyes and was super alert after birth. Arms swinging around and the funniest expressions as I threw my hands up into the sky.

Now I'm not sure if I believe in time travel or alternate lives. But I do know that holding my forehead and throwing my hands up had to be deep foreshadowing my author set in place for the tumultuous ride I would face and the people I would endure for many years.

Humor. And resilience.

If two gifts were given to me when I went earth side, it was those.

The ability to get through anything and get through it laughing all the way.

Laughing at the irony of life. Laughing at the lighthearted things about life, that only I could appreciate because of my awareness of the dark side. The ugly things. The dysfunction.

Laughing was my medicine.

My parents split by the time I was 3. Cathy broke a chair over Charlie's back and he hit her one time back finally. One time too many in his book, because he never wanted to be that guy.

The next thing Cathy did was show up on her own mothers' doorstep with me, begging for a place to stay after we lost our section 8 housing and owned only one duffle bag of things.

My teddy bear was the one thing I brought, my BFF since birth who got dragged by the rice-filled arm on every adventure I left on.

We spent 2 whole years in an unfinished basement. Now I know where my fear of crickets comes from.

Charlie would come around on some weekends for me.

He was fun. Unstructured. Wild.

With long flowing hair like mine and an unkept place with freedom written all over it.

No rules were synonymous with father.

Cathy hated that.

She hated many things.

Like my golden daddy locks of hair, my laughter at all the things including inappropriate phrases I dragged home, my interest in climbing trees, my obsessive need to talk about all the things, and my "carefree attitude".

Care-free is no way to be in a hard world. Too many bad people and bad things for me to get used to smiling.

She did not have to say it, because her stern smirk spoke it into our life and relationship.

Every time she brushed my hair into a tight pony, pulling my eyes back and tightening my grip to the chair, she straightened my curls like she was trying to straighten my DNA out.

Be gone with the unruly hair. Be gone with chaos.

Cathy did not sit for tea parties but she did make sure to dress me up in frills, like a 90s Mary Poppins child with the white Lacey socks and patent shoes. A pageant-worthy ribbon never met my chest, but words of poise were branded into my soul.

It stuck with me though, her vision of me and who she wanted me to be as a little girl.

So much I developed a double life. Refined with Cathy, unruly with Charlie. Ripped blue Jean's, leather jacket with the broken patchwork and exhaust smell. Smelled like hard work and marijuana.

Cathy hated that jacket.

But Cathy worked really hard and always dressed the part. She counted her lashes to perfection and blew out the tight curls in her hair to transform herself into powerful for her day. She was a leader, even when she was the lowest on the chain in her job.

Charlie "made money" but only enough to barely cover expenses while staying with his mother. And he took any job he could get.

Most often working on motorcycles, or driving a truck.

Dirt was his job.

And his time.

And his attitude.

Losing a parent as a teen, he replaced his father with chemical coping mechanisms.

Cathy got nose bleeds sometimes. Dry skin. "Hereditary," she said. It took me 12 years to realize what the white brick was in her underwear drawer.

Cathy was not a hugger. Or a kisser.

But she did get me board games, or at least I think it was her. Giving me a way to play by myself and keep busy while being passed between inlaw and grandma while she worked.

My favorite 2 games, I can still picture when I close my eyes, were Mousetrap and Don't break the ice.

I learned rather quickly how to strategize and survive.

I screamed and cried the day I started public school. Held my hands to the panels like a death grip. Choking and gasping for air through my tears as I was yanked past the barrier.

I cried having to walk on the sidewalk, afraid I would step on the Anthills and kill defenseless, innocent creatures just trying to make their way home to their mommies.

I was a weird kid.

Now I know weird is synonymous with anxiety disorder.