I’m different.
I’ve always known that I’m not like everyone else.
As a preteen, I hung in the peripheral of the adults. When all of the kids in town were out playing on Saturday’s, you could find me at the table of Grandma Daisy. Or Ms. Gath and Ms. Kronsage’s kitchen floor. I would listen closely to the stories of their lives. Enthralled and excited just to be privileged enough that they talked to a seven year old me, with tar stained bare feet. But I never talked about grandpa sneaking into my room.
In high school, I tried desperately to fit in. I didn’t. So I tried to blend in. That didn’t work for me either. I got lost in the crowd of this clique and that one, which was on the opposite end of the spectrum. So I chose the comfort of simply standing to the side and watching. Trying to learn how I was supposed to be, till thankfully it was over, and I could exhale for awhile.
But I never talked about what my brother did.
I spent a few years traveling. Learning that not all areas of the country were like that little town I grew up in. It was fascinating! I found my love of the ocean, sitting in the hot sands of Virginia Beach. I discovered a peace, a calmness where my soul could rest easy. I walked everywhere or rode the trolley to feel my hair whipping in the wind while enjoying an ice cream cone.
Completely engrossed in the people. Though I talked to very few…I was always watching. Committing their behaviors to memory.
But I never talked about what happened in the alley that night! I never talked about what happened to Raph!
In my mid twenties, I returned to the area of my small home town. Tragic events sent me fleeing to what I deemed my safe zone. My family said I was different. “What happened to me?” They wanted to know…”where is the girl that left?” I guess the transformation I went through of feeling freedom was too much for them. My clothing was different. My vocabulary greater. My accent had become Bostonian. Dirty feet, were now a little pampered and always polished.
I found a job and got to work on being who they said I was supposed to be. For a long time, I believed them. I adapted to faking a smile. To showing interest in the mundane things everyone else saw as important. They thought me eccentric because I wanted to know our purpose here. I’ve never been one capable of thriving on the buzz feed of mediocrity.
My thirties brought me a family of my own. I gave birth to three boys. Their lives became the reason for my existence. My days were filled with caring for and nurturing these beautiful, rambunctious little souls that God put in my care. Their individuality was, and is still, a source of awe and inspiration for me. I became the proverbial soccer mom. On the board of several PTO’s. Our home, was the home all the other kids wanted to be at. I aimed desperately to be the perfect mom. Home cooked meals and Christmas decorations that would have made Martha Stewart proud.
Then it happened…2007!