I have milestones. Mostly I have mile markers.
In my twenties I began to recognize that many people had grand achievements that they felt gave them status. Academic degrees. A job title or a business. A home or a car. A marriage and a ring. A new last name that they felt elevated their social status.
In contrast, my grand achievement was that I wasn't dead. I survived. I wasn't much fun or good for conversation or parties. I existed in a different world than most everyone around me. And when I told my story, I am sure many people did, and do think now that I have exaggerated and sensationalized my stories for sympathy or effect. Neither is the case. As this story unfolds it becomes clear how neither is of any benefit.
The first story of survival began with the death of my mother, but in some sense, is ongoing. Before the shock of death could settle into my impressionable young mind there would be other world shattering events that initially eclipsed that event.
My mother was the nucleus of our family, in that if any other of the five of us had passed away I believe we would have remained intact as a family unit. Mile marker; She passed and we fell apart as a family, then as individuals.
After my mother passed away we went to my grandparents. In time my brother and sister would move back and forth between my grandparents, home with my dad, and other families with which we were connected through the church. As best as I can remember, it was about three months between my mother passing and when I finally came home to live with my father, brother and sister. I was the youngest of the three, and the last to learn about anything.
The first morning back with my family I woke to find my father sharing his bed with a woman and couldn't really understand how or why she wasn't our new mother. Mile marker. I was not bothered by there being a woman in bed with my father. There was no context for the implications of such things. I was upset that I had been left out. My father and siblings were living their life, had been, and I was just now coming back home. I knew enough to understand that I was there only because my grandmother had insisted that my father bring me home.
It was not long before we were sent back to my grandparents. Mile marker. The back and forth between this house and that house became the new normal for a bit of time. The church had always been an important part of our lives when my mother was with us. We attended every Wednesday evening and twice on Sunday. Our social connections were all families within the church. After my mother passed, we attended church less and less.
From my perspective, looking back, I only had one real connection to the church left. Barbara Rice was my mother's best friend and had 'saved' her from Catholicism. Tom Rice was a really good and close friend to my father. Tony was similar in age to my brother and they were best friends. Timmy was similar in age to me and was my best friend. As I remember it, Timmy and I were closer to each other than anyone else in our lives. We shared thoughts, we were always in sync with each other. Timmy was always helping me go a little bit further, reach a little bit higher. He helped me be bolder, braver and stronger. I have not ever had a better, or truer friend than I had in Timmy as a small child. We were children. Circumstances tore us apart. I still remember the very last time I talked to him as a little boy. Mile marker.
My father was not a bad man. He was a troubled man, grieving and perhaps feeling a bit lost in the world after the loss of my mother. Occasionally he took us to church. I remember the last time. Dawn, the woman in my father's bed, sat next to my father, on his left. On her left I sat and on my left, was my brother. My sister sat to the right of my father. I remember that people kept looking at us. I didn't understand why at the time, I probably assumed that it was because they hadn't seen us much since my mother passed away. But for all the gawking, little was said to us. We didn't ever go back to church again. Mile marker.
Everyone knew my father was physically involved with Dawn. Dawn had been a friend of my mother though I had not ever known or heard of her. No one in the church approved of their relationship and were intent on letting my father know of their disapproval.
Since my first tricycle I have been an enthusiastic cyclist. Left to my own devices, then or now, I will probably end up on my bicycle riding for the sheer pleasure of it. When I was a child it was common for me to leave the house in the morning on my bike and not return till just before sunset. I rode all over Galveston Island free as the wind, wandering at will. Eventually I began to wander past the church on Wednesday evenings to see my friends. But it wasn't long before the children were instructed to not play with me. I started calling my friend Timmy on the phone. Soon that was prohibited too. that was the last tie to be cut. Mile marker.
The breaking of these ties were critical in my formation as a person. The effects were devastating though it was to be some years before I began to understand just how much. But this devastation will pale in comparison to what is still yet to come. There will be times when all of this is little more than a minor blip.
Through the course of my life there are many stories. Some of them are not necessarily mine to tell and I will leave it to those people to tell. This is my story, from my perspective, as complete and honest as I can tell it. as I trudge through these stories I may find the need to edit them after posting in an effort to continue to be as complete and honest as possible without infringing on anyone else's story. At least while they are living.
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