Innocent Eyes
Pulled out of my dreams I hear noises that I can't quite comprehend.
Wearing my happy, bright-colored rainbow and unicorn cotton nightgown, I stumble down the hall to find out what it is.
There with my sleepy eyes I discover my mother and stepdad completely naked and my stepdad is screaming at her. She is totally incoherent and he is slapping her.
Maybe I should mention at this point that I was only four years old.
Confused, I go to my safe spot, under the bed.
I don't scream, I don't speak up, I just run.
I have no memory of what happened between that moment and when my mother's best friend finds me hiding and coaxes me out of my temporary safe haven.
I only have tiny glimpses of memories from that portion of my life.
I do, however, have anger that I can't quite contain sometimes, full of resentment towards my mother for that child I wanted to be and the reality of the child I actually was.
Always moving, always running, always starting over.
You see, my mother has mental issues. In my unprofessional opinion, I would venture to say she's bipolar.
Years later I discovered that what happened that particular night was an attempted suicide, one of many.
This time she overdosed on pills.
People who have known me since my childhood and teenage years are always saying they are impressed how I've turned out, that they really didn't expect much from me because of where I came from.
Talk about a slap in the face. Do I say thank you???
But I choose to see it differently, or at least redirect my mind when it starts to wander into the darker shadows.
I choose to look at all the people who were willing to find me and pull me back out, pull me into some form of normalcy when my mother was unable.
Those people were my saving grace.
So, in a way, perhaps I was luckier than most. I had many "mothers" willing to step in, willing to hold my hand, wipe my tears, encouraging me to learn and grow.
They are the ones who continued to reach under the bed and pull me back out.
And to them, I am eternally grateful.