Swimming with the Sharks

When I was born, I was my father's first child and my mother's second. July 12, 1967. I can't say I remember the day exactly but I'm sure I cried at some point. My father working and my mother delivering. That was the whole eight years of their marriage. Separate. When they were  together, they were explosive so dad went to work or escaped in some other fashion but mostly work. Anxiety traveled right down the umbilical cord to us, my brother from a previous marriage, myself and my younger sister.

I was extremely quiet, hoping no one would notice me at all. If I closed my eyes maybe my life would flash forward and then I'd be done. Well, I'm 42 now and I probably have a way to go since everyone in my up line is so freakin' healthy and live forever.

The fondest memory I have of my father is one day when he came home from (before we were in bed, for once), he got on all fours and let me ride around on his back like a dad. At that very moment I had a real life dad. That was the best day for me. I was about three and I remember it crystal clearly.

Cut to living in Malibu. Although we lived at the beach in a beautiful three story house overlooking Pacific Coast Highway, all I can remember is my parents screaming at each other. I was five. I would sit in my room and talk to Jesus. Mostly because He'd come to visit quite a bit. He used to sit on the end of my bed. He was cool. All I remember was how much pain I was in and that He kept telling me I was his special girl. Ok.

My brother, Walter six years my senior, taught me how to ride my bike without my training wheels. I was so proud although I fell and hit the curb on my way back. But I did it and he cheered me on.

I was in Kindergarten. I went to school and was coloring with my left-hand. My teacher abruptly walked over to me and yanked the crayon right out of my left and and demanded I only use my right hand. I cried. When she walked away, I switched back to my left hand. I kept it inside and went home with a smile as I wanted nothing to do with adding any more turmoil to our house. It was not a home. It was hell.