I had a weird childhood. When I say weird, I mean weird. My earliest memories are of ladies with lost passports, visits to foreign places which I could not begin to appreciate, and forever the feeling of not understanding where I belonged.Most kids feel lucky to have been to Disney World. I was earning Junior Ranger Badges at States parks across the U.S and spending weeks at a time in Europe. I had no idea how strange this was until I started the third grade with a question, "What did you do this summer?" That was easy. "I was in Germany." Every one, teacher included, looked at me like I had just turned into a turnip. The teacher pulled down a map so everyone could see where I had been. She looked at me in awe. I was completely stunned.
No one had ever explained other children did not just pop in and out of Europe every few years. I felt like a freak. How was I supposed to know this was strange?! I spent most of my time around people six or seven times my own age. They understood. I was a child with experiences most adults would never have. For the first time in my life I finally understood. I was different and now all my peers knew it.
My parents raised all of us around adults. We knew how to talk with them. Kids our own age? The only one who ever really managed to integrate into their world was my older sister. My brother, little sister, and I all dealt with reality in our own ways. Sometimes it was healthy, sometimes it was downright stupidity but most of all it was the feeling of living a life those around us had yet to experience.
There were a lot of lonely years. At one point I even transferred schools thinking anything would help. Note to self: people are the same no matter where you go. I transferred into a place which would only make me more confused. High school was some of the worst years of my life. I was not the person I am today. If anything I was at best, a lost little girl, at the worst, a juvenile delinquent in the making. My brother got out. He went to study in an entirely different country. Perhaps this would have helped. I doubt it. No matter where you go you have to want to live. Life is a gift. I wanted to return it.
People find me inspiring. If they had seen the teenager I once was they might not feel that way. A part of me insists I tell the world: Everything I went through has made me the strong chronically ill person I am today! In the end, it was worth it! Most people who say such things are full of crap. I will not apologize for saying so. I was a coward. People who know the life I lived before would hug me and say, "you have been through so much! I admire how strong you are. As pre-chronically ill doctor said, "you are one of those rare patient success stores." Eh, if I had been successful back in the day I would not be writing this chapter of my life today.
Does saying so make me a bitter person? I think not. If honesty is the best policy then I fully intend on sticking with it. When I first started this book I began with the good times. The happy person who took years and lots of courage to appear. I did not want to share the person I used to be. After all, I lead a happy chronically ill life. Who wants to hear about the sad person of yesteryears? For several months I even stopped writing. I never wanted to be chronically ill nor write a book about it! Only after thousands of people had read my work did I get hit a horrid realization. I needed to write about this. Not for my sake but for every one who has lived through, seen someone live through, or think getting hit with the worst you can imagine means life has to end.
I prayed and prayed about why all this had to happen to me. One day I got my answer, 'God wanted me to write a book on this.' I said, 'Hell no! Look. I am religious and all but thinking God wants me to write about this shit is fucking crazy.' Yes, I did swear. I complained. I got angry. Then I got over myself and started to write. Only to hit a major writer's block where I knew I had to be honest. Fuck. I don't even like to think about the old days. How can they possibly matter to the happiness I now feel? Once again I got my answer. Get over yourself and get writing. Okay, Okay but I don't need to like it!
Having let myself be honest I can start where I believe what I call 'life' truly began. Not on the day I became chronically ill but several years before. The time where happiness began and the desire to keep on living each day to the fullest actually started. There is no 'on this day of this year I woke up, loved life, and experienced the bliss of true happiness.' I wish there was. It would make writing a lot easier to have a one sentence chapter stated: 'this is where I let go of the past, enjoyed life, and began to be the happy, now chronically ill, person today.' End of chapter, move on to the next one.
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