the beginning

The room is dark, though bright enough because sunlight is peeking through the windows. I remember the pale-yellow walls which were accompanied by a rainbow border at eye level. I stand up in my crib that was positioned perpendicular to the window wall. I missed the first few times. But then I got it and hauled myself up and over the railing. I crawled out of my crib and made my way through the small hallway that wove like a ‘Z’ with a bathroom at one end and a bedroom at the other, with two bedrooms and hall closet in between. I walked around the corner into my parents’ room and startled my mother, who was sleeping. Little did I know this was my first memory of neglect. And my first memory of saving myself.

My parents divorced when I was four years old because my dad cheated on my mom, according to the story peddled by my mother. Apparently, it happened once with a woman from his work. I heard The Story when I was in college after years of mother alluding to it without ever actually telling me the details. Call it my intuition or her repetitive storytelling, regardless it was not a surprise when she told me at dinner in a Mexican restaurant my freshman year. The divorce, I would later learn, was my trauma event – my special intergenerational trauma event – that would impact everything for me moving forward. Everything up until I was 38 years old, when I cut my mother off for good.

This was no easy feat and not a popular decision at all. And before I did, I burned a lot of bridges along the way. But it became imperative for my mental health and overall wellness, and to protect my marriage and my son.  I believed the wrong people; I lost trust in myself; and I almost lost my life – on more than one occasion. I am still standing today by the grace of God, because of my angels and protectors, because of the deep well of love I have for myself, and because of who I surround myself with - my chosen family.