Bright, Happy & Alive

When I think of my childhood one particular place comes to mind; my childhood home, specifically my room. This room was my sanctuary: a place where I escaped, daydreamed, and coped. I was an only child and back then I had no idea what that even meant. I had a dad, no mom and no siblings.

More than anything I felt solitude in my room. I had only my imagination to entertain me and I often pretended to be someone else. I had many fantasies about escaping from that room, even though it was comforting and fitting for a five- year- old girl. I wanted out of that small, two bedroom home. I didn’t know where I was going, but someone was going to swoop in and rescue me from the cold, tile floor, yellow walls and white antique bed with a yellow, pink, and sea foam green patchwork comforter.

I dreamed of the day I didn’t sit in my room all alone, wondering why I was stuck there, scared and apprehensive, talking out loud to God asking, “Will this be over soon?”

Fear was a feeling I was all too familiar with. When I was punished my room wasn’t usually the place I was sent to. Those instances resembled ear pulling from the sidewalk out front to the living room, beatings with a wooden paddle fit for hazing a college freshman, or standing in a corner in the kitchen for an entire afternoon. Unlike the ease I experienced in my room, fear followed me everywhere because punishment was often swift and unexpected.

Ironically, two long years later, when I was seven, my mother ultimately became my rescuer. During all those daydreams I never pictured her to be my savior.

Although my mother was a stranger to me at the time, I wasn’t afraid. I was completely numb and didn’t know what to think or expect. I was about to embark on the life I had prayed for so many frightened days and nights. I soon discovered that although present, she was emotionally unavailable.

Even though my new reality was far less whimsical than my fantasies, my ability to escape, daydream, and cope in my yellow room will remain etched in my mind forever. My childhood is defined by that yellow, bright, and happy room. Once I said good-bye to that place, my childhood was over.

This I believe: I am strong, capable, and confident. I don’t need my father or mother’s approval or acceptance to define me. I am who I am because of them, but that doesn’t mean I am like them. I am a loving, affectionate, empathetic, thoughtful, and caring individual because of their mistakes and abuse. I am a better person, friend, wife, and mother because of their faults. I am a survivor and I am proud of the woman I have become.