"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ~Edgar Allan Poe
I wish I could share with you all the things that I have seen, the places I have been. But half of you would not believe, the other half would react very negatively, very few would understand. Know that what I say is true and what I know, knows no corruption. Could it be I have died and gone to paradise or some place darker. Caught in purgatory between reality and disillusion. What I once knew is shattered, what I know now is surreal. All I know is all I see, but all that is and once was, is but a dream with in a dream. -Me 2007-2011
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This is the truth about me, you can take it or leave it, but I have never been a good liar and I find the truth is far more interesting anyway. I am not writing this for pity or for anything, but understanding for who I am. I figure it’s high time I got this out so others can read it. It might even help someone someday, perhaps even bring some peace of mind.
I was adopted at birth in 1981. Life from there on in wasn't easy. Anyone who tells you it was, is lying.
My adopted mother used to put me in a baby crib in my room. I remember the color, it was blue. I also remember a man who use to stand over my bed in a blue pinstriped suit and a fedora. He had a pasty white face and he made me laugh all the time by tickling me and making faces. Then he'd gently quiet me down as if he didn't want to make a ruckus and draw attention. I had always assumed he was my adoptive grandfather. Years later when I confronted my mother about it, she said that he never wore a fedora or a pinstriped suit. Later in life, when I came in contact with my real mother, I explained the situation to her and the mystery man who used to stand over my crib and make me laugh. She dropped the phone, I had just described my maternal great grandfather who had run a morgue. Most amazing of all he loved children and making them laugh; he was a real big joker. The only problem was that he was dead. Long dead by the time I was born. Apparently he had always wanted to see my mother's child. This was the first ghost encounter I ever had, but by far not the last....
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My mother was astounded by how many animals would go out of their way to come over to me.
One day when I was three years old, my mother set me on the lawn outside. My mother was unaware my dad had been keeping the fact our pool was infested with rats a secret from her because she tended to overreact. I was just sitting there when a rat came over to me and sat upon its haunches, just staring at me. We had an unspoken conversation with each other, and the first words I spoke was, "Puppy." I was reaching my arms out to him and he never tried to bite me and just appeared to be fascinated with me. My mother broke the moment, running out of the kitchen in a fury and scooping me up in her arms. This strange connection with animals never left me.
The problems started with me being sick all the time. My parents didn't understand why I was getting sick so much so they took me to an allergy doctor, who ran every test on me. Including the wonderfully archaic scratch test. A test performed by scratching the back and placing allergens under the skin and observing the reaction. This horrid memory is the first I can remember; screaming for my mother's help and being held down by doctors. This started to become a theme in my life. The doctors basically told my mother I was allergic to everything but the kitchen sink and told her to get rid of my toys, my stuffed animals and basically to keep anything that could collect dust away from me. No animals: nothing. From a very early age my stuffed animals were my protectors my confidants. They were taken from me; all except one that was washed and was so ruined by this It scared me and I never picked it up again.
I was put into a Christian school in Kindergarten. I was stuck in a year early due to my health declining because of severe allergies to the barn yard animals in my preschool. Animals were always my friends. They didn't laugh or ask “why you can't read?“. I had trouble fitting in from an early age; often when kids were playing house and wanting to be Mommy or daddy or the child, I wanted to be the dog at the foot of the bed or playing with the children. I didn't understand people, let alone my peers and why they always wanted to be Mommy or Daddy. I didn't ever understand the kids that ate paste. Those kids I yelled at saying, "See! This is the reason I am forced to use the glue that doesn't work very well." I had trouble relating to everyone. Although I didn't have too much trouble making friends.
It was in Kindergarten when I saw something that to this day I still can't explain.
One day after school I was in a Brownie meeting with my friends and was making a friendship bracelet when I heard a horrible crashing sound from out side on the basketball court. A basketball came flying in the window, headed towards my friends and me with large glass shards following close behind. Everyone was stunned when the ball stopped a few inches in front of my face and fell at my feet as though it has hit some invisible wall. I heard the words miracle and guardian angel being whispered (it was a Christian school after all). They didn't see what I saw. All they saw was an odd lack of glass around my desk and the girl in front of me, as though some one had their arms out to protect us. Neither of us got cut and the only piece of glass on me was a small bit hanging off the end of my shirt. It was all over the floor at my feet though. My mom rushed over and the teacher proceeded to yell at the kids out side who had allowed the ball to go flying. They started to clean the mess up and I was still staring where the ball had just dropped. My mom asked me if I was ok and I just shook my head yes. Little did she know I saw the person who stopped the ball. I saw a glowing figure with it's arms out stretched. I didn't know what a guardian angel was at that time. I simply call them guardians now.
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The next problem was school. It started with the nasty notes home from the teachers. Does not pay attention in class, seems lost in daydreams, incompetent, retarded. Yes, those were the exact words. After being held back a second time in a Christian school with highly verbally abusive teacher. Some things began to happen. There were a few kids in my class who had started wetting their bed. One girl ran out in front of car to try and get to her mother who was leaving, just to get away from our teacher. Imagine Nurse Ratched (from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest), who also was a military person, and ran their class room of 1st grader as such. The nightmares began and so did my low self esteem. You can only fail so many tests, be belittled and yelled at so many times before you snap. Even when you are six. My teacher told me I'd never graduate high-school and that I was too stupid to do anything with myself.
I now have a BA in illustration and a Minor in sculpting. I graduated Cum Ladue with minor studies in Art History. I went back to get a BA in 3d Modelling. I am self taught and have an understanding in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, I know how to build a web site, how to model a 3d head, how to do theatre make up, how to cook, how to sing and act. I excelled in those fields when I was taught by professionals.
However with education, no progress was being made, even after being held back a year. My Grandpa put his foot down and went for a meeting with my mother to go talk to my teacher. He staunchly disagreed that his granddaughter was retarded. Then again he had seen me sit for hours building things like functioning pinball machines made of cardboard, foil and other household items.
They pulled me out of that school and I was placed in a school for kids with learning disabilities. My hatred for Christians began here as well as a life long struggle to understand things that were simple to others, but just didn't come that easy to me. I was diagnosed with ADD, ADHD, Dyslexia, Dyspraxia, Dysphasia. To this day I still don't think they know for sure just what I have.
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This next part is hard to talk about mainly because this is the first time I have spoken out about it other then to two very close friends. I think that it is important I state the truth and everything that has happen to me. I hope that this can help others on their journey. Remember, we are sometimes a passenger on a road we barely control. Sometimes we get into situations we can not control or prevent. We must remember this is not our fault, especially when we are children who are innocent of the evil in the world.
When I was six years old. I use to play with my grandparent's next door neighbor's daughter. She was about my age. I knew that her family was messed up because I some times heard my parents talking about it. My grandpa was well aware the older son was a drug addict. The step-dad was some-what abusive; you some times could hear them fighting. I didn't know just how messed up the family was until it effected me. I remembered going over to their house as a child and not liking her step-dad very much or the house it's self, which ironically my grandpa bought on action years latter for my parents. Me and the girl had been playing at my grandparent's house. We were upstairs playing hide and go seek. When my friend had gotten me into a upstairs closet with her. I remember for some reason she tried to get my pants down and she tried to touch me, saying, "Oh mommies and daddies do this so it's ok." I told her to stop and that it wasn't ok. She wouldn't stop. My grandpa ended up finding us. He pulled me aside and sent my friend home. I begged my grandpa not to tell her parents or my mother, because I was scared she would get hit or punished. I realized years latter how accurate I probably was. My grandpa never betrayed my wishes; so much so that years later when I was much, much older I tried to speak about it with my mother, she tried to tell me it was all in my head. This was a common response from her about many things.
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In the summer of 1988 I became very ill. My whole family thought I was just looking for attention. The first symptom I showed was drinking tons of water and urinating all the time. I lost a ton of weight and, after my mother being told she was just paranoid, she took up a medical dictionary and pored through it. There was only one diagnoses that fit all my symptoms... I was diagnosed with Diabetes after my mother insisted on me getting a very simple blood test.
I was admitted to the hospital and a whirl wind of tests were done. More and more blood work. I hated needles then and I was horribly scared. The doctors were untrained in handling children and were physically abusive as well as verbally abusive to me. Because I would freak out so badly when they had to draw blood they'd try to sneak up on me. This resulted in five male doctors getting knocked down by a seven year old. When they finally caught up to me I screamed for my mother's help but she would not help me. They told her if she came with me it would just make it worse. So they man-handled me on to a stretcher and tied my hands down so they could administer an IV. One doctor actually told me they were going to use the biggest needle they could find because of what a horrible child I was. The nightmares became worse.
I was woken up in the middle of the night by a doctor that had the bright idea to do a blood clotting test on me while I was asleep because he thought I wouldn't react. I had quite a reputation with doctors around there for being a violent, even though I was just trying to protect my self. I flew out of bed in attack mode. I kicked him in the crotch. Blood running down my arm, screaming for help; my mother and Grandpa both awoke from the cot by my bed. My mother was the first to inquire of this doctor just what he thought he was doing? He looked like he'd seen a ghost and couldn't quite talk right after my foot to the groin. My grandpa yelled at him and scared him off. Then another doctor tried to smooth over what happened and offered me a steri-strip because I was bleeding all over the place. I growled at him and told him to not to touch me. He insisted, I said NO. My grandpa tried but I wouldn't let any one touch me at this point. Years later that hospital was dubbed the worst trained staff to handle children.
I had to stay most of that summer in the hospital. All I wanted to do was go home. This is where I first started to retreat into my imagination.
School continued to be a struggle for me and, even though I was put into a school that supposedly was strictly for children with learning disabilities, I still couldn't read and I could barely write, not very coherently anyway.
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