There are so many stories, life lessons, adventures, tragedies, comedies, beauty… that I want to write about. But where does one start?
Each individual story is just a snapshot of a single point in time. In the telling of a single story, in order to really get a full picture, another needs to be told and then another and another. Each snapshot doesn’t exist in a vacuum, but is a cumulative result of every moment that proceeded it, like breadcrumbs, leading back to the day I was born.
I am not perfect and I have many flaws. I am more aware of that than anyone, I am my own worst critic. I have journeyed far, and I have many many scars to show for it. I am also ashamed to say, I have also caused scars. Hurt people hurt people. However, when I look at these snapshots, it gives me the capacity to have compassion for myself.
I often struggle with understanding who I am. Being a mom has given me the understanding that we are born into this world with certain personalities, strengths, and weakness What were mine on the day I was born, before my environment had a chance to start breaking me down?
My environment growing up was full of dysfunction, confusion, terror, uncertainty, instability… To quantify it, if you are familiar with the ACE (adverse childhood experiences) test, I am an 8 out of 10. My home was never safe…like ever, or at least as far back as my memories can go. Not even in a general sense, each day was a matter of survival, not getting beat, not invoking rage from a parent, trying to do all the right things in hopes of receiving some form of love. I often wonder, did my parents cherish me as an infant? I assume they must have at least done the basics, feed me and change my diaper, since I am alive.
I can say that my that something shifted in my dad when I was around 14. He became much kinder and more caring. I remember vividly the last time he raised his hand up to hit me. He had me backed up to the kitchen sink, I turned my head and put my hands up over my face to protect myself. His hand suddenly stopped midair, his face looked startled. Even though he gaslighted me by asking, “Did you think I was going to hit you? I would never hurt you!”, then hugged me, there was still relief and healing. I was hopeful this was the end of the abuse from him…and for the most part it was. My mom on the other hand continued her abuse clear into adulthood. I have chosen to not remain in contact with her for my own mental health.
Telling the stories on my own terms not only creates order out of these chaotic memories, but it also allows me to shift my role in the story from victim to heroine. I get to walk out of the ashes transformed into a woman that is resilient and full of grit and thriving. I may never know what my natural born capacities were, but I now get to define who I want to be as a result of these stories.
Some of these stories I have chosen to tell with humor. This is reserved for the stuff that is so ridiculous it deserves to be laughed at.
In telling the stories, it also helps me to identify the points in the plot where the universe sent me lifelines, my own personal miracles. Looking back I can identify so many people that helped me in my journey in big and small ways. Jennie, however, journeyed with me. From the time I was 20 until she passed when I was 38, she and I were as close as sisters.
I want to dedicate this site to her, she was the first to listen. The telling was more raw then, and she would always cry with me and for me. So much healing happened during these moments. I know I would not be standing here today, the woman I am, if not for her.
Of course not all of my stories are of my childhood. JenMoments is a term Jennie coined. It is a recognition that I have this knack of getting into the craziest of situations. Sometimes it is my own dumb fault, and other times no fault at all of my own. Regardless the cause, Jennie taught me to find humor in just about any situation, and not to take myself and life too seriously.