Life of an Imposter: Take 2

This is a follow up to my first post where I seemed to do a lot of rambling about relationships and the influence of social media but failed to really talk about why I personally feel like I don't fit in anywhere. This subject is much harder because it is so personal and I will admit up front that it won't be the full story because that would just be risking too much, but I will try to convey enough so that this time I explain the title of the blog more clearly.

The story, of course, starts in childhood.  My parents divorced when I was 3 years old and though I don't remember the time they were married really, my first memory is of a big fight they were having in our family dining room.  In my memory, the fight started in the dining room with my brother and I trying to pull them apart (this may or may not be true as memories this far back tend to take on their own life but this is the truth of how i remember it).  Our house was one where all rooms are connected so the floor plan created a circle and so the fight continued as a chase around this circle into the kitchen where plates were thrown and broken on the kitchen floor, my mom ran out of the house and the next thing I remember is seeing the flashing lights of an ambulance or police car out our front window and wondering what might have happened to my mother.  Was she hurt, lost, run away?  Was she okay?  This is the first memory of my life and it is clear and dramatic--it made it's impact.  After that, I remember snippets of calls from my mom (we were living with my dad) where I would ask her when she was coming home.  I don't remember how much I saw of her during that time or if I cried for her or what I might have been thinking in my little 3 year old mind.  Before she left, she had stayed home with my brother and I and so I am sure it was quite the change when she was gone and I was then in preschool full-time.  But while I am writing this, I am still shaking--it being 30 years later and the thought that keeps going through my head is "But this is really nothing compared to the all of the other things that have happened in my life," and for that, I am terribly sad.

This story is important, I think, simply because it is when recalling this memory that I start to feel different from other people.  Most people I know have first memories that include toys, favorite games, playing with siblings or parents, going on vacation, etc.  And I am not saying that my story is unique by any means, in fact it is probably mild in terms of what many people have gone through in their lives, what I am saying is that it plays an important role in how I start to define myself and perceive things and people around me.  It isn't often that talking about your first memory comes up in conversation now that I am an adult.  There was a time, a few years back, that I was at a conference for therapists to learn new skills in working with children who have suffered trauma. Often at these conferences we are asked to participate as if we were the client doing the exercises so that we can better understand the process.  If I were doing these exercises in the confines of a trusted therapeutic relationship, I would be glad to do them, but when asked to reveal such emotionally charged parts of yourself, often to strangers, it causes much anxiety.  To get back to the point, in this particular conference they asked us to draw about our first childhood memory, which looking back, I think the presenters probably saw as a relatively benign exercise.  I remember looking around as everyone got started right away with their drawings and there was a moment where I thought, "Do I make something up?" and I search my brain for any other memory that might have escaped me all these years.  In the end, I always am true to my story but it is uncomfortable to explain this scene to a complete stranger who then talks about their favorite barbie or bike.  Ugh!

And this is how it is with many parts of my life--things that I reveal to the people in my adult life about my past life are often shocking and so wholly different that I feel separated, damaged--alien.  I would be being untruthful if I didn't reveal that there is also a part of me that feels special for having been through so much, odd as it may sound.  I feel as if I understand things that others couldn't possibly--though this is likely not true--but this is part of my identity and one that I would feel even more lost than I am now without.  I don't know if I would know how to be happy, whatever that means, or content if I ever found a way to shed the past (and some of my genetics would have to be worked out too!).   I have removed much of the dysfunction from my life in the last several years, though damage still exists of course, but removing important places and people from your life leaves gaping holes and how do you fill the hole of a lost mother, the place you grew up, or a best friend?  How can you live in the present when you feel you have no past to turn to, to ground you, to run back home to?  It's like being born all over again but with the memory that you lived a life before this but can never go back to.  It is grueling.

I want to offer an aside that though I am writing about the harder times in my life, there were many, many truly wonderful moments of joy, love, and pure happiness.  My parents, who are both highly intelligent, beautiful, loving, and engaged parents did an absolutely amazing job in so many ways and I love them both tremendously.   They did an immensely better job parenting my brother and I than either of their parents did and so I feel they were able in many ways to break the cycle and help me to be able to be part of breaking the cycle with my own children. 

I am only realizing now that this blog is going to be one that will have to have many parts, partially because the story spans a lifetime, but also because it is emotionally draining.  I had visions of just summing everything up in one neat little package of words but that feels like cheating--myself and those of you who are reading.  It is hard deciding what to include and what not to, always considering who might be hurt or who might read this and know more about me that I would typically reveal.  But I think telling your story is very important, it helps others not feel so alone and it helps me feel more free to be myself without feeling like I am always hiding behind this past that makes me feel like a girl between worlds--one foot in the past, one in the future but none in the present.  Until next time...