Bits and pieces…

After a year of sobriety, the AAs usually ask you to share your story with the group. I have been thinking a lot about this lately, formulating what I might say… what insight I might be able to provide. As a writer, I think every person’s story has value. So, here are pieces of my story to be woven together at a later date.

In one of my earliest memories, I am having a meltdown at preschool. I am inconsolable. My parents had enrolled me in preschool shortly after my sister’s birth. They wanted me to develop social skills, to interact with my peers. I had other plans. My mother had dropped me off that morning, and I cried relentlessly until the teachers broke down and asked my mother to come pick me up. What I can still remember, though, is that as I was screaming and sobbing for my mom, I was eyeing the Big Wheels and trikes, watching the other kids have fun. And it did look like fun. I wanted to play too. But I had already chosen the crying path. Even then, I didn’t know how to redirect. So I went home with my mom. My parents never sent me back to preschool.

I was always a melodramatic kid. I remember watching Annie when I was six or seven and really identifying with her longing for parents, her wish to be loved… the problem with that was that my parents had always been right there and had alwasy loved me. My penchant for melancholy got ramped up a bit when my dad got transfered from Gainesville to Ft. Lauderdale, and we had to stay behind to sell the house. I remember my friends coming over to play and me just standing by the window, gazing out, clutching my Annie locket willing myself into sadness above the racket of my friends’ make-believe, until one of them whispered to the other, “Kendra must be sad because her dad is away right not. I think she might cry.” And I did. I shed one, single tear… just enough to express my sadness, yet still remain vaguely mysterious. Seems I was on the road to being a master manipulator at the age of six.

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