Most of my memories before the age of seven are little flashes—more like snippets than full stories. I can remember the energy of the moment, the smells, and those tiny details that stuck with me. Hanging out with family and friends, climbing trees, pretending I was a witch who could control the wind, arguing, fighting, parties, and yes… lots and lots of drinking.
My parents had already been married for about thirteen years before I was conceived, and their relationship was… let’s just say, complicated. My conception wasn’t exactly celebrated. Around that time, my parents were separated, and my mother had an affair. They stayed together for another six years after my birth, but just a few days before my birthday, the papers were signed, and I found myself splitting my time between both of them. Fun times, right?
I can confidently say that at one point, my parents loved each other. Unfortunately, that love didn’t last a lifetime. I can’t speak to all of their personal struggles, but I can share what they’ve told me over the last twenty years.
Mom had a problem with Dad drinking and flirting. Dad had a problem with Mom not keeping up with house duties and… being unfaithful. These issues were never fully worked through by either of them, and it created the environment I got to grow up in for those short, formative years. Towards the end of their time together, Dad tried everything to make Mom happy—anything she asked for, he went above and beyond… except he couldn’t stop drinking.
Before I go any further, I want to pause here. What I’m about to share is intense, and it’s okay if it hits you hard. Take a breath. Grab a cup of coffee—or tea, or wine, no judgment—and settle in. You’re here with me, and you’re safe.
One night, about a year before the divorce, there was a party. My siblings’ friends were there. Something happened that night—something my mom did—that made Dad upset. The arguing started, people began leaving, and I was ushered to bed because I “was too young to be a part of it.” A little while later my bladder had other plans, and I came out of my room.
I still remember the blood, the flashing police lights, and someone grabbing me. And then… nothing. My next clear memory picks up when I was eight.
That’s where the first real chapter of my story begins. The memories before that were flashes, but what comes next? That’s where the soul-searching starts. And I want you to come with me, because this isn’t just my story—it’s a journey about understanding, growth, and finding light in the messy, beautiful, and sometimes ridiculous life we’re given.
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