To Hell with Education

Apparently as the stories go I was sent to pre-school but all I am told is that it didn't work out. I was taken out after a short time. After repeated inquiry that is the only statement given to me. No answers to specifics as to what happened. But I got the gist of the disappointment and embarrassment my parents felt as they relayed that short statement to me with their heads bowed and eyes averted. I felt the shame that I was inadequate.
School was not was not the American dream for me as it was for others. Kindergarten was in the basement of the library in Louisiana, MO. I was scared to death to leave my mother's side. I would claw at the doorway in order to stay in the house. I was so frightened; of what I am not sure. I just knew leaving her side could end my life. I remember once clinging to the car doorway as the door was shut on my fingers. It hurt like everything. My mother took me in to get my fingers bandaged up and I was so relieved believing I would be able to stay home. But she bandaged me up and put me back into the the carpooler's mom's car. How could my mom bandage me up and put me back into the car? So young and didn't understand. The only times I was willing to go to Kindergarten was when my mom was the carpool Mom. I could be safe with her on the journey. At least I was with her longer. Why she didn't drive me everyday I never could figure out, just to help me through. I guess the time was of the essence to her; saving that time in driving was more important. What I remember in Kindergarten was a dark basement room with a few toys. It seemed to be an okay place but dark. I remember a boy named Stan who was round with a beet red face. I was curious about him and his appearance; round and beet red. We played table games together. It seemed safe. My favorite part of Kindergarten was going to the park and sitting in a circle on the concrete surrounding a flag pole and waiting for the teacher to pass out vanilla wafers. I loved the vanilla wafers and best of all being outside. The sun and air helped me feel better. I could feel the warmth on my face as I ate my vanilla wafer and all was good at that moment.

And So It Goes

Ok, back, this is harder to write than I thought, no the thinking is easy, the putting down into words is hard. If I could only type as I think then volumes would unfold.
At three years old, my father was giving me a bath. We lived in Webster Groves, St. Louis, Mo on Gore Street. I will get back to the bath. It is there stuck in my brain...and memory, and soul, and heart. My father, Hugh Jennings, He must have been 42 years old. You see, I was the youngest of five children. My oldest brother Mack was 13 years older than me, Scott 8 years older, Priscilla, 5 years older, Tom, 3.5 years older. I could figure out their ages here and may do so in the editing. Ha I can barely write; will I edit? My grandparents lived down the street from us; Granddaddy Tom Secoy and Mother Mollie Secoy; only a few houses away. The bath..which only exists in my memory, visual and physically but everyone else tells me I must have dreamed it. The bath. My daddy was giving me a bath. I was laying back in the water when my daddy placed his broad hand on my chest and pushed me under the depths. My eyes spread open stinging-like in the water as they were full of fear and what-the hell-is happening!. I could see his blurry face staring down at me; looking back into my stingy gaping eyes. Then he released me. I immediately climbed out of the tub, stretching my little legs over the edge to reach the floor on the other side as my father sat still in the same kneeled position. I ran to the front room of the house where my mother sat in a large comfy chair and exclaimed ,"Dad tried to drown me!" several times over. I could see my father pacing next to me about five feet away; back and forth back and forth, as my mother said, "Your father loves you he would never hurt you." And that was the end of that, no cuddling, no reassurance from my father, no help from my mother. I had to stuff it in order to go own. Just another day as a three year old. These were my protectors, my parents, what options were available to me but to continue to trust them and understand that my father wouldn't hurt me, he loves me and I needed them. That was the beginning and so it goes.

The Beginning for Me

I have been doing well. Positive thinking, reading other positive and nurturing blogs, and focusing on productivity...all the "right things". :-) But not really talking about why there is such a need to be so positive and to focus so hard on the good things and people. The need to really concentrate on every iota of simple blessing.

So I decided to write why. To tell my story here. It really isn't much different than many women's story; so I tell myself. Although I have discovered, quite awkwardly in many social conversations that what I have experienced in my life was not the norm but in fact considered trauma. Kind of like finding out that not all people suffer from constant headaches or fear. It was a "huh?" moment for me.

Thinking about where to start as I am 56 years old is a wee bit awesome. The beginning is a distant memory but remains with me as if it were yesterday. And the beginning as I remember it started when I was 2 years old. Typing now is difficult and I yearn for a break. Not from physically typing for my arms are tired; the heart is more weary and telling my arms to be tired. I will come back later. My first run. But this time I will be back....afterall I do have a blog now..and a ripple has been started.