A slice of me!

The Darkness in the two worlds.

I realized, after re-reading my post from yesterday, that I am not going to break down and apart the pieces of my life. I did enjoy sharing the love that was there. I loved reminiscing about the places I enjoyed growing up.But, I do not need to leave it all. I need to focus on the stories that I must get out, that I have stopped myself from doing, out of fear. Although it did set nicely the stage of the two worlds that I came from.

Life for my first 22 years had so many ups and downs, as life usually does. I felt like I always lived in two very different worlds, one happy and light, one sad and dark, all simultaneously. As I grew older I became very good at hiding my pain , to most, living this dual life comfortably.

I was very blessed growing up, I was taken care of in most areas of my life, but with that came a side of struggle not many would see or know.  My post yesterday left me feeling, like I was still half ass wanting to make sure that I protected “them”, that  I didn’t only tell the stories of darkness.  I will still share some of the lovely memories I have, but I must focus on all the things I wasn’t allowed to say, I wasn’t “allowed” to feel.

Behind the scenes, in the world of the adults, in the world of a babe who understood too much, there was tons going on. Much hurt and sadness, lots of EGOS, and lots of battles between them.

My father’s upbringing was  conservative and military like. It was harsh, I know now, this is why he was, the way he was, in raising me.  My mother’s was a more gentle upbringing, this caused them to clash in how to raise me, often. Through losing my brother, I also saw that my dad often tried to make me the son he lost. He also wanted me to grow up to be strong and independent, but there were often times he pushed me very young to do things I wasn’t always that interested in. In the name of bonding, and doing things that would make me stronger, (at the age of 5).

I am most like my dad, as well, it makes sense why we butt heads.

Sometimes, I just wanted to be dainty, to be a girl. I always just wanted to be ME, but dammit I liked being girly too. 

Dad was not always kosher with me figuring things out for myself. Actually, he always wanted to try to prevent me from making any mistakes, or from making the same mistakes he did. I find this to be common in those raised by the baby boomers. Lots of fear, of messing up. I wanted to figure everything out for myself! “Do as I say, not as I do”, was a phrase I heard often. It did not jive well with me!

I often thought, how can I learn anything if I do not figure some of these things out for myself? 

Dad would share stories of his exciting teenage and rebellious years and why I should not do these things, and all I would often think and gain was: well you came out of that situation stronger and better and okay, so why would I not be okay? Of course, I see now that in this existence everything in my life needed to happen, this dynamic between us built much of the strife and build up to my breaking point. It ALL brought me to my reawakening.

Amongst the beauty that is Hawaii there was a darkness that weigh over my families head. My mother could no longer work for my dad’s, dad, she could no longer feel trapped and pressured by his family, and my father could no longer continue his late night parties being a semi famous local, per an ultimatum from my mother. Fast forward to the age of 7 my baby brother was born.

At this point in life things behind my parents bedroom door were  rocky. There would be times that I would have to stay home from school to watch this newborn baby, while my dad slept because he worked and drank too much the night before. My whole life, dad and I have had a strange dynamic. I was his buddy, I was also the one who got the shit end of the stick, most often, it was a complex struggle to overcome psychologically in my older years. I know this too is often the role of the oldest. How does it go? “You learn with the oldest? ” I was not your typical seven year old either. Or baby for that matter, walking around 9 months, talking pretty well by 11 months, well enough to sing some Def Leppard: Pour Some Sugar on me. Ha! (Remember dad worked for a radio station. Side note: He is also an avid KISS fan, classic Rock is his thing.) 

See, here lay the real problem, why I would later see that the problem was not me all the time, along with the knowledge I would gain and reflection on self that I created it all. When my brother passed, mom wanted to talk about him, dad did not. My mom filled this void with work, family, and me. My dad filled this void with working, drinking, DJing clubs at night , dirt bike riding, surfing, partying, and me.

Really, when it came to life in Hawaii from my view, there was a lot happening behind the scenes that I was absorbing and collecting, but life was good. My family at this point was not aware that I held any kind of intuitive ability. I would often tell myself, “they would not understand”, (remember we create our existence, I was creating the comparison I would later need from the start) and would keep whatever thought, opinion, or answer to myself. In fairness to myself the things that weren’t happening to me, but around me sometimes, were kinda scary. It was scary to speak up, from what I had gathered on my own. Add on that the things I was seeing, being told, and dreaming where not happening to others and when I would mention some supernatural things I was responded quickly with, “we just love your imagination”.

I must admit, it is a rather lovely and vivid imagination, but there were many times and things that I can recall that were truly happening to me and that I had questions about and no one seemed to understand. So, I began to just store and solve on my own. Two particular stories, that I am about to tell; I had so many questions those days, I really knew on those days that “they would not understand”.

The first story:

My great grandpa Benito (mom’s grandpa, father’s side), he had parkinson’s,  and we would often visit him in the nursing home on the weekends. My mother and he were very close, she took care of him up until she could no longer do so.  By this point grandpa Benito had lost his ability to control his body enough to form words, but I communicated with Papa Benito.  I would sing to him, and brush his hair, and he would smile and “talk” to me. I remember I would lay on his chest and we would laugh and laugh, he was such a sweet man. He wanted to tell my mom, every day, how much he appreciated and loved her. It made him cry and become so frustrated I would have to calm him, he wanted to tell him, himself. I will never forget the connection I had with a man with “no words”.

When grandpa Benito left this existence, I was still in pull ups, so I would have been around one and one half. I remember being down the hall in the bedroom to the left of our tiny apartment home beneath Papa Diego’s house with my burb cloth, (my lovey), in hand, pacifier in mouth; listening through the door. My parents were discussing not being able to tell me, me being too young, and that I probably shouldn’t go to the funeral because I would not understand.

I was confused, Papa Benito already told me the day before. He said goodbye. I knew. Why ,were they afraid to tell me that he had gone home? I even saw him, happy again, dancing in my dreams. I knew the night before that Papa Benito was leaving. I never told. I was sad I did not get to go the funeral. I did tell my mom some of the stories I remember, she was shocked that I remembered any of them at all. I think she started understanding me a bit more when I told her this story, which took me some time to tell.  I still don’t think, my father knows.

The Second Story:

I believe this story was a huge spark into the path of my father truly taking the step toward joining the medical field. Joshua was the first, this little boy I am about to tell you about, the second.

I am not sure why but the names of these people did not stick, it makes no difference, all I can remember is a grandmother cared for a small boy that I often played with. I was around four, almost 5.  He was adopted, and at this point did not speak the best English, it did not hinder our fun. I do remember that he would tire quickly and have to go home. I believe he had a severe asthma issue, and I remember the family not having too much, my family helped them out often. The grandma cared for other kids too, it was a unique situation.

The boy came to me in my dreams the same way my Papa Benito did. I knew. This time it was not the next day, but a few days later. I will never forget playing in the courtyard of our home, the lady next door came frantic through the gate of our lava rock wall, crying for someone, anyone. My dad was home with me at this time and rushed over. He told me to stay. I did not. But, they did not have time to pay attention to me.

I followed them down the driveway to a back entrance of their home into a small room in the back and there lay peacefully, my friend. It felt like hours I stood there and stare at his lifeless body, it was only seconds. My father quickly noticed and shooshed me out, and they went to doing CPR. I ran to the mailbox, and stood there watching the commotion. It was shortly after I was shooshed out, the ambulance came flying by.

I did not attend that funeral either. Not much was said after that day. We did not talk about what I saw, or what I had seen in my dreams just days before. This time I was old enough to get, “he is no longer with us”. I appreciated at least that, I already knew, but I was happy at least this time they acknowledged it.

My dad could not save him. I could not share my secrets. Adding more things about myself that made me feel alien to this world, and to my family.

I know my father, and I know this ignited the steps to go into the field. It would take some time and not until I was ten and one half that we would make the trek to Missouri. Oh, Misery. Missouri.  My little brother would have been the last spark to ignite major change in my dad’s life.

My father actually during the span of when my little brother was born and us moving would go through the whole Highway Patrol program in the state of Hawaii, upon full completion and passing of the course, would then find out during his physical that due to being blind in one eye; they could not accept him. The state only allows those with an ailment (one eye, arm, leg etc.)  acquired in action can work on the force. The state of Missouri is not the same. My grandparents also owned several acres in Missouri so, to dad, it seemed like a smart move.

Man, oh man, the move to Missouri. The whirlwind that would cause a hurricane of emotions to erupt from our lives. That was another secret I was not let in on as a child. The move.

I have accepted my path, I appreciate this journey, but to think back on the way my father ripped me from all I had grown to love in the middle of the night.

It would begin my spark of rage.

 

 

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