As the sun was beginning to set, Connie sat on her porch in sunny Florida reflecting on her past and contemplating the next phase of her life. At sixty years old, she was finally able to understand her traumatic childhood and the winding path she had taken through adulthood, complete with a narcissistic relationship that still haunted her life daily. The emotional scars inflicted by people who should have provided only love and encouragement had taken their toll on her, but she was well on her way to healing.
Growing up in a twisted, dysfunctional family, Connie had learned early that love (if you can call it that) could come with a heavy price. Her father was a man tormented by darkness, a manic-depressive psychopath (not a formal diagnosis by any professional - but a label that seems to fit perfectly) who emotionally, verbally, and physically abused her mother and all the children. He erupted like a volcano, eruptions that were only exacerbated by her mother’s frequent alcoholic or drug-induced stupors. With every violence-filled evening, she learned to navigate the treacherous terrain of fear, tiptoeing around broken glass and hateful words. The echoes of her mother’s cries, mixed with the thuds of bodies slammed to the floor or against walls (sometimes her own tiny, under-nourished one), were sounds she had buried deep within her, only to have them resurface in nightmares over and over again. These memories were like shadows lurking in her mind, fragmented and blurred at times, but ever present.
Young Connie often felt invisible amongst her five older siblings, each carrying their own burdens, all desperate to shield themselves from their father’s wrath. Once they were old enough to leave home, they never came back to rescue those left to endure the continuing terror. Connie, being five years younger than her next older sibling, was left alone to endure her teenage years alone in this hellish environment.
As with many highly-abusive families, everyone took an unspoken vow of silence, telling only trusted friends (if you ever spoke of it at all) what happened inside the walls of their broken home. At the time, domestic violence was not an issue law enforcement got involved with. Terrorized families were left to fend for themselves.
Little Connie had learned to be silent, to slip into the background, adopting a mask of compliance that often left her feelings locked away in a dark abyss. The laughter and joy that should have beautifully-colored her childhood were replaced by walking on eggshells and hyper-vigilance in trying to prevent the inevitable. Through the fog of anxiety and helplessness, she often found herself dreaming of escape, imagining flying away to a world of quiet normalcy.
As she grew up, Connie began to realize she had significant gaps in her memory, gaps that for years she thought were normal. Her entire early childhood, until around 8 years old, seemed to have been erased with only a few tiny snippets left. Even memories of good family times were completely absent; she only learned of those moments years later when told by her siblings - none of whom had experienced any such memory loss. Her amnesia was most certainly a protective mechanism, one instinctively developed by a child’s fragile nervous system to shield her from the unbearable weight of reality.
Yet, beneath the layers of trauma-induced amnesia lay a profound strength that took decades to discover. Starting from a very young age - with no religious or spiritual education or encouragement from her parents - Connie became a quiet seeker of God. She memorized prayers from the Catholic prayer book her Grandma and Pop had given her, attended vacation bible school with neighbors, and went to church with any friends who would take her. As an adult, she read and studied about world religions and mysticism, attended services of multiple Christian denominations, and began to meditate - quietly searching the depths of her soul for the God within. It wasn’t until she truly embraced her oneness with God that Connie began to loosen the chains that held her back from a mentally and emotionally healthy life.
With time, she learned that recognizing and discussing her pain was not a sign of weakness, but an act of courage. Embracing her past, she acknowledged her struggles and gave them a voice. Each story, each memory - however fragmented - became part of the mosaic of her life, an intricate pattern that showcased resilience and strength. As the pieces fell into place, she began to see her journey for what it truly was—a testament to survival.
Earlier that year, Connie had written four children’s books. Two of the books (Callie and Kei Series) were an exercise in re-writing her traumatic childhood. She had taken negative memories and fashioned them into stories of a normal, loving family. The other two books (Michael’s Imaginary Adventures Series) were stories about her youngest child, celebrating his youthful adventures and the joys of childhood.
Now, sitting on the porch, the evening glow wrapped its gentle embrace around her. Connie smiled with newfound confidence. She had learned to accept her past with grace, turning the shadows of her childhood and the ensuing years of narcissistic abuse and the resulting (sometimes self-destructive) personal choices into a canvas of hope.
She knew she was not defined by the trauma she had endured. With faith in her heart and a fire within her, she had turned her pain into purpose. She dreamed of becoming a voice for those still trapped in their darkness, advocating for children suffering in silence, and helping survivors reclaim their stories by sharing her own and encouraging others to do the same.
The missing memories of her childhood would never be recovered, and she had finally come to peace with that. She understood now that even in the depths of loneliness and despair, she could rise triumphant - nurtured by faith, love, and an unwavering belief in her own power. Connie would not be anyone’s victim, not just a survivor, but a thriving co-creator of a meaningful and joyful life that God and this amazing Universe wants for each of us.