You Judge Me By My Actions. I Judge Myself By My Intentions.

I think this may be a big cause of misunderstanding.  Consider this Chapter Two, if you will, of my first blog.

My childhood was spent mostly outdoors with little adult supervision.  I got into trouble in so many ways, but it was at the hands of my older brother most of the time.  If we didn't do what he said, we'd get beat up by him.  I'm not sure why he did this or why he hated us so much.  The kicker was we always got into trouble with Mom, not him.  One instance was when Tony and I started walking along the railroad tracks.  For something to do, I guess.  I still don't know why we did that.  Nevertheless, we got pretty far out of Owatonna on the way to Medford before we turned back.  When we got home, it was me that got the whipping because "little girls could get hurt by the bums that walked the railroads".  Tony got nothing.

Another time was when Tony and I climbed to the top of the telephone company building across from where we lived.  We actually sat up there with our feet dangling down.  Of course, it was that particular moment that Mom came outside and saw us.  I got into trouble for that one, too.  How could she have missed disciplining Tony for doing the same things when it was always his idea to begin with?  I'll never know.  All parents make mistakes we don't understand.

I used to love staying overnight at other people's houses.  We didn't have a phone back then, so I would have to walk from one friends' house to another to find one that would let me sleep overnight.  I would leave the house with Mom believing I was spending the night at a friend's house, but she never knew which one I was staying at.  She probably just enjoyed having one less kid to think about.

I loved school the most.  I excelled in something and felt accepted for who I was.  I honestly didn't get that at home.  Mom was too busy, Grandma was too critical, and I don't remember Dad being home much.  Almost everywhere I went, I experienced sexual abuse.  But not at school.  I loved learning about different things and even taking tests were fun because that was proof that I was smart at something.  It was my glory days.  Unfortunately, that ended at the end of sixth grade.  But that's for another post. 

I truly wish my children understood where the pain that lives inside me came from.  I'm not asking for sympathy.  I'm not looking to be a victim.  But there is a little girl inside of me that doesn't feel she ever got a chance to grow up into a mature woman.  She's still in there, waiting to be accepted.  Waiting to be loved.  Waiting to be understood.