Hey y’all! This topic has been on my mind recently, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to write about it yet. But thanks to curious encouragement from Drummer Boy, here it is.
Even as a child, I loved to say “I love you”. But it probably wasn’t for the same reason as most children. You see, being an odd kid comes with it’s pros and cons. I got to read lots of books, which led me to become smarter. I traveled a lot with my family, so I have been more places than I can remember. I could draw anytime I wanted, so my doodles became a big hobby. I saw things that some others didn’t; the way the wind touched each leaf so very gently, the clouds rolling in so slowly that I grew impatient, or the way that colors danced around on any surface the sun touched. Most kids might just call that a playground.
Unfortunately, not everything I saw and experienced were good. My parents raised me pretty sheltered, and I am so thankful for that. Every drop of profanity or vulgarity or any such grown-up material was nowhere near us. They were very careful to protect our little eyes and ears, because they knew the value of a pure mind. Especially as a child. But they couldn’t protect me from everything. When I was little, I had a room next to my parents. I would listen to my dad snoring, always audible through the Veggie Tales sing-along that put me to sleep.
(Fun fact: I listened to that Veggie Tales disc every night for years. I was probably at least 9 before I stopped listening to it. If I forgot to turn it on, I would have nightmares. I would also wake up in the middle of the night and cry if someone had turned it off, and as I got older, I habitually woke up when the CD had played through so that I could start it over and go back to sleep.)
Anyway… if my dad stopped snoring, (usually because he’d woken himself up, he was so loud) I would get really scared. For some reason, my tiny brain thought that the snoring meant he was alive. So I would panic that my dad was dead until the snoring started up again. I knew I wasn’t allowed to just open the door, so I would knock silently and then cry when nobody answered. As a child I’m sure I had a pretty warped sense of time, but it sometimes felt like hours before I got any relief. I would either risk it and open the door, always giving some petty excuse as to why I was waking them up. “My tummy hurts” or “my head hurts” or “I’m hungry” were go-to’s, but they didn’t last forever. Or I would cry outside the door until someone heard me or I fell asleep. Really I just needed proof that they were still alive. I always woke my mom instead of my dad, because mommy was closer to the door. (Also because daddy was scary as heck when he was woken up in the middle of the night.)
Sometimes I dreamed that a sleeping lion laid outside my door, or that there was a crocodile under my bed waiting to eat me the moment I stepped onto the floor. There were little glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling, placed at the command of daddy’s little princess. (I was very picky about my fake constellations.) So when I started to get scared, if even the light and Veggie Tales didn’t help, I would try to count the stars on the ceiling. I’d usually fallen asleep before I could count them all. I also had a lava lamp, but someone warned me that it could catch fire. Then I got really scared of house fires. Every time my daddy would turn the lamp on before putting me to bed, I’d make him swear that he’d come turn it off before he went “night-night”. He always promised. But if I was still awake, and that lamp was on… I’d step quietly off the bed, walk to the lamp, turn it off, and jump into my bed. (To avoid my ankles being eaten by the crocodile, of course.)
For a kid with a great childhood, I was a serious scaredy-cat.
One day, I was out playing with my brother in the driveway. We’d dragged out our sleeping bags and put all our favorite stuffed animals in them. I think we were pretending to get in space shuttles to take us to the moon, or something. (I had an imagination so big that it did not fit inside my head.) We were minding our own business when suddenly a giant black thing stuck it’s cold, wet nose in my shuttle and grabbed Leela, the little stuffed sheep that my aunt had given me.
You see, that sheep was the first thing I went to when I visited my aunt. She knew it was my favorite, so she always kept it in a special cabinet with all my favorites of her toys. One day, she decided to let me take it home. I was thrilled. When she saw my excitement, and then my sadness when I had to bring it back, she let me keep it for good. The sheep’s name was Leela.
So when the neighbor’s dog grabbed it and ran, I wept. Not only did I feel like I’d failed my aunt, but I also didn’t know where Leela even was. The dog was bigger than me, so I was scared of it, but I was also too slow to catch it. I ran inside and told my mommy, and it took probably ten minutes of trying to decipher my blubbering before she realized what happened. (At least, that’s how I remember it. Keep in mind, this was a very very long time ago.)
She walked me to the neighbor’s door and we asked if their dog had a little blue and white sheep with a pink ribbon around it’s neck. They said no at first, but then something caught their eye in the yard.
Yep.
Their dog buried my sheep alive.
We eventually managed to get her back, but she was covered in mud. After a couple journeys through the washing machine, Leela came back to me. But she was never the same. To this day, she still has a little mud mark on her belly.
This showed me how easily and suddenly the things that I loved could be taken away.
I started to get nightmares. Most were random, but some involved a big dog. I had mental cues in my mind to bring me good dreams, some of which still work for me. But mostly my problem was escaping the bad dreams. I found that sometimes I was aware it was a dream, and sometimes I was not. When I was aware, I could blink hard twice and I would wake up. But if I was not aware… I just had to suffer through it. Sometimes I knew it was a dream, but I had no control over my dream body. That was almost worse. I was always afraid that one day, I simply wouldn’t wake up, and I would live in my mind with someone else controlling me.
I had many kinds of nightmares, but explaining them all to you would not help reach the point I am trying to get to. So I will cut to the chase.
Eventually I got moved to a bedroom upstairs, and my memories of that are the most clear of my childhood.
I don’t remember if I was at home or if I was staying with my grandparents, but one night, I witnessed a CSI show. A CSI show that I should not have seen. The adults were watching it, and I was supposed to be in bed. But I wasn’t sleepy. I had come down to get a snack or something, but mostly I just wanted to spy on everyone else who was awake.
In the show, there’s a man. He has white hair. He has a daughter. The man works for a government agency, I suppose. I don’t really remember much, just what my big young eyes took in. The man had recently solved a case about a murder. Well, the murderer wasn’t very happy about it. I’m guessing he called a friend or something, I don’t know. The daughter was sitting on the couch in her living room. The camera stuck up behind her, and a gloved hand grabbed her shoulder. She had been on the phone with her dad, but the kidnapper terminated the call. She was taken, kicking and screaming, away from the scene. Later, the father had tracked the kidnapper down and was having a conversation. I only caught the last bit. He said “You’ll never see your daughter again. … She’s dead.”
I cried a lot that night. From then on, I was absolutely horror-stricken and terrified to ever be alone. I slept with my back to the wall at all times, and I fell asleep and woke up facing my bedroom door. Over time, the crocodile under my bed (who apparently migrated from my room downstairs) became my defender. I dreamed that men in black masks would come and take me away in the night, and the crocodile would bite at their ankles while I bit at their hands. Of course, the dreams couldn’t be complete without the presence of my parents. They were always murdered. Always. I went to bed scared and woke up exhausted and sweaty every single day. I started reading chapter books to keep me awake as long as possible, but nothing worked. Eventually, I had to sleep. And the dreams always came back.
Sometimes I would hear people breaking in, and I would run down to warn my dad. He would pull out a gun from somewhere and cock and load. Sometimes he shot the intruders. Sometimes the intruders shot him. Sometimes I ran down the stairs and my parents had their hands up, surrounded by men in masks. Sometimes I ran down to see a bloody mess. It was horrible. Sometimes they came for me, sometimes they were content to just murder my family.
But sometimes… sometimes I had to choose. Sometimes the murderer would drag us all out to the driveway, then yank me by the elbow to stand in front of the others. I don’t know what sick, disgusting creature would ever make a child do what I had to do. (But, it was a dream.) He would tell me to choose. Choose one to die, or refuse and they all die. Sometimes I would tell him to shoot me instead. He would tell me that wasn’t an option, and either force me to choose or just shoot them all anyway.
I always had to live while they died.
I didn’t sleep for… heck, a long time. No stars, books, lights, Veggie Tales sing-alongs or even stuffed animals could keep me safe. It took a long time before I stopped waking up sweaty and in a puddle of my own tears. This was a lot for a kid to manage, as you might can imagine. I know I had some serious mood swings for a while, and I struggled to believe that anyone at all could love me. That’s when my dad gave me a little note that said, “Daddy loves you!” With a drawing of a heart and a butterfly. His notes always made me feel better. But not that day. I thought he was lying to me, so I crumpled it up and threw it away. Oh, the things sleep deprivation does to a person. I crushed it so hard that the paper’s fibers broke loose and the paper got soft. (I eventually dug it out of the bin and put it in a small box to remind me of his love. I kept it for years, and now it sits framed on my desk.)
One night, when things were especially bad, I’d fallen asleep with the light on and a book on my chest. I was having a nightmare, as usual, probably of men choking, stabbing, shooting or stealing me. Then I just heard this quiet knock on my door. Like three soft taps of a knuckle. My eyes shot open, and my heart was pounding. I thought, “This is it. This is where I finally die. This is the real thing.” After a moment of silence, I opened the door. I just remember hearing this quiet voice talking in my head, and a warm puff of air hitting me. And I started to cry, because for the first time in my life, I felt God with me. He woke me from my nightmare. Maybe it was an unorthodox awakening, but it doesn’t matter. That was the first and last time that I felt His immediate presence in more than just my mental space. I’ve felt him with me before, in my mind, but I haven’t experienced such direct contact since. I get chills just thinking about it. I don’t remember exactly what the voice said, but I remember being told to go back to bed. I told Him that I was scared, and He said to trust Him. The rest of that night, when I finally fell asleep again, I had good dreams for the first time in a while.
Things began to get better after that, but the nightmares never really went away. I still get them sometimes. My worst fear is the suffering of my loved ones, especially if they are suffering at my hand. And ever since then, when I say goodbye, I always say I love you last. I want “I love you” to be fresh on their minds no matter what happens. Whether they come home or don’t. I cannot leave angry, and I do not go to bed with feelings unresolved. “I love you” is always the last thing they hear before bed or before leaving the house. Even if I’m just going to my room and they are playing a game downstairs, I always say “I love you”. Because no one knows what the future will hold. All I know is that the here and now is my opportunity to make sure they know.
That’s why I always say “I love you” last.
Thanks for reading! I hope this doesn’t weigh down your day or anything; I just wanted to share some stories about why I am the way I am. I can seem quite the curio when you first meet me, because I have these little quirks and habits that I do not break. My sleep schedule is absolutely whack now. I can sleep anywhere, anytime if I’m not well rested. And it’s not of my choice; I just kinda pass out. It feels how I imagine narcolepsy would feel. I don’t really love talking about this sleep subject. I will not apologize, because I know the painful background and you do not. You cannot judge me for the way I heal if you’ve never experienced my pain. That’s just what I live by. And because I’ve been through this, it’s easier for me to not judge others. I know what it is like to have secret fears and problems, and I know now that healing can look odd. It can leave you with scars and habits that you didn’t ask for. But it isn’t your fault. God will see you through every secret battle that you face, and he will defeat every demon that ever looked you in the eye. All you have to do is let Him.
♡, Shortie
