So Strong . . . .

I ran in the house, threw my backpack on the ground and started to head to the kitchen.

 "Mom! MOM! Mo----"

 The half-packed boxes told me immediately that telling my Mom about getting a starring role in the school play was pointless. I wouldn't be there tomorrow for play practice.

"We're moving. Get your stuff together. We don't have much time." And just like that, I let go of another dream and settled into the role of the New Girl. I was the new girl so often, it became second nature. New classroom, new teacher, new students to befriend. Standing in front of the class, bag in my hands, head down, mumbling my name. Over and over and over again.

But this time, I wanted to stay put. I begged. I'd live with a friend. I threatened to run away. I didn't want to go. Not this time. This time, I had made friends. I felt popular. I was going to star in the Christmas play. I wanted to dress up and sing on stage. I wanted to dance and belong.

I had gotten to be in a play once. Edison Elementary. Like A Child. I was Cyndi Lauper. I had a solo. It was heaven and I felt like a star. I felt at home there. I had always felt home on the stage.

During times when my Mom slipped into depression, I was the comedic relief. She told the story of a bad Christmas up through my adulthood. We lived in another small, rundown apartment. There was no money for a tree; we only had a few meager presents: gifts donated by the school. But we had decorations and lights. And I had an idea. While my Mom slept, I decorated myself. Red Christmas balls dangled from my pierced ears, gold garland became my boa and lights wrapped around my body. I plugged myself in and woke her up by singing "Oh Christmas Tree" We had very little that year, had very little most years. But dammit! that year, we were going to laugh.

I will always cherish that memory and the memory of a Christmas years later when I worked extra shifts, borrowed the car and brought home a 7' tall Christmas tree for the house.It didn't matter that it was slightly crooked and had to be tied to one wall to keep from falling. It was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen; my gift to her. When I got married, my husband never quite understood why I took so long to pick out the right tree, had to decorate the house so perfectly and worked so hard to make Christmas so special.

I didn't understand either, until years later. I was trying to fill in the gaps left by my childhood. I was trying so hard to create normal, a version of a life I viewed as normal but it never felt right. Because it wasn't right. I was trying to be someone other than myself. I'm the performer, the comedian, the fixer. I worked so hard as a child to be funny in the hopes of keeping my Mom from slipping to that dark place that scared me so much. I was attempting to hold things together so no one knew how badly broken everything (I) was.

 I learned a while back to not speak of my childhood. Most people don't believe me; the others look at me with pity. I don't want either. Life was what it was. That simple. I got through it. And it's made me strong; really damn strong. At least for the most part. Some days, carrying the weight of my childhood is too much and my arms give out and I'm dropped to my knees. Only from that point can I truly see what a mess it was.

 And I feel guilty for hating it. For hating the lack. For hating the deprivation. For hating the knowledge of what hunger feels like. So I hide from it. Behind funny words. Achievement. Big words. Bigger goals. A determination to achieve at all costs. To do whatever I can to insulate myself from the fear of never fully escaping the pain that poverty brings.

So it hurts when my strength is seen as a flaw, something to run away from because it comes from a place of incredible weakness, vulnerability. It's my protection though not always something to be proud of. But sometimes, I will admit, I let a few tears escape the armor when I remember a cold Christmas, so many years ago, and a little girl desperate to save her Mom with some garland and a badly sung rendition of "Oh Christmas Tree".

And when lost in those memories, I'm not so ashamed of my childhood . . . . not completely.