The Story of Me: Early Fears & Cold Windows

I originally thought of this blog as a place to post about the present – document my daily goings on in a cathartic release of words into the infinite abyss. I’m still going to keep doing that. But I thought, why limit myself to the future. Could their not be just as much (if not more) purification from writing the words of the past in an attempt to heal wounds I didn’t know existed?

So, I’ve decided to go for it. Slowly, delve into the catacombs and see what I can process. I hope you keep reading. I’ll keep up with some of the present as I go on too and if you care to keep tabs of the past me, you can follow along with the tag below. 

Without further adieu, chapter one of the past – starting with what I think is my first memory.

4 Years Old

I was four. I lived in Fort Collins, Co. I remember loving my pre-k class. I remember my mom bringing cake to my class for my birthday. We went to Chuck E. Cheese for our birthday. My twin sister and I were bunnies for Halloween.

None of these happy memories of innocent childhood bliss are what I think of when I think of this time period. But oh, how I wish they were.

I wish my childhood wasn’t ripped away.

My sister and I were waiting in the window, waiting for my mom’s car to pull into the driveway. She was working at the hospital. My dad was home. My sister and I were playing some game we had made up. The window was cold on my face.

There was a knock on the door. I thought it was my mom. We jumped up excited that she was home.

It wasn’t her.

A man, shouting, gun held out. Wanted jewelry, money, whatever.

It was then that I knew the world was not safe. It was full of bad people. It was full of things to be afraid of. 

He told my sister and I to run. She didn’t. I did. I hid myself in an adjacent room next to my play kitchen. I can still feel the cold of the plastic kitchen.

My memories black out here. I remember a cop telling me it was going to be okay. I don’t think I thought it was going to be.

Having an early childhood memory of such terror created a scared little girl. I became fearful and had some major separation anxiety. It eventually wore off; I adjusted; we moved. But even now, I think this event clouds my daily life and distrust of people. I work on it a little each day, moving forward. Not living in fear, but it’s difficult.


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