It was January of 1976, and I was born into a life of silence.
I was the youngest of three siblings. A sister from a different mother who didn’t hang out with me much, and a tormenter in my older brother. By the age of 6, I had become accustomed to the life of a victim. He would steal from me with the double whammy of physical intimidation as well. My complaints to my parents would only fall on deaf ears, and my life of silence was established. My feelings didn’t matter, so I just I smiled, while my insides rotted with rage. I became everything I thought I was supposed to be for the sake of keeping our family afloat because if one more person rocked the boat, the ship might have sunk.
I was perfect.
It was January of 1976, and I was born into a life of human observation.
I was the youngest of three siblings. My sister hung out with me when she could, but she was often upset that her birth mother moved across the country without her. She took up the habit of being in her own sad, solitary room confinement, but I’d cheer her up as best I could when she came out to play.
My brother was angry because he believed my father didn’t pay enough attention to him, and as a result, I became compassionate for others, a good listener, patient, and a trusted friend. I also learned how to become street smart within the confines of my bedroom too.
My parents were busy dealing with many other issues and I became wildly independent, learned the value of a dollar, explored my creative side with little to no interference, grew into one heck of a little problem solver and I know they appreciated me for who I was.
No one’s perfect.
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This post was created with the help of Grammarly.